Just One Season in London (18 page)

Portia made a face at him. She closed the door behind her with unnecessary force.

“Sophie.” Rye's voice was deeper than usual. “You must not think it is up to you to save the manor. That is my responsibility.”

“But it would make things easier for you if I made a good marriage, would it not?”

“Of course it would. But that has nothing to do with whether I plan to wed Miss Mickelthorpe.”

“Now there you're out, Rye. It was apparent this morning that you'd rather face a hangman's noose than even look at her.”

“It's not going to come to that, Soph. There are other heiresses.”

Sophie shrugged. “Someone has to bring some funds into the family, and promptly. If it comes down to a choice between my marrying a gentleman who amuses me and who actually seems to like me, or your marrying Miss Mickelthorpe, then, to my mind, the answer is clear.”

“Sophie, I did not give Carrisbrooke permission to court you—only to get to know you better. I have also asked him not to speak to you about it yet, but to let you have your Season first.”

“That was thoughtful of you, Rye.”

“There's no need for you to be in a hurry to decide, and there are plenty of other gentlemen you should consider before making up your mind. Lord Swindon, for instance. He's well established and has a nice estate…”

“Well, he doesn't enter into the picture at all,” Sophie said absently. She was still thinking through Rye's list of heiresses, considering whether there was one who might be more bearable than Amalie Mickelthorpe. “From what Portia said about him…”

Rye stood, assuming his head-of-the-family look—the one that always made Sophie quake in her boots while she hastily thought back over everything she'd done lately. “What was Portia telling you about him?”

“Nothing, really. I figured out on my own that he's arrogant. And he's so
old
, Rye. In any case”—she sneaked a look at him from the corner of her eye—“remember that pitcher full of yellow roses you dropped this morning? Portia's flowers?”

“I wish I'd walked all over them while I was at it,” Rye muttered. “Did she have the infernal gall to warn you away from him because she thinks he's going to offer for her?”

“No. But why should it matter if he does? If Carrisbrooke intends to offer for me, then I won't be pining after Swindon, so—”

“It doesn't matter,” Rye said. “Not at all.”

He spoke far too quickly to be convincing. Sophie had learned long ago that when Rye was stretching a point, he was often in a hurry to make his case and get back to safer ground. But did that mean Rye was interested in
Portia
?

If so, it was even more important that Sophie do whatever was necessary to save the family.

Thank heaven, she thought, that it was Carrisbrooke—handsome, charming,
young
—who had offered for her, and not Lord Swindon!

“Just think about it, Sophie. I only told you because I don't want you to be taken by surprise if Carrisbrooke forgets the agreement we made. He seems impatient to have things decided.”

“Well,
that's
flattering.”

“Perhaps it would be if he knew you better,” Rye muttered.

Sophie laughed. “Touché. But I assure you, I'll stay on my best behavior in order to bring Carrisbrooke up to scratch.”

“Dammit, I don't
want
you to—unless marrying him is truly what you wish.”

She raised her eyebrows. “What young woman wouldn't wish to marry him?”

“He'll recite poetry at you over the breakfast table.”

“But I
like
poetry.” Sophie stood, and Susan draped a deep green cashmere shawl over her shoulders. “We must go down now, or we'll be late.” She settled the shawl, thanked Susan, and led the way out of the room into the wide, drafty hallway. She was glad for the shawl and pulled it a little tighter about her nearly bare shoulders. “And here I thought that private talk you were having with Mr. Winston in the library was about Mama and why she was coming home this morning in Mr. Winston's curricle!”

“Oh, that,” Rye said. “It seems he rescued her from a—”

He stopped abruptly, and Sophie looked past him to see Lady Ryecroft standing in the hallway, her hand on the knob of Rye's bedroom door.

“Hello, Mama,” Rye said. “Were you looking for me?”

“I can think of no other reason I'd be visiting your bedroom, Rye.”

“Are you feeling quite the thing, Mama? After your experience this morning…”

“What experience are you talking about?” Sophie demanded.

“Mama was roughed up by a crowd while she was shopping, Mr. Winston told me.”

“And that's why he brought you home?
Mama
…”

“I do not wish to discuss it,” Lady Ryecroft said firmly. “About this… arrangement you've made, Rye… I'd like a moment of your time. Alone, please.”

“It's all right. I told Sophie—”

“
Alone
,” Lady Ryecroft repeated.

“I'll just run along downstairs.” Sophie was careful to keep her tone cheerful. “Carrisbrooke might have already arrived.”

Lady Ryecroft's brows drew together, making a frightful line down the center of her forehead.

That was puzzling. Shouldn't her mother be over the moon with delight?

Sophie walked on along the passage and down the stairs. Despite what she'd said, she wasn't looking forward to seeing Carrisbrooke just yet. But that was only because if things were settled quickly, there would be no reason for her to finish out the Season. That would be the sensible course, regardless of what Rye had told her—for if she were to be married right away, then he could save the rest of the money he'd planned to spend to launch her and use it for the manor instead.

It was silly of her to feel cheated simply because her time as a Sensation might be cut short—as if
that
was important!—when she had so swiftly accomplished everything she'd hoped to do in London.

More
than she'd hoped for. Had it only been a few weeks ago that she'd bargained with Robert Wellingham to sneak her out of Surrey and take her to the city? Back then, she'd half expected to end up as some rich old man's mistress in order to earn enough to save the manor. Compared to that fate, what in heaven's name did she have to feel mournful about?
Carrisbrooke…

Of course she was pleased to have some time to get better acquainted with her prospective husband, and of course she was grateful that her brother cared enough about her wishes to insist on a delay so she could consider her choice. But the fact was that Sophie had already decided. If Lord Carrisbrooke offered for her, she would accept him.

And as for feeling let down…

Sophie sighed. She hadn't expected to mind things like not going to parties night after night or receiving loads of flowers from admirers. But then, her success was so new and exciting that she hoped it wasn't
entirely
shallow of her to feel some regret at what she would be giving up.

In any case, by the end of the Season, she'd no doubt have grown tired of all that. One couldn't dance till dawn every day and still find it amusing—especially if, as Portia had warned, it was necessary to be on guard all the time, lest a gentleman take liberties.

And surely marriage to Carrisbrooke wouldn't be the end of everything fun, anyway—as it might have been had Rye made a match for her with some elderly earl who suffered from gout and a bad temper and lived all the way up in Yorkshire. If that had been the outcome, she'd probably never get to London again in her life.

No, Carrisbrooke was young enough to want to have some fun himself. He was a good match, and Sophie would do her best to seal that bargain.

Ages ago, up in her room, Rye had said that the dinner gong would go in ten minutes. But he'd obviously been mistaken or exaggerating—or perhaps he'd simply been trying to remove Portia so he could talk to Sophie alone—for it still lacked a few minutes to the hour, according to the chiming clock in the hallway.

Sophie was the first of the entire party to reach the drawing room. Fires burned briskly in the twin fireplaces at each end of the room, waiting for the dinner party to assemble. Candlelight gleamed, reflecting from the mirrors above each mantel. A sherry tray stood ready near the chair Lady Stone liked best.

Sophie had never before been completely alone in Lady Stone's drawing room, and the room seemed to echo. She hovered on the threshold, hearing the steady thump of footsteps coming up the stairs from the entrance floor as Padgett showed a guest to the drawing room. But which guest had arrived?

Her heart was pounding even louder than the footsteps. She tried to tell herself it was excitement, for if it was Carrisbrooke coming up the stairs…

If it was, Sophie admitted, she wasn't ready to be alone with him. She was too excited just now, and she might say exactly the wrong thing.

Though
excited
wasn't quite the right word…

She darted through the drawing room and into the music room beyond, leaning just far enough around the door to see who came in.

It was Robert Wellingham. Padgett showed him into the drawing room, poured him a glass of sherry, and withdrew.

Wellingham.
At first she felt relieved to see the banker, not Carrisbrooke. But as she pressed her eye to the narrow slot in the door and watched him make himself comfortable by the fire, Sophie's aggravation level began to rise.

She had, after all, gone to him for help. Her plan had been foolish, but she had been sincere. But instead of helping, he had patronized her and indulged her. He had pretended to go along, while all the time he must have been struggling to contain his amusement. No doubt he continued to enjoy a good laugh at her expense now and then, whenever he happened to think of the incredibly silly Miss Ryecroft.

Since she had not expected to see him ever again, with him well established at Ryecroft Manor and her in London, Sophie had not allowed herself to give much consideration to the questions of what Robert Wellingham thought of her or how he had conducted himself. But now he was here, appearing in the middle of visiting hours and coming to dinner, and it was past time to get things clear between them. It was providential that he was alone and that she had been the first to come downstairs.

Sophie reached for the door handle.

Wellingham took the first sip of his sherry with evident enjoyment and said, without looking toward the music room, “The butler is out of earshot, Miss Ryecroft. You may as well come out now.”

Irritated to have lost the element of surprise, she pulled open the door and emerged. “How did you know I was there? I am certain I made no sound at all.”

He raised his glass toward the mirror over the fireplace. She tilted her head to look at it.

“From here,” he said, “I had a clear view not only of the door, but of the big bright brown eye peering through the crack. Since Miss Langford's eyes are hazel, and since neither Lady Stone nor Lady Ryecroft would have felt it necessary to retreat, I was certain of the identity of the lady who lurked within.”

“I was not lurking. And I did not feel it necessary to retreat. Not from
you
.”

He paused in midmotion as he poured a second glass of sherry. “You were avoiding some other person, then? If someone has been annoying you, Miss Ryecroft…” He handed her the glass.

“If I had a problem, sir, you are hardly the person I would come to for help. After the last time—”

“Oh yes, the last time you approached me for assistance… Pardon me for thinking, for just a moment, that you might have been lying in wait to hold me up
again
. I observe, however, that since you have still not equipped yourself with a mask and a pistol, acting the highwayman must, in fact, not have been your intent.”

Sophie felt herself color at the gentle irony in his voice.

“But we were speaking of problems,” he went on, “and why you would not feel able to confide in me if you indeed faced a difficulty.”

“Because last time you lied to me,” she accused.

“I beg your pardon?”

“You agreed to transport me to London!”

He waved a hand. “And here you are.”

“But not because of you! You said you would arrange… You
agreed
…”

He smiled, and the twinkle in his eyes that had so disarmed her as they walked together along the road at Ryecroft once more sprang to life.

Sophie felt herself begin to sputter in frustration.

“Surely you would not have preferred for
your
plan to be the one that was carried out,” he said softly. “The notion of running away with me, weighed against that of being the Sensation of the Season—it hardly compares.”

“I… Well, no, of course it doesn't. But you played me for a fool, Mr. Wellingham. You let me talk of closed carriages and post chaises and… and you planned to make an assignation with me via a sweet bun—and all the time you didn't mean a word of it.”

“Not an assignation, exactly,” he said, sounding aggrieved. “I only promised to send you a message in a sweet bun.”

“And in that message you had the supreme arrogance to suggest that
you
, and not my brother, were the one who arranged for me to come to London after all!”

“I did not bring about the trip itself, but you must admit I had a rather large hand in the details.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Tell me, Miss Ryecroft, what was the source of the funds that paid for that elegant gown you're wearing and the cashmere shawl wrapped around your shoulders?”

Sophie closed her mouth with a snap. “Oh. You mean the money you paid to rent the manor.”