The Ideal Bride

“That their marriage was unconsummated? Yes. What I want to know is why.”

Timothy smiled. “That, as it happens, is easy to explain—because the great Camden Sutcliffe, womanizer of the world, bit off more than he could chew.”

Michael blinked. Timothy explained, “Camden was a connoisseur of women. From the moment he set eyes on her, he lusted after Caro— not as she then was so much as for the potential he correctly identified, for what he knew she could become. On all levels. That was what drove him to marry her. However, Camden was very much aware he was forty years her senior; when it came to the sexual side of things, he became so anxious that he wouldn’t be able to satisfy her, or keep satisfying her, he couldn’t perform at all.”

Michael stared. “You’re sure of that?”

Timothy nodded. “He told me himself, years after they were wed. He simply couldn’t, not with her.”

Michael digested that, eventually again met Timothy’s eyes. “Did he love her?”

“I’m not sure Camden knew the meaning of the word ‘love,’ not as you use it—not as Caro would use it. He was devoted to her, but more in a sense of being obsessed with the aspects of her potential he could and did unlock. But love?” Timothy grimaced deprecatingly. “If Cam-den ever loved anyone other than himself, it would, I suppose, be me.”

Michael raised his brows. “Because you’re like him?”

Timothy inclined his head. “So he believed.”

Michael suspected that was another mistake Camden had made.

“I don’t think Caro ever knew his reason—I’d take an oath Camden never told her. He was a confusing man —selfless and devoted to his country, but in all things personal, utterly self-centered.” Timothy caught Michael’s gaze. “If I’d believed it would have helped, I’d have told Caro myself, but…”

His face hardened, but he didn’t look away. “The past can’t be changed—believe me, I know. It can only be laid to rest. That’s what Muriel wouldn’t accept.” His features eased, his lips curving. “Caro was always much wiser.”

Michael studied his face, heard truth ring in his tone. Wisdom from the mouth of one of the ton’s foremost rakes?

Timothy looked away, took another sip of his cordial. “One thing— before he leaves town with Muriel, can you tell Hedderwick about me?” He met Michael’s eyes. “While I shudder at the thought that she’s my half sister, I will want to keep track of her.”

Michael agreed; Timothy might want to remain advised of Muriel’s whereabouts purely for his own protection, but Michael was starting to suspect that Timothy was more likely to protect Muriel, and ensure her welfare, than anything else. For all he wasn’t like Camden, he was in one respect his sire’s son—a complex character.

Timothy grimaced. “I have two older sisters—half sisters. I’ve always in jest referred to them as my evil, ugly sisters.” He winced. “Never again.”

The words had barely passed his lips when a tap on the door heralded his man. “Lady Constance has arrived, m’lord. She’s heard about your injury and is demanding to see you.”

Timothy stared at him, then slumped back and groaned. Feelingly.

Michael laughed. Standing, he gripped Timothy’s hand, assured him he’d let Hedderwick know of Timothy’s interest, then beat a hasty retreat.

Timothy muttered darkly—something about deserting fallen comrades and leaving them to the enemy.

On the stairs, Michael passed Lady Constance Rafferty, a handsome matron grimly set on her task; they exchanged nods, but she didn’t pause, regally sweeping into her brother’s chamber.

Grinning, Michael left the house, abandoning Timothy to Lady Constance’s tender mercies.

Later that night, when he’d joined Caro in her bedchamber and she stood within the circle of his arms, he smiled down at her and mentioned his visit to Timothy and Lady Constance’s arrival. “He seemed stronger. I’m sure between you and his sisters, he’ll make an amazing recovery.”

Caro narrowed her eyes at him. “Was he taking my cordial?”

“I witnessed it with my own eyes.”

“Humph! Just as well.” She leaned into him, reached up and carefully speared her fingers through his hair, gently explored the back of his skull. “It still hurts,” she said when he winced.

“Nothing like it did.” He spread his hands and drew her to him, molded her to him. “And my head isn’t spinning in the least.”

Her eyes searched his; her smile was slow, filled with sultry promise. “Perhaps I should rectify that.”

“Indeed. I’m quite sure that falls under the heading of wifely duties.” He’d used the term deliberately; her lashes had been lowering, but now they rose and she met his eyes.

She read them, then drew breath, exhaled. “We haven’t discussed the details.”

“The details,” he informed her, “remain up to you. Whatever you want, whatever you wish. Whenever you wish.”

She studied his eyes, smiled. “I believe you mentioned a special license?”

She had remembered; he’d wondered. He nodded. “I have one.”

Gently, within his arms, she swished her hips side to side, back and forth, the exquisitely sheer figured silk of her gown a tantalizing whisper shielding her svelte curves. Her eyes never left his. “Perhaps we should marry as soon as possible…” Her gaze dropped to his lips; she licked hers, then met his gaze again. “Can you see any reason to wait?”

He could see every reason to rush ahead. “Three days.” He tightened his hold on her, anchoring her distracting hips, almost groaning as he realized how aroused she’d succeeded in making him. “Soon!”

She laughed, that light airy, truly carefree sound he’d heard too infrequently to date. “It’s the height of summer—hardly anyone’s in town. And they’ll never forgive us if we slip away and tie the knot without them.”

Michael thought of Honoria, and groaned aloud. “Invitiations, organization.” More delay.

“Don’t worry—I’ll handle it.” Caro smiled up at him. “Let’s say the end of next week…” Her smile faded; her eyes remained on his, open, yet… “Can we hold the wedding breakfast at the Manor?”

“Of course.” He didn’t ask why, left the choice to her.

Her silver gaze remained locked with his. “When I married Cam-den, we had the breakfast at Bramshaw House. But that’s the past, one I’ve left behind. I want our wedding to be a fresh start—for me, it is. It’s a new start, walking a different road, with you.”

He looked into her silvery eyes, clear, decided, resolute. He’d been weighing whether to tell her what Timothy had revealed, to help her understand that the sexual failure of her first marriage had never been her fault, or whether to simply let the past die.

She’d just made the decision for him—she’d put the past behind her, shut the door and turned away. And now she was committed to walking into the future with her hand in his, and making the best they could of it together.

He smiled into her eyes. “I love you.”

Her brows lightly rose; her eyes glowed softly. “I know. I love you, too—at least, I believe I do.” She searched his eyes, then said, “It has to be that, don’t you think—this feeling?”

He knew she wasn’t referring to the warmth that was spreading through them, heating their skins, sliding through their veins, but the force that drove it—that power that most tangibly manifested when they were locked together, when they gave themselves each to the other, the power that at such times waxed so strong they could feel it, could almost touch it. The power that day by day bound them ever more closely.

“Yes,” he said, and lowered his head, found her lips, accepted her invitation and sank into her mouth. And devoted himself to showing her that to him she was the most desirable woman in the world.

By giving himself up to that power.

They were wed in the church in Bramshaw village. The ton turned out in force; so, too, did London’s diplomatic elite. It might have been a political and diplomatic nightmare, yet with Caro decreeing and Honoria enforcing, with able lieutenants among the many Cynster ladies and connections, no one dared create a fuss over anything, and the event passed without a single hitch.

From the packed church, running a gauntlet of flowers and a fine hail of rice, Caro and Michael made their way through the crowd that hadn’t managed to squeeze inside, then climbed up to an open barouche for the drive back to the Manor.

There, a massive feast had been laid out; everyone was welcome— everyone came. The crowd was