The Ideal Bride

swirling to stand beside him as she surveyed the guests. “I suspect you know most, but I doubt you’ll have met the Portuguese contingent.” She slanted him a glance. “Shall we?”

“By all means.” He allowed her to steer him toward the group she’d recently left.

She leaned close, murmured, “The ambassador and his wife are dancing attendance at Brighton, but both couples here are, if anything, even more influential.”

She smiled as they joined the group. “The Duke and Duchess of Oporto.” With a gesture she indicated a dark gentleman with a cadaverous face and a tall, equally dark and haughty matron. “The Count and Countess of Albufeira.” Another dark-haired gentleman, but quite different from the first—a portly soul with twinkling eyes and the high color of one who was fond of his wine—and a brown-haired, handsome but severe lady. “And this is Ferdinand Leponte, the count’s nephew. Allow me to present Mr. Michael Anstruther-Wetherby. Michael is our local Member of Parliament.”

Everyone exchanged bows, murmured polite greetings. Relinquishing Michael’s arm, Caro placed a hand on the duke’s sleeve. “I think it would be wise for you to get to know each other.” Eyes gleaming, she glanced at Michael. “I’ve heard a whisper that in future Mr. Anstruther-Wetherby will be spending more time in our diplomatic circles as distinct from the purely political.”

He met her gaze, arched a brow, not entirely surprised she’d heard the rumors. She hadn’t, however, revealed such knowledge earlier in the day.

Interpreting their interplay as confirmation, the count quickly engaged him; within minutes, the duke had joined in. Their wives were equally interested, with a few well-directed questions quickly establishing his background and connections.

He was content to encourage them, to listen to their views on what they saw as the most important aspects in the relationship between their two countries. They were keen to sow the right seeds, to influence his opinions before he’d truly formed them—or more particularly before he heard the views of the Foreign Office mandarins.

Caro gently touched his arm and excused herself. Although he continued to give his attention to the duke and count, he was aware that Ferdinand Leponte followed her, claiming the position by her side.

Other than exchanging greetings, Ferdinand, unlike his countrymen, had evinced not the smallest interest in him. Ferdinand looked to be around thirty years old; he was black-haired, olive-skinned, and outrageously handsome, with a brilliant smile and large dark eyes.

A womanizer almost certainly—there was something about him that left little room for doubt. He was typical of many foreign embassy aides“; relatives of those such as the count, their positions were little more than passports into diplomatic circles. Ferdinand was definitely a hanger-on, but it wasn’t the count on whom he was intent on hanging.

When Caro returned ten minutes later, swooping in to artfully extract him and lead Michael to meet her other guests, Ferdinand was still trailing at her heels.

Excusing himself to the other Portuguese, Michael met Ferdi-nand’s eyes. He bowed as if in farewell. Ferdinand smiled ingenuously. As Caro took his arm and led him to the next group, Ferdinand fell in on her other side.

“You are not to twit the general,” Caro hissed.

He glanced at her, and realized she was speaking to Ferdinand.

Ferdinand grinned, all Latin charm. “But it is so difficult to resist.”

Caro threw him a repressive glance, then they reached the group before the long windows, and she launched into introductions.

Michael shook hands with General Kleber, a Prussian, then the Hapsburg ambassador and his wife, both of whom he knew.

The general was an older gentleman, bluff and severe. “It is good that we now have peace, but there is much to be done. My country is very interested in the building of ships—do you know much of the shipyards?”

Denying any knowledge of the industry, Michael moved to draw the ambassador into the conversation. The general pointed out that Austria had no seaport and thus no navy. Michael swung the conversation to agriculture, unsurprised when Caro seized the moment to steer Ferdinand away.

She returned minutes later alone. Rescuing Michael, she introduced him to the other guests—three English diplomats and their wives; a Scots parliamentarian, Mr. Driscoll; his wife and two daughters; and a notoriously attractive Irish peer, Lord Sommerby, whom Mrs. Driscoll was eyeing askance.

Finally, with a softening smile, Caro turned to the last group in the room. She waved at her brother in affectionate dismissal; exchanging grins, Michael shook hands with Geoffrey. He was a large man, heavy-set, with sloping shoulders that accentuated a care-worn air; for all he’d been the local Member for years, a gathering of this caliber was in some ways beyond him.

“I understand you and Elizabeth met in town.” With a fond smile, Caro indicated the slim young woman standing beside Geoffrey.

At last. “Indeed.” Michael took the slender hand Elizabeth extended. “Miss Mollison.” He’d seen her when he’d entered, but had been careful not to show any particular interest. He now tried to catch her eye, tried to gauge her reaction to him, but although she smiled sunnily up at him and their gazes met, he could detect no real atten-tiveness behind her blue eyes.

They deflected almost instantly as Caro introduced the younger man standing somewhat diffidently beside Elizabeth. “My secretary, Edward Campbell. He was Camden’s aide, but I grew so used to relying on him that I decided he was simply too valuable to let go.”

Campbell threw her a look as if to remind her he was only her secretary. He offered his hand; Michael shook it, visited by an urge to recommend Campbell keep his eye on Ferdinand. Suppressing it, he turned instead to the most urgent matter on his plate: Elizabeth Mollison.

“I hear you’re in line for advancement,” Geoffrey said.

He smiled easily. “That’s for the Prime Minister to say, and he won’t, not until autumn.”

“He always did play his cards close to his chest. So, what’s the state of the Irish these days? Think you’ll head that way?”

Exchanging political news with Geoffrey was the perfect cover for looking over his daughter. Elizabeth stood beside her father and idly surveyed the room; she affected no interest in their conversation— indeed, seemed oblivious of it. Caro claimed Campbell’s arm and went to circulate. Michael shifted so he could better observe Elizabeth.

There was something not quite right…

He glanced at Caro, then back at Elizabeth, then surreptitiously noted the gowns the other two young ladies, Driscoll’s daughters, were wearing. One was soft pink, the other pale primrose.

Elizabeth had chosen to wear white.

Many unmarried young ladies did, especially during their first Season. Elizabeth had just completed hers, yet… white didn’t suit her. She was already so fair, and with her pale blond hair the result was poor. Especially as she’d chosen to complement the gauzy gown with diamonds.

Considering the outcome, Michael inwardly frowned. He would never presume to instruct a lady in what to wear, yet he was aware of the difference between a well-dressed lady and a poorly dressed one. In political circles, one rarely saw the latter.

Seeing Elizabeth as she was was something of a jolt. Quite aside from the white making her appear washed out, the combination of the virginal gown with the blatant fire of the diamonds struck a definitely wrong note.

He glanced again at Caro. Oyster silk, draped to perfection, outlined the seductive curves of her body; the color subtly complemented her fair but warm skin, while her gloriously untameable mass of fine hair shimmered under the candlelight in a medley of browns and golds. She wore silver and pearls, echoing her eyes and their curious silver-blue hue.

Looking at Elizabeth, he couldn’t imagine that Caro hadn’t advised against her present attire. He concluded that behind Elizabeth’s innocent air lay a will of some strength—one at least stubborn enough to ignore Caro’s injunctions.

His inward frown deepened. A stubborn and headstrong will—was that good? Or not so good? An inability to take advice from those patently well qualified to supply it… ?

A number of guests had arrived late; Caro brought them around, performing the introductions. While two newcomers were chatting with Geoffrey, Michael turned to Elizabeth. “As I recall, we met at Lady Hannaford’s ball