Just One Season in London (13 page)

But she was still thinking of the look on Amalie Mickelthorpe's face as she'd watched Lord Ryecroft—as if she'd been admiring a particularly savory cake she was about to bite into. Portia knew exactly how the girl felt. How lovely it had been to dance with him, to swirl through the figures with his strong arm to lean on, even if she had only been a placeholder until he could begin to meet the girls who really mattered. Portia could still feel the thrum of the music; her head felt muzzy yet from the quick turns and spins he had guided her through without ever making a misstep.

She didn't realize that Lady Ryecroft was not alone until she'd barged into the middle of what was obviously a tense moment.

“Did you enjoy your turn about the floor?” Lady Ryecroft asked.

It was only a polite question, Portia knew. She managed to say something bland and began wondering how to extricate herself. Whatever Lady Ryecroft and Mr. Winston had been discussing, it seemed to have left them at odds—yet he wasn't going away, despite the fact that Lady Ryecroft had turned her back on him…

Lady Stone returned. “You do not dance, Portia?”

“I thought perhaps you would have need of me, ma'am.”
Please
, Portia wanted to say.

“Yes, indeed. What a good idea. I shall lean on your arm as we walk about the room.”

As soon as they were at a safe distance, Portia looked down at her employer. “Doing it up too brown, ma'am. It's not like you to hobble—and if you can't walk easily, why did you not just sit down in the corner?”

“You mean you would have preferred to stay and play gooseberry to those two?” Lady Stone's face brightened. “You there—Randall. Why aren't you dancing?”

Lord Randall bowed. “I dance only with Lady Flavia tonight.”

“Well, that's romantic. Also foolish to let her conclude, before she is firmly committed to you, that you have no possible interest in anyone else. But if you prefer not to dance, then take Miss Langford for a turn around the edge of the ballroom.”

“Ma'am,” Portia protested, “there is no need.”

“But, my dear, as you just told me—if I cannot walk easily, I must sit down and rest. Surely someone will come and talk to me; I have many old friends in attendance. Do go and enjoy the spectacle. Or take a breath of fresh air on the terrace. Lord Randall, Miss Langford was just mentioning how warm it is in here.” She winked.

Portia would have made a face at her, if only there weren't half a hundred potential observers. But Lord Randall had obediently offered his arm, so she laid her hand on his sleeve with the lightest possible touch. “Of course Lady Stone is joking about fresh air on the terrace.”

“I should hope so. Though I have the greatest respect for your employer…”

What a hum
, Portia thought.

“She has little understanding of the implications of such an act.”

Oh, she understands perfectly well.

“A gentleman might as well declare his intentions if he were to take an unmarried lady out to the terrace alone.” Belatedly, he seemed to realize that he was not flattering her. “I do beg your pardon, Miss Langford, but surely you must see—”

“Oh, don't go on, my lord. There is no need to explain to me that I don't begin to reach your exalted level of society or that you're doing me honor in simply walking about the room with me.”

“That is true,” he said after a pause, as if he had given it a great deal of thought.

Portia felt like pinching him. Instead she turned her attention to the dancers, only to meet the frowning gaze of Lady Brindle from across the ballroom.
Now Lady Brindle will think I'm trying to flirt with her son.

“But the dance is finishing,” Lord Randall said with unmistakable relief. “I must find Lady Flavia, for I am promised the honor of leading her out for the first waltz.” He bowed and left Portia at the edge of the floor. It was rude of him to abandon her there, but Portia couldn't work herself up to be irritated. At least it should be clear to Lady Brindle that her darling was in no danger of having his head turned by Portia Langford…

In any case, Portia realized, they had made nearly a full circuit of the ballroom, for from a dainty chair nearby, Lady Stone beckoned to her. For a moment Portia considered pretending not to have seen her, but Lady Stone was remarkably difficult to ignore. Her employer was not alone, she saw; a gentleman in purple stood by her chair.

“Lord Swindon has no partner for this waltz,” Lady Stone announced. “And I have assured him you are a talented dancer.”

Portia dropped a small curtsy. “Lady Stone exaggerates. Having never danced with me herself, she has inflated notions of my skills.”

Swindon's eyes gleamed.

With humor? Portia wondered. Or something else?

“But Lady Stone is never wrong.” His voice was low, with a rough edge. “I must test your skills for myself.”

A chill slid up Portia's spine. “I'm certain any of the young ladies would be delighted to honor you with a dance.”

“But I want you. Come, the music is already starting.”

With Lady Stone beaming at them, Portia could see no means of escape. Besides, it was only a dance. What was wrong with her tonight, anyway, that she was seeing hidden meanings in the most innocuous of phrases?

The floor was less crowded than before, with the youngest girls not yet permitted to waltz and many older dancers preferring the slow and stately country figures to the exertion of this newer, more daring, more active dance. Across the room, Portia caught a glimpse of Lord Ryecroft with Amalie Mickelthorpe. His sober deep green coat looked like a leafy background to her petal-pink ruffles. Portia had to stifle a chuckle at the image.

Lord Swindon had apparently followed her gaze. “I noticed you arranging partners for Ryecroft. Is that a companion's duty now, to find entertainment for her employer's”—his pause drew out significantly—“guest?”

Was he implying that Ryecroft and Lady Stone were carrying on some kind of personal intrigue?
And where is the surprise in that? You warned her yourself that people would talk.

The only surprise was that Swindon would come so close to saying it. And to her, of all people—Lady Stone's companion… She'd been right in thinking that the sooner Ryecroft chose his heiress, the better it would be for everyone.

And there was no reason at all for her to feel low about it. “Lady Stone requested me to make him known to some of the young ladies.”

Swindon chuckled. “Especially the ones with fortunes, I collect. Lady Stone is an untraditional lady.”

“Indeed. I find her refreshing.”

“No doubt, for you seem to be refreshing and untraditional as well. You are a mysterious companion, Miss Langford. Quite… unusual.”

A quiver ran through her. “There's no mystery about me.”

“How did you come to meet Lady Stone?”

Oh, why had he asked her for a waltz, where it was possible to chat all through the dance? “She was taking one of her treks up and down the country. I believe she spends her winters going from one house party to the next.”

“And you were a guest at one of these house parties?”

“Not precisely. But my aunt lives in the neighborhood of one of them, and we were invited to a dinner party at the great house.”

“Where was that?”

Portia pretended not to hear. The patterns of the dancers had shifted, and suddenly Lord Ryecroft was next to them. Swindon drew her closer, as though to avoid a collision, but Portia suspected he had only been waiting for an opportunity. She was sure of it when she tried to pull away and found his arm to be like steel.

“Lady Stone and I found ourselves to be compatible, and as I wished to see the city, we came to an amicable arrangement for my employment.”

“Your aunt must have been devastated to lose you.”

“I believe she has come to terms with the loss.”

“And of course you could always go back to her.”

“Of course.” It was a casual answer to a casual comment, but Portia couldn't help but wonder whether there had been a reason he had said it.

She tried again to pull away, without success. Over Swindon's shoulder, she caught Lord Ryecroft's eye. He frowned a little, and she felt a bubble of annoyance rise inside her. What business was it of his whom she danced with or how she conducted herself on the floor? Why wasn't he paying attention to the heiress in his arms, anyway, instead of sending disapproving looks in her direction? On the other hand, the fact that he'd noticed made her feel warm somehow. Perhaps she wasn't the only one who was still feeling the aftereffects of that first country dance…

She stopped resisting and let Swindon draw her half an inch closer yet into his arms. So much for Lord Ryecroft's scandalized sensibilities.

The next time she met his gaze, she sent a smile in his direction.

Swindon's arms tightened. “Ah yes. You are skilled indeed.”

Portia smothered a sigh. How long could this waltz possibly continue? It already seemed to have been going on forever.

It was long after m
idnight when the carriage delivered them to Lady Stone's mansion on Grosvenor Square, and Rye expected that the ladies would not rise until well into the morning.

He, however, found himself in the breakfast room at the usual hour, feeling more irritable than usual, for he had barely slept. He'd tried counting heiresses instead of sheep, only to realize too late that dwelling on a parade of moneyed females was hardly a soothing sort of pastime for a man who was going to have to choose one of them, and soon.

He didn't feel like eating, but he finished his coffee, then continued to sit at the table, feeling as empty as his cup.

Perhaps, he thought, if Sophie were to make the brilliant match they all hoped for, then he wouldn't have to choose from the heiresses after all. But a shaft of disgust shot through him at the idea. What sort of man was he, to wish for his little sister to rescue him?

A rustle in the hallway made him paste a smile on his face. It wouldn't fool his mother, he suspected, but it might get by Sophie and buy him some time to talk himself round again.

But it was Portia who came into the breakfast room.

Portia.
He wondered when he had started thinking of her that way. Not that it was surprising; after a couple of weeks of living under the same roof, of attending and discussing the same parties, even of standing about waiting for dressmakers and milliners to finish what Sophie insisted would take
no more than a minute
, it would have been difficult to maintain strict formality. Not that he would ever call her by her first name to her face, of course… She would freeze him in a minute if he tried.

“Good morning, my lord,” she said lightly and helped herself to toast and scrambled eggs from the chafing dishes on the sideboard. “And congratulations.”

Rye had risen automatically when she came in. He held her chair, noting how neatly turned out she was in a green morning dress that somehow made her hair glow. He wondered if the glossy strands felt as soft and warm and smooth as they looked, and clutched his cup a little tighter to keep himself from reaching out to explore. “Regarding what?” He knew he sounded grumpy. He didn't care.

She looked a little startled. “I expected you'd be totting up your successes from last night. Your sister is a Sensation indeed, and did you meet three heiresses or four? I'm afraid I lost count.” She briskly buttered her toast. “Which of them impressed you most?”

Rye filled her coffee cup. “That's hard to say,” he mused. “Miss Mickelthorpe, I suppose. She looked at me as if I were a particularly luscious tidbit she was about to crunch between those strong, horsey teeth, and her bray of a voice definitely made an impression.”

“That is unkind of you, sir.” But he thought she had to struggle not to laugh. He wondered for a moment why she was in such a good mood, then remembered she had waltzed last night with her favorite rake. No doubt she was bubbling this morning because her dreams had been filled with Swindon. Perhaps she looked so utterly delicious because the rake had maneuvered her out of the ballroom for a kiss… No, Rye would have noticed if she'd been gone.

“Did you not think Juliana Farling pretty?” she asked.

“Oh yes. But she barely spoke a word all through the country dance we shared. And when I attempted to pay her the smallest of compliments, she turned beet red and looked as if she wanted to cry.”

“What did you tell her?”

Rye admitted, “That her blue dress matched her eyes.”

“Yes, indeed,” Portia said gravely. “That is what I would call the
smallest
of compliments. You'll have to do better than that if the young ladies are to take you seriously.”

“And you're an authority on what young ladies like to hear? Perhaps I should have danced Miss Mickelthorpe closer, so that I could have listened to what Swindon was whispering in your ear.”

Her eyes had turned to granite, but all she said was, “If Lady Stone were to hear about your lack of finesse, she'd immediately start you on a course of lessons until your style improved to her satisfaction.”

“Lessons? Do you mean she'd make me practice by flattering her?”

“Or worse,
me
.”

As lessons went, Rye thought, that would be far more pleasant than Latin declensions—at least until he had to share his work. He suspected Portia might be a tougher taskmaster than any Oxford don.

“You'll need to work on your skills if you wish to escape that fate.”

Eyes, hair, lashes, smile… Rye tore his thoughts away from the mental list he'd already started. He'd need to be more original than that to please her. “Sophie said something similar last night. She told me I'd insulted our mother, when I'd meant to praise her instead. Damned if I can see it, for all I said was—”

Portia wrinkled her nose. “That you were surprised to see Lady Ryecroft looking pretty. Imagine how wonderful
that
must have made her feel—as though you think her an antidote the rest of the time.”

“Oh.” There were three freckles on the bridge of her nose, Rye noticed. They formed an off-balance triangle that made his finger itch to connect the dots.

“And your sister is correct. With Lady Ryecroft's looks and figure and coloring, she would show to far better advantage in rust and periwinkle and bronze rather than gray and silver and lavender.”

He looked again at the brassy green of Portia's dress. “You mean she should wear the same sort of colors that look so good on you?”

“There, my lord—you
are
able to turn a pretty compliment when you put your mind to it.” She smiled, and Rye wanted to lean closer, until he could discover for himself whether her lips were really as warm and sweet and soft as they looked just now.

He refilled his coffee cup instead. He knew he should have excused himself and left the room. He should have simply gone away—anywhere at all.

Instead he stayed in the breakfast room, where her scent tickled his nose and the light that shifted on her dress with each breath she took made him want to touch her…

No. At least he should be honest with himself. It wasn't the light and it wasn't her scent that made him long to touch her. And he wouldn't be satisfied with a touch either.

Last night, when he had been struggling through that waltz with Amalie Mickelthorpe and Portia had swept past him in the arms of Lord Swindon, Rye had felt as if someone had smacked him across the head. She'd looked so damned pleased with herself—smiling at him from that libertine's arms, letting him hold her so closely.

It was none of Rye's business how she conducted herself, of course.
He
had to marry an heiress.

But there was something about Swindon he simply didn't like. He hoped Portia knew what she was doing.

***

When the little mai
d who had been assigned to look after Sophie brought in her tray of chocolate, she was grinning so broadly that Sophie was startled. “Oh, miss, you won't believe the drawing room!”

Sophie yawned and sat up, pushing a pillow behind her back. “What's wrong with it, Susan?”

“It's so full of flowers delivered already this morning that Mr. Padgett's had to send to the storerooms for more tables to set them all on, and he's turned out every vase and container in the house. Flowers for
you
, miss. You're a… a
Sensation
, that's what I heard Miss Portia tell him. Do hurry and drink your chocolate, so you can come and see them all.”

The maid set the tray across Sophie's knees and went to pull the curtains open. A tap on the door made Sophie sit up a little straighter. “Come in.”

Her mother, already neatly attired in a charcoal walking dress despite the hour, came in. “Did you sleep well, Sophie? You were not too excited to rest?”

Sophie stretched luxuriously. “Oh, wasn't it a
grand
ball? Susan tells me I'm being sent flowers. Loads and loads of flowers, she says. Have you seen them?”

“I have not.”

“And she tells me that Portia says I am a
Sensation
… Susan, please bring another cup so my mother may join me.”

Lady Ryecroft picked up Sophie's dance card, which had slipped off the chair where Sophie had dropped it last night along with her gloves. She ran her eye down the list of names before she laid it aside.

“Sophie,” she said as soon as the door closed behind the little maid. “It's one thing to be the belle of Surrey, but I should hate to have you expect the same reaction here in London, where there are many pretty girls.”

“And every last one of them has more of a dowry than I possess. I know, Mama.”

“Perhaps I should speak to Portia. Calling you a Sensation…”

Sophie laughed. “Oh, Mama, don't be silly. Of course I'm not getting a big head over this. I expect if there are three nosegays downstairs, Susan would consider them a roomful, for surely Lady Stone doesn't receive flowers regularly. And as for Portia—well, most likely she said I was
sensitive
instead, and Susan simply heard her wrong. But I must own to being relieved that I can hold up my head with confidence. Just think of the shame if I had made so small an impression that I didn't receive even one single rose!”

“Speaking of shame…” Lady Ryecroft's tone of voice was a warning.

“What did I do, Mama?”

“I find it hard to believe you don't know. Sitting out a dance with Lord Carrisbrooke, in a chair meant for one person…”

“Mama, it was not so small as that! And if it was improper to use it, why was it right there, at the corner of the ballroom?”

“Perhaps so a fatigued dancer—
one
fatigued dancer, Sophie—could sit there. Your behavior last night in allowing him to pay you such particular attention…”

“It was only a dance, Mama.”

“How is it that I do not see his name on your card?”

“He traded…” Sophie bit her tongue, but it was too late.

“He
bargained
for your hand in a dance?”

“Mama, it wasn't like that at all. He did nothing improper… he merely stepped in for a friend.” Sophie watched her mother's brows draw together and hurried on, hoping to distract her. “And he has the most beautiful way of speaking! He recited poetry to me entirely through the waltz, as the dancers circled before us. It was
so
romantic.”

Lady Ryecroft's lips were tight.

“Did you enjoy dancing with his uncle?” Sophie ventured. “Carrisbrooke asked him to do so, he said.”

“We will discuss this later, Sophronia.” As Susan came in with the cup, Lady Ryecroft went out—and for once, Sophie noted, her mother did not so much as pause for a smile or a kind word for the servant.

I must really be in for it.
Sophie set her chocolate cup aside untouched and pushed back the blankets. She might as well face the day.

***

The distance from Gro
svenor Square to Bloomsbury, where the gossip columns reported that Marcus Winston had bought a house shortly after his return from the New World, was not great in miles. But the surroundings could hardly be more different, Miranda thought as the hackney carriage took her eastward. The farther the carriage went, the smaller and closer together the houses were. Though they were still sizable and solid, these homes were nothing like the elegant edifices that surrounded the great squares of the West End. And the occupants were likely to be bohemians—artists, writers, successful businessmen—rather than members of society.

Which made it an appropriate location for a man like Marcus Winston. She wondered if this neighborhood reminded him of his home in America. She knew so little of what he had done there, where he had lived, how he had gone on, what his business was…

“And I don't care to know,” she reminded herself. The only thing she cared about—and the only reason she was here today—was his promise to put a stop to his nephew's infatuation. Miranda aimed to hold him to it.

She half expected, when the front door opened, to see Marcus himself standing there; it seemed the sort of thing he might do. But she was greeted by a proper manservant instead. Neither a butler nor a footman, however; perhaps he was something in between.

He looked skeptical at the sight of her, and Miranda wished she hadn't been so cautious in choosing a bonnet with a dark, obscuring veil. She had no desire to look interestingly mysterious, only to be overlooked altogether.

She held out her card. “I wish to see Mr. Winston.”

The manservant showed her into a small reception room where no fire had yet been laid, and returned only a few minutes later to say, “If my lady will follow me.” He led the way up the first set of stairs.

Miranda's heart skittered madly as she followed in his wake, and even more so as his careful, steady tread passed by what must be the doors of a drawing room and went on toward the back of the house. Where was he taking her?

He tapped on a closed door, but rather than open it immediately, he waited at attention, and only when she heard Marcus's voice calling permission from inside did he turn the knob. “Lady Ryecroft, sir,” he said formally, and Miranda found herself frozen on the threshold for an instant before she could gather herself and step into the room.

At least, Miranda thought, he had not brought her to a bedroom. Though it was close enough, truth be told; there was a chaise longue, and a sofa that was larger and looked even more comfortable than the one in the study at Carris Abbey.

I'm not going to think of that right now
, she told herself.

She heard the door close softly behind her, and for a moment she was utterly alone. There was not even a sound except for the soft crackle of coals settling in the grate. Marcus was nowhere to be seen. But she
had
heard him speak, had she not?