The Ideal Bride

Chapter 20

If Michael had been quiet on the way to the Osterleys‘, Caro was silent, sunk in her thoughts, all the way home. Michael, too, seemed absorbed, presumably thinking of his pending appointment; the likelihood made her thoughts churn even more.

Arriving in Upper Grosvenor Street, they climbed the stairs. Magnus had left the Osterleys’ an hour before them; upstairs, all was quiet. With a light touch on her hand, Michael parted from her at her door and continued on to his room to undress.

Caro entered her bedchamber; Fenella jumped up from the chair on which she’d been dozing and came to help her disrobe. For the first time since coming to Upper Grosvenor Street, Caro clung to the moments, let them spin out; Michael wouldn’t come to her until he heard Fenella pass his room on her way to the servants’ stair.

Carol had so much to think about; everything seemed to have rushed on her at once, yet she knew in reality that wasn’t so. She’d been reassessing for days, even weeks—ever since Michael had so definitively left the decision about whether they should wed to her. Not resigning his goal, but acknowledging her right to choose her own life. He’d deliberately placed the reins of their relationship in her hand and closed her fingers about them.

What she hadn’t until the last hour fully appreciated was that, with complete understanding and certainly thus far unshakable resolve, he’d handed her the reins to his career, too.

Clad in a diaphanous nightgown covered by a silk robe barely opaque enough for decency, she went to stand before the uncurtained window, staring out over the rear garden while Fenella tidied.

Deliberately, she looked into the future—considered whether she should simply acquiesce and let the flood tide sweep her on. Imagined, weighed, recalled all Therese Osbaldestone had said, all she’d seen and comprehended that evening, before sighing and rejecting that course. Her resistance was too deep, the scars too deeply scored, to pursue that path—not again.

It had been so very wrong the last time.

Yet she was no longer set against marriage, not to Michael. If they had time—enough for her to be sure that what bound them was what she thought it was, that that indefinable something was as strong and, most importantly, as enduring as she thought it might be—then yes, she could see herself happily becoming his wife.

There was no other impediment—Just her and the lessons fate had taught her.

Just her memories, and their ineradicable effect.

She could not, again, agree to a marriage by default. She could not allow herself to be swept into it with nothing more than hope as a guarantee. The first time she’d gaily jumped in and let the tide carry her away; it had landed her on a shore she had no wish to visit again.

Not that her life with Camden had been hard; she’d never lacked for material wealth. Yet she had been so alone. Her marriage had been an empty shell, just like the house in Half Moon Street. That was why she continually put off returning to it—because no matter how beautiful it was, how crammed with expensive objects, there was simply nothing there.

Nothing of importance. Nothing on which to build a life.

She barely noticed Fenella bobbing a curtsy; she dismissed the maid with an absentminded wave.

She didn’t yet know if she could believe and go forward. If the love—and yes, she thought it was love—that had grown between her and Michael would endure, would live and grow and be strong enough to be the cornerstone of her future, rather than dissipating like mist within a month, as with Camden.

And this time, the risk was far greater. The young girl’s infatuation she’d felt for Camden, while it might have grown to more with time, was nothing, a mere cipher against what now, at twenty-eight, she felt for Michael. The comparison was laughable.

If she let the tide take her this time, and the vessel of their love foundered, the wreck would devastate her. Would scar her far more deeply than Camden’s turning from her within days of their marriage had done.

The latch of her door clicked. Turning, through the shadows she watched Michael enter and shut the door. Watched him stroll easily, confidently, toward her.

There was only one thing to do.

She straightened her spine, lifted her head. Fixed her gaze on his eyes. “I need to talk to you.”

Michael slowed. A single candle burned by the bed, too far away to illuminate her eyes, yet her stance warned him; she didn’t expect him to like what she wished to say. Halting before her, he searched her face—could read nothing beyond implacable resolve. He arched a brow. “About what?”

“Us.” Her gaze on his eyes, she drew a deep breath—hesitated. Then spoke, her tone ruthlessly even. “When we first became close, you told me that whether or not we married was entirely my decision. I accept you meant that sincerely. I knew you’d been urged to marry to enable your appointment to the ministry—I assumed that meant, as it usually would, an announcement of an engagement by October or so.”

Drawing a tight breath, wrapping her arms about her, she looked down. “Tonight, I heard that Canning’s resignation is imminent, making his replacement urgent.” She looked up at him. “You now need to marry by mid-September at the latest.”

He held her gaze for a finite moment, then replied, “I didn’t know that until tonight, either.”

To his relief, she inclined her head. “Yes, well… regardless, we now have a problem.” Before he could ask what, she drew in a huge breath, turned to the window, and said, “I don’t know if I can.”

He didn’t need to ask what she meant. An iron hand clutched his gut… yet it seemed she hadn’t ruled out an engagement by October… The cold tension dissolved; hope flared, but… he wasn’t sure what was going on.

Shifting, he leaned against the window frame so he could better see her face limned by the faint moonlight flowing through the window.

She was tense, yes, but not overwrought. A frown tangled her brows, her lips were compressed; she seemed to be wrestling with some insurmountable problem. The insight gave him pause. Evenly, unaggres-sively, he asked, “Why not?”

She glanced briefly at him, then looked forward. After a moment, she said, “I told you Camden”—she gestured—“swept me off my feet. Yet even then, I wasn’t a complete ninny—I did have reservations. I wanted more time to be certain of my feelings and his, but he had to marry in less than two months and return to his post. I allowed myself to be persuaded—I allowed myself to be swept away.

“And now here I am, eleven years later, considering marrying another politician—and again due to the pressure of political events having to simply accept that all is as perfect, as right as it seems.” She drew in another breath; this time, it shook. “I care for you—a lot. You know I do. But not even for you—not even for what might be—will I commit the same folly again.”

He saw the problem; she confirmed it.

“I won’t allow my decision to be made by default. This time, I have to make it—I have to be sure.”

“What did Harriet say to you?”

She glanced at him. “Only that Canning was retiring—the timing.” She frowned, following his thoughts. “She didn’t pressure me—not her, or anyone else.” Looking out at the garden, she sighed. “It’s not people who’ve been persuading me this time—it’s everything else. All the tangible and not-so-tangible things—the position, the role, the possibilities. I can see that everything fits… but it seemed to fit the last time, too.”

He was feeling his way. Glancing at her face, he judged her calm enough to ask, “You’re not imagining—not about to suggest—I look elsewhere for a wife?”

Her lips set. For a long moment, she didn’t answer, then said, “I should.”

“But you won’t?”

She blew out a breath. Still not looking at him, she quietly stated, “I don’t want you to marry anyone else.”

Relief washed through him. So far, so good—

“But that’s not the point!” Abruptly, she speared her hands through her hair, then whirled from the window. “You have to marry within a few weeks, so I have to make up my mind—and I can’t! Not like this!”

He caught her hand before she could dash away across the room. The instant he touched her, he realized she was more tense than she appeared—her nerves far more taut. “What you mean is not yet.”

Her eyes, limpid silver, locked with his. “What I mean is I can’t promise that within a few weeks I’ll happily agree to be your bride!” She held his gaze, no veil, no shield, nothing to screen the turmoil, close to anguish, in her mind. “I can’t say yes”—she shook her head, almost whispered—“and I don’t want to say no.”

He suddenly saw it, the answer to his most urgent question. What was truly most important to her. The insight was momentarily blinding, then he blinked, refocused. On her. His eyes locked on hers; using his hold on her hand, he drew her closer. “You won’t have to say no.” Before she could argue, he continued, “You won’t have to declare your decision until you’re ready—until you’ve made it.”

Steadily, he drew her nearer; reluctantly, frowning, she came. But—

“I told you at the outset^no pressures, no persuasions. Your decision, and yours alone.” He finally saw the truth, saw it all; drawing breath, he looked into her eyes. “I want you to make that decision— between us, there’s no hourglass with its sand running out.” He raised her hand to his lips, kissed. “It’s important this time—for you, for me, for us—that you make your decision.”

He’d only just comprehended how vital, how essential that was— not just for her but for him as well. It might be his commitment she questioned, but unless she made her decision, actively and not by default, he would never be sure of her commitment either.

“I’ll do anything—give anything—to allow you your choice.” His voice deepened, each word intent. “I want to know you’ve knowingly accepted—that you’ve actively chosen to be my wife, to combine your life with mine.”

She studied his eyes; confusion filled hers. “I don’t understand.”

His lips twisted, ironically self-deprecatory. “I don’t care about the appointment.”

Her eyes flared; she tried to jerk back as if he were joking.

He caught her waist, held her. “No—I know what I’m saying.” He trapped her gaze, felt his jaw set. “I mean it.”

“But…” Eyes wide, she searched his. “You’re a politician… this is a cabinet post…”

“Yes, all right—I do care, but. . .” He hauled in a breath, briefly closed his eyes. He had to explain—and get it right; if he didn’t, she wouldn’t understand, wouldn’t believe. Opening his eyes, he looked into hers. “I’m a politician—it’s in my blood, so yes, success in that field is important to me. But being a politician is only a part of my life, and it’s not the most important part. The other part of my life, the other half of it, is.”

She frowned.

He went on, “The other part—the part that’s most important… think of Devil. His life is spent running a dukedom, but the reason he does so—what gives his life purpose—is the other side of it. Honoria, his family, both immediate and wider. That’s why he does what he does—that’s where the purpose, the raison d’etre of his life springs from.”

Caro blinked, studied his eyes. “And you?” From the tension she sensed rising through him, he wasn’t enjoying the discussion, but was grimly determined to see it to its end.

“The same holds true. I need… you, and a family, to anchor me— to give me a base, a foundation—a sense of personal purpose. I want you as my wife—I want to have children with you, to make a home with you, found a family with you. That’s what I need—and I know it.” His jaw tensed, but he went on, “If passing up this chance at the Foreign Office is the price I have to pay to have you as my wife, I’ll pay gladly. The post doesn’t matter as much to me as you do.”

She searched his eyes; no matter how hard she looked she could see nothing but brutal honesty. “I really mean that much to you?” Not just a surprise, but something beyond her wildest dreams.

He held her gaze, then quietly said, “My career is at the periphery of my life—you are at its center. Without you, all the rest is meaningless.”

The admission hung between them, stark and clear.

She felt compelled to ask, “Your grandfather—your aunt?”

“Strangely enough, I think they’ll understand. Magnus, at least.”

She hesitated, but had to ask, “You really want me that much?”

He clenched his teeth. “I need you that much.” The intensity of the words shook him as much as her.

“I…”—she searched his blue eyes—“don’t know what to say.”

He released her. “You don’t have to say anything yet.” Lifting his hands, he framed her face. Let his thumbs cruise the fine skin of her jaw, then brought his gaze to her eyes. “You just have to believe—and you will.”

He tipped up her face, lowered his head. “However long it takes, I’ll wait until you do.”

The vow resonated between them, shivered through them.

He kissed her.

Whether it was the touch of her hand on the back of his, or that they’d spoken so blatantly of their needs, or whether it was simply him owning to his—to that force that compelled, that beat in his blood, pounded through his veins, surged through his body—whichever or all, they ignited him. Cindered the last of his restraint, left him with undisguised hunger raging through him. A potent, driving, primitive desire to show her beyond doubt, beyond confusion, what she truly meant to him.

How elementally deep his need for her ran.

Caro felt the change in him. She was already adrift on an unchar-tered sea; his words had ripped her from the rock her past had chained her to, and whirled her into the surging waves of the unknown. Onto the flood tide.

The raging currents sucked her down. Dragged her into some dark inferno where he waited for her, ablaze with hunger, with greedy need.

Their tongues tangled, but he was the aggressor, openly, dominantly so. He shifted into her, steering, then pressing her against the wall beyond the window; his hands released her jaw, one reaching further to slide through her hair until his strong fingers wrapped about her nape, holding her steady so he could plunder. So he could feast on the softness of her mouth, so he could brand her with the heat that seemed to pour from him. Then his other hand found her breast, and the flames leapt.

She pushed her hands up, gripped his shoulders as her world, her senses, spun, as his hand closed possessively, as he kneaded and she ached, and want and need spilled like an elixir down her veins.

His or hers, she wasn’t sure, couldn’t tell.

Then his fingers found her nipple and she moaned. He plunged deep into her mouth, tightened his fingers—her lungs seized. She sank her fingertips into his shoulders, came up on her toes to meet him, to urge him on.

The resulting duel sent heat and fire raging through them both, hungry, ravenous, surging and building. Her skin burned; his was even hotter, stretched over tensed muscles, scalding, branding her wherever he touched. Her peignoir and negligee were no protection; pressing her to the wall, his hands roved, searched, flagrantly explored, possessed.

Abruptly his hard hands rose to her shoulders; he stripped off her peignoir—discarded, it drifted to the floor. Her gauzy negligee was designed to be an erotic temptation ; when he bent his head and through the fine material licked and laved her nipple, then closed his mouth over it and suckled fiercely until she cried out, she was no longer sure who was tempter, who the target.

He used the material, shifting it over her excruciatingly tight nipples, sliding it over her heated skin, veiling his caresses, sensually distracting, disconcerting. Then he pressed closer, one hard thigh parting hers, forcing hers wide enough so hard muscle rode against her mons. He pressed, rocked, aroused her until she was gasping through their kiss, clinging to his shoulders, reaching to twine her fingers in his hair.

To anchor her against the fire and the yearning, the achingly empty sensation growing inside her, the welling, burgeoning, all-consuming need.

One hand at her hip, anchoring her against the wall, he eased back, pressed a hand between their bodies, reached down. Found her curls through the distracting gauze and stroked, then reached further. Through the shifting gossamer silk he caressed her, traced her swollen folds, parted them, probed, pressed a finger, encased in gauze, into her, deeper, then deeper still, pulling the material tight over her mons.

He stroked, pressing in, easing back, each successive movement shifting the filmy material over the sensitive bud hidden between her folds. Over and over. Breaking from the kiss, he leaned into her, holding her against the wall while he pleasured her. His head was beside hers; she felt his gaze on her face. Could barely think through the haze of escalating sensations.

She cracked open her lids, found his eyes waiting to trap hers. She moistened her lips. Managed to find breath to say, “Take me to the bed.”

“No.” His voice was dark, deep. “Not yet.”

There was something in his tone, something in his face that was harder, clearer, more defined. She studied it, understood more by instinct than reason, shuddered and closed her eyes.

Felt her senses close in, felt them start the now familiar giddy climb.

“Michael…” She pushed back on his shoulders; he moved not an inch.

Ruthlessly pushed her on.

“Here. Now. Let go.”

She had to. He gave her no choice, stroking again and again deep inside her until the glory took her and she broke apart.

Sagging against the wall, she felt his hand leave her—expected him to step back, sweep her up in his arms, and carry her to the bed.

Instead, she felt him pull up her gauzy skirts, gathering the fabric above her hips; the night air, warm and redolent with the scent of night stock, caressed her flushed and heated skin.

He shifted, and his silk robe gaped open; wrapping his hands about her thighs, he lifted her.

Braced her against the wall, and pushed into her.

She gasped, raised her head as he pressed deeper, as her slick and still-throbbing flesh surrendered, stretched and took him in. She felt every inch of his penetration as he impaled her, thrust powerfully up and filled her.

Without instruction, she wrapped her legs about his waist, desperate to gain some solid hold in a world that was suddenly whirling.

Then he moved and the flames flared again. Within seconds he’d driven her deep into the conflagration.

She sobbed, wrapped her arms about his shoulders and clung, held tight as he sent her rocketing into that fiery sea, with each powerful thrust sent the twin currents of passion and desire raging ever more hotly through her.

Until she burned.

Until she felt sure even her fingertips were pulsing with flame.

Then he slowed. Continued moving heavily, powerfully surging within her, but not hard enough, not fast enough.

His head, until then alongside hers, lifted; he drew back enough to look into her eyes. With an effort she opened them, knowing he would wait…

He caught her gaze. Moved once, twice, within her. Leaned closer. Their breaths mingled, their breathing ragged and harsh. His gaze dropped to her lips, then his lashes lifted and their eyes locked again.

“I will never, ever, turn from you.” The words were guttural, low, resonant with the weight of a vow. “Not tonight, not tomorrow, not in fifty years.” He continued to move within her, his thrusts punctuating his words. “Don’t ask it of me. Don’t expect it to happen, don’t imagine it ever will. It won’t. I won’t.”

His gaze fell; her lips throbbed.

He covered them.

And the firestorm took them. Melded them. Fused them.

Yet when, driven far beyond the world, she shattered, fractured by the pulsing glory, he didn’t follow. He hung back, anchoring her, driving rhythmically into her—drawing her back.

When she finally drew in a shuddering breath and lifted her head, bracing her arms, straightening her spine, opening her eyes to look at him in disoriented puzzlement, Michael clamped a desperate hold on his raging passions, felt her contract about him, confirming he’d yet to seek his release.

Before she could speak, he withdrew from her, slowly lowered her. “First act.” His voice was so gravelly he wondered if she would even make out the words. He waited while she unwound her legs, then swept her up into his arms. Carrying her to the bed, he caught her gaze. “Tonight, I want more.”

Much more.

Her widening eyes suggested his meaning—primitive, basic, less than civilized—had reached her. He didn’t feel anything like his smoothly sophisticated self as he tumbled her onto the bed. As he followed her and swiftly arranged her as he wished, bent over her knees before him.

His facade, his mask, had long gone as he pushed her nightgown up to her waist, as he ran his hands over the dewed globes of her bottom, then opened her and eased his throbbing staff into the hot haven between her thighs.

He heard her sob, catch her breath, felt her silent gasp as she instinctively tightened, then surrendered and let him in. He pushed further; her sheath stretched, easing in welcome, then clasped about him, a scalding lover’s caress. Closing his hands about her hips, anchoring her before him, he adjusted her position as he worked deep and filled her.

Then he rode her.

As he had told her, demanding more, wanting more, needing more. And she gave without reservation. Her already sensitized nerves leapt to every explicit caress; her nightgown simply added another layer of sensual taunting.

Her hips rocked as he rhythmically thrust, angling to penetrate as deeply as he could—and she met him. Sensuously shifted, wanton in her passion, riding each movement, taking him in, pressing her bottom into his groin as he joined with her.

He heard her pants, heard the soft moans she struggled to suppress, then surrendered and let free. The sound of female abandonment added yet more impetus to the primal passion driving him. He could no longer think. Didn’t need to. Instinct had claimed him, decisive, urgent, and commanding.

Reaching forward, he filled his hands with her breasts, ripe and sumptuous, the nipples hard pebbles he rubbed and taunted, then squeezed. She cried out, lifted, and felt his hand on her back holding her down, only then realized her inherent helplessness.

With a gasp understood, then gave herself over to it.

Let go as he’d asked, gave herself up to the turbulent tide, let it and him sweep her where they would. Let him take all he wished of her— give all he wished to her. Show her all.

He employed no restraint, no finesse, simply dropped all pretense and let her feel what she was to him, feel the primitive urges that whipped through him, that she and only she evoked.

Let her sense through him, through the power that drove him, all she meant to him, all she called forth in him. All that she controlled in him.

Whether she recognized that last or not, he didn’t care. His need for her transcended any logic, any consideration of self-protection. There was no longer any existence for him but with her.

The driving, pumping rhythm had escalated beyond his control or hers. Desire roared; passion lashed out and caught them in its fiery embrace.

And they burned.

When she fell from the peak, she took him with her—this time, he went willingly. Surrendering to the glory. Surrendering to her.

Surrendering to the power that bound them, now and forever.

He stirred her again in the deep watches of the night.

Caro woke as he shifted behind her. She lay on her side; he must have moved them onto the pillows and dragged the covers over them. The power of their extended joining pulsed, a faint echo in her bones.

Hours must have passed, yet she still felt wrapped in the moment, in the passion, the raw hunger, the urgent desire.

Not just his, but hers.

Despite the many times they’d come together, enjoyed, indulged, and shared, she hadn’t understood—hadn’t truly comprehended from what source the power that commanded him, that compelled him and drove him, sprang. Yet this last time… even though she hadn’t been able to see his face, she’d felt that power, so strong it had been palpable, surrounding them, holding them, welding them. Until there’d been just them—not him or her, but one entity.

She felt his hand on her thigh, felt him raise the back of her nightgown, drawing the material to her waist. He caressed her bottom; she reacted instantly, her skin dewing, heating. His hand slipped lower, pressed between her thighs, found her. Fondled, probed, then, pushing her upper thigh higher, he opened her, and slid in.

She’d wondered if he’d known she was awake; he certainly knew as he sank into her to the hilt and she arched, a soft gasp falling from her lips as, head back, eyes closed, she savored that incredible moment.

He held still, let her enjoy it fully.

Then, when she eased, very gently, rocked.

Into her, about her, with her.

He slid his hand, palm splayed, over her stomach, holding her against him. She spread her hand over the back of his, murmured, caught her breath as he pushed deeper still.

The familiar heat rose within them, between them, poured through them. The tide rose and she went with it, whirling gently, senses aware, into its sensuous sea.

No urgency this time, just a long, slow, unhurried loving, one neither was eager to rush.

For her part, just the feel of him, hard, hot, unforgivingly rigid, drawing out of, then pressing back into, her body was bliss. As the minutes ticked by and the tempo remained severely restrained, she felt certain he knew.

But the slow pace allowed her mind to function, to drift, to snag on the question. “Why?” She was sure she wouldn’t need to elaborate.

Propped on one elbow behind her, he leaned close, nuzzled the curve of her throat.

“Because of this.” His voice was low, deep, a male promise in the dark of the night. “Because of all the women I could have, I want you— like this.”

He slowed, let her feel again how much he wanted her, let their loins come together as he sank deep. “Like this. Lying naked beside me in my bed, mine whenever I wish.” His voice deepened, darkened. “Mine to have, to fill with my seed. I want you to bear my children. I want you by my side when I grow old. Because at the end of all the explanations, it comes down to this—that you are the only wife I want, and for you, for that, I’ll wait forever.”

She felt her heart swell, was so glad he couldn’t see her face, see her eyes as tears welled and silently fell.

Then he picked up their rhythm, the tempo escalated, and there were no more words, but a wordless communion. An age-old melding; he held her tight, his chest to her back as she crested the peak and fell through the stars. He followed immediately, with her—as he wished, as she wished—when they found their distant shore.