Stephanie Laurens - The Ideal Bride

She rattled on. The duchess and countess had paused in the drawing room doorway; Caro saw them and beckoned. For their part in Ferdinand’s scheme to get her alone, she subjected them to a lecture on gardening that would have made an enthusiast wilt. The countess, looking highly conscious, tried to slip away; Caro linked her arm in hers and extolled the theories of coppicing in unrelenting detail.

Michael stood back and let her have her revenge; although she never stepped over any social line, he was quite certain it was that, and so were her victims. Ferdinand looked sheepish, but also thankful to have her attention deflected from him; Michael wondered just how ruthless she’d been in dismissing Ferdinand’s advances.

Finally, the duchess, edging away, murmured that she had to return to her departing guests. Still enthusing, Caro consented to follow her back into the drawing room.

Ten minutes later, with the company thinning, he interrupted her eloquence. “We have a long drive ahead of us—we should join the exodus.”

She glanced at him, met his gaze. Her eyes were beaten silver, quite impenetrable. Then she blinked, nodded. “Yes—I daresay you’re right.”

Five minutes more saw them taking leave of their hosts; Ferdinand walked with them to the carriage. When Caro paused before the open carriage door and gave him her hand, he bowed over it with courtly flair.

“My dear Mrs. Sutcliffe, I greatly look forward to being present at your ball.” He straightened, met her eyes. “I will look forward to seeing the gardens of Sutcliffe Hall, and to your explanation of their wonders.”

Michael gave the man credit for gumption—few others would have dared. Yet if he’d expected to discompose Caro, he’d misjudged.

She smiled, sweetly, and informed him, “I’m afraid you’ve misread the invitation. The ball is to be held at Bramshaw House, not Sutcliffe Hall.”

Noting Ferdinand’s surprise and the frown that followed it, the frown he quickly hid, Caro inclined her head, all graciousness. “I will look forward to seeing you and your party then.”

Turning to the carriage, she accepted Michael’s hand and climbed up. She sat on the seat facing forward. An instant later, he filled the doorway. He looked at her; in the dimness she couldn’t see his face.

“Shift along.”

She frowned, but he was already looming over her, waiting for her to move so he could sit beside her. An argument with Ferdinand still close enough to hear would be undignified.

Hiding a grimace, she did as he asked. He sat, far too close for her liking, and the footman shut the door. An instant later, the carriage rocked, and they were on their way.

They’d barely started along the drive when Michael asked, “Why was Leponte so put out that your ball will not be at Sutcliffe Hall?”

“I don’t really know. He seems to have developed a fascination for Camden—studying what influences made him what he was.”

“Leponte?”

Michael fell silent. She was acutely aware of the warmth of his large body on the seat beside her. Even though his thigh was not touching hers, she could sense its heat. As usual, his nearness made her feel peculiarly fragile. Delicate.

Finally, he said, “I find that hard to believe.”

So did she. She lightly shrugged, and looked out at the shifting shadows of the forest. “Camden was, after all, extremely successful. Regardless of his present employ, I assume Ferdinand will ultimately step into his uncle’s shoes. Perhaps that’s why he’s here—learning more.”

Michael humphed and looked ahead. He didn’t trust Leponte, not when it came to Caro, not in any respect; he’d assumed his distrust arose from the obvious source—from those primitive possessive instincts she aroused in him. Now, however, in light of the countess’s and duchess’s behavior, in view of that final moment beside the carriage, he was no longer so certain at least part of his distrust didn’t spring from a more professional reaction.

He’d been prepared to accept and manage, even suppress, a distrust that arose from personal emotions; he was a consummate politician after all. Distrust that arose from prickling professional instincts was something else entirely—that could well be too dangerous to ignore, even for a short time.

Recognizing a landmark outside, gauging how much time they still had alone in the darkness of the carriage, he glanced at Caro. “What did you and Leponte talk about at table?”

She leaned against the plush cushions, through the dimness regarded him. “Initially it was the usual small talk, then he started on his tack as a Camden Sutcliffe accolyte with a detailed overview of Cam-den’s career.”

“Accurate, would you say?”

“In all respects he touched on, certainly.”

He could tell by her tone, by the way she paused, that she was puzzled, too. Before he could prompt, she continued, “Then in the drawing room he asked about Sutcliffe Hall, theorizing that the place must have been significant to Camden.”

Through the gloom, he studied her. “Was it?”

She shook her head. “I don’t think so—I don’t believe Camden thought so. I never detected any great attachment on his part.”

“Hmm.” He settled back, reached out and took her hand. Her fingers fluttered, then quieted; he curled his more firmly around them. “I think”—slowly he lifted her trapped hand to his lips—“that I’ll be keeping an eye on Leponte at the ball, and wherever else we meet him.”

She was watching; he could sense the tension spreading through her. Turning his head, through the gloom he caught her gaze. “For a number of excellent reasons.”

He placed a chaste kiss on her knuckles.

She watched, then, gaze locked on her hand, drew in a tight breath. An instant passed, then, frowning, she lifted her eyes to his. “What—?”

He raised her hand again, lightly brushed his lips over her knuckles, then, eyes on hers, slowly, with the tip of his tongue, he traced them.

Her response was immediate and strong. A shudder racked her; she briefly closed her eyes.

Before she opened them, he shifted and pulled her to him, his other hand rising to cup and frame her jaw, to angle her face so his lips could cover hers.

He was kissing her—and she was kissing him back—before she had a chance to retreat.

Releasing her hand, he reached for her, drew her more definitely to him. As before, her hands rose to his chest, tensed as if she would resist; he deepened the kiss, and her resistance never came.

Instead… gradually, step by subtle step, he coaxed not just acceptance but willing participation from her. Initially, she seemed to believe that after the first exchange he’d stop—she seemed to be waiting for him to do so. When he didn’t, indeed made it perfectly clear he had no intention of not further indulging, tentatively, hesitantly, she joined him.

Her lips were soft, sweet, her mouth pure temptation; when she offered it, he rejoiced, and took, conscious that some part of her mind was watching, puzzled, almost surprised… why he couldn’t imagine.

She was a delight, one he savored, stretching out the simple moments as he never had before.

He caressed, claimed, then teased, ultimately taunted and got the response—a more fiery, definite, passionate response—that he’d wanted, that he knew she had it in her to give. He wanted that and more—all she had to give—but was tactician enough to realize that with her, each step and stage had to be battled for and won.

The Merry Widow was not going to yield so much as one inch without a fight.

That, very likely, was why so many had failed with her. They’d assumed they could leap ahead, overlook the preliminaries, and instead had stumbled at the very first hurdle.

Kissing her.

If, as it seemed, for some mystical reason she’d got it into her head that she was hopeless at kissing… it was difficult to seduce a woman who wasn’t willing to be kissed.

Secure in his victory, he drew her closer yet, angled his lips over hers. Her breasts brushed his chest; her arms started to slide over his shoulders, then stopped, tensed.

The carriage slowed, then turned into Bramshaw Lane.

With a gasp, she pulled back—enough to hiss his name in warning.

“Sssh.” Inexorably he drew her even deeper into his embrace. “You don’t want to shock your coachman.”

Her eyes flew wide. “Wh—”

He cut off her shocked question in the most efficient way. They had at least seven more minutes before they reached Bramshaw House; he intended to enjoy every one.

Caro woke the next morning determined to regain control of her life. And her senses. Michael seemed intent on seizing both—to what end she didn’t know—however, whatever, she was not going to be a party to it.

As she had been for the last half of their journey home from Lead-better Hall.

Smothering a curse at her newfound susceptibility, at the tangle of curiosity, fascination, and schoolgirlish need that had allowed him to take such liberties and seduced her into participating as she had, she closed her room door, flicked her skirts straight, and headed for the stairs.

Breakfast and the fresh slate of a new day would give her all she needed to get her life back on track.

Gliding down the stairs, she inwardly grimaced. She was probably overreacting. It had only been a kiss—well, numerous rather warming kisses, but still, that was hardly cause for panic. For all she knew, he might have had enough, and she wouldn’t even need to be on guard.

“Ah, there you are, m’dear.” Sitting at the head of the dining table, Geoffrey looked up. He nodded to Elizabeth and Edward, both seated at the table, heads together, poring over a single sheet. “An invitation from the Prussians. They’ve asked me, too, but I’d rather not—other things to do. I’ll leave the giddy dissipation to you.”