Just One Season in London (14 page)

A door opened across the room, and Marcus came in, one hand lifted as if he was still adjusting the pearl stickpin in his cravat. “What a pleasure to receive you so early in the morning, Miranda. Would you care to join me for breakfast?”

She couldn't prevent the picture that sprang to her mind. The two of them, sitting at a small table that stood in a bay window overlooking a garden. Herself in a soft morning gown, her hair caught up under a cap. Marcus passing the toast rack, commenting on a tidbit from the newspapers, rising from the table to go about his day, but pausing to brush aside the lace edge of her cap to kiss her nape… then—with his business forgotten—pulling off the cap to release her hair… kissing her throat and her lips and her breasts… taking her back to bed…

How utterly foolish. You might as well picture him making love to you right there on the breakfast table, among the coffee cups and the toast crumbs.

The trouble was she could visualize that with no difficulty at all.

“How long did it take you to train your manservant to knock at doors before entering?” she asked.

“A while. I never could abide the way the servants slithered around Carris Abbey, popping up when they were least expected—or wanted. Never a moment of privacy.”

“And of course that's important to you. It must make things far more convenient when you wish to… entertain.”

He smiled. “If you came to discuss with me the intricacies of having an affair, Miranda, I'd be happy to demonstrate how all things are possible to those who have both the desire and the imagination.”

“That is not why I came.”

“A pity,” he said. “I gather you do not wish to share my breakfast after all? Or my bed, it seems. Then pray, do sit down and tell me what I may do for you.”

She perched on the edge of the sofa. “Only what you promised—you said you would put a stop to Carrisbrooke's paying court to Sophie.”

“I have every intention of doing so. I spoke to him last evening, in fact.”

“For all the good it did. He sent Sophie flowers this morning.”

“Surely he's not the only one who thought of that trite gesture.”

“Four dozen red roses—at least four dozen, I didn't actually count them. I saw the bouquet delivered, so I came directly to talk to you.”

Marcus braced his elbow on the mantel. “How unimaginative of my nephew. I expected far better from the poetic soul that he would like to appear.”

“I do wish you'd take this seriously. He is far too young for her.”

“As cases of puppy love go, I take it seriously indeed. But the way to handle puppy love is
not
to forbid it. Miranda, you didn't scold your daughter, did you?”

“Of course I did. She should know better—she was nearly sitting on his lap!”

Marcus shook his head. “You would do far better to tell her how much his childish antics amuse you.”

“Childish!”

“Well, he is, you know. He's not yet nineteen—barely dry behind the ears.”

“The same age Sophie is, give or take a few months.”

“Exactly. But young women of that age are far more pragmatic than the boys are. Given time, Carrisbrooke will fall out of love with your Sophie and into it again with some shockingly inappropriate opera dancer. But if you make him a romantic hero to her by forbidding contact between them, don't be surprised if she climbs down the drainpipe some night and runs off with him before he has a chance to get over her.”

Was it possible he was right? “I do not doubt that you know your nephew better than I do, but—”

Marcus's eyes widened. “Do I hear aright? Lady Ryecroft admits that someone else might have the advantage of her? If only I had a witness to swear to this occasion!”

“…but you do not know my daughter.”

“I should like to, Miranda.” There was a thread of steel under the soft baritone.

Her eyelids prickled, and she blinked hard. She would
not
cry. “No, Marcus. You're too old for her.”

“You say I am too old,” he said philosophically, “and Carrisbrooke is too young… Will anyone ever be satisfactory, in your mind?”

“She is special.”

“I don't doubt it, my dear. She's your daughter.”

“I mean it, Marcus. I can't bear it—you and Sophie.” Her voice caught, and she realized too late that she had given herself away. Primly, she added, “Or Carrisbrooke either.”

“There's a way to fix this, Miranda. But it requires your cooperation.”

There was a long instant where everything seemed to stop. Each muscle in Miranda's body went as rigid as if she had frozen solid. “Be your mistress, you mean. If I become your mistress, you'll leave Sophie alone.”

Marcus looked thoughtful. “You told me last night it would be impossible to blackmail you into such a thing.”

“But of course you would try it anyway,” she said bitterly. “If that's the price…”

His eyes gleamed.
With triumph
, she thought. Very well. She had made her bargain, and she would live with it.

But he didn't move. He didn't swoop on her to claim his prize.

No doubt he was savoring his victory and drawing out the satisfaction of her surrender.

He crossed the room and sat next to her on the big sofa.
Too close for propriety
, she thought, before she remembered that what was proper had now changed—utterly, completely, and forever.

But he did not touch her, only sat with his head tipped a little to one side and looked at her. Finally he stretched out a hand and tugged at the ribbon that held her close-fitting bonnet in place. In the quiet room, the sound of the satin ribbon sliding against itself seemed as loud to Miranda as the beat of her heart. Then the knot gave way, and slowly he lifted the bonnet from her head and tossed it aside.

“That,” he said quietly, “was not what I meant, my dear. My plan does not involve courting your daughter, for I have concluded you are correct and she is indeed too young for me. So there is no need for the offer you have made.”

Miranda was horrified at herself. He had made a fool of her once before; had she learned nothing at all in the library at Carris Abbey? “I… bed your pardon.” Her voice cracked. “I mean…
beg
your pardon.”

“Since you now wish to become my mistress, Miranda… I accept.” His fingertips brushed over her hair and then flicked against her cheek. “But I intend to have things absolutely clear between us. I want no misunderstanding of how—and why—we become lovers. You are not sacrificing yourself for the sake of your daughter. You are going to make love with me because you want me as much as I want you.”

Miranda sat frozen as his thumb traced her lower lip, and she felt herself tremble against his touch. “I do
not
want—” But she couldn't finish, for her words were caught between his mouth and hers. The tip of his tongue brushed the corner of her mouth—slowly, as though he were tasting a new dish.

“Don't you?” he whispered. “Isn't this exactly why you came here today, because you want me to make love to you? You could have merely spoken to me about Carrisbrooke tonight at the Farlings' musicale.”

“How was I to know you would be there?”

He smiled a little at what she had to admit had been a feeble protest. “Or at Almack's tomorrow. Surely you don't think I would miss that. But you didn't wait; you came here today instead. Alone—without even your maid to chaperone you. What else could you have had in mind, but this?”

Somehow—Miranda was uncertain just how it had happened—she was lying back on the sofa, and he was beside her, big and warm and strong, with one hand at her nape and the other cupping her jaw to turn her face up to his.

“Ever since the first time you suggested we have an affair, I have regretted letting you go.” His voice was soft, but there was a rough edge underneath. “And since you have renewed the offer, I shall not insult you by refusing again.”

“No,” she managed to say. “That's not why…” She stopped, too confused to go on. Why
hadn't
she waited until this evening, when she could have spoken to him without putting her reputation at risk? Why hadn't she dispatched a note asking him to call on her?

“Then why did you rush to accept a bargain I did not offer?” He nibbled gently at her lower lip, tasting, then traced the edge with the tip of his tongue.

Was it possible that he was right?

“Tell me you don't want me, Miranda, and make me believe it, and I'll let you go.” He kissed her throat, slowly working his way down to the tiny ruffle that edged the neckline of her gown.

She tried to say the words, but they seemed to stick in her throat. She couldn't deny it any longer. She hadn't realized it, hadn't admitted it, hadn't planned it, but this had been her intention, or she would have found another way. A way that did not involve being alone with him, privately and intimately…

Marcus seemed to read her mind. He ran a possessive hand over her body, pausing over her breast, cupping her hip for a moment, sliding the length of her leg to where the hem of her skirt had slipped higher than was proper, and lingering a couple of inches above her ankle, where her boot top ended.

There was an instant when she could have stopped him. An instant when he paused, as if waiting for her to object.

But she didn't want to. Miranda felt herself quivering, but was it with shame or anticipation?

The instant passed, and Marcus began to work his way back up—under her skirt this time. His fingertips were firm against the silk of her stocking, gentle against the bare skin above her garter and masterful as he found the slit in her drawers and cupped his palm over her mound.

His eyes blazed with satisfaction and desire, and heat ran through her at the confirmation that he wanted her. He had not put her aside so easily after all that day at Carris Abbey when he had sent her away. And just as she had been thinking of him ever since, perhaps he had been thinking of her…

He kissed her again, long and deep, his tongue delving into her mouth even as his fingertip sought another warm, moist place. She whimpered a little and opened her legs for him.

“So lusciously wet,” he whispered against her lips. “So deliciously eager. Show me, Miranda, how much you want me.”

He slipped his finger inside her and began to stroke softly, and she moaned and let her head fall back against the velvet cushions. She could feel her heart pounding, her muscles tensing in anticipation, her mouth going dry as he nudged her closer to the brink. All she could do was feel, but she was afraid to, for she had never felt this way before.

She opened her eyes and realized he had pulled back as if to watch her. Miranda felt embarrassment sweep over her at the idea of the spectacle she was presenting—skirt hiked up, head thrown back, breath rasping…

If only, she thought, he weren't
looking
at her! If it had been dark, she wouldn't have minded. Or at least—if she were being truthful—she wouldn't have minded so much. Instead here she was. In the middle of the morning, with sunlight pouring in through the windows, she was spread out across a sofa like a trollop as she took her pleasure…

She was taking, she realized belatedly, but she was not giving in return. Was that why Marcus had withdrawn ever so slightly—because she was doing something wrong? Exactly what was expected of a mistress, anyway? For surely it must be different from what was appropriate for a wife.

Enthusiasm—yes, that much was obvious. And of course a mistress should show concern for her partner's needs… Yes, that must be where she had fallen short. Too focused on her own unfamiliar sensations, she had forgotten his.

She reached up to him, clutching his cravat and tugging. His pearl stickpin went flying as the neckcloth came loose, and she caressed his bare throat, then slid her hands down the front of his shirt to the waistband of his pantaloons, trying to release his buttons. But her fingers didn't seem to work.

“Stop,” he said gently. “This is for you this time.”

She wasn't certain she'd heard him correctly. “But that's not… not fair. You can't enjoy…”

“We've only begun, Miranda. I will be satisfied, I assure you, before we've finished. For now, look at me. I want to watch you come apart in my arms.” His caresses grew firmer, more demanding.

Miranda whimpered, and everything around her seemed to turn slightly blue. “I want…” Her voice was so ragged that she couldn't finish. She reached for him instead, brushing her palm across his nape and tugging him down to her so she could bury her face in his shoulder—a rock to cling to as the storm broke deep inside her.

***

Sophie paid particula
r attention to her toilette, just in case her mother was still in a mood to be critical. By the time she went downstairs, feeling as bright as the sunshine in a butter-yellow muslin morning gown, a good part of the day was already gone. The first thing she heard as she descended the stairs was Rye sneezing, so she looked around the newel post to wish a blessing for him.

“The place has turned into a damned conservatory,” he said irritably.

Sophie came face-to-face with a row of floral arrangements that stretched from the drawing-room doors at the front of the house to the round window that looked out over the garden at the back.

“Oh my goodness,” she whispered. “Are all these for me? Maybe I
am
a Sensation.” There were big bouquets and tiny nosegays, roses of every shade, along with daisies and violets and bachelor buttons and flowers Sophie had never seen before. Not only was there a rainbow of colors, but the multitude of blooms gave off a clash of scents that threatened to make her head ache. And she'd only had to smell them for a couple of minutes; no wonder Rye was cranky.

He sneezed again, his whole face disappearing into a large white handkerchief.