The Ideal Bride

made that she appreciated his support, yet he felt an unexpected, somewhat righteous glow.

They’d planned to take a postprandial stroll along the old walls. The view afforded over Southampton Water and south to the Isle of Wight, taking in all the commerical and private shipping that dotted the blue expanse in between, was superb.

The wind whipped the ladies’ skirts and tugged at their bonnets; conversation was difficult. The ambassador’s wife linked her arm with Elizabeth’s; heads together, they discussed some feminine thing. The duchess and countess walked alongside, captured by the view. Behind the four ladies, Caro followed, Ferdinand close beside her. Michael got the distinct impression Ferdinand was groveling, trying to get back into Caro’s good graces, knowing he’d stepped over that invisible line.

The Portuguese was exceedingly charming; he’d probably succeed.

Bringing up the rear with Edward, watching Ferdinand’s artful performance, Michael couldn’t help but wonder if the Portuguese had misinterpreted, or rather missed altogether, the irony in Caro’s nickname, and thought the “Merry” in the “Merry Widow” meant something it did not.

Chapter 3

The next day dawned bright and clear. At Caro’s suggestion, Michael joined them at Bramshaw House. She, Elizabeth, and Geoffrey climbed into the barouche; Michael and Edward kept pace on their horses during the short journey to the landing stage just south of Totton.

Smiling across at Michael as the carriage rolled along, Caro reviewed her plans for the day—her order of battle. Ferdinand, anxious to please after his faux pas of the day before, had agreed to bring his yacht into the northernmost reaches of Southampton Water, thus shortening the time they, and all the others, too, needed to travel before embarking on their cruise.

Reducing time spent in the carriage had seemed wise. If Elizabeth spent too much time in Michael’s sight while in ordinary situations, she might inadvertently start to correct the image they were working to project.

They had to walk a fine line. While alone with Michael or with only herself or Edward present, Elizabeth could behave in ways she couldn’t if others were about to witness her performance; the only restriction was what Michael would believe. In public, however, if she was ultimately to marry Edward and support him in his career, she couldn’t paint herself as a silly flibbertigibbet; those in diplomatic circles had long memories. When among others, all she could do was stumble in minor ways—like her white gown and diamonds or her choking at table—that would be forgiven her youth or excused as inexperience.

Thus far they’d managed exceedingly well. Caro was pleased, but knew better than to rest on her laurels. Not yet.

They rattled through Totton, then turned off the main road and headed down the incline to the water’s edge. The twin masts of Ferdinand’s yacht came into sight, then they rounded the last hill and there it lay, bobbing gently at the jetty.

Most of the others were already there; the ambassador and his wife were boarding as the Bramshaw House party drew up beside the landing stage. A wooden platform built out from the bank, being on the western shore of the estuary, well away from the bustling port on the opposite shore, the jetty was used almost exclusively by pleasure boats.

Michael dismounted, gave his horse into the care of the ostler hired from the tavern in Totton for the day, then came to open the carriage door. Smiling with very real anticipation, Caro gave him her hand; momentarily aware of the strength of his grasp, she allowed him to help her down.

He met her gaze, then glanced at the yacht.

“It’s quite something, isn’t it?” she said.

He looked back at her, paused, then admitted, “I wasn’t expecting anything quite so large. Most ‘yachts’ aren’t that big.”

She settled her shawl about her shoulders. “I understand Ferdinand uses it up and down the Portuguese coast, so it would have to withstand the Atlantic breakers. They’re even more ferocious than the Channel in a storm.”

The carriage shifting behind them recalled Michael to his duty. He turned and helped Elizabeth down.

Caro walked to the narrow gangplank leading onto the yacht. While she waited for Edward and Geoffrey to join her, she scanned those already on board. She was delighted to note Mrs. Driscoll and her daughters. She’d suggested Ferdinand invite them, too; clearly he’d complied.

She couldn’t yet see if the Driscolls had lived up to her expectations. Glancing back, she took in the delightful picture Elizabeth made in her summery gown of sprig muslin, ruffled at the neckline, sleeves, and hem. She carried a matching ruffled parasol; the outfit was perfect for a garden party, or to impress impressionable males at any outdoor event.

Of course, no woman with the slightest modicum of common sense would wear such a gown aboard an oceangoing yacht.

Noting Michael’s silent but patent approval of Elizabeth’s appearance, Caro inwardly grinned; he wouldn’t be so approving by the time they headed home. She summoned Edward with a look; leaving Elizabeth to Michael, he came to give her his arm and aid her in picking her way up the gangplank.

“I sincerely hope you know what you’re doing,” he murmured, steadying her as she swayed.

Tightening her grip on his arm, she laughed. “Oh, ye of little faith. Have I failed you yet?”

“No, but it’s not you directly I doubt.”

“Oh?” She glanced at him, then back at Elizabeth, tripping prettily toward the gangplank on Michael’s arm.

“No, not Elizabeth either. I just wonder if you’re reading him aright.”

Caro drew back to look at Edward’s face. “Michael?”

Looking ahead, Edward’s face hardened. “And not just Anstruther-Wetherby.”

Facing forward, Caro saw Ferdinand, the smiling convivial host, waiting at the gangplank’s head. He looked like a handsome wolf—too many teeth were on show. Smiling in return, she covered the last yards and gave him her hand; he bowed her aboard with courtly grace.

Straightening, he raised her hand to his lips. “You are the last, as befits the most important, dear Caro. Now, we may set sail.”

With a twist of her wrist, she slid her fingers from his grasp. “Do wait until my brother and niece and Mr. Anstruther-Wetherby come aboard.”

With an amused glance, she directed Ferdiand’s attention to where Elizabeth was unsteadily negotiating the narrow gangplank. “It’s the first time Elizabeth’s been aboard a yacht. I’m sure she’ll find the experience rewarding.” She patted Ferdinand’s arm. “I’ll leave you to greet them.”

She was aware of the irritated look he cast her as she swept forward. Edward strolled in her wake; they were both excellent sailors, quite at home on the lightly rolling deck.

“Countess. Duchess.” They exchanged bows, then Caro greeted the gentlemen before turning to Mrs. Driscoll. “I’m so glad you and your daughters could join us.”

As she’d predicted—it was so nice to be proved right—both the Driscoll girls were sensibly attired in twill walking dresses, plain and unadorned. Her own gown of bronze silk twill was made high to the throat, with long fitted sleeves and only slightly flared skirts. Her shawl was a plain one without any fringe. Other than a strip of flat lace around the collar and the placket of her bodice—safe enough—there were no frills or furbelows to catch on anything.

Unlike the fine ruffles of Elizabeth’s gown.

“Oh!”

As if on cue, the feminine cry had everyone turning. Elizabeth’s hem had snagged in the gap between the gangplank and the deck. Ferdinand had his hands full holding her upright, while Michael crouched precariously on the gangplank, struggling to unhook the fine material.

Reining in her smile to the merely happy, Caro turned back to the others. With a wide gesture, she directed all attention to the brilliant blue swath of water before them, the surface ruffled by a gentle breeze. “It’s going to be