The Ideal Bride (64 page)

 
“I won’t allow my decision to be made by default. This time,
I
have to make it—I have to be sure.”

 
“What did Harriet say to you?”

 
She glanced at him. “Only that Canning was retiring—the timing.” She frowned, following his thoughts. “She didn’t pressure me—not her, or anyone else.” Looking out at the garden, she sighed. “It’s not people who’ve been persuading me this time—it’s everything else. All the tangible and not-so-tangible things—the position, the role, the possibilities. I can see that everything fits… but it seemed to fit the last time, too.”

 
He was feeling his way. Glancing at her face, he judged her calm enough to ask, “You’re not imagining—not about to suggest—I look elsewhere for a wife?”

 
Her lips set. For a long moment, she didn’t answer, then said, “I should.”

 
“But you won’t?”

 
She blew out a breath. Still not looking at him, she quietly stated, “I don’t want you to marry anyone else.”

 
Relief washed through him. So far, so good—

 
“But that’s not the point!” Abruptly, she speared her hands through her hair, then whirled from the window. “You
have
to marry within a few weeks, so I
have to
make up my mind—and
I can’t
! Not like this!”

 
He caught her hand before she could dash away across the room. The instant he touched her, he realized she was more tense than she appeared—her nerves far more taut. “What you mean is not yet.”

 
Her eyes, limpid silver, locked with his. “What I mean is I can’t promise that within a few weeks I’ll happily agree to be your bride!” She held his gaze, no veil, no shield, nothing to screen the turmoil, close to anguish, in her mind. “I can’t say yes”—she shook her head, almost whispered—“and I don’t want to say no.”

 
He suddenly saw it, the answer to his most urgent question. What was truly most important to her. The insight was momentarily blinding, then he blinked, refocused. On her. His eyes locked on hers; using his hold on her hand, he drew her closer. “You won’t have to say no.” Before she could argue, he continued, “You won’t have to declare your decision until you’re ready—until you’ve made it.”

 
Steadily, he drew her nearer; reluctantly, frowning, she came. But—

 
“I told you at the outset, no pressures, no persuasions. Your decision, and yours alone.” He finally saw the truth, saw it all; drawing breath, he looked into her eyes. “I want you to make that decision— between us, there’s no hourglass with its sand running out.” He raised her hand to his lips, kissed. “It’s important this time—for you, for me, for us—that
you
make your decision.”

 
He’d only just comprehended how vital, how essential that was— not just for her but for him as well. It might be his commitment she questioned, but unless she made her decision, actively and not by default, he would never be sure of her commitment either.

 
“I’ll do anything—give anything—to allow you your choice.” His voice deepened, each word intent. “I want to know you’ve knowingly accepted—that you’ve actively chosen to be my wife, to combine your life with mine.”

 
She studied his eyes; confusion filled hers. “I don’t understand.”

 
His lips twisted, ironically self-deprecatory. “I don’t care about the appointment.”

 
Her eyes flared; she tried to jerk back as if he were joking.

 
He caught her waist, held her. “No—I know what I’m saying.” He trapped her gaze, felt his jaw set. “I
mean
it.”

 
“But…” Eyes wide, she searched his. “You’re a politician… this is a
cabinet
post…”

 
“Yes, all right—I do care,
but.
. .” He hauled in a breath, briefly closed his eyes. He had to explain—and get it right; if he didn’t, she wouldn’t understand, wouldn’t believe. Opening his eyes, he looked into hers. “I’m a politician—it’s in my blood, so yes, success in that field is important to me. But being a politician is only a part of my life, and it’s not the most important part. The other part of my life, the other half of it, is.”

 
She frowned.

 
He went on, “The other part—the part that’s most important… think of Devil. His life is spent running a dukedom, but the reason he does so—what gives his life purpose—is the other side of it. Honoria, his family, both immediate and wider. That’s why he does what he does—that’s where the purpose, the raison d’etre of his life springs from.”

 
Caro blinked, studied his eyes. “And you?” From the tension she sensed rising through him, he wasn’t enjoying the discussion, but was grimly determined to see it to its end.

 
“The same holds true. I need… you, and a family, to anchor me— to give me a base, a foundation—a sense of personal purpose. I want you as my wife—I want to have children with you, to make a home with you, found a family with you. That’s what I need—and I know it.” His jaw tensed, but he went on, “If passing up this chance at the Foreign Office is the price I have to pay to have you as my wife, I’ll pay gladly. The post doesn’t matter as much to me as you do.”

 
She searched his eyes; no matter how hard she looked she could see nothing but brutal honesty. “I really mean that much to you?” Not just a surprise, but something beyond her wildest dreams.

 
He held her gaze, then quietly said, “My career is at the periphery of my life—
you
are at its center. Without you, all the rest is meaningless.”

 
The admission hung between them, stark and clear.

 
She felt compelled to ask, “Your grandfather—your aunt?”

 
“Strangely enough, I think they’ll understand. Magnus, at least.”

 
She hesitated, but had to ask, “You really want me that much?”

 
He clenched his teeth. “I
need
you that much.” The intensity of the words shook him as much as her.

 
“I…”—she searched his blue eyes—“don’t know what to say.”

 
He released her. “You don’t have to say anything yet.” Lifting his hands, he framed her face. Let his thumbs cruise the fine skin of her jaw, then brought his gaze to her eyes. “You just have to believe—and you will.”

 
He tipped up her face, lowered his head. “However long it takes, I’ll wait until you do.”

 
The vow resonated between them, shivered through them.

 
He kissed her.

 
Whether it was the touch of her hand on the back of his, or that they’d spoken so blatantly of their needs, or whether it was simply him owning to his—to that force that compelled, that beat in his blood, pounded through his veins, surged through his body—whichever or all, they ignited him. Cindered the last of his restraint, left him with undisguised hunger raging through him. A potent, driving, primitive desire to show her beyond doubt, beyond confusion, what she truly meant to him.

 
How elementally deep his need for her ran.

 
Caro felt the change in him. She was already adrift on an unchartered sea; his words had ripped her from the rock her past had chained her to, and whirled her into the surging waves of the unknown. Onto the flood tide.

 
The raging currents sucked her down. Dragged her into some dark inferno where he waited for her, ablaze with hunger, with greedy need.

 
Their tongues tangled, but he was the aggressor, openly, dominantly so. He shifted into her, steering, then pressing her against the wall beyond the window; his hands released her jaw, one reaching further to slide through her hair until his strong fingers wrapped about her nape, holding her steady so he could plunder. So he could feast on the softness of her mouth, so he could brand her with the heat that seemed to pour from him. Then his other hand found her breast, and the flames leapt.

 
She pushed her hands up, gripped his shoulders as her world, her senses, spun, as his hand closed possessively, as he kneaded and she ached, and want and need spilled like an elixir down her veins.

 
His or hers, she wasn’t sure, couldn’t tell.

 
Then his fingers found her nipple and she moaned. He plunged deep into her mouth, tightened his fingers—her lungs seized. She sank her fingertips into his shoulders, came up on her toes to meet him, to urge him on.

 
The resulting duel sent heat and fire raging through them both, hungry, ravenous, surging and building. Her skin burned; his was even hotter, stretched over tensed muscles, scalding, branding her wherever he touched. Her peignoir and negligee were no protection; pressing her to the wall, his hands roved, searched, flagrantly explored, possessed.

 
Abruptly his hard hands rose to her shoulders; he stripped off her peignoir—discarded, it drifted to the floor. Her gauzy negligee was designed to be an erotic temptation ; when he bent his head and through the fine material licked and laved her nipple, then closed his mouth over it and suckled fiercely until she cried out, she was no longer sure who was tempter, who the target.

 
He used the material, shifting it over her excruciatingly tight nipples, sliding it over her heated skin, veiling his caresses, sensually distracting, disconcerting. Then he pressed closer, one hard thigh parting hers, forcing hers wide enough so hard muscle rode against her mons. He pressed, rocked, aroused her until she was gasping through their kiss, clinging to his shoulders, reaching to twine her fingers in his hair.

 
To anchor her against the fire and the yearning, the achingly empty sensation growing inside her, the welling, burgeoning, all-consuming need.

 
One hand at her hip, anchoring her against the wall, he eased back, pressed a hand between their bodies, reached down. Found her curls through the distracting gauze and stroked, then reached further. Through the shifting gossamer silk he caressed her, traced her swollen folds, parted them, probed, pressed a finger, encased in gauze, into her, deeper, then deeper still, pulling the material tight over her mons.

 
He stroked, pressing in, easing back, each successive movement shifting the filmy material over the sensitive bud hidden between her folds. Over and over. Breaking from the kiss, he leaned into her, holding her against the wall while he pleasured her. His head was beside hers; she felt his gaze on her face. Could barely think through the haze of escalating sensations.

 
She cracked open her lids, found his eyes waiting to trap hers. She moistened her lips. Managed to find breath to say, “Take me to the bed.”

 
“No.” His voice was dark, deep. “Not yet.”

 
There was something in his tone, something in his face that was harder, clearer, more defined. She studied it, understood more by instinct than reason, shuddered and closed her eyes.

 
Felt her senses close in, felt them start the now familiar giddy climb.

 
“Michael…” She pushed back on his shoulders; he moved not an inch.

 
Ruthlessly pushed her on.

 
“Here. Now. Let go.”

 
She had to. He gave her no choice, stroking again and again deep inside her until the glory took her and she broke apart.

 
Sagging against the wall, she felt his hand leave her—expected him to step back, sweep her up in his arms, and carry her to the bed.