The Ideal Bride (50 page)

 
Caro was on the brink of sleep when a muffled curse floated through her mind. It wasn’t one she normally used… puzzled, her mind refocused, turning from the billows of slumber to wonder…

 
A scrape reached her ears. Followed by another muffled curse.

 
She sat up and looked across the room to where she’d left the French doors to her balcony open to let in the elusive breeze. The lace curtains drifted, nothing looked amiss… then she heard a crack—a twig or branch—followed by a soft oath she couldn’t make out.

 
Her heart leapt to her throat.

 
She slid from the bed. A heavy silver candlestick a foot tall stood on her dressing table; she reached for it, hefted it, taking comfort from its weight, then glided silently to the French doors, paused, then moved out onto the balcony beyond.

 
Whoever was climbing up the old wisteria was going to get a surprise.

 
A hand slapped onto the balustrade; she jumped. It was a male right hand, reaching, grabbing hold. It tensed, tendons shifting, muscles bunching as the man gripped, and pulled himself up—

 
Raising the candlestick, grimly determined, she stepped forward, intending to bring the heavy base down on the man’s hand—

 
A gold signet ring winked in the weak light.

 
She blinked, peered, bent, and from a foot away looked more closely…

 
A vision flashed into her mind—of that hand, with that gold ring on the little finger, cupping her bare breast.

 
“Michael?” Lowering the candlestick, straightening, she stepped to the balustrade and peered over. Through the shifting shadows, she saw his head, the familiar set of his shoulders. “What on earth are you doing?”

 
He muttered something unintelligible, then more clearly said, “Stand back.”

 
She took two steps back, watched as, both hands now locked on the balustrade, he hauled himself up, then swung a leg over the wide sill and sat astride.

 
Catching his breath, Michael looked at her, staring, not surprisingly bemused, at him, then he noticed the candlestick. “What were you intending to do with that?”

 
“Give whoever was sneaking up to my balcony a nasty surprise.”

 
His lips twisted. “I didn’t think of that.” Swinging his other leg over, he stood, then leaned back against the balustrade as she stepped near and peered over.

 
“You didn’t plan awfully well at all—wisteria isn’t very strong.”

 
Grimacing, he relieved her of the candlestick. “So I discovered. I’m afraid it took rather a beating.”

 
“How am I supposed to explain that to Hendricks—Geoffrey’s gardener?” Caro looked at him, found his gaze tracing down her body.

 
“You won’t be here for him to ask.” The words were vague; his gaze was still traveling down. It reached her feet; he hesitated, then slowly started upward again.

 
“And how would it have looked if you’d got caught? The local Member of Parliament climbing to a lady’s window…” She stopped, intrigued. Waiting with feigned patience until his gaze returned to her eyes, she arched a brow.

 
His lips eased. “I’d imagined you as a demure cotton buttoned-to-the-throat type.”

 
Raising both brows haughtily, she turned and walked back into her room. “I used to be. This”—she gestured to the delicate silk negligee gracing her curves—“was Camden’s idea.”

 
Following in her wake, Michael tore his gaze from the filmy confection that floated, flirted, a translucent sop to modesty, about her transparently naked form. “Camden?”

 
Even through the dimness, he could make out her peaked nipples, the arousing curves of breast and hip and the long lines of her thighs. Her arms were bare, as was most of her back, the ivory silk shifting provocatively over the globes of her bottom as she led him into her bedchamber.

 
Camden must have been a glutton for self-punishment.

 
“He said it was in case the embassy caught on fire and I had to rush out
en dishabille
.” Halting, Caro faced him, met his eyes. “But I think it was more a case of what the servants would think. More a matter of protecting my standing than his.” Her lips quirked self-deprecatingly. “After all,” she murmured, fingers flicking the gown, “he never saw them.”

 
Halting before her, he looked into her eyes. Then bent his head. “More fool him.”

 
He kissed her, and she kissed him back, but then, one hand on his cheek, drew back to look into his eyes. “Why are you here?”

 
Closing his hands about her hips, he drew her nearer. “I couldn’t sleep.” The truth, if only part of it.

 
She searched his eyes; her lips curved teasingly. She let him settle her hips against him, then seductively shifted. “And you expect to
sleep
in my bed?”

 
“Yes.”
From now until forever
. He shrugged. “Once we’ve indulged”—bending his head, he pressed a kiss beneath her ear, murmured even more softly—“once I’ve slaked my lust for you and sated my appetite”—lifting his head, he looked down at her—“I’ll sleep perfectly well.”
With you lying sated beside me
.

 
Brows high, she studied his eyes, then the curve of her lips deepened. “We’d better to get into bed then.” Pushing back in his arms, her gaze dropped to his chest; her hands slid down from his shoulders. “You’ll have to take off your clothes.”

 
He caught her hands before she could embark on any fiendish— and doomed to be short-lived—game. The sight of her in her excuse for a negligee—and it seemed likely all her nightwear was of similar ilk, a point he didn’t at that moment wish to dwell on—let alone the feel of her sinking, then sliding against him, had teased him from mere arousal to throbbing rigidity. He didn’t need further encouragement. “I’ll undress while you take off that creation—if I touch it, I’m bound to tear it. Once we’re both naked, we can start from there.”

 
Her laugh was sultry. “If you’re sure you don’t need any help?”

 
“Quite sure.” He released her. She stepped back. Dragging in a breath, he moved to the end of her bed; leaning against it, he reached for his boots.

 
Hands rising to the shoulder clasps anchoring her nightgown, Caro murmured, “I’d always assumed these garments were designed so a man could remove them quickly.”

 
“Those garments”—boots off, he straightened, hands rising to his cravat; his tones were distinctly strained—“were designed to drive men into a heightened state of lust in which, beyond the reach of sanity, they rip said garments off.”

 
She laughed again, amazed that she could, that her heart felt so light even while her nerves were tightening. Two clicks and her negligee was free; the silk slithered down her body, pooling at her feet. “Well, you’re in no danger now.”

 
Shrugging out of his shirt, he glanced at her. “Much you know.” His gaze felt like flame, caressing, burning. Emboldened, she bent and scooped the negligee up, tossed it on her dressing stool.

 
He looked away, flung his shirt aside, then, as if desperate, stripped off his breeches. Sending them spinning to join the rest of his clothes, he turned and reached for her.

 
She went into his arms, all laughter fading as their skins touched, and she felt his heat, felt his need—without thought gave herself up to it. To him.

 
Gave him her mouth and exulted when he took, sank into him, gloried in his ravenous, ravishing response. His hands roamed, not gentle but with undisguised yearning, with a heated hunger she shared.

 
That grew with every breath, with every gasp, every wickedly evocative caress.

 
Burying her hands in his hair, she clutched, arched against him, was only dimly aware when he lifted her and laid her on her sheets; she was caught in the flames, overwhelmed by their greedy heat, empty, aching, wanting.

 
His weight as he moved over her was a giddy relief, then he parted her thighs, pressed between, and entered her.

 
Thrust deep and joined with her.

 
Her gasp shivered through the night, a silver echo about them; eyes locked with hers, he thrust deeper still, then he bent his head, sealed her lips with his, and moved within her. Powerfully.

 
Unrestrained yet controlled, he whirled her into the dance her body and senses craved, that some part of her ached for. That her long-buried needs and wants, at last free, longed for. He wrapped her in dreams of hot skin slickly sliding, tongues sensuously tangling, muscled hardness and flushed softness supplely and intimately twining.

 
She arched beneath him, her body straining against his; he held her down and drove deeper, harder. Faster as she rose on the crest of that familiar wave, reaching higher, further, until it broke.

 
With a cry that he drank, she tumbled from the peak into his waiting arms.

 
Michael caught her, held her close, spread her thighs wider and sank deeper into her scalding heat, driving faster, harder, until her body claimed him and he followed her into sweet oblivion.

 
Later, he lifted from her; slumping beside her, relaxed, every muscle boneless with sated languor, he realized in the instant before sleep overcame him that his instincts had been right.

 
This was where he’d needed to spend the night—in Caro’s bed, with her asleep beside him. One arm slung over her waist, he closed his eyes.

 
And slept.

 
He had to scramble the next morning to avoid the maids, both at Bramshaw House and the Manor. Returning to Bramshaw as he’d promised at eight o’clock, he found Caro’s traveling carriage waiting in the forecourt, the team between the shafts restless and ready to go.

 
Unfortunately for them all, while Caro herself was ready, the packing and stowing of her numerous boxes and valises had only just begun. Michael had had his groom drive him over in his curricle, his two cases strapped on behind; directing the two insignificant cases be placed alongside the mountain of Caro’s luggage, he strolled to where she stood on the porch in conference with Catten and her not-so-young Portuguese maid.

 
Catten bowed in welcome; the maid bobbed, but the glance she threw him was severe.

 
Caro beamed, which was all he truly cared about.

 
“As you see”—she gestured to the footmen ferrying her luggage to the carriage—“we’re ready—almost. This should take no more than half an hour.”

 
He’d expected as much; he returned her smile. “No matter—I need to speak with Edward.”

 
“He’ll be supervising
 
Elizabeth ’s piano practice, I expect.”

 
With a nod, he turned away. “I’ll find him.”

 
He did, as predicted in the drawing room. A look summoned Edward from the piano;
 
Elizabeth
 
smiled, but continued to play. Edward joined him as he crossed the drawing room; at his intimation, they walked out onto the terrace.

 
He halted, but didn’t immediately speak. Edward stopped beside him. “Last-minute instructions?”