The Ideal Bride

Chapter 2

Michael climbed the steps of Bramshaw House at ten minutes past eight that evening. Catten, the butler, knew him well; he conducted him to the formal drawing room and announced him, then deferentially stepped back. Michael walked into the long room, into a fractional pause in the buzz of conversation, smiling easily as eyes, then smiles came his way.

Engaged with a group about the fireplace, Caro saw him. Pausing a few paces inside the room, he waited while she disengaged and came to greet him, the skirts of her oyster silk gown softly shushing.

“My savior!” Smiling, she gave him her hand; when he released it, she confidently tucked it in his arm, 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 in May—did you enjoy the rest of your first Season?”

“Oh, yes!” Elizabeth’s eyes lit; she turned a glowing face to him. “The balls were such fun—I do so adore dancing. And all the other entertainments, too—well, except for the dinners. They were often boring. But I made a large number of friends.” She smiled ingenuously up at him. “Do you know the Hartfords? Melissa Hartford and her brother, Derek?”

She paused, waited, clearly expecting an answer. He shifted. “Ah… no.” He had a suspicion Derek Hartford would prove to be twenty, and Melissa even younger.

“Oh. Well, they’ve become my best friends. We go all over town together, exploring and gallivanting. And Jennifer Rickards joins us, too, and her cousins Eustace and Brian Hollings.” Elizabeth paused in her bright prattle, then frowned across the room. “Those two girls look rather lost, don’t you think? I’d better go and speak with them.”

With that, she flashed him a brilliant smile and swanned off— without properly excusing herself.

Michael watched her go, feeling rather… disoriented. She’d been treating him like a family friend, one with whom she didn’t need to stand on ceremony, yet…

Silk sussurated beside him; the scent of honeysuckle, faint and elusive, teased his senses.

He looked down as Caro slid her hand onto his arm. She’d followed his gaze to Elizabeth; she glanced up and pulled a face at him. “I know, but you needn’t think it was my idea.”

He smiled down at her. “I didn’t.”

Looking again at Elizabeth, she sighed. “Unfortunately, she was adamant over the white and simultaneously desperate to wear the diamonds—for courage. They were Alice’s, you see.”

Alice was—had been—Elizabeth’s mother, Geoffrey’s wife. Michael blinked. “Courage?”

“She’s not used to evenings of this ilk, so I suppose she felt in need of bolstering.” Caro looked up at him, her expressive face and brilliant eyes both teasing and somehow communicating. “It’s just a passing phase—a part of learning to deal with this sort of gathering. She’ll soon find her feet.”

She looked away. He stared at her profile. Had she guessed his thoughts vis-a-vis Elizabeth?

Should he speak, enlist her aid—

She came up on her toes, stretching to see over the crowd. “Is that…?”

He followed her gaze and saw Catten standing in the doorway.

“At last!” Caro flashed him a brilliant smile, sliding her arm from his. “Do excuse me while I organize.”

He watched her glide away, smoothly performing the hostessly ritual of pairing her guests according to the recognized order of precedence. With the company boasting English, Irish, and foreign dignitaries, that was no mean feat, yet she organized them all without a hitch.

As he strolled to offer his arm to Mrs. Driscoll, he wondered how Elizabeth would have managed it.

Well, we’ll hope to see you in Edinburgh sometime in the next year.“ Mrs. Driscoll helped herself to green beans from the dish Michael held, then relieved him of the dish and passed it on.

“I’d enjoy visiting again, but I fear the Prime Minister may have other plans.” Picking up his knife and fork, he applied himself to the fifth-course meats. “When duty calls…”

“Aye, well, all of us here understand that.”

Mrs. Driscoll’s gaze briefly circled the table. Inclining his head in acknowledgment, he, too, glanced around. For all that she saw him as a potential opportunity for one of her daughters, Mrs. Driscoll had not been overly pushy; their conversation had not become awkward.

Her comment, indeed, was apt. All those about the table knew how things were done, how to behave in this select and somewhat esoteric circle so heavily influenced by the vicissitudes of politics, both local and international. He felt more at home, certainly more engaged than he did at similar purely tonnish gatherings.

Between Mrs. Driscoll on his right and the countess on his left, he didn’t lack for conversation. The whole table was engulfed in a pleasant hum. Glancing along the board covered with white damask, silver, and crystal, he noted the younger ladies, Elizabeth and the two Driscoll girls, together with two younger gentlemen and flanked by Edward Campbell, sitting in a group midway along.

Seated on the opposite side of the table, Elizabeth was engrossed in some discussion, animatedly describing something, hands flying.

Michael turned to reply to a question from the countess.

He was turning back to Mrs. Driscoll when a sudden peal of laughter drew all eyes—to Elizabeth.

The sound was abruptly cut off; fingers pressed to her lips, Elizabeth’s gaze darted up and down the table. A blush suffused her pale cheeks.

One of the Driscoll girls leaned forward and made some comment; Edward Campbell answered and the awkward moment passed. The other diners turned back to their conversations. One of the last to do so, Michael saw Elizabeth, head now bowed, reach for her wineglass.

She took a sip, choked—tried to replace the goblet and nearly tipped it over. The clatter and her coughing again drew all eyes. Goblet finally safe on the table, she grabbed her napkin from her lap and ducked her head.

Beside her, Campbell patted her on the back; her coughing eased. He asked her something—presumably if she was all right. Her fair head bobbed. Then she straightened, lifted her head, and drew in a deep breath. Smiling weakly around, she breathlessly said, “I’m so sorry—do excuse me. The wine went down the wrong way.”

Everyone smiled easily and returned to their discussions.

Talking to the countess, Michael found his mind wandering. The incident was a small thing, yet…

His gaze drifted up the table to Caro at its end, engaged in what appeared to be a scintillating discussion with the duke and the general. If she had choked… a big “if admittedly, but if she had, he was certain she’d have passed the moment off in a much more charming way.

Still, as Caro had said, Elizabeth was young.

He smiled at the countess. “I hope to visit your country again in the not-too-distant future.”

When the company reassembled in the drawing room, Michael continued to observe Elizabeth, but from a distance. She remained surrounded by the younger crew, leaving all hostly duties to her aunt and father, giving him no chance to evaluate her abilities in that sphere.

He felt oddly frustrated. Joining that younger group… he simply wasn’t one of them. It had been a very long time since events such as curricle races had dominated his mind. Yet he was determined to learn more about Elizabeth. He was standing by the side of the room, momentarily alone, wondering how best to further his aim, when Caro materialized at his side.

He knew she was near an instant before she stopped beside him and claimed his arm. She did it so naturally, as if they were old friends with no social barriers between them, he found himself responding to her in the same vein.

“Hmm.” Her gaze was fixed on Elizabeth. “I could use some fresh air and I daresay Elizabeth could, too.” Looking up, she smiled warmly, but there was a determined glint in her eye. “Besides, I want to separate her from that crowd. She really should do the rounds and widen her acquaintance.” Her hold on his arm firming, she arched a brow at him. “Would you care for a stroll on the terrace?”

He smiled, careful to hide the depth of his approval. “Lead on.”

She did, steering him across the room, with a few glib words extracting Elizabeth from her circle. Still on his arm, she swept them through the open French doors out onto the moon-drenched terrace.

“Now!” Walking briskly, whisking Elizabeth down the terrace, Caro studied her. “Are you all right—is your throat sore?”

“No. It’s truly quite—”

“Caro?”

The soft call had them all turning. Edward Campbell looked out from the French doors. “I think you’d better…” He gestured back into the drawing room.

“Peste!” Caro looked at Edward for a moment, then glanced at Michael, then Elizabeth. Releasing Michael’s arm, she caught Elizabeth’s hand and placed it on his sleeve. “Walk. To the end of the terrace at least. And then you can return and practice by charming the general for me.”

Elizabeth blinked. “Oh, but—”

“No buts.” Caro was already stalking back to the drawing room. She flicked a hand back at them, rings flashing. “Go—walk.”

She reached Edward; taking his arm, head rising, she swept back into the drawing room.

Leaving Michael alone with Elizabeth; suppressing a grin—Caro was quite amazing—he looked down at her. “I suspect we’d better do as instructed.” Turning her, he started slowly strolling. “Are you enjoying your summer thus far?”

Elizabeth threw him a resigned smile. “It’s not as exciting as London, but now Aunt Caro is here, there’ll be lots more happening. More people to meet, more entertainments to attend.”

“So you enjoy meeting new people?” A healthy attitude for a politician’s wife.

“Oh, yes—well, as long as they’re young people, of course.” Elizabeth pulled a face. “I do find ‘making conversation’ with old fogeys or those one has nothing in common with a trial, but Caro assures me I’ll learn.” She paused, then added, “Although I have to say I’d much rather not have to learn at all.”

She flashed him a brilliant smile. “I’d much rather just enjoy the parties, the balls, the routs and not worry over having to talk to this one or that. I want to enjoy being young, enjoy dancing and riding and driving, and all the rest.”

He blinked.

Leaning on his arm, she gestured widely. “You must remember what it was like—all the fun to be had in the capital.”

She looked up at him, clearly expecting him to smile and nod. After leaving Oxford, he’d spent most of his time as a secretary to important men; he had been in the capital, yet he suspected he’d inhabited a parallel universe to the one she was describing. “Ah… yes, of course.”

He bit back an admission that it had been a long time ago.

She laughed as if he’d been twitting her. Reaching the end of the terrace, they turned and ambled back. She continued telling him of her wonderful months in London, of events and people he didn’t know and had little interest in.

As they neared the doors to the drawing room, he realized she’d shown no interest in him—in his likes, acquaintances, his life.

Inwardly frowning, he glanced at her. She was treating him not just as a family friend, but worse, as an uncle. It hadn’t occurred to her—

“Finally!” Caro emerged through the doors, saw them, and smiled. She glided toward them. “It’s so balmy out here—perfect for a pleasant interlude.”

“Ah, my dear Caro, you read my mind—”

Caro swung back. Ferdinand had followed her onto the terrace; he broke off as he realized there were others present.

She reversed direction, intercepting him. “Mr. Anstruther-Wetherby and Elizabeth have been enjoying a stroll—we were just returning to the drawing room.”

Ferdinand flashed his white smile. “Excelente! They may go in and we can stroll.”

She’d intended to turn him back into the drawing room. Instead, deftly, he turned her. Half turned her—she caught his arm and was about to correct him when she sensed Michael move close.

“Actually, Leponte, I believe that’s not what Mrs. Sutcliffe meant.”

The delivery was urbane, his tone impossible to take exception to, yet steel rang beneath the words.

Mentally rolling her eyes, resisting an urge to pat Michael’s arm and assure him she was perfectly capable of dealing with would-be gigolos like Ferdinand, she shook Ferdinand’s arm, dragging his gaze, belligerently locked with Michael’s, back to her. “Mr. Anstruther-Wetherby is right—there’s no time for a stroll for me. I must get back to my guests.”

Ferdinand’s lips set, but he was forced to accede.

Knowing he would sulk, suddenly perceiving an unexpected opportunity, she swung to Elizabeth; her face momentarily screened from both men, she signaled with her eyes, directing Elizabeth to Ferdinand. “You’re looking refreshed, my dear—perhaps you could help?”

Elizabeth blinked, then summoned an ingenuous smile. “Yes, of course.” Drawing her hand from Michael’s sleeve, she turned her smile on Ferdinand. “Perhaps you could take me to your aunt, sir? I’ve had very little chance to speak with her.”

Ferdinand was too experienced to let his chagrin show; after only the most fleeting hesitation, he smiled his charming smile and with a courtly half-bow, murmured his delight.

Ferdinand reached for Elizabeth’s hand; behind Caro, Michael shifted. It was a tiny movement, but both she and Ferdinand noted it. Ferdinand’s smile took on an edge. Grasping Elizabeth’s hand, he drew her nearer, settling her hand on his sleeve. “I will do more than that, my pretty one. I will stand by your side and…”

Whatever else he planned, Caro didn’t hear as he bent closer to Elizabeth and lowered his voice.

Caro knew Elizabeth—and Edward—far too well to imagine Ferdinand would get any joy there, but Elizabeth had the sense to laugh delightedly as she and Ferdinand reentered the drawing room.

Feeling quite pleased with Elizabeth’s performance, Caro turned to Michael, ignoring the irritation behind his polite mask. He was reasonably adept at hiding his emotions, but she was a diplomatic hostess of long standing, ergo an expert in divining people’s true reactions.

He was—as she’d hoped—not just frustrated, but puzzled, and starting to be wary. She—they—needed him to reassess; she almost crossed her fingers as she reclaimed his arm. “The duke mentioned he’d like to speak with you again.”

Recalled to duty, he accompanied her back into the drawing room.

She ensured he was kept busy, away from Elizabeth. Whether he noticed Ferdinand flirting with Elizabeth, who wisely played the innocent, thus encouraging Ferdinand to even greater efforts, Caro couldn’t be sure; the duke truly had wanted to speak with him. Michael had already made the right impression there; they remained locked in serious discussion for some time. While continuing to patrol her guests—there was never any time during diplomatic entertainments when a hostess could relax—she tried to keep an eye on him, yet toward the end of the evening, she suddenly discovered him gone.

One quick survey of the room informed her Geoffrey was also absent.

“Damn!” Plastering on a smile, she swept up to Edward. “You’re on duty for the next while.” She lowered her voice. “I have to go and haul your irons out of the fire.”

Edward blinked, but he’d stood as her deputy through far worse crises; he nodded and she moved on.

Casting a last glance about the room, reassured there were no other impending disasters threatening, she slipped into the front hall. Catten stood guard there; he told her Geoffrey had taken Michael to his study.

Her heart sank. Surely after all he’d seen of Elizabeth that evening, all the serious questions Elizabeth’s performance ought to have raised in his mind, Michael wasn’t so boneheaded as to persist with an offer?

She couldn’t believe he was that stupid.

Almost running, she hurried to the study. With barely a tap, she opened the door and swept in. “Geoffrey, what…”

With one glance she took in the scene—both men leaning over the desk, poring over some maps spread on its surface. Relief swept her; she hid it behind a disapproving frown. “I know you’re unused to these affairs, but really, this is not the time for”—she gestured at the maps— “constituency matters.”

Geoffrey grinned apologetically. “Not even politics, I’m afraid. There’s a blockage on a tributary to the river. It’s in Eyeworth Wood—I was just showing Michael.”

With a fine show of sisterly exasperation, she linked her arm in Geoffrey’s. “What am I to do with you?” She bent a mock frown on Michael. “You, at least, should have known better.”

He smiled and followed as she led Geoffrey from the room. “But the woods are mine, after all.‘

Her heart no longer beating in her throat, she ushered them back into the drawing room. Elizabeth glanced over and saw them enter; her eyes flared—Caro smiled serenely back. And made sure Michael had no further opportunity to speak with Geoffrey by retaining her hold on her brother’s arm and taking him to talk with General Kleber.

The end of the evening drew near. Gradually, the guests took their leave. The diplomatic contingent, more accustomed to late nights, were the last remaining. They’d gathered in a group in the middle of the room when Ferdinand spoke.

“I would like to invite all those who would enjoy it to join me for a day’s cruise on my yacht.” He looked around the circle; his gaze came to rest on Caro’s face. “It is moored in Southampton Water close by. We could sail for a few hours, then find a pretty spot to anchor for lunch.”

The offer was generous. Everyone present was tempted. With a few questions, Caro ascertained that the yacht was sizeable, large enough to accommodate them all easily. Ferdinand assured her his crew would arrange a luncheon; it was too good a prospect to dismiss—on more than one count.

She smiled. “When should we go?”

They all agreed that the day after next would be perfect. The weather was currently fine and not expected to change; having a day to recover before they came together to enjoy each other’s company again would work nicely.

“An excellent notion,” the countess declared. She turned to Caro. “Aside from all else, it will put that boat to better use than I suspect it has been put to date.”

Caro hid a smile. The arrangements were quickly made. Michael accepted; she’d been sure he would.

As everyone turned to leave, Elizabeth tugged her sleeve.

She stepped to the side, lowered her voice. “What is it?”

Elizabeth glanced past her to Michael. “Have we done enough, do you think?”

“For tonight, we’ve done all we reasonably can. Indeed, we’ve done brilliantly.” She glanced at the group filing through the doorway. “As for the cruise, I couldn’t have planned that better myself. It’ll be the perfect venue to develop our theme.”

“But…” Still looking at Michael, who was talking to General Kle-ber, Elizabeth bit her lip. “Do you think it’s working?”

“He hasn’t offered for you yet, and that’s the most important thing.” Caro paused, reassessing, then patted Elizabeth’s arm. “Nevertheless, tomorrow’s another day—we should make sure he’s occupied.”

With a swish of her skirts, she returned to the group. A quick word in the countess’s ear, a quiet moment with the duchess and the ambassador’s wife, and all was arranged. Or almost all.

As he followed the bulk of the guests out of the front door, Michael found Caro beside him.

She slipped her hand in his arm. Leaning closer, she murmured, “I wondered if you’d like to join us—me, Elizabeth, Edward, and a few others—on a trip to Southampton tomorrow. I thought we might meet in town late morning, have a look around, then lunch at the Dolphin before a quick visit to the walls, and a gentle journey home.”

Looking up, she arched a brow at him. “Can we count on your escort?”

Another—and quieter—opportunity “through which to evaluate Elizabeth. Michael smiled into Caro’s silvery eyes. ”I’ll be delighted to join you.“

He hadn’t realized Caro had intended a shopping expedition. Nor that Ferdinand Leponte would be one of the party. Arriving at Bramshaw House at eleven, he’d been bidden to join Caro, Elizabeth, and Campbell in the barouche; the day was fine, the breeze light, the sunshine warm—all had seemed in place for a pleasant outing.

The others joined them at Totton on the road to Southampton. The duchess, the countess, the ambassador’s wife, and Ferdinand Leponte. Ferdinand predictably tried to engineer a reallocation of seats, suggesting Michael join the older ladies in the duchess’s landau, but Caro waved the suggestion aside.

“It’s barely a few miles, Ferdinand—too close to bother rearranging things.” With the tip of her furled parasol, she tapped her coachman’s shoulder; he started the barouche rolling. “Just have your man follow and we’ll be there in no time, then we can all walk together.”

She sat back, then glanced at Michael, sitting beside her. He smiled, let his gratitude show. Her lips twitched; she looked ahead.

They spent the half-hour journey discussing local events. Caro, he, and Edward were less well informed about local affairs than Elizabeth; encouraged, she filled them in with the latest news.

He was pleased to discover she kept abreast of local matters.

“The church fete is the next big event.” Elizabeth grimaced. “I suppose we’ll have to attend, or Muriel will be after us.”

“It’s always an entertaining day,” Caro pointed out.

“True, but I do so hate the feeling of being obliged to be there.”

Caro shrugged and looked away. Inwardly frowning yet again, Michael followed her gaze out over the expanse of Southampton Water.

They left the carriages at the Dolphin and wandered along High Street, then the ladies determinedly turned to the shops along French Street and Castle Way.

The gentlemen—all three of them—started to drag their heels. Started to realize they’d been inveigled into being packhorses under false pretenses, to wit, by having elusive carrots dangled before their noses.

Edward, doubtless more accustomed to such trials, merely sighed and accepted the parcels Caro and the ambassador’s wife dropped in his arms. Michael found himself landed with a bandbox tied with wide pink ribbon, bestowed on him by Elizabeth with a sweet smile.

Chattering together, the ladies entered the next shop. Michael glanced at Ferdinand. Holding two gaudily wrapped packages, the Portuguese looked as discomposed and disgusted as he himself felt. Looking at Edward, at the relatively innocuous brown packages Caro had handed him, Michael raised his brows. He met Edward’s eyes. “Want to swap?”

Edward shook his head. “The etiquette pertaining here is that you have to hold on to whatever they hand you, or else they’ll get confused.”

Michael held his gaze. “You’re making that up.”

Edward grinned.

By the time the ladies finally consented to return to the Dolphin, where luncheon awaited them in a private parlor, Michael was burdened with the bandbox and three other parcels, two tied with ribbon. The only aspect of the situation that lightened his mood was that Ferdinand was all but invisible behind the ten parcels his aunt and the duchess had stacked in his arms.

Michael felt something perilously close to fellow feeling when, together with Ferdinand, he tumbled the packages onto a settle in the inn parlor. They exchanged glances, then looked at Edward, who had escaped relatively lightly. Reading their expressions, Edward nodded. “I’ll arrange to leave these here.”

“Good.” Michael made it clear by his tone that any other outcome would precipitate mutiny.

Ferdinand just glowered.

The luncheon started well enough. Michael sat on one bench beside Elizabeth, with Caro on his other side and Ferdinand beyond her. The other four sat on the bench opposite. He wanted to question Elizabeth as to her aspirations, angling to learn what she looked for from marriage, but the two leading comments he introduced both somehow ended back with the balls, parties, and entertainments of London.

On top of that, the countess and the duchess, speaking across the table, distracted him. Their comments and queries were too needle-sharp, too acute to be lightly turned aside. They may not be their husbands, yet they were assuredly sounding him out; he had to pay them due attention.

Edward came to his aid once or twice; Michael met his gaze and nodded almost imperceptibly in appreciation. Elizabeth, however, seemed sunk in her own thoughts and contributed nothing.

hen the desserts arrived and the older ladies shifted their atten-tion to the creme anglaise and poached pears. Seizing the moment, he turned to Elizabeth, only to feel a sudden warmth against his other side.

Turning that way, he realized Caro had shifted along the bench, realized with an eruption of hot anger that she’d shifted because Ferdinand had shifted into her.

He had to fight down a surprisingly powerful urge to reach behind Caro and clip Ferdinand over the ear. It was what he deserved for behaving like such a boor, yet… diplomatic incidents had arisen from less.

He fixed his eyes on Ferdinand’s face; the Portuguese was currently intent on Caro, looking down, trying to read her face. “So, Leponte, what sort of horses do you keep in town? Any Arabs?”

Ferdinand glanced up at him, momentarily at sea. Then he colored faintly and responded.

Michael kept asking questions, about carriages, even the yacht, focusing everyone’s attention on Ferdinand until the meal ended and they stood to leave.

As she followed him out from the bench, Caro squeezed his arm lightly. It was the only acknowledgment she made that she appreciated his support, yet he felt an unexpected, somewhat righteous glow.

They’d planned to take a postprandial stroll along the old walls. The view afforded over Southampton Water and south to the Isle of Wight, taking in all the commerical and private shipping that dotted the blue expanse in between, was superb.

The wind whipped the ladies’ skirts and tugged at their bonnets; conversation was difficult. The ambassador’s wife linked her arm with Elizabeth’s; heads together, they discussed some feminine thing. The duchess and countess walked alongside, captured by the view. Behind the four ladies, Caro followed, Ferdinand close beside her. Michael got the distinct impression Ferdinand was groveling, trying to get back into Caro’s good graces, knowing he’d stepped over that invisible line.

The Portuguese was exceedingly charming; he’d probably succeed.

Bringing up the rear with Edward, watching Ferdinand’s artful performance, Michael couldn’t help but wonder if the Portuguese had misinterpreted, or rather missed altogether, the irony in Caro’s nickname, and thought the “Merry” in the “Merry Widow” meant something it did not.