The Ideal Bride

that they would perform whatever job Ferdinand had hired them for, and Ferdinand’s curt, aristocratic dismissal. That delivered, he turned on his heel and walked back out of the clearing.

They held still and watched him stride away, back toward the pond.

Caro tugged at Michael’s sleeve; he looked back in time to see the two strange men disappearing along another path, one that led to the main road.

Caro opened her mouth—he held up a hand. Waited. Only when he was sure Ferdinand should be far enough away so that he couldn’t hear their voices did he lower his hand and meet Caro’s wide gaze.

“What on earth was all that about?”

“Indeed.” Taking her arm, he guided her back to the path.

“I wondered at first if they could possibly be the men who attacked Miss Trice—although why Ferdinand would be talking to them I can’t imagine—but they were too thin, don’t you think?”

He nodded. They’d been about the same distance from the men who’d attacked Miss Trice; the pair in the clearing had been too short as well. He said so; Caro agreed.

They walked briskly for a while, then she said, “Why would Ferdinand, if he wanted to hire some men, meet them in… well, such secrecy? And even more, why here} We’re miles from Leadbetter Hall.”

The very questions he’d been pondering. “I have no idea.”

The picnic site came into view. They heard voices—the younger guests had returned from their excursion, and their elders had revived. He paused, then stepped sideways off the path into the relative privacy afforded by a large bush.

Tugged after him, Caro looked at him in surprise.

He met her gaze. “I think we can safely conclude that Ferdinand is up to something—possibly something the duke and duchess, at least, might not be aware of or approve of.”

She nodded. “But what?”

“Until we know more, we’ll have to keep our eyes open, and be on guard.” He bent his head and kissed her —one last, very last kiss.

He’d intended it to remind her, to stir her memories back to life for just an instant; unfortunately, her response had the same effect on him, and left him aching.

Biting back a curse, he lifted his head, met her eyes. “Remember— when it comes to Ferdinand, be on guard.”

She studied his eyes, his face, then smiled reassuringly and patted his shoulder. “Yes, of course.”

With that, she turned, stepped back onto the path, and led the way into the clearing. His gaze locking on her swaying hips, he mentally swore, then followed, strolling as nonchalantly as he could in her wake.

Chapter 9

Michael debated whether or not to alert Geoffrey to their suspicions regarding Ferdinand. He spent a restless night, not, admittedly, primarily due to that concern. Then, during breakfast, a note from Geoffrey arrived asking him to dine with the family that evening.

The invitation was clearly a sign from the gods. He rode to Bramshaw House as the sun sank behind the trees and the day eased into a balmy evening. Aside from all else, when he and Caro had re-entered the clearing, Ferdinand had been questioning Edward. He wanted to learn what Leponte’s interest had been; he was sure Caro would have interrogated Edward.

Reaching Bramshaw House, he rode straight to the stable. Leaving Atlas there, he strode up to the house and found Geoffrey in his study.

Upstairs, Caro sat before her dressing table and idly poked at her hair. She was gowned and coiffed for dinner, not that this evening called for any great degree of sartorial accomplishment—it would be just the family. Her gown of pale gold silk was an old favorite; she’d donned it because it soothed her. Calmed and reassured her.

For the last twenty-four hours, she’d been… distracted.

Michael had surprised her. First by actively wanting to kiss her again and again. Then by wanting rather more. Even further, she was starting to suspect he might want more still, might possibly come to truly desire that.

Desire was a type of hunger, wasn’t it? The notion that it could be what she sensed in him, welling and growing while they exchanged heated kisses, was too stunning and eye-opening a possibility to ignore.

Could it be so? Did he truly, absolutely and honestly, want her— desire her—in that way?

Part of her scoffed, contemptuously deriding the idea as pure fantasy; the more vulnerable part of her desperately wanted it to be true. Being in a position to actively consider that question was a novel development all its own.

One thing was clear. After their interlude by the pond, she had a decision to face: To go forward or stop, to say yes or no. If he did want more, should she, would she, agree?

That decision should have been easy enough for a twenty-eight-year-old unremarried relict of a political marriage to a much older man. Unfortunately, in her case, there were complications, definite complications, yet for the first time in her life she wasn’t convinced she should reject the opportunity Michael might lay before her out of hand.

That uncertainty was unprecedented; it was what had kept her distracted all day.

Gentlemen had been offering to indulge in affairs with her for the past ten years—virtually since her marriage—yet this was the first time she’d felt even remotely tempted. All those others… she’d never been convinced their desire for her was any more real than Camden’s had been, that they weren’t instead driven by some more worldly motive, like boredom or simply the thrill of the chase, or even by political considerations. Not one of them had so much as truly kissed her, not as Michael had.

Thinking back… at no point had Michael asked her permission. If she’d understood him correctly, if she didn’t specifically say “no,” he was going to take her silence as “yes.” That approach had worked, for both of them. Despite her reservations, he hadn’t done anything, led her to do anything, she regretted. Quite the opposite. What they had done was driving her to contemplate doing a great deal more.

How far would he go before he lost interest? She had no idea, yet if he truly wanted her, desired her… didn’t she owe it to herself to find out?

The sound of the gong reverberated through the house, summoning them to the drawing room. With a last glance at the at-present-relatively-neat corona of her hair, she rose and headed for the door. She’d resume her cogitations later; clearly it would be wise to have a firm idea of how she was going to deal with Michael before he next managed to get her alone.

Michael heard the gong and abandoned his well-meant but ill-fated attempt to alert Geoffrey to the potential threat emanating from Ferdinand Leponte. His fault, not Geoffrey’s; he hadn’t possessed sufficient hard facts to prod Geoffrey’s less-well-honed instincts into action.

Although he’d been the local Member for a decade, Geoffrey had never been touched by the darker side of politics. When Michael had described Leponte’s rabid interest in Camden Sutcliffe’s personal life, Geoffrey had raised his brows. “How odd.” He’d sipped his sherry, then added, “Perhaps George should show him around Sutcliffe Hall.”

After that, he hadn’t bothered mentioning Leponte’s meeting with the two strangers in the forest. Geoffrey would probably suggest they were runners for Southampton bookmakers. Which could be true; he just didn’t think it likely. Leponte was intent on something, but it wasn’t which nag won the Derby.

Bowing to fate, he’d turned their conversation to a discussion of local affairs, none of which were in any way alarming.

“There’s the gong.” Geoffrey got to his feet.

Rising, Michael set down his glass and joined him; together they strolled down the corridor into the front hall and turned into the drawing room.