The Ideal Bride Read Free

appeared beside her in the gig, compounded when he’d landed atop her on the grass, flashed back into her mind; she thrust it out again. “Thank you, sir, whoever you are, for your rescue, however ungracious.” Her tone would have done a duchess credit—cool, confident, assured and haughty. Precisely the right tone to use on a presumptuous male. “However—”
     
      Her rising gaze reached his face. She blinked. The sun was behind him; she stood in full light, but his face was shadowed.
     
      Lifting her hand, she shaded her eyes and unabashedly peered. At a strong-featured face with a square jaw and the harsh, angular planes of her own class. A patrician face with a wide brow delimited by straight dark brows over eyes memory painted a soft blue. His hair was thick, dark brown; the silver tracery at his temples only made him more distinguished.
     
      It was a face that held a great deal of character.
     
      It was the face she’d come there to find.
     
      She tilted her head. “Michael? It is Michael Anstruther-Wetherby, isn’t it?”
     
      Michael stared—at a heart-shaped face surrounded by a nimbus of fine, sheening brown hair so light it was flyaway, puffed soft as a dandelion crown about her head, at eyes, silver-blue, slightly tip-tilted… “Caro.” The name came to his lips without real thought.
     
      She smiled up at him, clearly delighted; for one instant, he—all of him—stilled.
     
      The screaming horses abruptly fell silent.
     
      “Yes. It’s been years since we’ve spoken…” Her gaze grew vague as she cast her mind back.
     
      “At Camden’s funeral,” he reminded her. Her late husband, Cam-den Sutcliffe, a legend in diplomatic circles, had been His Majesty’s Ambassador to Portugal; Caro had been Sutcliffe’s third wife.
     
      She refocused on his face. “You’re right—two years ago.”
     
      “I haven’t seen you about town.” He had, however, heard of her; the diplomatic corps had dubbed her the Merry Widow. “How are you faring?”
     
      “Very well, thank you. Camden was a good man and I miss him, but…” She shrugged lightly. “There were more than forty years between us, so it was always going to be this way.”
     
      The horse shifted, ineffectually dragging the braked gig. Recalled to the present, they both went forward; Caro held the horse’s head while
     
      Michael untangled the reins, then checked the harness. He frowned. “What happened?”
     
      “I have no idea.” Frowning, too, Caro stroked the horse’s nose. “I was coming from a Ladies’ Association meeting at Fordingham.”
     
      The crisp clop of hooves had them both glancing toward the gates. A gig came trotting smartly through; the large lady driving saw them, waved, then briskly steered the gig toward them.
     
      “Muriel insisted I attend the meeting—you know how she is.” Caro spoke quickly, beneath the rattle of the gig’s approach. “She offered to drive me, but I decided if I was traveling all that way, I would use the trip to call on Lady Kirkwright. So I drove over early, then attended the meeting, and Muriel and I drove back in tandem.”
     
      Michael understood all she was telling him. Muriel was Camden’s niece, Caro’s niece-by-marriage, although Muriel was seven years the elder. She, too, had grown up in Bramshaw; unlike the pair of them, Muriel had never left. Born and raised at Sutcliffe Hall at the far end of the village, she now lived in the village center in Hedderwick House, her husband’s residence, a stone’s throw from the drive of Bramshaw House, Caro’s family home.
     
      More to the point, Muriel had elected herself the organizer of the parish, a role she’d filled for years. Although her manner was often overbearing, everyone, themselves included, bore with her managing disposition for the simple reason that she did a necessary job well.
     
      With a stylish flourish, Muriel brought her gig to a halt in the