progress to an offer, and thence to the altar, all in good time for autumn.
Cold-blooded perhaps, yet in his opinion a marriage based on mutual affection rather than passion would suit him best.
Despite his links with the Cynsters, he did not consider himself as one with them when it came to marriage; he was a different sort of man. They were passionate, determined, high-handedly arrogant; he would admit to being determined, but he’d long ago learned to disguise his arrogance, and he was a politician, ergo not a man given to the wilder passions.
Not a man to allow his heart to rule his head.
A straightforward marriage to a lady close to his ideal—that was what he needed. He’d discussed the prospect and specifically Elizabeth Mollison with his grandfather, and also with his aunt, Mrs. Harriet Jennet, a political hostess of note; both had supported his stance, in both cases with typical Anstruther-Wetherby ascerbity.
Harriet had snorted. “Glad to see Honoria and that lot haven’t turned your head. The position of your wife is too important to be decided by the color of a lady’s eyes.”
He doubted that the color of a lady’s eyes had ever featured highly in any male Cynsters mind as a deciding factor in marriage—other physical attributes perhaps… of course, he’d held his tongue.
Magnus had made various stringent comments about the unwisdom of allowing passion to rule one’s life. Strangely, however, although almost daily prodding him to get on with the business of securing Elizabeth’s hand, at Amelia’s wedding at Somersham, Magnus had ignored the perfect opportunity to press… then again, history had it that all weddings celebrated at Somersham Place were love matches. Perhaps it was that—that the marriage he was set on, indeed, needed to be set on, would not be one such—that had persuaded his grandfather to cling to wisdom and in that company hold his tongue.
The lane wended on; a strange impatience rose within him but he held Atlas to his steady pace. Ahead, the trees thinned; beyond, glimpsed through their trunks and the thick undergrowth, he could see the rippling fields lining the Lyndhurst lane.
A feeling of certainty gripped him; it was the right time for him to go forward and marry, to build another family here, the next generation, to put down deeper roots and grow into the next phase of his life.
The lane was a succession of curves, the trees and undergrowth thick enough to screen sounds at any distance; by the time the rattle of the fast-approaching carriage, the thud of flying hooves, reached him, the carriage was almost upon him.
He just had time to draw Atlas to the side of the lane before a gig, out of control and careening wildly, exploded around the bend.
It flashed past, heading toward the Manor. Grim-faced, pale as death, a slim woman wrestled with the reins, desperately trying to control the horse.
Michael cursed and wheeled Atlas. He was thundering in the gig’s wake before he’d even thought. Then he did, and cursed again. Carriage accidents were his worst nightmare; the threat of witnessing another sank like a spur into his side. He urged Atlas on.
The gig was rocketing, almost flying; the horse would soon tire, but the lane led only to the Manor—and that would be reached too soon.
He’d been born at the Manor, had lived his first nineteen years there; he knew every foot of the lane. Atlas was fresh; dropping the reins, Michael rode with hands and knees.
They were gaining, but not enough.
Soon the lane would become the drive, which ended in a sharp turn into the forecourt before the Manor steps. The horse would take the curve; the gig wouldn’t. It would overturn, the lady would be thrown… onto the rocks edging the front beds.
Inwardly cursing, he pushed Atlas on. The big gelding responded, stretching out, legs flashing as they gained inch by inch on the wildly rocking gig. They were almost alongside…
The gates flashed up, then were behind.
No more time.
Gathering himself, Michael sprang from the saddle to the gig. He caught the seat, dragged himself half over it. Lunging across the lady, he grabbed the reins and yanked hard.
The lady screamed.
So did the horse.
Michael hung on with all his strength and hauled back. There was no time—no drive left—to worry about anything but halting the horse.
Hooves skidded; the horse screamed again, swung sideways—and halted. Michael grabbed the brake—too late. Momentum whipped the gig around; pure luck kept it upright.
The lady was flung out of the gig onto the grassy verge.
He was thrown after her.
She landed facedown; he sprawled half atop her.
For an instant, he couldn’t move—couldn’t draw breath, couldn’t think. Reactions—dozens—poured through him. The slender, fragile body trapped beneath his, delicate yet elementally womanly, sent pro-tectiveness flaring —only to trigger horror and nascent fury over what had so nearly transpired. Over what had been risked.
Then fear welled, black, roiling, irrational and old, dark and deep. It swelled, gripped hard, strangled all else.
Hooves shifted on the gravel—he looked around. The horse, blowing hard, tried to walk, but the gig dragged; the horse stopped. Atlas had halted on the other side of the lawn and stood watching, ears pricked.
Beneath him, the lady struggled. His shoulder lay across her back, his hips anchoring her thighs; she couldn’t move until he did.
He rolled back, sat up. His gaze fell on the stone monument, two yards away.
The terror of screaming horses filled his mind.
Jaw setting, he drew in a tight breath and got to his feet. Watched, grim-faced, as the lady pushed back, then swung around to sit.
He reached down, grabbed her hands, hauled her unceremoniously to her feet. “Of all the stupid,
For an instant, he wondered if she was deaf; she gave no indication she’d heard him.
Caroline Sutcliffe dusted her gloved hands, and thanked her stars she’d worn gloves. Ignoring the solid lump of male reverberating with aggravation before her—she had no idea who he was; she hadn’t yet seen his face—she shook out her skirts, inwardly grimaced at the grass stains, then straightened the bodice, the sleeves, her gauzy scarf. And finally consented to look up.
And up—he was taller than she’d thought. Wider of shoulder, too… the physical shock when he’d appeared beside her in the gig, compounded when he’d landed atop her on the grass, flashed back into her mind; she thrust it out again. “Thank you, sir, whoever you are, for your rescue, however ungracious.” Her tone would have done a duchess credit—cool, confident, assured and haughty. Precisely the right tone to use on a presumptuous male. “However—”
Her rising gaze reached his face. She blinked. The sun was behind him; she stood in full light, but his face was shadowed.
Lifting her hand, she shaded her eyes and unabashedly peered. At a strong-featured face with a square jaw and the harsh, angular planes of her own class. A patrician face with a wide brow delimited by straight dark brows over eyes memory painted a soft blue. His hair was thick, dark brown; the silver tracery at his temples only made him more distinguished.
It was a face that held a great deal of character.
It was the face she’d come there to find.
She tilted her head. “Michael? It is Michael Anstruther-Wetherby, isn’t it?”
Michael stared—at a heart-shaped face surrounded by a nimbus of fine, sheening brown hair so light it was
