The Ideal Bride

She introduced Michael, remained by his side, then and later as they circled the room. That done, they traveled on to Lady Castlereagh’s; again, they worked the room together. Caro wasn’t sure if their unvoiced decision to act as a team owed more to her reaction to Michael’s need—a need she more and more clearly perceived, a need it was all but instinctive for her to fill—or to his desire to keep her close, protected and within reach; his hand lay heavy over hers on his sleeve, communicating that desire without words.

The evening revealed nothing regarding any long-buried secret the Portuguese might be keen to bury even deeper, but she did become aware—more aware—of other things.

Later, when they’d returned to Upper Grosvenor Street, when Michael had joined her in her bed, when they’d shared and indulged, bathing in an ocean of mutual pleasure to finally lay slumped, limbs tangled, sated and relaxed in her bed, with their heartbeats slowing and sleep drifting ever nearer… she let herself think of all she’d seen, all she’d become conscious of, all she now knew.

Of Michael. Of his need for her, not just the physical need they’d so recently slaked, not his professional need, even though she was coming to realize that was far more acute than she’d supposed, but that other need that lingered in the way his arms closed around her, in the way, sometimes, his lips touched her hair. In the way his arm lay heavy over her waist even in sleep. In the way he tensed and came alert, ready to step forward and shield her from danger, physical or otherwise.

The need he revealed through his compulsion to protect her.

He’d said he wanted to marry her, that the offer remained so that all she had to do was agree and it would happen. She hadn’t believed anything could make her change her mind, make her rethink her aversion to matrimony, especially to another politician, yet his elusive need had. It possessed a power against which even her hardened heart—the heart she’d deliberately hardened—wasn’t immune. While she was no longer so young, so innocent and naive as to take anything at face value, by the same token the years had taught her the wisdom of not unthinkingly rejecting fate’s gifts.

Such gifts weren’t offered frequently. When they were…

Was she prepared to again face the risk of loving a politician? A man to whom charm was intrinsic, to whom the facility for glib persuasiveness was a necessary skill?

Yet it wasn’t Michael’s words that were persuading her. It was his actions, his reactions. And the emotions that drove them.

Sleep slunk into her mind and weighed heavily, pressing her down, wiping out her thoughts. Beckoning her dreams.

The last whisper of consciousness of which she was aware was the sensation of Michael’s body, hot, naked, heavy with the languor of satiation, wrapped protectively about hers, a tacit statement—he wasn’t Camden.

Sunk beside her in the bed, Michael felt sleep take her; for himself, he tried to hold it at bay—to wrestle with his problem, to try to see further, to identify what her heart most desired, what were her most secret dreams.

A home, a family, a husband, the position of a political and diplomatic hostess, a Minister’s wife—a stage on which her highly polished skills would be most highly regarded and appreciated… all that he could give her, but what was the key—what was the one thing that would persuade her to marry him?

Sleep wouldn’t be denied; ruthlessly, it caught him and dragged him down, and left him still searching for his answer.

Over the next days, Caro devoted herself assiduously to Camden’s diaries. Other than attending the most select soirees with Michael every evening, she remained indoors, in the parlor, and read.

If the clue to what was behind the threat to her lay in Camden’s papers, then it clearly behooved her to apply herself to discovering it.

Magnus and Evelyn thoroughly enjoyed their excursion to interrogate Lady Claypoole, although other than confirming via vague recollection that there had been some political turmoil in Lisbon toward the close of her husband’s tenure, her ladyship proved of little help. However, the outing improved both Evelyn’s and Magnus’s moods, so that much at least was gained.

Michael continued playing the part of a soon-to-be-Minister very likely to be appointed to the Foreign Office for all it was worth, exploiting the readiness of others to impress him to glean all he could on current Portuguese affairs. He laid seige not only to the relevant British offices, but to the Spanish, French, Corsicans, Sardinians, Belgians, and Italians, too. Everyone had their sources—someone had to know something of use.

And then there was Ferdinand.

Michael didn’t forget him, or the Portuguese embassy staff. But he couldn’t act directly there; with Devil’s assistance, he organized others to infiltrate and see what they could learn, but such operations necessarily took time.

Time he was increasingly worried they might not have.

Returning to Upper Grosvenor Street late one afternoon, still no further along and running out of useful avenues to explore, he climbed the stairs, paused in the parlor doorway to watch Caro read. When she glanced up and smiled, he joined her.

With a sigh, he sank into the armchair that was the mate of the one she occupied.

She raised a brow. “Nothing?”

He shook his head. “Patience, I know, is a virtue, but…”

She grinned; looking down, she returned to her reading.

He sat and watched her, oddly pleased that she did not feel the need to entertain him as any other lady would. It was a comfortable feeling, to be accepted with such ease, to simply be together without any of the customary social barriers between them.

The simple togetherness soothed his aggravation, stroked his impatient irritation away.

In the distance, the front doorbell pealed. Hammer’s muffled steps crossed the tiles; a moment passed, then the front door closed. An instant later, they heard Hammer ascending the stairs, heading their way.

Hammer appeared in the open doorway. He bowed to them both, then advanced to offer his salver. “A note for you, ma’am. The boy expected no reply.”

Caro took the folded sheet. “Thank you, Hammer.”

With a bow, Hammer departed. Michael watched Caro’s face as she opened the missive and read. Then she smiled, glanced at him as she laid the single sheet aside. “It’s from Breckenridge.”

Michael stared. “Breckenridge?” Had he heard aright? “Viscount Breckenridge— Brunswick’s heir?”

“The same. I told you I asked an old and trusted friend of Cam-den’s to read his letters. Timothy’s just written to say he hasn’t found anything yet.” Her gaze on the note, her expression turned affectionate. “I daresay he was worried I’d call to ask in person, so he sent word instead.”

Timothy? Call in person? Michael felt poleaxed. “Ah… you wouldn’t, would you?” Caro looked at him, puzzled. He cleared his throat. “Call on Breekenridge in person.” His voice faded as he took in her increasingly puzzled expression.

She blinked. “Well, I had to take him the letters. Or rather, have two footmen carry the letters into his house. Then I had to explain what I needed him to do, what he should look for.”

For a suspended moment, he simply stared. ‘You entered Brecken-ridge’s establishment alone.“ His voice sounded strange; he was struggling to take it in.

She frowned at him. Severely. “I’ve known Timothy for more than a decade—we danced at my wedding. Camden knew him for nearly thirty years.”

He blinked. “Breekenridge is barely thirty.”

“He’s thirty-one,” she tartly informed him.

“And one of the foremost rakes in the ton—if not the foremost!” Abruptly, he stood. Raking a hand through his hair, he looked down at Caro.

She fixed him with a narrow-eyed silver gaze and crisply advised, “Don’t start.”

He took in the increasingly mulish set of her lips, the militant light in her eyes—felt his own jaw set. “For God’s sake! You can’t simply… call to see a man like Breekenridge as if you’re visiting for morning tea!”

“Of course I can—although now you mention it, he didn’t offer tea.”

“I can imagine,” he growled.

Caro arched her brows. “I seriously doubt you can. You’re starting to sound as bad as he, what with insisting