The Ideal Bride (34 page)

 
Stepping off the stairs, she inclined her head. “Indeed. Let our Midsummer Revels commence.”

 
She glided into the drawing room, her words still ringing, her lips lifting.

 
Michael stood before the fireplace, Geoffrey beside him. Michael’s gaze fixed on her the instant she appeared. She paused on the threshold, then glided on; they both turned to her as she joined them.

 
“Well, m’dear, you look fetching—very elegant.” Looking her up and down, with brotherly affection Geoffrey patted her shoulder.

 
Caro heard him, but barely saw him. She smiled vaguely in response to the compliment, but her eyes were all for Michael.

 
There was something about seeing a gentleman in strict formal attire; true, she’d seen him in formal settings in the past, but… now he was looking at her, appreciating her, visually drinking her in, and watching her do the same, appreciatively taking in the width of his shoulders, the breadth of his chest, his height, the length of his long legs. In severe black, contrasting strongly with the pristine white of cravat and shirt, he seemed to tower over her even more than usual, making her feel especially delicate, feminine, and vulnerable.

 
Geoffrey cleared his throat, mumbled some comment, and left them; their gazes locked, neither glanced his way.

 
Slowly, she smiled. “Are you going to tell me I look fetching and elegant?”

 
His lips lifted, but his blue eyes remained intent, deadly serious. “No. To me you look…
superb
.”

 
He invested the word with a meaning far beyond the visual. And she suddenly felt
superb
, as glowing, captivating, and desirable as his inflection painted her. She drew breath; an extra, unusual, novel confidence welled and filled her. “Thank you.” She inclined her head, half turned toward the door. “I must greet the guests.”

 
He offered his arm. “You can introduce me to those I’ve not yet met.

 
She hesitated, looked up and met his gaze. Recalled her determination not ever again to act as hostess for any man. She heard voices on the stairs; any minute the guests would appear. And if they saw her standing there with him… ?

 
If they saw him standing by her side at the door… ?

 
Either way, he would be seen to have taken a position with respect to her, one no other man had succeeded in attaining.

 
Which was true; he did, indeed, hold that position. He meant something to her, more than a mere acquaintance, more, even, than a friend.

 
Inclining her head, she slid her hand onto his sleeve and let him lead her to stand by the door. He’d said he wouldn’t attempt to maneuver her into marriage, and she trusted him in that. Indeed, the dinner guests were primarily foreigners with no real influence within the ton.

 
As for the idea that people would see him as her lover… she viewed that prospect not just with equanimity, but with a subtle thrill very close to happiness.

 
Ferdinand, however, was one of the first to appear. He took one look at Michael and very nearly scowled. Luckily, with more guests arriving, he had to move on; he was quickly swallowed up into the general conversation as those who were staying at Bramshaw House overnight as well as those selected others who’d been invited for dinner before the ball rolled in.

 
From that moment on, she had barely an instant to call her own, and certainly not one second to think of anything personal. She discovered it was useful having Michael by her side; he was far more at home in this milieu than Geoffrey and could be relied on to recognize potentially difficult situations and handle them with suitable tact.

 
They made a very good team; she was conscious of that, knew he was, too, yet instead of making her uneasy, each shared, appreciative glance filled her with a sense of achievement, of satisfaction.

 
Of Tightness.

 
She didn’t have time to dwell on it; the dinner—ensuring all went as it should while keeping the conversation sparkling—claimed all her attention. It passed off well, without a hitch, and then the party was repairing to the ballroom. She’d timed it nicely; the dinner guests just had time to admire the floral theme and take note of the garlanded terrace with the lawns and walks beyond lit by lanterns, and the marquee with chairs and tables set ready for supper, before the first stir beyond the ballroom doors.

 
All was as it should be as the ball guests strolled in.

 
Michael returned to stand by Caro’s side as, with Geoffrey, she greeted the incoming guests. She flicked him a glance, but made no direct comment, simply guided the newcomers his way, ensuring he had a chance to exchange a few words with everyone attending. As this group was primarily locals, none read anything into the arrangement. Geoffrey was the past Member, Caro his sister, and Michael the present Member; to them, all seemed as it should be.

 
As the tide slowed to a trickle, Michael touched Caro’s arm; with his eyes, he indicated the Russian delegation, presently in the restraining company of Gerhardt Kosminsky. He pressed her arm, then left her, strolling through the crowd, stopping here and there to exchange compliments and comments, to eventually come up with the Russians and relieve Kosminsky. He and Kosminsky had agreed that one or other should keep the Russians in view, at least until the general bonhomie of the ball took hold.

 
Nodding to the senior Russian, Orlov, Michael resigned himself to playing his part; aside from all else, his selfless service would put him in Caro’s good graces. Given his plans for later that evening, that wouldn’t hurt.

 
Meanwhile, her Midsummer Revels had attracted enough senior diplomats to keep her supplied with dance partners throughout the evening. He was tall enough to see over most heads; while chatting with the Russians, then later with the Prussians, the Austrians, and the Swedes, he kept the delicate diadem she’d set in her hair in view. She was constantly on the move.

 
He saw Ferdinand propping a wall, watching her; he mentally wished him luck—in this setting, the hostessly bit between her teeth, Caro would be impossible to distract, totally ruthless in refusing to be detained. By anyone. He knew his limits. Later, he saw Ferdinand again, this time sulking, and deduced the handsome Portuguese had learned his.

 
There was a time and place for everything. The one weak link in his strategy lay in ensuring that when the supper waltz commenced, he was the gentleman in possession of Caro’s hand. During a break in the music, he paused beside the dais on which the musicians were seated; a quick word and a few guineas strengthened his position. When the opening bars of the supper waltz sounded, he’d just returned to Caro’s side, just reclaimed her hand, and had sotto voce informed her while bowing over it that the Russians and Prussians had thus far failed to come to blows.

 
She was smiling, relieved and entertained as the music swelled. He trapped her gaze. “My dance, I believe?” How could she refuse him?

 
With a laugh, she acquiesced and let him lead her to the floor. As she came into his arms and let him whirl her into the revolving circle, he realized she had no inkling that he was steering her in more ways than one.

 
He looked into her face, smiled into her eyes, found himself trapped in her silver gaze. Initially, she smiled back, as assured as he, yet gradually, as they twirled, their smiles faded, melted away, along with all consciousness of the noisy crowd around them.

 
Just that shared look, and he knew what she was thinking. That despite knowing each other for so long, inhabiting much the same circles, this was the first time they had ever shared a waltz.

 
She blinked; he saw her mind reach back…

 
“It was a country dance, last time.”

 
She refocused. Nodded. “In Lady Arbuthnot’s ballroom.”

 
He couldn’t remember. All he knew was that here, now, the moment was much different. It wasn’t simply the waltz, the fact that they were both expert in the dance, that their bodies flowed effortlessly through the turns. There was something more, something deeper that left them more attuned, more alert, more aware, more acutely sensitive to the other.

 
Despite their training, to the exclusion of all else.

 
Caro felt the fascination, knew he did, too, and could only marvel. Nothing in her life had ever had the power to shut her ears, mentally shut her eyes, focus her senses to this degree. She was a captive, but a willing one. Her nerves tingled, her skin seemed alive, sensitive to his nearness, to the aura of strength that wrapped about her, not trapping her but holding her, promising sensual delights she craved.

 
Her senses led, her mind followed.

 
She was relaxed, yet excited, nerves taut yet assured.

 
Only when they slowed and she realized the music was ending did awareness of the present return. To them both. She saw it in his eyes; the reluctance she glimpsed in them mirrored her own.

 
The shield about them dissolved and chatter washed over them, for one instant a babel of incomprehensible tongues. Then over all the rest came Catten’s stentorian tones directing everyone to the supper waiting in the marquee, to the chairs and tables, and the benches and well-lit walks, to the beauty of the midsummer night.

 
To a person, the throng turned to the three double French doors opened wide to the terrace. Delighted, exclaiming, guests poured out of the ballroom, stepping out into the balmy evening.

 
She and Michael had halted on the opposite side of the ballroom, not far from the main doors. She hung back, watching, making sure everyone was heading in the right direction. Once she was satisfied no guest had failed to understand the summons, she looked up, her hand firm on Michael’s arm.

 
He smiled down at her. His hand covered hers. “Come with me.”

 
She blinked; it took a moment to comprehend his meaning. “
Now
?” She stared at him. “I can’t—” She looked toward the last stragglers disappearing onto the terrace.

 
Blinked again, then looked up at him. “We can’t…” She searched his eyes, aware her pulse had started to canter. She moistened her lips. “Can we?”

 
His smile deepened, his blue eyes held hers. “You’ll never know unless you come with me.”

 
Her hand locked in his, he led her up the main stairs. They saw no one, and no one saw them. Guests, household members, and staff were all outside on the lawns, or rushing back and forth between the kitchens and the marquee.

 
There was no one to hear them walk down the first-floor corridor to the small sitting room at its end. He opened the door and handed her through; she entered expecting to see chairs, chaise, and sideboard draped with holland covers. The room had been closed for years; it overlooked the side avenue and the orchard beyond.

 
Instead… the room had been cleaned, dusted, and swept and the covers all removed. The vase of lilacs standing on the small table before the open window suggested the when and how.

 
She’d forgotten the daybed. Wide, comfortable, it was now piled with cushions. Stopping beside it, she turned. And found him beside her, waiting to take her in his arms.

 
With confident ease, he gathered her to him and kissed her, parted her lips, sank into her mouth and claimed its softness. She met him, sank into his embrace, eagerly accepted every caress, returned them, and demanded more.

 
His head slanted over hers; her fingers speared through his hair and tightened on his skull as his tongue thrust deep in a definitely provocative rhythm. A rhythm that tightened her nerves, that sent heat pouring through her. And him. She wondered how much deeper, how much closer the simple intimacy of a kiss could get, how much more revealing.