The Ideal Bride

Chapter 22

Caro stood, her mind racing. She was used to emergencies but not of this sort. She swallowed, glanced at the clock—she had less than an hour to return with the token. “Very well.” She didn’t have time to argue, and from the light in Muriel’s eyes, the expression on her face, there d be no point. “Number 31, Horseferry Road. Mr. Atkins.”

“That’s right.” Muriel waved to the door with the second pistol. She dropped the one she’d used; she’d been carrying its twin in her other hand, as Caro had suspected. “Off you go.”

Casting one last glance at the men slumped at her feet, she said a silent prayer and went.

“Hurry back!” Muriel called after her, then laughed.

Suppressing a shiver, Caro flew out of the front door. Dragging it shut, she looked up and down the street. Where was a hackney when one needed one?

She clattered down the steps. Should she run for Piccadilly, where hackneys were plentiful, or head in the direction she wanted to go? She paused on the pavement, then turned north and started running for Grosvenor Square.

She’d passed three houses when an unmarked black carriage slowed alongside.

A small wiry man opened the door and leaned out. “Mrs. Sutcliffe? Sligo, ma’am—I’m in the employ of His Grace of St. Ives.”

Caro stopped, stared, then leapt for the carriage. “Thank God! Take me to your master immediately!”

“Indeed, ma’am. Jeffers—home as fast as you can.”

On the way, Sligo explained that Michael had asked him to keep watch; Caro gave thanks and prayed all the harder. They rattled into Grosvenor Square minutes later—just as Devil and Honoria, dressed for the evening, were descending their front steps.

Caro all but fell from the carriage. Devil caught her. Steadied her.

She poured out her desperate tale.

Honoria knew Muriel; she paled. “Good God!”

Devil looked at Honoria. “Send word to Gabriel and Lucifer to meet us at the south end of Half Moon Street.”

“Immediately.” Honoria met Caro’s gaze, squeezed her hand. “Take care.” Turning, she hurried back up the steps.

Devil lifted Caro back into the carriage, called to the coachman, “Horseferry Road, Number Thirty-one. Fast as you can.” He leapt in, acknowledged Sligo’s nod. Sitting beside Caro, he took her hand. “Now tell me exactly what Muriel said about this will.”

They returned to the south end of Half Moon Street less than thirty minutes later. The ride back and forth had been wild, the incident in the solicitor’s office managed with ruthless dispatch.

At Devil’s suggestion, she’d played the witless female; it hadn’t been hard. Supported by Sligo, she’d entered the solicitor’s office; Devil had hung back in the shadows outside the office window. A greasy individual with an equally greasy clerk, the solicitor had had her new will ready and waiting. She’d signed; the clerk and Sligo had witnessed it, then the solicitor, rubbing his hands in unctuous delight, had handed her the “token”—a jay’s feather.

With it clutched in her hand, she’d turned to the window. Devil had entered in a swirl of dark drama and black evening cape, twitched the will from the stunned solicitor’s fingers, and ripped it to shreds.

They’d been back in the carriage, she with the feather clutched in her hand, within a minute.

She peered out of the carriage window; the light was fast fading, the sky turning purple and deep blue. Still on Piccadilly, the carriage slowed before the corner. Devil opened the door and leaned out; two large shadows detached themselves from a nearby wall and approached.

In hushed tones, they conferred. All three were against her delivering Muriel’s feather. “There has to be a better way,” Gabriel insisted.

At Devil’s request, she described the scene in the drawing room. Lucifer shook his head. “Too risky to just walk in. We need to make sure she’s still in that room.”

“I have the keys to the back door and back gate.”

All three men looked at her, then exchanged a silent glance, then Devil was helping her from the carriage.

“Stay with Jeffers,” he told Sligo. Pulling out his watch, he glanced at it. “Drive up to the house exactly fifteen minutes from now.”

Sligo looked at his own watch and nodded.

Devil shut the carriage door, took her arm; with Gabriel and Lucifer following, they walked quickly down the narrow mews that lay behind the houses on Half Moon Street.

“This is it.” She stopped before the garden gate and opened her reticule to get her keys.

Lucifer reached forward and lifted the latch—the gate opened.

They all looked at her; she stared at the gate. “The housekeeper might have left it unlocked.” That was possible, but was it likely?

Gabriel and Lucifer led the way up the garden path; despite their size, all three Cynsters moved with silent grace. The garden was overgrown—Caro caught herself making a mental note to have a gardener in, to make the place habitable now that—

She broke off the thought, looked ahead. Gabriel ducked out of sight. Lucifer crouched, then looked back and signaled. Devil drew her off the path into the shadows of a large rhododendron.

“What?” she whispered.

“There’s someone there,” Devil murmured back. “The others will take care of it.”

On the words, she heard a faint thump, a muted scuffle, then the others returned propelling a man almost as tall as they were, a hand clamped over his mouth, his arms twisted behind him.

The man’s eyes met hers—and flared.

Stepping out from the bush, she glared. “Ferdinand! What the devil are you doing here?”

He looked mulish; removing his hand, Gabriel checked Ferdinand’s face, then did something that made him gasp.

Caro suppressed a wince, but this—Ferdinand surrounded by three murderous Cynsters—was the perfect opportunity to get a straight answer. “We don’t have time to waste, Ferdinand. Tell me what you’re after—now!”

He glanced at Lucifer, then through the dimness met Devil’s gaze. Paled and looked down at her. “Letters—an exchange of letters between the duke and Sutcliffe from many years ago. The duke has been pardoned and wants to return home, but if those letters ever surface… he would be exiled again.” He paused, then went on more fervently, “You know what it’s like, Caro, at court. You know—”

She held up a hand. “Yes, I know. And yes, you can have the letters. We’ll have to find them, if they exist…” Her gaze had gone to the house, her mind to Michael and Timothy. “Call on me tomorrow and we’ll sort it out. We don’t have time for this now—something’s happening in the house we must stop. Go now—I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Ferdinand would have clutched her hand and poured out his heartfelt thanks, but Lucifer gave him a not-too-gentle shove toward the gate.

They turned their attention to the house. The lock on the back door was well oiled; it turned without a sound. The door opened easily; Caro led them through the kitchen, up the stairs, and into the narrow corridor. Stopping before the door into the hall, she looked back and noticed that Ferdinand had followed, but was hanging back and, most important, keeping quiet.

“The drawing room is three rooms forward on the right—closest to the front door,” she whispered.

They all nodded. Silently, she pushed open the door. Devil held it for her as she crept forward. He went with her; the others hung back. No sound reached them from the drawing room.

Just before the double doors, Devil closed his hands about her shoulders and halted her; he stepped silently past her, briefly looked, then rejoined her and motioned them all back beyond the service door. Once there, he softly said, “She’s sitting in a chair facing the hearth. She has a pistol in her hand—there’s another on the floor beside the chair. Michael still appears to be unconscious.” He glanced at Caro. “Breckenridge has lost a lot of blood.”

She nodded. Only distantly heard the three Cynsters conferring; dragging in a breath, she forced her ears to function—fought to ignore the hollowness in her stomach, the chill flowing through her veins.

“You’re right,” Gabriel grudgingly conceded. “If we barge in, she’s too likely to fire and we can’t guess what she’ll aim for.”

“We need a diversion,” Devil murmured back.

They looked at each other; nothing sprang to mind. Any minute the carriage would roll up outside and Muriel would expect her to enter.

Ferdinand reached forward and tapped Gabriel on the shoulder. Gabriel glanced back, stepped back as Ferdinand joined them and whispered, “I have a suggestion. The lady with the pistol—it is Muriel Hedderwick, yes?” Caro nodded; Ferdinand went on, “Does she know these three?” Caro shook her head. Ferdinand grinned. “She knows me—she’ll recognize me. I can walk in and play the ‘crazy Portuguese,’ yes? She will let me get close—she won’t see me as a danger. I could take the pistol from her.”

Caro understood immediately—not just what he was proposing, but why. If he did this and saved Michael and Timothy, she’d be in his debt—he could claim the letters as a reward.

The Cynsters were unconvinced, but ultimately looked to her. She nodded. Decisively. “Yes. Let him try. He might pull it off, and we can’t.”

Ferdinand looked at Devil. Who nodded. “Get the pistol she’s holding—we’ll be there as soon as you’ve got your hands on it.”

With a nod in reply, Ferdinand moved past them. He paused before the door to resettle his coat, then he lifted his head, squared his shoulders, and pushed through, walking confidently, his boots ringing on the tile.

“Caro?” He called. “Where are you?”

Silently, they followed him into the front hall.

He reached the drawing room, looked in, then smiled hugely and walked in. “Ah—Mrs. Hedderwick. What a pleasant surprise. I see you, too, have come up from the country—”

The last word changed, steely purpose breaking through. They heard an outraged female gasp, then the sounds of a struggle.

Like angels of death, Gabriel and Lucifer swept in. Caro started after them. Devil caught her about the waist and held her back.

Furious, she struggled. “Damn it, St. Ives—let me go!”

“All in good time,” came the imperturbable response.

A shot rang out, echoing through the house.

Devil released her. She dashed for the door; he still got there before her, momentarily blocked her path as he scanned the room, then he let her in, and followed as she flew across the room to her fallen men.

She glimpsed Muriel struggling like a fiend; all three men were battling to restrain her. The second pistol had been kicked to the side of the room; Devil detoured and picked it up. The one that had fired lay at Muriel’s feet.

Caro fell to her knees beside Michael and Timothy. Frantically she checked Michael’s pulse, felt it steady and strong, but he didn’t respond to her touch or her voice.

Timothy’s pulse, when she found it, was thready and weak. Blood had soaked his shirt and coat and lay pooled beneath him. In his upper chest, the wound looked to have stopped bleeding. She reached to lift the wadded cravat she’d pressed over it to check—Devil stopped her.

“Best leave it.” He called to Lucifer to send Sligo for a doctor.

Glancing over, Caro saw Muriel being held down in the chair, Gabriel winding curtain cords around her to hold her there.

Across the room, Muriel’s eyes locked with hers. For one long moment, Muriel stared, then she threw back her head and screeched.

All four men flinched. When she barely paused for breath, Gabriel swore, whipped a handkerchief from his pocket, balled it and shoved it into her mouth. Reduced to raging mumbles, eyes starting, Muriel flung herself against her bonds, but they held.

The tension gripping the room eased; the men stepped back. Shrugging his coat into place, Ferdinand walked over to Caro. He looked down at Michael and Timothy, then glanced at Devil. “They will live?”

Devil had checked Michael’s head, lifted his lids; Caro had grasped the moment to shift Michael’s shoulders so she could cradle his head in her lap. Glancing at Timothy, Devil nodded grimly. “Both should. Luckily, the ball missed the lung.”

Ferdinand hesitated, then said, “It will be better if I am not here when your doctor arrives, I think.”

From her position on the floor, Caro looked up at Ferdinand. “Probably. Call on me tomorrow—the Anstruther-Wetherby house in Upper Grosvenor Street.” She smiled. “You were very brave, acting as you did.”

Ferdinand’s usual grin broke through. He shrugged. “A woman with a pistol—that is hardly a problem.”

She held his gaze. “Except when the woman is a marksman.”

He looked down at her; his grin faded. “It is a joke, yes?”

She shook her head. “Unfortunately not.”

Ferdinand muttered a curse in Portuguese. He glanced back at Muriel, still wrestling futilely with Gabriel’s knots. “Why did she do it?”

Across Michael and Timothy, Caro met Devil’s eyes. Quietly said, “I suspect we’ll never know—she’s quite mad.”

Ferdinand nodded and left. Devil remained on the floor beside Timothy and Michael; Gabriel sat on the chaise and kept a close eye on Muriel. Caro studied Michael’s face, with her eyes traced the lines that had become so familiar, stroked his hair.

Then Lucifer returned with the doctor; she stüred and, giving thanks to the gods, gave herself up to caring for the two men she held closest to her heart.

The final scene in the drama was played out in Magnus’s library. All the family involved gathered late that night to hear the full story, to understand, to be reassured, ultimately to help protect.

Michael sat in a deep armchair, his head, still distantly pounding, cushioned on a silk pillow. A bump the size of an egg on the back of his skull throbbed; he raised his glass and sipped—a cordial. Caro, sitting on the chair’s arm no more than inches away, had insisted on the tonic. All the other men were drinking brandy, but with Caro so close and Honoria on the chaise nearby, her eyes fixed on him, he had no option but to drink the ghastly stuff.

Devil was present, along with Gabriel and Lucifer and their wives, Alathea and Phyllida. Magnus sat in his favorite chair listening intently as they recounted the facts, put together the pieces. Evelyn, too, hung on their words.

“I didn’t really believe it until I remembered Muriel was a marksman.” Caro glanced at Michael. “She excels at all those things at which girls normally don’t—like driving, archery, and pistols.”

“And,” Michael grimly added, “slingshots.”

She nodded. “That, too.”

“So,” Honoria said, “when you returned to Bramshaw, Muriel told you of the Ladies’ Association meeting, insisted you attend, then when you did and the local ladies treated you, unsurprisingly, as a celebrity, she saw red?”

Caro met Michael’s gaze. “I think it was more the straw that broke the camel’s back.” She glanced at the others. “Muriel always saw herself as the rightful lady of Sutcliffe Hall. She was a true Sutcliffe, Cam-den’s firstborn—the heir of his talents if you will, but then, in marrying me and making me his hostess, he chose me over her. Bad enough. She then worked hard to be the premier lady of the district—that position was all hers. Yet despite my long absences, all I had to do was appear and the other local ladies put me on her pedestal, displacing her. Camden wounded her, but then every time I returned home, salt was rubbed into the wound.”

Michael squeezed her hand. “That wasn’t your fault.”

“No.” She looked down, after a moment raised her head and went on, “But once she started trying to get rid of me, in her usual dogged fashion, she just kept at it. Then she saw the house, and also the chance to even her old if secret score with Timothy, and…”

“However,” Magnus said, looking up at her from under his shaggy brows, “her true target, the one she wished to punish, was Camden. But he’s dead. You and Breckenridge were merely the two on whom she could vent her rancor.” Sternly, he held Caro’s gaze. “All this has been more about the loose ends of Camden Sutcliffe’s life than about either you or Breckenridge.”

Caro looked into his old eyes; after a moment, she inclined her head.

“Regardless,” Devil said, “we’re now left with the final tying of those loose ends.” He looked at Gabriel and Lucifer, who had taken Muriel, still bound and gagged, to her London home. “How did Hed-derwick take it?”

Gabriel grimaced. “He didn’t argue, nor even seem all that surprised.”

“He was surprised over what she’d done,” Lucifer amended, “but not surprised she’d finally done something.”

“He must have known how obsessed she was,” Gabriel said. “He was quick to take our points. He’s a quiet sort, but seems competent and decisive enough, and we left him in no doubt over what he needs to do to ensure our silence.”

“So he’s undertaken to keep her restrained?”

Gabriel nodded. “She’s immensely strong, and given her skills she’ll always be dangerous. Hedderwick has an isolated cottage on the Cornish coast he intends taking her to; she’ll be guarded night and day.”

Devil glanced at Caro. “The doctor intends to remain with Breckenridge overnight, just to make sure, but he felt certain that with time he’d recover fully.” He looked at Michael, raised a brow.

Michael nodded, winced, resettled his head carefully. “In the circumstances, we’ll need to consult with Breckenridge, and also with George Sutcliffe, but allowing any of this to become public is pointless.

Quite aside from tarnishing Camden Sutcliffe’s memory—and despite his personal shortcomings, his public service was exemplary—any formal proceedings will cause considerable anguish and difficulties for the other Sutcliffes, and even more for the Danverses.“

He glanced around the circle; no one argued. He nodded. “It’s a sorry enough tale as it is—best we end it here.”

They all agreed, drained their glasses, then, reassured that all was as well as could be, took their leave.

Michael woke in the night, in the small hours when the world lay blanketed and asleep. About him, the huge old house lay silent and still; he rested warm beneath soft covers, Caro curled against his side.

He smiled, felt relief and quiet joy spread through him. Realized his head had stopped throbbing. Reaching up, he touched the bump, confirmed it still hurt if touched, but otherwise was bearable.

Beside him, Caro stirred. She seemed to realize he was awake; lifting her head, she peered into his face, then blinked her eyes wide. “How are you feeling?”

He’d barely made it to her room before collapsing; she’d helped him undress and crawl beneath the covers—he’d fallen asleep the instant his face touched the pillow. “Much better.” He studied her face, put out a hand to stroke her hair, smiled. “Your tonic worked.”

Her look said “I told you so,” but she refrained from uttering the words. Instead, she searched his eyes, then, shifting further over, crossed her arms on his chest and settled to look into his face. “If you are properly awake and compos mentis, I wanted to ask you a question.”

He hid a frown; she seemed terribly serious. “I’m awake. What question?”

She hesitated, then drew a deep breath—he felt her breasts press into his chest. “How soon can we marry?” It came out calmly enough; she continued, “I’ve made my decision. I know what I want—there’s nothing more I need to wait for. That is,” she held his gaze, arched a brow, “assuming you still want to marry me.”

“You don’t have to ask.” He closed one hand over her waist—over her latest silk confection. He hadn’t yet seen it; he would—soon. “But…” He tried to stop himself questioning fate, yet he had to know. “What convinced you—brought on your decision?”

“You. Me.” She searched his eyes. “And seeing Muriel point a pistol at your head. That… opened my eyes—I suddenly saw things terribly clearly.” She paused, her eyes on his, then went on, “You’d convinced me that I should marry you, that being your wife was the right position for me, but I sensed some element was missing, some last vital thing.” Her lips twisted ironically. “I realized what was missing was me, or rather my decision itself. I had to, in Therese Osbalde-stone’s words, ‘claim my courage and seize the day’ Until I did, until I knowingly accepted the risk and went forward, what’s grown between us couldn’t develop further.”

She shifted, her legs tangling with his. “Muriel and her threats brought home to me all I was risking by not deciding—by not taking the risk. Life is for living, not hating, but it’s not for wasting, either. You and I, we’ve both wasted years, but now we have a chance to go forward.”

She met his gaze openly, without any veil or shield. “Together we can build a family, fill the Manor with children and joy. And the Half Moon Street house, too—I could imagine living there with you, being your hostess, your helpmate to a much greater degree than I ever was with Camden.”

Her eyes were purest silver in the night. “Together, we’ve a chance to create our future as we want it to be. Whether what we feel will see us through…” She tilted her head. “It’s a risk, yes, but one worth taking.” Her lips lifted lightly as she refocused on his eyes. “It’s a risk I’m willing to take with you.”

He smiled, felt every last vestige of concern fall from him. “Thank you.” He closed his arms about her, held her close, felt her warmth sink to his bones. “We can be married as soon as you like—I’ve got a special license.”

Before she could think too much about that last, he bent his head, nudged hers up, and kissed her—a kiss that rapidly spun out of control, his or hers.

Several heated minutes later, she pulled back, gasped, “What about your head?”

“It’ll be fine,” he groaned, “if you’ll just”—throwing back the covers, he caught her knees, drew them up to his sides, adjusted beneath her, sighed and closed his eyes—“sit back.”

Caro did, smiling blissfully, exhaling slowly as she took him in.

And all was well. Very well.

They dealt with the last loose end of Camden Sutcliffe’s life the next morning. When they’d taken Timothy home the day before, Caro had retrieved Camden’s letters. Ferdinand called at eleven o’clock, armed with a list of dates; it was a simple enough matter to find the relevant letters.

Caro read them, confirmed they were not only what Ferdinand wanted but also seriously inflammatory; they dealt with a proposed coup to be led by the duke many years ago, a few months before Camden had been appointed ambassador to Portugal. Satisfied there was nothing in the letters to concern the present British government, she handed them to Ferdinand. “Why didn’t you just ask?”

He looked down at her, then smiled his winning smile. “Dear Caro, you are known too well for that. If I’d asked, you would have looked, and then you might have felt compelled to let someone in your Foreign Office know…” He shrugged. “It could have ended badly.”

Considering what she’d just read, she had to agree; for the duke, the stakes had been, and still were, high.

With smiles all around, Ferdinand shook hands and left.

She turned to Michael, raised a brow. “If you’re up to it, I’d like to visit Timothy. Given your views on my visiting his house, I imagine you would prefer to accompany me?”

Michael met her gaze. “You imagine correctly.”

They went, and found Breckenridge lying in bed, interestingly pale, very weak, but fully conscious—and not at all receptive to Caro’s fussing, let alone her tonic. Michael saw the desperate plea in Breckenridge’s eyes and took pity. Wincing as if from a headache, when Caro noticed he suggested that perhaps he needed to return home to rest.

She reacted as he’d expected with instant solicitude. Behind her back, Breckenridge rolled his eyes, but wisely remained mute.

Later in the afternoon, on his way to his club to meet with Jamieson, Michael looked in again on Breckenridge. This time, Timothy was propped up in bed; Michael lounged in the doorway.

Timothy eyed him, then faintly smiled. “I suppose I should thank you. I had no idea she was such an excellent shot.”

“So I assumed. But you can avoid doing violence to your feelings— I saved you because of Caro. Strange to tell, she seems to value you.”

Letting his head rest against his pillows, Timothy grinned. “Indeed.

Do bear that in mind for the future.“ He considered Michael, then added, ”Of course, you wouldn’t have saved me if you’d known in doing so you’d incapacitate yourself in the process.“

Michael didn’t smile. “I would never knowingly leave Caro unprotected.”

Timothy’s eyes glinted from beneath his heavy lids. “Just so.” His smile dawned.

Michael was sure they understood each other perfectly.

“So,” Timothy lifted a glass and sipped Caro’s cordial, grimaced, “why are you here?”

“To prey on your gratitude,” Michael replied. “This might well be the only chance I get.”

Brows rising, Timothy studied him, then waved him to a chair. “What do you want?”

Pushing away from the doorframe, Michael closed the door. Crossing to the chair, he turned it and sat astride; folding his arms along the back, he met Timothy’s eyes..“I want to know what the relationship between Caro and Camden was.”

Timothy’s eyes widened. “Ah…” He blinked, refocused on Michael. Hesitated, then said, “I presume you know…”

“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 enormous, the good wishes unfeigned; the sun shone down in glorious benediction as, hand in hand, they did the rounds, greeting, thanking, talking.

The crowd didn’t start thinning until late in the afternoon. Still wearing her ivory lace wedding gown heavily beaded with tiny seed pearls, Caro saw Timothy, a glass in his hand, sit down on the orchard wall, grinning as he watched the younger crew playing bat and ball along the back section of the drive. She leaned close to Michael, brushed his jaw with her lips, met his gaze. Smiled serenely. “I’m going to talk to Timothy.”

Michael looked over her head, then nodded. “I’m going to get Magnus inside. I’ll find you when I come out.”

Drawing away, leaving his side yet aware some part of her never truly would, she followed the lawn bordering the drive, and came up beside Timothy.

He glanced up as she sank onto the stone beside him. Grinned, and raised his glass to her. “An exceptional event.” He held her gaze, then took her hand and raised it to his lips. “I’m pleased you’re so happy.” Gently squeezing her hand, he released it.

They sat in the sunshine and watched the game, then she remembered and murmured, “Hedderwick sent his felicitations. He’s staying in Cornwall with Muriel. He’s a quiet man, but a steady one—I think he truly loves her, but she never seemed to see it.”

“Or wasn’t content with it.” Timothy shrugged. “That was Muriel’s choice.” Facing her, he smiled his rakish smile. “You, at least, have had the sense to plunge into life and live it.”

Caro arched a brow. “And you?”

He laughed. “As you know full well, that’s always been my creed.” His gaze went past her; he stood as Michael joined them.

They exchanged easy nods.

“How’s the shoulder?” Michael asked.

Caro listened as they swapped quips, inwardly smiled. They weren’t at all alike, yet they seemed to have settled into an easy camaraderie based on mutual masculine respect.

Then Timothy glanced down at her; she rose and slipped her hand onto Michael’s arm.

“I must leave,” Timothy said. “I’m off north to spend the next weeks with Brunswick.” He glanced at Michael, then leaned close and kissed Caro’s cheek. “I wish you both the very best of happiness.”

With an almost boyish smile, he stepped back, then turned and started up the drive.

Three paces on, he halted and looked back. Frowned at Caro. “When you come up to town, don’t call—send word. You’ve damaged my reputation enough as it is.‘

She laughed; hand over her heart, she promised. Timothy humphed, saluted Michael, then strode away.

Michael frowned. “Just how did you damage his reputation?”

Caro looked into his eyes and smiled. “His, not mine.” She patted his arm. “We should speak with Mrs. Pilkington.”

Noting the subject for investigation later, Michael let her distract him.

They moved through the crowd, chatting, accepting wishes and farewells. There were children aplenty present, running hither and yon through the gardens and shrubbery, whooping through the orchard, playing games in the drive. Michael caught a wild throw; releasing Caro, he lobbed the ball back, stopping for a few moments to compliment the boys on their style.

Watching him smile at a towheaded lad and tousle the boy’s hair, Caro felt her heart catch. She thought she might be pregnant, but… just the thought made her so emotional it was a battle to keep her face straight, to keep the blissfully happy tears from her eyes. Not yet; today, she’d enjoy today’s joys. Once she was sure, she would share the news with Michael—a new joy for them both, one to share privately—one she’d once thought she never would know.

So she waited for him to return to her, a smile on her face, giddy exultation in her heart. When he did, they passed once more into the crowd, chatting here and there until Therese Osbaldestone summoned her with an imperious wave.

“I’ll wait here,” Michael said. Lifting her hand from his sleeve, he kissed her fingertips, and released her.

She looked at him. “Coward.”

He grinned. “Indeed.”

She laughed, and left him. Michael watched her go, saw the sharp glance Lady Osbaldestone threw him, pretended he hadn’t.

Gerrard Debbington strolled up. “I wanted to ask if you and Caro would consent to sit for me sometime.”

Michael looked his surprise. “I thought you only did landscapes?” Gerrard had built a spectacular reputation as a painter of English country scenes.

Gerrard grinned. Hands in his pockets, he looked across the thinning crowd at Caro, seated beside Lady Osbaldestone. “That’s my forte; however, I’ve recently realized there’s a special challenge in painting couples—one I hadn’t previously appreciated. I stumbled across it when I did a family portrait for Patience and Vane. To me, it’s like a different dimension—one that simply doesn’t exist in landscapes.”

He met Michael’s gaze. “I’d like to paint you and Caro—together, you have that extra dimension. As a painter, if I can capture it, I’ll be rich beyond measure.”

Michael looked across at Caro, thought of a painting that would capture what had grown between them. He nodded. “I’ll tell her.” He glanced at Gerrard. “Maybe when next we’re in town?”

Delighted, Gerrard agreed. They shook hands and parted.

Michael remained where he was, in the center of the forecourt. Others came up to make their farewells; a few minutes later, Caro rejoined him.

The sun was sinking; the next hour was one of good-byes. Only they and Magnus and Evelyn were remaining at the Manor; the London-bound crowd left in a steady stream, then the locals followed.

Devil and Honoria were the last to leave—they were driving back to London and their children, then retreating to Somersham for the next several weeks. Caro and Michael had, of course, been summoned to the family Summer Celebration and, of course, would go.

As the St. Iveses’ carriage rumbled out through the gateposts, Caro heaved a patently happy, deeply contented sigh. Equally content to hear it, Michael looked down at her, at the glorious sun-shot frizz of her golden brown hair. She glanced up; her silver eyes met his.

Then she smiled and looked across at the grass verge. “It was just there that this all started—do you remember?”

She walked the few steps to the spot on the verge a few yards from the memorial stone. His hand about hers, Michael went with her.

Glancing up, she grinned. “You called me witless.”

Staring at the grass, he squeezed her hand. “You frightened me. I knew, even then, that I couldn’t afford to lose you.”

Deliberately, he shifted his gaze to the stone. Waited… but all he heard was the birds settling in the trees, the soft whisper of the breeze. All he felt was Caro’s warmth as she leaned against him.

No screaming horses. No cold and deadening fear.

The memory hadn’t gone, but the effects had dimmed, been overlaid.

By something much more powerful.

He looked at Caro, caught her silver gaze, smiled. Lifting her hand, he kissed it, then turned away. Hand in hand, they walked to the house.

He glanced up at the windows, looked up to the attics below the roofline, and felt a sense of completion well. A sense of sureness, of anticipation—of simple happiness.

His lost family was his past; Caro was his present and his future.

He’d found his ideal bride—together, the future was theirs.