The Ideal Bride (36 page)

 
She put a hand to her hair.

 
“Wait.”

 
He turned her to face him, resettled her diadem, touched the fine mass of her hair here and there, then stepped back and looked her over. Stopped at her breasts. Lifted her topaz pendant and settled it in place.

 
She met his eyes as they rose to hers. Searched them. Simply asked, “Are you sure?”

 
He didn’t ask about what. Instead, his lips lifted; bending his head, he touched them fleetingly to hers. “Oh, yes.” He straightened and his eyes met hers. “When I finally have you naked beneath me, I want at least two hours to play.”

 
Chapter 12

 
Michael elected to return to the ballroom via the secondary stairs at the end of the wing. Still pleasantly aglow and a trifle distracted, Caro allowed him to guide her. They were on the landing halfway down when the sound of a door closing brought them both to silent attention.

 
Below, in the corridor connecting the library and Geoffrey’s study to the front hall, Ferdinand came into view. He walked confidently along; at one point, he looked around, but he failed to glance up.

 
Silent and still, they waited until he disappeared; they heard his footsteps fading across the hall tiles.

 
They exchanged a glance, then continued down. The door from which Ferdinand must have emerged led into the library. As they stepped off the stairs, it opened again; Edward stepped out. He closed the door, then started along, and saw them.

 
He smiled grimly. “Did you see?”

 
Caro nodded.

 
“I take it he searched?” Michael asked.

 
“Carefully and thoroughly for the past half hour. I watched him from outside.”

 
Caro frowned. “I know there’s nothing there, but did he take anything? Or look at anything in particular that might give us some clue?”

 
“No, but he went over the books very quickly. If I had to guess, I’d say he was looking for folios—the sort that look like books but are really folders of notes or letters.”

 
Michael grimaced. “Camden’s papers.”

 
Caro humphed. “Well, at least he now knows there’s nothing here.”

 
“Or at Sutcliffe Hall.” Michael took her elbow and steered her toward the ballroom, from whence sounds of guests regathering were emanating.

 
Edward followed. When they reached the ballroom, Michael released Caro; she headed for the terrace, no doubt intent on checking that her supper by moonlight had gone as she’d planned. He let her go. Pausing on the threshold, he scanned the heads, eventually locating Ferdinand’s.

 
Beside him, Edward quietly said, “I wonder where Leponte will think of looking next.”

 
“Indeed.” Michael glanced at Edward. “We’ll need to think more on that.”

 
Edward nodded. “He’s already checked the study, but I’ll continue to keep an eye on him, just in case.”

 
Inclining his head, Michael moved away. When he had a chance, he was going to have to try to put himself in Ferdinand’s shoes, but the Russian attaché was, possibly unwittingly, standing next to the Prussian ambassador’s wife—duty called.

 
Two hours, he’d said. As far as Caro could see, that meant she’d be waiting until the day after the fete, at the earliest, to learn the answer to her desperately urgent question.

 
She felt like having the gig harnessed, driving around to Eyeworth Manor, grabbing Michael by the cravat and hauling him off…

 
Where? That was the problem. Indeed, the more she thought of it, she couldn’t imagine how he’d solve that particular difficulty at any time… unfortunately, today, she couldn’t put her mind to devising a solution—she had a fete to help stage and a small horde of guests to herd to it.

 
The weather had held; the day had dawned fine, free of any but the lightest clouds. The lilting breeze was just strong enough to rustle leaves and set ribbons dancing.

 
Breakfast was held late due to the previous night’s festivities; as soon as it was over and the guests, refreshed, reassembled, she, aided by Edward,
 
Elizabeth , and Geoffrey, shepherded them up the shady drive and across the village street.

 
For decades, the fete had been held in the meadow behind the church; a good-sized clearing, it was bound at the back and to the right by the forest, with a secondary clearing to the left, perfect for leaving horses and gigs under Muriel’s stableman’s watchful eye. Stalls set in a large circle displayed jams, cakes, and homemade wines amid a host of other local produce. There were wood carvings and paintings, horseshoes and ornamental brasses; the latter proved popular among the foreign visitors, as did Miss Trice’s watercolors.

 
The offerings of the Ladies’ Association—doilies, crocheted scarves, beribboned handkerchief sachets, embroidered tray cloths, antimacassars, and more—covered two long trestle tables. Caro stopped to chat with Mrs. Henry and Miss Ellerton, who were currently overseeing the wares.

 
While she talked she kept an eye on her guests, but they all seemed quite taken with this, for them uncommon, slice of English life. Lady Kleber and the general in particular seemed in their element; they’d stopped to talk with the woodcarver.

 
She was turning away when another large group came through from the stabling area. Michael steered the Swedish and Finnish contingents she’d billeted at the Manor into the main clearing, pausing to point out various stalls. She watched him smile and charm the Verolstadt girls, but when they went off, parasols gaily bobbing in their parents’ wake, he remained where he was.

 
Then he turned his head, looked straight at her, and smiled.

 
A warm glow filled her; he’d known she was there. Not only that, but his smile—the smile he seemed to save just for her—was quite different. Somehow more real. He started toward her; she went forward to meet him. He took her hand, deftly raised it to his lips, kissed it.

 
His eyes on hers reminded her, stirred memories inappropriate to indulge in while in public. She felt a blush tinge her cheeks, tried to frown. “Don’t.”

 
His smile deepened. “Why not?” He wound her arm in his and turned her toward the homemade wines. “You look delicious when you blush.”

 
Delicious. Of course he would use that word.

 
She retaliated by ensuring he bought two bottles of Mrs. Crabthorpe’s elderberry wine, then guided him around the stalls, loading him with produce, even making him purchase two doilies from Miss Ellerton, who blushed even more rosily than she had.

 
His eyes laughed at her; indeed, he bore her managing in such good vein she started to become suspicious. Then they came upon Mrs. Entwhistle, who exclaimed at his load and insisted on relieving him of it; all the packages disappeared into her capacious bag while she waved aside his protests. “It’s no difficulty at all, sir. Hardacre’s here— he’ll see me home.”

 
“Ah, good.” Michael’s expression eased. “Given our guests won’t be returning, I meant what I said earlier—please spend as long as you like here, all of you. I don’t expect to be back until late. After all your hard work, you deserve some fun.”

 
Mrs. Entwhistle beamed. “Thank you, sir. I’ll tell the others. This
is
one of those occasions where we can catch up with our cousins and nieces and nephews—having the time to chat without thinking of ought else is a boon. I know Carter’ll be happy to spend time with his mum.”

 
“If I see him, I’ll tell him, but do spread the word.”

 
They parted; Caro felt her instincts pricking, but she couldn’t fathom over what. Then Muriel saw them and swooped.

 
“Excellent! Just in time to perform the official opening.” Muriel ran her eye critically over Michael, as if expecting to find something to correct.

 
When she frowned, defeated, Caro hid a smile; for this setting, for his role, Michael was sartorially impeccable in a perfectly tailored riding jacket in brown-and-green tweed, his cravat snowy white, simply styled, his waistcoat an understated brown velvet, his breeches tight-fitting buckskins that disappeared into gleaming topboots. He looked the part he was there to play, the part he wished to project to this audience, that of a gentleman accustomed to moving in the highest circles, but who also was one of them, approachable, not above riding through their lanes, a man who appreciated their country pleasures as they did.

 
Had Muriel really thought he’d falter?

 
More, that if he had, that she, Caro, wouldn’t have put him right?

 
Linking her arm more definitely in his, she nodded to a dray drawing up before the stalls. “Is that the platform?”

 
Muriel looked. “Yes, indeed! Come along.”

 
Muriel strode ahead, calling to others to gather around. Seeing Reverend Trice, she imperiously directed him to the dray.

 
Michael caught Caro’s eye; the glance they shared was one of complete understanding and politely suppressed amusement.

 
Reaching the dray, Caro slid her arm from Michael’s and stood watching as he climbed up, assisted Reverend Trice up, then looked around, nodding and exchanging salutes with those he’d yet to chat with while they waited. Muriel came striding back; at her sharp command, numerous hands helped her up to the dray’s tray.

 
Regaining her balance, Muriel smoothed down her skirts. She was a large woman, taller than Caro and rather heavier; in her dark green gown she looked imposing and severe. In a ringing voice, she called the crowd to order; briefly mentioning the long history of the fete and its purpose in raising funds for the physical betterment of the church, she graciously if somewhat superiorly thanked those who had assisted in staging today’s event.

 
Muriel stepped back, inviting Reverend Trice to address the crowd. His tones imbued with the authority of his office, he accepted the support of the community and thanked all who had assisted and all who had come to share in the event in the name of the church and the Almighty.

 
Michael spoke last; it was instantly apparent he was the most gifted speaker of the three. His attitude was relaxed, his message succinct, his tone and inflections natural and assured as he applauded their community spirit, alluded to its strength, and how it owed its existence to each and every one of them. With just a few words, he bound them together, made each individual feel personally included. Then, drawing on local lore, thus subtly underscoring that he was one of them, he made them laugh, and then, speaking over the laughter, owned himself honored to declare the fete officially open.

 
The emphasis he placed on “officially” left everyone with a smile on their face; in true country fashion, no one had waited for any official sanction.

 
Caro had heard many such speeches, but not before from him. Yet she knew talent when she heard it; the Prime Minister’s push to promote Michael into the Cabinet, where his eloquence would be of even more use to the government, now made complete sense.

 
Watching him shake hands with Reverend Trice and exchange a few words with Muriel, she sensed he was a politician who, although already successful, still had further to go. He had the talent to be a real power, but had yet to fully develop his strengths; to her experienced eyes, that was very clear.