Just One Season in London (17 page)

“A truly convenient tale.”

“Have you a better way to explain why this bow at the back of your gown does not look as it did when your maid sent you out this morning? And as for your hair…” He looked her over thoughtfully and handed her a hairbrush. “You
should
have been shopping, by the way.”

“Instead of coming here?” She felt as if he had struck her.

His eyes lit up. “No, my dear. I meant in addition to coming here. This dress is an abomination. I am not referring to the style, for the cut flatters you. In fact, it makes your figure even more enticing than the lace you were wearing last night. But the color…”

“I don't recall asking for your opinion.”

“Indeed you did not. But if you believe that dressing in drab colors will lessen my demands as your lover, think again. Seeing you wearing gray only makes me want to take your clothes off. When will you come to me again?”

Warmth swept over her—and then she remembered that she wasn't cut out to be a mistress. “I won't. This was a mistake, Marcus.”

He was buttoning his shirt, and she thought for a moment that he wasn't going to answer at all. “How could something so wonderful be a mistake? Or are you going to tell me it wasn't wonderful for you?”

She couldn't, of course—not without being struck dead for lying. “Well, yes, it was.” She kept her voice cheerful. “I'm thinking much more clearly, now that I'm no longer confused and doubting myself. But it's obvious to me that as enjoyable as this morning has been, it just isn't what I want to continue.”

“You don't wish to be my lover.” He retrieved a fresh neckcloth from a drawer and arranged it with swift, efficient motions, as if creating perfect folds was every bit as important as their conversation.

“Exactly. And you did tell me, you know, that you would not pursue Sophie and that you will stop Carrisbrooke from doing so—even though I don't become your mistress.”

“Indeed I did.” He shrugged into his coat and reached for the bellpull. “But the question isn't whether you
become
my mistress, it's whether you
remain
so.”

She thought he might go sullen and silent and send her home in a hackney, despite his offer to drive her—for she had, after all, rejected him. But when the manservant appeared, Marcus ordered his curricle to be brought around. And on the drive, he chatted easily of ordinary things, like the musicale that evening—“I own I have no desire to hear young ladies warbling through their repertoire of songs.”

“Oh, it won't be as bad as all that,” Miranda said bracingly. “No doubt some of them will play the harp instead.”

He groaned a little, and she was pleased.

The curricle swung round the corner and into Grosvenor Square, and Miranda gathered up her reticule and said, “Thank you. It was kind of you to bring me home.”

“I'm coming in. I need to speak to…” He paused as he feathered his horses neatly between two carriages that had stopped in the middle of the street.

Miranda's heart went to her throat. Was he threatening her? Surely he would not tell Lady Stone about what she had done this morning. But if he did—if he were to let slip even a hint…

She could see her world—Rye's future and Sophie's—crumbling around her. Oh,
why
had she not realized that she had handed him a weapon—a perfect tool for blackmail?

“I must speak to my nephew,” Marcus went on, sounding abstracted. “That's his curricle being walked up and down the street. One can't miss it, with that ridiculous magenta-and-gold color scheme he insisted on.”

He pulled his pair to a stop in front of Lady Stone's house and turned to look at Miranda, while his groom dismounted from the perch at the back. “Why, my dear—you've gone pale. I wonder… who did you think I meant to speak to? And what did you think I was planning to say?”

Whatever Carrisbrooke w
as talking about—he was reciting a poem, if Portia's ears hadn't deceived her—it made Sophie laugh. And Sophie's laugh—that delightful, effortless gurgle—in turn attracted attention from the entire room, which only served to make everyone notice that the young Lord Carrisbrooke and the beautiful Miss Ryecroft seemed to be on excellent terms. Even from halfway across the room, Portia could see speculation on the faces of several matrons. At least the crowd was greatly diminished now, as the fashionable hour for calls slipped away.

Still, with so many eyes focused on the pair in the center of the room, Portia knew that if she simply burst on the twosome and snatched Sophie away, the gossip would fly. She looked around for something—or someone—that might serve as a distraction.

Lord Swindon caught her eye, his gaze full of irony. “What a pretty child she is.”

“Indeed. And she's as charming as she is beautiful.” Portia wished—not for the first time—that it was possible to speak her mind. Sophie
was
charming, but she was hardly the perfectly prim miss that Portia made her sound.

“So sweet, in fact, that she's apt to give the sugar sickness to anyone who gets too close,” Swindon added.

Portia gave him a vague smile—one that said she was listening no more than was polite—and moved on toward Sophie. Why, she wondered, was it no fun at all to cross blades with Swindon? If Lord Ryecroft had said the same thing—about little Juliana Farling, for instance—Portia would have been struggling to keep from snorting with amusement.

“My dear,” she murmured into Sophie's ear. “Your brother wishes to speak to you.
Now.
”

“Is Lord Ryecroft free?” Carrisbrooke said eagerly. “I wish to speak with him myself.” With a grand gesture, he offered his arm to Sophie. She flashed a look up at him and gave him her hand. Carrisbrooke tucked it into his elbow with care and strolled across the room with regal arrogance.

Portia sighed. Her effort to peel Sophie away from her suitor had only made things worse.

“Yet another duty for the put-upon companion,” Swindon murmured. “Minding the children and sending them to Papa for discipline. Are you paid extra for acting as a governess on top of your other responsibilities?”

Portia thought,
There's no pleasure in sharing a joke with him because Swindon says everything with a cruel twist. Rye would have made a simple observation of human nature, too true to be considered rude…

“I beg your pardon, Lord Swindon. My attention wandered for a moment. You were saying, I believe, that Miss Ryecroft has excellent manners?”

“I was saying that I prefer my companions to have more spirit.” His gaze lingered on her mouth.

Portia was relieved when Padgett appeared once more in the doorway. “Mr. Winston, my lady.”

With an air of leisure, Marcus Winston crossed the room to kiss Lady Stone's hand. He murmured some-thing that made her laugh, and then turned as if he was magnetically drawn toward the small group by the window.

Carrisbrooke drew himself up to his full height as he faced his uncle. Unfortunately for him, he was still a couple of inches shorter than Mr. Winston and not nearly so impressive. “I should have known you would pursue me here,” he announced dramatically.

Marcus Winston laughed. “Pursue you? My dear boy, if you were trying to elude me, you should not have left that arrestingly painted vehicle of yours in the street outside. Not that it was difficult to predict your movements this morning. Lord Ryecroft, may I have a word with you?”

“If you want to talk to him about me,” Carrisbrooke began, belligerence in his tone.

Sophie stepped closer. “Where is Mama, Mr. Winston, and why did you bring her home?”

At least the girl had the good sense to keep her voice down. But why she was asking such a question when Lady Ryecroft was right there near the door…

She blinked.
And just when did she come in?

“This house is far more interesting than a circus,” Swindon reflected. “In fact, it appears that at any moment we might have a bout of fisticuffs, for Miss Ryecroft is looking militant. It seems perhaps she is not so sweet after all, but is far more interesting than I thought.”

“Leave her alone,” Portia snapped. She saw the gleam of interest in Swindon's eyes and wished she had bitten off her tongue. She turned away from him and went to join the group at the window. “Sophie, my dear, come with me a moment to bid good-bye to Lady…” She mumbled something that she hoped resembled a name.

Sophie tore her gaze away from Marcus Winston. “Who, Portia? I don't see anyone leaving just now.”

“Well, they won't
ever
leave if you carry on in this manner.” Portia kept her voice low. “Your mother's right there by the door, but don't ask me how long she's been here, because I don't know.”

“Not long,” Marcus Winston said easily. “She merely stepped upstairs to take off her bonnet.”

Sophie shot him a fuming look and went straight to Lady Ryecroft. Portia glanced around the room, hoping to see no other fires that needed to be extinguished before they could flare up into disaster. Robert Wellingham had moved away from the group at the window and was watching her thoughtfully from near the fireplace. “Being a companion seems an exhausting business, Miss Langford.”

“Some days are worse than others.”

“Miss Ryecroft appears to be a handful.” His eyes twinkled as if he was challenging her to disagree. “And her brother is too, I should think.”

Portia sighed. “Rye's all right. And Sophie's a dear, really.”

The twinkle grew into a gleam. “You're very informal.”

“Well, I am chaperoning her, so using her Christian name is…” But that, Portia realized, was not what Wellingham had referred to. When, she asked herself, had she started thinking of Lord Ryecroft as
Rye
?

It's only because Sophie calls him that, and his mother. I hear it all the time.

“I understand that he must, of course, marry an heiress,” Wellingham went on.

“If you're trying to tempt me into gossiping, Mr. Wellingham…”

“Oddly enough, Miss Langford, I was not. I must go and say my farewells to my hostess now or risk being thought to be a hanger-on.”

Portia realized that the drawing room was now almost empty. Carrisbrooke and Marcus Winston were still standing with Rye by the window, Sophie and her mother were near the door, and Lady Stone was beckoning to Wellingham. Everyone else had gone.

Portia congratulated herself for surviving the morning and strolled toward Sophie and Lady Ryecroft, stopping to plump a pillow that Lady Brindle had sat on and squashed.

“Robert,” Lady Stone demanded, “what brings you up to town again? I thought we had you comfortably settled at the manor for the duration.”

“Business, of course. But I also thought it might be amusing to see the Season unfold.”

Rye glanced around the room. “Lady Stone, may I trouble you for the use of your library for a few minutes to hold a private conversation?”

Portia felt Lady Ryecroft, standing next to her, go as rigid as a lamppost.

“And I was right,” Wellingham said under his breath. “It's amusing indeed.”

Lady Stone waved a careless hand, causing the diamonds that lined her fingers to sparkle. “Of course, dear boy. No need to ask; use anything in the damned house anytime you care to.”

As the three gentlemen crossed the room on their leisurely way toward the library downstairs, Carrisbrooke paused to bow gracefully to Sophie, kiss her hand, and tell her that he would call on her again on the morrow.

Lady Ryecroft glared at Mr. Winston, who seemed unmoved.

Rye said, “Mama, Mr. Wellingham was looking for you earlier.”

“Was he?” Lady Ryecroft said without taking her gaze off Mr. Winston.

“I believe he has messages to deliver from the manor—from Carstairs.”

Finally Lady Ryecroft seemed able to focus on her son; then she looked past him to the banker with her most charming smile. “It is so nice to see you again, Mr. Wellingham. How delightfully thoughtful of you to bring messages, but I hope you did not have to make a special trip to do so?”

Good God,
Portia thought.
She's flirting with him.
She wondered what Rye would have to say to that, but apparently he was already out of earshot.

Wellingham bowed over Lady Ryecroft's hand. “It would cause me nothing but pleasure, my lady, to bring you word from your home—even if business had not required me to return to town for a few days.”

Lady Stone was looking from one of them to the other. “You must come to dinner tonight, Robert, and entertain us.” She settled back in her chair and crooked a finger to summon Portia closer. “Send word to Cook that we'll have a small dinner party tonight, before the musicale. Let me think who else to invite. Carrisbrooke, of course, now that little matter is nearly settled… and Winston. That's easy, and it makes the numbers just right. This plan of mine is all going
wonderfully
well, Portia—don't you agree?”

***

Sophie, already dressed for dinner in an ap
ricot gown trimmed with deep green bows, sat patiently at the dressing table while the little maid anxiously wound matching ribbons into her upswept curls. Portia tapped on the door and came in.

“You're not dressed yet,” Sophie said. Portia's hair had been gathered back smoothly into her usual chignon, with a few loose tendrils softening her face for evening, but she was wearing a wrapper, not a dinner gown.

“It will take only a moment for me to finish. I wanted to talk to you privately before we go down, Sophie, and while everyone is dressing for dinner seemed the only time we're likely not to be interrupted.”

“Oh, please don't scold, Portia. I know I shouldn't have spoken up to Mr. Winston that way, but I was worried about Mama, and—”

“It's not that, dear—and in any case, your mama has no doubt had a few words to say about the subject, so there's no need for me to do so.”

Sophie frowned. “That's just it. She
didn't
. Not a word.”

Portia looked as confused as Sophie felt. “She didn't? That
is
odd, but perhaps she was convinced—as I am—that you have already learned the required lesson. At any rate, what I wanted to talk to you about is entirely different.” She eyed the little maid. “Don't repeat this to anyone, Susan. Not to the other maids and not belowstairs.”

The maid bobbed her head. “I know my place, miss.”

Portia took a deep breath, opened her mouth, and then seemed to think better of whatever she'd planned to say. “Sophie, you'll no doubt receive permission to waltz tomorrow when we go to Almack's.”

Susan looked disappointed, and Sophie couldn't blame her. This was hardly the rich sort of gossip Portia's warning had led her to expect. Why had she bothered to come along the hall for a private talk, when she could have made that announcement in front of a crowd?

“Sometimes gentlemen attempt to hold you too closely when you waltz with them,” Portia went on. “A young woman's reputation can be severely damaged if she allows it.”

Sophie looked straight at her. “You're referring to Lord Swindon, when he was dancing with you last night. So how does one prevent it?”

There was a scratch on the door, and Rye put his head in. “Sophie? I wanted to talk to you about…” His gaze focused on Portia, running over her from head to foot, and he seemed to have trouble swallowing. That was interesting, Sophie thought. “Oh,
you're
here. I should have known.” He closed the door behind him and crossed the room.

He looked wonderful tonight in his deep blue coat and all-white embroidered waistcoat. If he hadn't been her brother, Sophie would probably have thought him handsome. “What brings you in, Rye?”

He pushed aside Sophie's hairbrushes so he could sit on the corner of her dressing table. “How do you feel about the men you've met so far, Sophie? Whitfield… Swindon… Carrisbrooke?”

Sophie considered. “Lord Whitfield hardly matters, does he? He didn't come to call this morning, and he didn't send flowers, so I must not have impressed him any more than he impressed me. To tell the truth, I barely remember what he looks like.”

“One dance—even one ball—is hardly enough to form a valid impression of a man,” Portia said. “You should not assume that he wouldn't suit, based on such a small acquaintance.”

“Because, of course, Miss Langford knows all about such things,” Rye put in smoothly. “What about Carrisbrooke?”

Sophie fiddled with a jeweled hairpin that Susan had dropped on the dressing table. “Lord Carrisbrooke is amusing—and handsome. Why?”

Rye shifted his weight, the dressing table creaked a little, and Susan sucked in a breath as if she expected it to collapse under him. “Because he has asked to pay you particular attention, Sophie.”

“You mean, he's asked to court me? Already?”

“At least
she's
being clearheaded about this happening too quickly,” Portia said, not quite under her breath.

“Sophie, I'm only telling you now because I want you to be thinking, as you get to know him better, about whether the two of you suit.”

Sophie considered. “Does it matter so much? If he truly wants to marry me, and if he really is as wealthy as Lady Stone says, then that would save the manor and take care of Mama, and you wouldn't have to pay court any longer to Amalie Mickelthorpe.”

Portia rolled her eyes. “There you have it. Sold to the highest bidder.”

Rye fixed his gaze on Portia. “Charming as you look in your wrapper, Miss Langford, I must ask whether you are planning to go down to dinner in it. The gong will be going off in ten minutes.”