The Ideal Bride (4 page)

 
He was charmed and had to laugh.

 
“Now,” she continued, ruthlessly gilding the lily, “we have a small party from the Portuguese embassy, and three from the Austrian, and—” She proceeded to outline her guest list; no politician worth his salt would refuse the opportunity to bump such elbows.

 
He made no pretense of doing so, but smiled easily. “I’ll be delighted to oblige.”

 
“Thank you.” She gave him her very best smile; she might be a trifle out of practice, but it still seemed to work.

 
A rattle and clop on the graveled drive reached them; they both looked, then rose as Hardacre walked Henry, once more harnessed to her gig, around.

 
Hardacre saw them and ducked his head. “Seems right as rain now—you shouldn’t have any trouble with him.”

 
Caro gathered her reticule and rounded the table. Michael took her elbow and steadied her down the terrace steps. She thanked Hardacre, then allowed Michael to help her up to the gig’s seat. Taking the reins, she smiled at him. “At eight o’clock then—I promise you won’t be bored.”

 
“I’m sure I won’t be.” Michael saluted her and stepped back.

 
She flicked the reins and Henry obliged; in perfect style, she trotted out along the drive.

 
Michael watched her go—and wondered how she’d known he’d be here to ask. It was the first day in months he’d been home, yet… just luck? Or, given it was Caro, was it good management?

 
Beside him, Hardacre cleared his throat. “Didn’t want to say anything to Mrs. Sutcliffe—no point. But that horse…”

 
Michael looked at him. “What about him?”

 
“I reckon the reason he bolted was because he’d been stung with pellets—found three tender spots on his left hindquarter, like marks left by stones from a slingshot.”

 
He frowned. “Boys—for a lark?”

 
“Dangerous lark if that be so, and I have to say I can’t think of any lad hereabouts silly enough to do such a thing.”

 
Hardacre was right; all the locals lived on horses—they’d know the likely outcome of such foolishness. “Perhaps there are visitors from London in the vicinity. Lads who wouldn’t know.”

 
“Aye, that’s possible,” Hardacre admitted. “Anyways, can’t see any likelihood of it happening again, least not to Mrs. Sutcliffe.”

 
“No, indeed. That would be like lightning striking twice.”

 
Hardacre headed back to the stable. Michael stood for a full minute staring down the drive, then he turned and climbed the terrace steps.

 
It was too late now to call on Geoffrey Mollison, especially not if his household was at sixes and sevens preparing for Caro’s dinner party. Indeed, there was now no need as he himself would be attending and thus would meet Geoffrey later.

 
Yet his impatience had eased; he was inclined to view Caro’s dinner as an opportunity rather than a distraction. Such an event would be the perfect setting in which to refresh his memory and further his acquaintance with
 
Elizabeth , his ideal bride.

 
Feeling indebted to Caro, he strolled inside—he needed to unpack his evening gear.

 
* * *

 
“The enemy is engaged! Our campaign is under way.” A triumphant smile wreathing her face, Caro dropped into a chintz-covered armchair in the family parlor at Bramshaw House.

 
“Yes, but will it work?” Perched on the chaise, picture pretty in a ruffled gown of sprigged muslin with her long fair hair coiled at her nape,
 
Elizabeth
 
eyed her, hope and trepidation in her big blue eyes.

 
“Of course it will work!” Caro turned her triumph on the only other occupant of the parlor, her secretary, Edward Campbell, who was seated beside
 
Elizabeth
 
on the chaise. A sober, earnest, and reliable gentleman of twenty-three summers, Edward did not look at all the sort of gentleman to have swept
 
Elizabeth
 
off her feet. Appearances, as Caro well knew, could be deceptive.

 
Letting her smile fade, she met Edward’s eyes. “I assure you that when a gentleman like Michael Anstruther-Wetherby makes up his mind you are the ideal candidate for the position of his wife, the only way to avoid having to say the word ‘no’ and cling limpetlike to it in the teeth of the considerable pressure that will—make no doubt—be brought to bear, is to convince him
before
he makes his offer that he’s made a mistake.”

 
Although her words were for
 
Elizabeth , she continued to watch Edward. If the pair were less than rock solid in their resolve, she wanted to see it, know it, now.

 
Until five days ago, she’d been happily ensconced in Derbyshire with Augusta and had expected to spend the summer months there. Two urgent summonses from
 
Elizabeth , one to her, one to Edward, had brought them hotfoot to Hampshire via London.

 
Elizabeth
 
had written, panicked at the prospect of finding herself facing an offer from Michael Anstruther-Wetherby. Caro had thought it a sham—she knew Michael’s age and his circle—but
 
Elizabeth
 
had related a conversation with her father in which Geoffrey, having ascertained that
 
Elizabeth
 
had formed no
tendre
for any gentleman she’d met while in town during the Season, had proceeded to sing Michael’s praises.

 
That, Caro had had to admit, sounded suspicious. Not because Michael wasn’t perfectly praiseworthy, but because Geoffrey had sought to point that out.

 
Edward, too, had had doubts over
 
Elizabeth ’s conjecture, but stopping in London on their way down, he’d dropped in on certain friends, like him aides and secretaries to the politically powerful. What he’d learned had brought him home pale and tense. The whispers had it that Michael Anstruther-Wetherby had been put on notice for a cabinet position; part of that notice concerned his marital status and the suggestion he alter it by autumn.

 
Caro had delayed another day in town, long enough to pay a morning call on Michael’s formidable aunt, Harriet Jennet. They’d spoken political hostess to diplomatic hostess; Caro hadn’t even had to broach the subject—Harriet had seized the opportunity to drop a word in her ear regarding Michael’s interest in
 
Elizabeth .

 
That had been more than confirmation enough. Matters were, indeed, as serious as
 
Elizabeth
 
had supposed.

 
Caro shifted her gaze to her niece. She herself had been a diplomatic bride, a young and innocent seventeen-year-old swept off her feet by the supremely polished attentions of an older—in her case much older—man. She, admittedly, had had no other love in her life, but not for the world would she wish such a marriage on any other young girl.

 
Although she’d never known love herself, she had every sympathy for
 
Elizabeth
 
and Edward. It was in her household in Lisbon they’d first met; she’d never encouraged them, but to her mind that also meant not opposing them. If love was to be, it would be, and in their case, it had indeed grown. They’d remained steadfast for more than three years, and neither showed any sign of wavering in their affection.

 
She’d already been thinking of what she might do to further Edward’s career, at least to the point that he could offer for
 
Elizabeth ’s hand. That, however, was not a matter for today. Michael’s prospective offer had to be dealt with first. Now—immediately.

 
“You have to understand,” she explained, “that once Michael makes an offer, it will be much harder to get him to withdraw it, and harder still for you, placed as you are, your father’s daughter, to refuse it. Our wisest course therefore is to ensure the offer is never made, and that means changing Michael’s mind.”

 
His brown eyes serious, Edward looked at
 
Elizabeth . “I agree. It’s by far the best way—the tack most likely to succeed with least damage to all.”

 
Elizabeth
 
met his gaze, then glanced at Caro. Then sighed. “Very well. I concede you’re right. So what must I do?”

 
Caro smiled encouragingly. “For tonight, we must concentrate on raising the question of your suitability in his mind. We don’t need to repulse him all at once, but simply make him pause and consider. However, whatever we do can be neither overt nor obvious.‘’

 
Imagining the possibilities, she narrowed her eyes. “The key to manipulating the opinions of a gentleman like Michael Anstruther-Wetherby is always to be subtle and circumspect.”

 
Chapter 2

 
Michael climbed the steps of Bramshaw House at ten minutes past eight that evening. Catten, the butler, knew him well; he conducted him to the formal drawing room and announced him, then deferentially stepped back. Michael walked into the long room, into a fractional pause in the buzz of conversation, smiling easily as eyes, then smiles came his way.

 
Engaged with a group about the fireplace, Caro saw him. Pausing a few paces inside the room, he waited while she disengaged and came to greet him, the skirts of her oyster silk gown softly shushing.

 
“My savior!” Smiling, she gave him her hand; when he released it, she confidently tucked it in his arm, swirling to stand beside him as she surveyed the guests. “I suspect you know most, but I doubt you’ll have met the Portuguese contingent.” She slanted him a glance. “Shall we?”

 
“By all means.” He allowed her to steer him toward the group she’d recently left.

 
She leaned close, murmured, “The ambassador and his wife are dancing attendance at Brighton, but both couples here are, if anything, even more influential.”

 
She smiled as they joined the group. “The Duke and Duchess of Oporto.” With a gesture she indicated a dark gentleman with a cadaverous face and a tall, equally dark and haughty matron. “The Count and Countess of Albufeira.” Another dark-haired gentleman, but quite different from the first—a portly soul with twinkling eyes and the high color of one who was fond of his wine—and a brown-haired, handsome but severe lady. “And this is Ferdinand Leponte, the count’s nephew. Allow me to present Mr. Michael Anstruther-Wetherby. Michael is our local Member of Parliament.”

 
Everyone exchanged bows, murmured polite greetings. Relinquishing Michael’s arm, Caro placed a hand on the duke’s sleeve. “I think it would be wise for you to get to know each other.” Eyes gleaming, she glanced at Michael. “I’ve heard a whisper that in future Mr. Anstruther-Wetherby will be spending more time in our diplomatic circles as distinct from the purely political.”

 
He met her gaze, arched a brow, not entirely surprised she’d heard the rumors. She hadn’t, however, revealed such knowledge earlier in the day.

 
Interpreting their interplay as confirmation, the count quickly engaged him; within minutes, the duke had joined in. Their wives were equally interested, with a few well-directed questions quickly establishing his background and connections.

 
He was content to encourage them, to listen to their views on what they saw as the most important aspects in the relationship between their two countries. They were keen to sow the right seeds, to influence his opinions before he’d truly formed them—or more particularly before he heard the views of the Foreign Office mandarins.