The Ideal Bride by Stephanie Laurens

true?”
     
      Lionel, Lord Jeffries had been appointed to the Board of Trade only the year before, but his tenure had been marked by diplomatic incident after incident. “Yes.” Across the table, he met Caro’s gaze. “Inevitable after his latest gaffe.”
     
      “So it’s true he called the Belgian ambassador an extortionist to his face?” Caro’s eyes twinkled.
     
      He nodded. “Burnt his last bridge in the process, but I can imagine it was almost worth it to see Rochefoucauld’s face.”
     
      Her eyes opened wide. “Did you? See his face?”
     
      He grinned. “Yes—I was there.”
     
      “Jupiter!” Edward whistled through his teeth. “I heard Jeffries’ aides were beside themselves—it must have been an impossible situation.”
     
      “The instant Jeffries set eyes on Rochefoucauld, the die was cast. Nothing—not even the Prime Minister—could have stopped him.”
     
      They were still discussing the latest diplomatic scandal when Jeb Carter carried out the tea tray.
     
      Immediately, Caro looked at Michael; he was waiting to catch that look—to see her understanding in her quicksilver eyes, to bask in her approval.
     
      Little by little, step by step; he was determined to draw closer to her, and would exploit any tool that came to hand.
     
      “Will you pour?” he asked.
     
      She reached for the pot, flashing a delighted smile Carter’s way, inquiring after his mother before letting him, blushing at being remembered, escape.
     
      Elizabeth took her cup, sipped, a frown in her eyes—then her face cleared. “Of course—he’s Muriel’s last butler, the one she recently turned off.” Her puzzlement returned. “How did you know him?”
     
      Caro smiled and explained; Jeb had been away training in London for so long   Elizabeth   hadn’t remembered him.
     
      Of course, Caro had been away for even longer. Sipping his tea, watching as she reminded   Elizabeth   of various others in the district, workers and their families and where they were now, who had married whom, who had died or moved away, Michael wondered if she ever forgot anyone. Such a memory for people and personal details was a godsend in political circles.
     
      The minutes passed easily; the afternoon waned. The pot had gone cold and Mrs. Entwhistle’s cakes had disappeared when, at Caro’s request, he asked for their horses to be brought around. They’d risen and were walking down the terrace steps to wait in the forecourt when the rattle and clop of an approaching gig reached them.
     
      Caro halted on the steps; raising a hand to shade her eyes, she looked to see who it was. The aftereffects of her momentary weakness as they’d approached the Rufus Stone had gradually faded; her nerves had settled—she felt reasonably calm once more. Later, she’d castigate herself for reacting as she had—when she was safely in her room and a long way from Michael.
     
      Otherwise, the day had gone more or less as she’d wished; she doubted they’d advanced their cause, yet neither had they harmed it— and Michael had had no chance to make an offer, or even to discuss such matters with her.
     
      It had been a positive day by default; she was content with that.
     
      The gig came into sight, the horse trotting smartly up the drive with Muriel on the seat. She was an excellent whip; she halted the gig before the steps in some style. “Caro. Michael.”
     
      Muriel exchanged nods with them and with Edward and   Elizabeth , then looked at Michael. “I’m giving one of my suppers for the Ladies’ Association tomorrow evening. As you’re home, I came to invite you to attend—I know all the ladies would appreciate the opportunity to speak with you.”
     
      Michael stepped down to stand beside Caro; she felt his gaze touch her face. Guessing what was behind his hesitation, she glanced at him, smiled. “Do come. You’ll know most of us there.”
     
      Despite their earlier