Stephanie Laurens - The Ideal Bride

He glanced at Michael. Pointedly, Michael looked at her.

Understanding that he was leaving the decision to include Magnus entirely to her, she realized with faint astonishment that since they’d resolved to come to London, she hadn’t had time to dwell on their reasons.

Refocusing on Magnus, considering his vast experience, she met his gaze. “Someone, it seems, is not well disposed toward my continuing existence.”

Magnus’s brows lowered; after a moment he barked, “Why?”

“That,” she informed him, pulling off her gloves, “is what we’ve come to London to discover.”

Between them, she and Michael explained; it was reassuring to find Magnus reacting much as they had. His experience of their world was profound; if he thought as they did, they were most likely correct.

Later that night, when Fenella had finally left her, Caro stood before the window in the elegant bedchamber decorated in shades of green, and looked out as the night wrapped London in its sultry arms. So different from the country, yet she was equally at home here, the constant if dim sounds of nighttime activity as familiar as the deep stillness of the countryside.

After speaking with Magnus, she’d retired to bathe and refresh herself, then they’d dined in semiformal state. Later, in the drawing room, with Magnus nodding in acquiescence, she and Michael had made plans to retrieve Camden’s papers and her copy of Camden’s will from Half Moon Street; she’d agreed that the mansion in Upper Grosvenor Street, under the constant eye of Magnus’s considerable staff and with the old gentleman himself almost always present, would be a safer repository than the uninhabited Half Moon Street residence.

Their way forward on that matter was clear; she felt no qualms, no hesitations about their approach to unmasking and metaphorically spiking the guns of whoever now wished her harm.

On that score, she felt assured.

However, on the subject of what was developing between her and Michael, she was far less confident. She’d set out for the cottage intending to reach some conclusion; fate had intervened, setting in train a succession of events that subsequently had dominated her time.

Now, however, when at last she could return to consider that subject, it was only to realize she was no further along; Michael’s continuing desire for her—all that she was discovering flowed from it, both from him and from her, such as his unexpected appearance by such a fanciful route in her bedchamber last night—was still so new to her, so enthralling, she couldn’t yet see past it.

Couldn’t see where it was leading her. Or him.

The house had fallen silent; she heard his muffled footfall an instant before the doorknob turned, and he entered.

She turned to watch him cross the room to her; she let her lips curve, but kept most of her smile within. She’d wondered if he would come—had donned another of her diaphanous nightgowns just in case.

He’d undressed; he appeared to be wearing nothing more than a long silk robe, loosely belted. As he walked unhurriedly to her, his gaze perused her form, absorbing the effect of the all-but-transparent gauze sheath rendered barely acceptable by three cleverly positioned ap-pliqued roses—two buds, one full bloom.

Reaching her, he halted, lifted his gaze to her eyes. “You do realize, don’t you, that such gowns on you deprive me of all ability to think?”

Her smile deepened, a sultry chuckle escaped her. He reached for her and she went into his arms, lifting her own to drape them about his neck. For a moment, he hesitated, his eyes on hers. The heat in his gaze assured her his comment was close to the literal truth. Then he lowered his head, his arms tightened—

Pressing a hand to his chest, she stayed him.

He stopped, met her gaze. Locking her eyes with his, she sent her hand skating down, found and tugged the tie at his hips free, slipped her hand between the edges of his robe, and found him.

Hard, hot, fully engorged, aroused with desire for her.

She still found it amazing, felt her lungs contract, her heart soar. Wanted to share her joy, her pleasure. Closing her hand, she squeezed, then stroked, watched his eyes blank, then close, his features ease of all expression, then tighten with surging desire.

With her other hand, she slid the silk gown from his shoulders, thrilled to the shush as it fell away. She pressed closer, placed a kiss at the center of his chest, then, one hand still wrapped around his rigid erection, used her other spread on his body to steady herself as she slid slowly down, her lips tracing down, until she was on her knees.

Boldly, she put out her tongue, with the tip delicately traced the broad head, then, urged on by the shudder that racked him, she parted her lips, and gently, smoothly, took him into her mouth.

His fingers slid through her hair, clenched as she lightly sucked, licked, then experimented. Fingers sinking into his buttocks, she held him tight as, tracking his response, his reactions—his tensing fingers, his increasingly ragged breaths—she learned how to minister to him.

Learned how to tighten his nerves as he had so often tightened hers—on, and on…

Abruptly, he hauled in a huge breath, closed his hands about her shoulders, and urged her up. “Enough.”

The word was tortured; she obeyed, releasing him, leaning both hands on him, tracing them both upward as she allowed him to draw her upright.

His eyes, when they met hers, burned. “Take off the gown.”

Holding his gaze, she lifted her hands to her shoulders, snapped open the clasps.

The instant the gauze hit the floor, he dragged her to him, kissed her ravenously—poured heat and fire down her veins until she was burning, too—then he lifted her.

She wrapped her arms about his neck, locked her legs about his hips, gasped, head falling back as she felt him nudge into her. Then he drew her down, slowly, steadily impaling her inch by inexorable inch, until he was fully seated within her, high and hard and oh so real.

Then he moved her upon him; she looked down, met his eyes, let him capture hers, draw her into the dance until she merged fully with him, one in thought, in deed, in desire. At some point, their lips found each other’s again, and they left the world, stepped into another.

One where nothing mattered beyond this simple communion, this melding of bodies, of minds, of passions.

She gave herself up to it, knew he did the same.

Together, they soared and touched the sun, fused, melted, then, inevitably, returned to earth.

Later, wrapped in his arms, collapsed on her bed, she murmured, ‘This is probably scandalous—it’s your grandfather’s house.“

“His, not mine.”

The words reached her as a rumble, vibrating through his chest on which she’d pillowed her cheek. “Is this why you wanted me to stay here?”

“One of the reasons.” She felt his fingers toy with her hair, then they stroked and cupped her nape. “I have this trouble with insomnia I knew you could cure.”

With a gurgle of laughter, weak but content, she settled her head.

Closing his eyes, Michael smiled and, equally content, surrendered to slumber.

Caro slid her key into the lock on the front door of the town house in Half Moon Street. “Our old housekeeper, Mrs. Simms, comes in twice a week to air and dust so all will be ready should I wish to return.”

Michael followed her into an airy hall tiled with black, white, and ochre mosaics, flecks of gold glinting in the veined marble. In returning to town, Caro hadn’t elected to come here; apparently she hadn’t considered it. Closing the front door, he glanced around as she paused in an archway he assumed led to the drawing room. The double doors were open; she cast a comprehensive glance within, then moved on to the next door, opened it, and looked in.

Noting the quality of the oak wainscoting, the side tables, and the huge mirror gracing the hall, he stolled up and looked over Caro’s head, and felt his eyes widen. The room was the dining room; it contained a long mahogany table with the most wonderful glowing sheen, and a set of chairs even his less than expert knowledge labeled as antiques—French; he couldn’t guess the period, yet their value was obvious.

He followed as Caro flitted from room to room; every item he saw was museum-quality, even the ornaments and fittings. Yet the house was neither cluttered nor cold and off-putting. It was as if it had been created with incredible love, care, and a superb eye for beauty, and then, for some reason, barely used.

As he climbed the sweeping staircase behind Caro, he realized Edward had been right; the house and its contents were highly valuable__

something someone could conceivably kill for. He caught up with Caro at the top of the stairs. “The will first.”

She glanced at him, then led the way down a corridor.

The room she turned into had clearly been Camden’s study. While she went to the wall behind the desk, swung aside a painting—one that looked suspiciously like an old master—to reveal a large wall safe, and set about carefully unlocking it, he lounged in the doorway and looked around. Tried to imagine Camden here. With Caro.

Less overtly masculine than most studies were, the room testified to a sense of balance and taste; as in the other rooms, all the furniture was antique, the fabrics sumptuous. He examined, considered, conscious once again of not being able to get a clear picture of the relationship between Camden and Caro.

He’d seen them together on a number of occasions, diplomatic soirees, dinners, and the like. He’d never suspected that their marriage had been nothing more than a facade. He now knew it had been, yet here in the house Caro had told him Camden had created over the years of their marriage, essentially for her…