The Ideal Bride Read Free Page B

years ago, she’d been recently bereaved, draped in widow’s weeds and heavily veiled; they’d exchanged a few murmured words, but he hadn’t truly seen or spoken with her. Prior to that, she’d spent the previous decade or so in Lisbon; he’d occasionally glimpsed her across ballrooms or crossed her path when she and Camden were in London, but had never shared more than the usual social pleasantries.
     
      There were only five years between them, yet although they’d known each other since childhood and had spent their formative years growing up in this restricted area of the New Forest, he didn’t truly know her at all.
     
      He certainly didn’t know the elegant and assured lady she’d become.
     
      She looked at him—caught him looking at her—and smiled easily, as if acknowledging a mutual curiosity.
     
      The temptation to assuage it grew.
     
      She looked forward; he followed her gaze. Summoned by the crunch of the gig’s wheels, Hardacre, his stableman, had come out of the stable. Michael beckoned; Hardacre came over, bobbing a deferential greeting to Caro, who returned it with his name and one of her serene smiles. While they walked the gig into the stableyard, Michael and she explained what had happened.
     
      Frowning, Hardacre ran knowledgeable eyes over both horse and gig, then scratched his balding pate. “Best leave him with me for an hour or so—I’ll unharness and check him over. See if there’s some problem.”
     
      Michael looked at Caro. “Are you in a hurry? I could lend you a gig and horse if you are.”
     
      ‘No, no.“ She waved aside the offer with a smile. ”An hour of peace would be welcome.“
     
      He recalled, reached solicitously for her arm. “Would you care for tea?”
     
      “That would be delightful.” Caro smiled more definitely as he settled her hand on his sleeve. With a nod for Hardacre, she let Michael steer her toward the house. Her nerves were still flickering, twitching, hardly surprising, yet the panic of being in a runaway gig was already fading—who could have predicted that near-disaster would turn out so well? “Is Mrs. Entwhistle still your housekeeper?”
     
      “Yes. None of the staff have changed, not for years.”
     
      She looked ahead at the solid stone house with its gabled roof and dormer windows. They were walking through an orchard, the dappled shade sweet with the scent of swelling fruit. Between that and the back door lay a rambling herb garden bisected by a flagged path; to the left beyond a low wall lay the kitchen garden. “But that’s what draws us back, isn’t it?” She glanced at him, caught his eye. “That things stay comfortingly the same.”
     
      He held her gaze for a moment. “I hadn’t really thought… but you’re right.” He stopped to let her precede him up the narrow path. “Will you be remaining at Bramshaw for long?”
     
      She grinned, knowing he, now behind her, couldn’t see. “I’ve only just arrived.” In response to a panicked summons from   Elizabeth , her niece. She glanced back at him. “I expect to be here for some weeks.”
     
      They reached the back door; Michael leaned past her to open it, conscious as he did of her—just her. As he followed her into the dim corridor, directing her to the drawing room, he registered how not simply feminine, but female she was. How much as a woman she impinged on his senses, with her slender yet curvaceous figure gowned in filmy muslin.
     
      There was nothing the least unusual about the gown; it was Caro herself who was unusual, and that in more ways than one.
     
      Following her into the drawing room, he tugged the bellpull. When Gladys, the maid, appeared, he ordered tea.
     
      Caro had strolled to the long windows at the end of the room; she smiled at Gladys, who bobbed and left, then she looked at him. “It’s such a lovely afternoon—shall we sit out on the terrace and enjoy the sunshine?”
     
      “Why