The Ideal Bride

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Wife, wife, wife, wife.

Michael Anstruther-Wetherby swore beneath his breath. That refrain had plagued him for the last twenty-four hours. When he’d driven away from Amelia Cynster’s wedding breakfast, it had run to the rhythm of his curricle’s wheels; now it was playing to the steady clop of his bay gelding’s hooves.

Lips setting, he wheeled Atlas out of the stableyard and set out along the drive circling his home.

If he hadn’t gone to Cambridgeshire to attend Amelia’s wedding, he d already be one step closer to being an affianced man. But the wedding had been one event he hadn’t even thought of missing; aside from the fact that his sister Honoria, Duchess of St. Ives, had been the hostess, the wedding had been a family gathering and he valued family ties.

Familial links had helped him immeasurably in recent years, first in gaining his position as Member of Parliament for this district, and subsequently in forging his path upward through the ranks, yet that wasn’t the wellspring of his appreciation; family had always meant a great deal to him.

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