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Authors: Leigh Michaels

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Not that she had kissed him;
he'd
kissed
her
.

Or perhaps, she thought, it hadn't counted as a kiss. After all, there had barely been any contact.

Yes, that was it, she told herself hopefully. It had been more like a nudge, really; it hadn't truly been a kiss. Though she suspected she would remember the taste of him forever.

***

Rye waited impatiently at the bas
e of the stairway, shifting from one foot to the other and rhythmically slapping his riding gloves against his palm. If Sophie was so keen on riding at the crack of dawn, she could at least have the decency to be dressed on time. But then their mother was late as well, and that wasn't like her.

At the sound of boot heels on the stairs, he looked up to see Portia coming down. She was wearing a riding habit the color of dull copper.

This morning she was obviously the same rigid maiden who had been insulted by his kiss. Last night, for just a moment, she had been soft and yielding and willing in his arms. And then, in his dreams, she had come to his bed and made love with him so sweetly that he had tried to stretch the illusion out to last for hours…

But he must not think about that.

“You?” he said, too startled to consider how it would sound.

“It wasn't my idea to join this party. Your mother has a headache, so she asked me to take her place.”

Rye grunted. “All these late nights must be taking a toll on her. I'm not surprised, at her age.”

Portia raised an eyebrow. “I doubt that's the problem, since Lady Stone keeps up the pace. Lady Ryecroft didn't tell me you were riding, but since a brother is a perfectly adequate chaperone under these circumstances, there is no need to for me to go.”

Sophie called from the landing, “Oh, do come, Portia. You've been stuck in the house for days, arranging the details for our ball.”

“Many of which remain to be settled,” Portia pointed out.

“What you need right now is fresh air. The ball is still a week off. You can put Rye to work on it when we get back from our ride.”

Portia's gaze was full of irony. “I think I'd do better to take care of things myself.”

“And me too, of course, but I've already offered to help,” Sophie went on. “Oh fie—I forgot my riding crop.” She started up the stairs once more.

Portia paused on the bottom step. “Regardless of Sophie's opinion, it is not necessary that I come along.”

“And if my mother thought I alone would be an adequate guardian, then she wouldn't have asked you to take her place.”

Portia looked at him steadily for a long moment. “I can well believe
that
,” she said at last.

“In any case, I was merely startled to see you, not displeased. Unless you are afraid of riding?” He intended it to sound like a challenge and was pleased when Portia's eyes blazed and her hand tightened on her crop as if she'd like to take a swing at him.

As they picked their way through the morning traffic toward Hyde Park, she made it a point to stay on the opposite side of Sophie, who kept up a steady stream of chatter. Rye held his big bay at a comfortable gait; because the women were so preoccupied, he was the first to spot Marcus Winston and the Earl of Carrisbrooke, trotting easily toward them down Rotten Row.

The moment they met, Carrisbrooke edged Sophie's horse away from the others. Rye and Portia exchanged a glance, and Portia nudged her horse with her heel and followed them.

Winston turned his gelding and came up beside Rye. “Lady Ryecroft does not ride this morning?”

“I am told she has a headache. From the music last night, no doubt.”

“Is that what it was called?”

Rye laughed as he looked toward the trio of riders just ahead of them. He had no doubts about Sophie's skill in the saddle, but he watched Portia for a minute, until he was certain she was nearly as much at ease on the back of a horse as his sister was. “I don't know why my mother thought Sophie needed two chaperones today. On horseback, she's perfectly able to take care of herself.”

Marcus Winston smiled. “Who knows what goes through a mother's head?”

“Not much of a conversationalist, your nephew,” Rye observed, “but he's a good horseman—cutting Sophie out of the pack like that. Of course, she allowed it, or he'd never have managed.”

“Riding was one of the few skills my brother imparted to his son.”

“Not much impressed with him, are you?”

“My nephew? Oh, he'll do well enough—when he's had a chance to grow up. Miss Langford rides well.”

Rye jumped as he realized his gaze had drifted back to Portia once more. Her copper-colored habit was a colorful splash against the greenery of Hyde Park…

“You don't mind if I ride ahead with her?” Winston asked casually. “Only to keep a better eye on our cubs, of course.”

And Rye could say nothing to object—no matter how much he would have liked to.

***

It seemed to Miranda that Almack'
s remained exactly as it had when she made her own debut there. As they came into the assembly rooms, she could almost feel time folding in around her.

Only the fashions had changed, she thought wryly. In her day, the ladies had still been wearing frilled tuckers, and nearly every skirt had sported a train…

Within moments they were surrounded, and Sophie was filling out her dance card. Rye went off to arrange his partners for the evening; Lady Stone claimed Portia's assistance in getting settled in the most comfortable chair the assembly rooms boasted, and Miranda was once more left to her memories.

But she did not indulge herself for long, for she could feel Marcus approaching even before she saw him. She braced herself for his smile, for his touch.

“I missed you this morning,” he said with a conventional bow. But rather than merely brushing the back of her hand with his lips, as politeness dictated, and then releasing her, he stroked her palm with his fingertips. “You would have enjoyed the ride, I think, for it ended up being a lively group. Lady Flavia and Lord Randall joined us… and Robert Wellingham.”

There was the faintest flicker in his voice. It wasn't amusement, surely, Miranda thought. Was it challenge, perhaps? Satisfaction that she had missed an opportunity to cement her standing with the banker? Regret that he hadn't been able to watch her try?

She shrugged. “I thought it less likely to cause comment if Sophie went out with her brother and her friend instead of making a foursome of it.”

Marcus didn't comment.

Sophie came up to them. “Mama, I have to take my place now for the first set. But if Lord Carrisbrooke comes to talk to you, tell him I kept my promise from this morning and saved the first waltz for him.”

She was off before Miranda could answer.

“I hope you were not going to protest,” Marcus said.

“No. You're right about opposition only making her more determined. And she does seem to be set on having him; even Rye was taken aback by how firmly she says it.”

“That might work to our advantage. Even young men who are head over heels in love prefer being the pursuer, not the prey.”

“Well, I could almost wish the tiresome boy would come down with… not measles, I suppose; I don't wish him anything that's dangerous. But can you not find an excuse to take him home to Sussex?”

“I could. But I will not.”

“Because that would only increase the attraction between them; I know.”

“No. Because taking him down to Carris Abbey means I would have to leave you behind, Miranda, and I would regret not being able to see you every day.”

There was a sensual note to his voice that told her he wasn't thinking of formal visits, but of a much more intimate sort of contact—and the reminder of the morning they'd spent in his bed created a rush of warmth and wetness between her legs.

“I've told you I have no intention of repeating that.”

Marcus gave her a long and lazy smile that was as intimate as a caress—and she realized that she'd given herself away. She should have made the conventional reply, as she would have done to any other gentleman, merely expressing regret at missing a formal call.

“I did not think you a coward, Miranda—until this morning. But refusing to ride? What other explanation can I believe, except that you are too afraid of your feelings to trust yourself around me?”

“Arrogance is hardly your most attractive attribute, sir.” But part of her whispered,
He's only telling the truth.

“My dear, I assure you that no man can seduce a lady while she's on horseback—though it's flattering of you to think I might be the exception to that law.”

Miranda would have said it was impossible to seduce a woman while standing at the edge of the dance floor at Almack's under the watchful gaze of all the patronesses, but he seemed to be doing just fine with that. The air sizzled between them, even though he'd finally let go of her hand and was standing at a distance that was perfectly polite.

“Leave Carrisbrooke to me,” he suggested.

“I don't see you doing much about it!”

“On the contrary. My nephew and I had a lengthy conversation about beauty this morning on our way to Hyde Park.”

“And he quoted Byron to tell you that it walks like the night, I suppose?” Miranda knew she sounded waspish, but she no longer cared.

“No, my dear. I imparted the wisdom of my many years of experience and pointed out that a Beauty is always arrogant, spoiled, self-satisfied, and notoriously difficult to manage. And since good looks never last as long as arrogance and self-satisfaction do, it is far more sensible to choose a woman who will show gratitude for the honor of a man's name, not make his life miserable with her whims.”

“Do you believe that's true?”

Marcus looked down at her, his eyes gleaming. “Of course not. You, my dear, are remarkably beautiful and will no doubt remain so—without being arrogant, spoiled, or self-satisfied.” He added thoughtfully, “Though you
are
perhaps just a trifle difficult to manage. As for your whims, it would be my pleasure to—”

“I wasn't talking about me. I meant, do you think Sophie is spoiled and… all those things?”

“No.” The tinge of humor had faded from his voice. “I think you've done a marvelous job. But Carrisbrooke already believes that he ought to listen to me—”

“Because of the incredible breadth of your experience with women, I suppose?”

“Of course,” Marcus said easily. “And every time Miss Ryecroft shows impatience with him, he's going to have even more faith that I am a fountain of wisdom.”

“You're remarkably certain she'll do so. But if she truly is determined to snare him…”

“You would have enjoyed the ride this morning, Miranda, particularly the moment when your daughter cut Carrisbrooke off midline in his peroration about love—I think it was Shelley he was quoting—so she could listen to Wellingham talk about banking.”

“I would have liked to see that,” Miranda admitted.

“Then we must set up another opportunity. Not tomorrow, perhaps—there is a risk of having too much of a good thing. But we could ride the day after that.”

The first country dance ended, and just as Sophie's partner brought her back to Miranda, Carrisbrooke turned up as well. He greeted Miranda politely, spoke respectfully to his uncle, and bowed to Sophie. “This is my dance, I believe,” he said, and she laid a hand on his arm.

Marcus intervened. “But this is a waltz, isn't it?” Amusement crept into his voice. “Miss Ryecroft, I'm sure Carrisbrooke has told you about the last time he waltzed. It was at a private party, with Lady Jersey.”

Miranda saw an awkward flush sweep over Carrisbrooke's face and felt sorry for the boy.

“What happened?” Sophie asked suspiciously. Her gaze flicked from uncle to nephew.

“She… she told me not to take the floor at Almack's until I finished dancing lessons,” Carrisbrooke admitted.

Miranda winced in sympathy. All the patronesses were known for sharp tongues; it seemed to be a requirement for the position. But for anyone to tell a young man
that
!

“But I've saved this dance for you,” Sophie burst out. Then, to Miranda's relief, she regained control of her temper. “We'll just sit it out, then.”

“Nonsense,” Marcus said. “A Beauty must not be seen sitting out such an important dance—your first waltz at Almack's. Will you accept me as a poor substitute, Miss Ryecroft?”

Miranda's jaw dropped. Before she could recover, Marcus and Sophie had moved onto the floor, and she was left with Carrisbrooke.

“I've
had
dancing lessons,” he said. “They didn't help. But Miss Ryecroft was so set on this waltz…”

“Ah yes.” Miranda recognized a cue when she heard one. “My daughter is”—what was that string of adjectives Marcus had used?—“difficult to manage. It's like her to assume that you should bend to her wishes without ever considering yours.” She hoped that Sophie would never hear what she'd said.

“But she's so beautiful,” Carrisbrooke said wistfully. “I wish I could learn. She deserves someone who doesn't dance as if he has two left feet.”

Miranda felt so sorry for him that she forgot herself. “I taught my son to waltz, though I thought for a while that he
did
have two left feet. But look at him now.” She glanced across the floor to where Rye was sweeping past, with Juliana Farling in his arms.

When she looked back at Carrisbrooke, she was stunned at the hopeful—almost worshipful—look in his eyes. “Will you teach me, ma'am? Please?”

She took a long breath and let it out. The Carrisbrooke men, she thought, were absolutely impossible.

Both
of them.

Fifteen

Taking the floor with Carrisbr
ooke's uncle was scarcely the way Sophie had pictured her first waltz ever in London society. It was apparent that Marcus Winston understood, for as the first notes sounded, he clasped her hand lightly and said, “You will not crush me by admitting the truth, Miss Ryecroft. I must seem a poor substitute for my nephew, but I assure you, I am the better dancer. Of course, he will learn, given time and practice.”

Sophie admitted, “I'd prefer my partners
not
fall over my toes.”

“I shall endeavor to give satisfaction. Are you enjoying Almack's?”

Sophie gave him a pert smile. “That's a dangerous question, sir, for if I say no, I'll appear spoiled and tiresome, and if I say yes, I'll appear unfashionably easy to please.”

He laughed. “Then I beg you will tell me the truth.”

“It's old looking, isn't it? Not at all grand, as I had expected.”

“It is the reputation, and not the surroundings, that makes these assemblies so exclusive. I'm afraid I cannot tell you much more than that about Almack's, as this is my first visit in many years. Since I danced here with your mother, in fact, the winter before she married.”

“Truly? That was her only Season. Do you remember it well—dancing with her?”

“Very well indeed,” he murmured. “Tell me, Miss Ryecroft, which of the gentlemen you have met so far capture your fancy?”

Sophie shot a look up at him and almost said,
Carrisbrooke
, before she remembered that she must be discreet. It would hardly be wise to tell him that she'd made up her mind to have Carrisbrooke when no offer had been made. Was he testing her somehow? Trying to find out how she felt about his nephew? “I can hardly say. I do not know any of them well enough as yet.”

He smiled. “It is circumspect of you not to declare a favorite.”

She felt rewarded somehow, but not yet entirely out of danger. “But there is someone I'd like to know more about, and I believe you could tell me—if you will.”

“It would please me a great deal to be the confidant of the Season's premiere Beauty. Though I must warn you, after so many years away from England, I have not memorized the dossiers of every gentleman of the
ton
, so if that is the sort of information you seek, you would far better apply to Lady Stone or to Miss Langford.”

Sophie was startled. “Portia? But she's nearly as new to London as I am. She only came to Lady Stone right before the Season started.”

“Nevertheless, it seems she is wise in the ways of the world. Who is it you wish to know more of?”

“Mr. Wellingham. I see he is not here this evening, but is it true, as Portia told me, that he would not be allowed in?”

“I don't read the patronesses' minds, and their restrictions are sometimes eccentric rather than logical, but I believe it likely.”

“Just because he made his money himself instead of inheriting it?”

“In fact, he did inherit a large chunk of it.”

“I know. He told me about his grandfather.”

He looked at her oddly. “Did he, now?”

“So there is a difference between moneylending grandfathers and estate-owning ones? Yet they allowed Mr. Brummell to come to Almack's, and his father was a valet.”

“True—but the Beau was a different sort of case. What the prince regent fancies is by definition fashionable. What fascinates you so about Mr. Wellingham?”

She considered the question for a moment. “Only that he is different from anyone else I've ever met.” It was true enough, as far as it went. And even if someday Marcus Winston might be family if she married his nephew, he was still a stranger now. She couldn't throw herself on his mercy and share her deepest suspicions about Mr. Wellingham having designs on her mother. She smiled brightly at him.

“Miss Ryecroft, you are unique. Tell me about your home.”

She seized the change of subject gratefully, and she was startled when the dance was finished and she found herself once more in front of her mother and Carrisbrooke.

The young earl rushed toward her. “I am certain Miss Ryecroft would like a glass of lemonade,” Marcus Winston said.

Sophie put her hand on Carrisbrooke's arm. “Thank you, Mr. Winston.”

He bowed.

“Lady Ryecroft has agreed to give me dancing lessons,” Carrisbrooke said eagerly.

He reminded her of something, Sophie thought idly. A newborn colt, perhaps…

From the corner of the ballroom, Portia waved at her. Sophie sent Carrisbrooke off to the refreshment room for them and sank into a chair next to Portia's, fanning herself.

“Are you having fun, Sophie?”

“These things are such a bore,” Sophie drawled, in her best imitation of Lady Flavia Summersby. Then she grinned. “Of course I am. And you?”

“What do you think, silly goose? There is a vast difference between coming to Almack's as the companion of an elderly lady and attending as the friend and sometime chaperone of the Season's most acclaimed Beauty. There's an enormous benefit to being the one standing next to you when your dance card is filled up, you must know. The young men simply turn to me next.”

“Not all of them,” Sophie pointed out. “I saw you waltzing with Lord Whitfield, and he didn't ask me, you know. Only you.”

Portia gave her a sideways glance. “Does that upset you?”

“That he's not interested in me? No.” She wrinkled her nose. “Well, perhaps a little. Did you see Rye waltzing with Juliana Farling? I wasn't sure she'd have the nerve to go out onto the floor. I think her mother may have pinched her. I know, I'm behaving badly.”

Portia glanced around to be certain no one was close enough to hear. “I think it wasn't a pinch from her mother, but the look on Amalie Mickelthorpe's face when she realized Juliana was Rye's choice for the first waltz.”

“What a difference a few days makes. Even Lady Flavia was eyeing Rye before the dancing started, and I think she put him down for a waltz as well.”

“Lord Ryecroft is making a dent in society…” All the liveliness drained out of Portia's voice. “My lord.”

“Miss Langford.” Lord Swindon bowed deeply. “Surely you have not been abandoned by your partner so soon after the waltz was over? How unflattering of him. I would not have so lightly left your side.”

“I'm honored by your regard, of course,” Portia said coolly.

“I've come to beg a dance—if I am not too late?”

“Regrettably, my card is full.”

“Then I must act earlier next time.” His gaze slipped to Sophie. “Miss Ryecroft.”

Sophie, still admiring how much Portia had conveyed by the tone of her voice, was surprised to be noticed. “My lord, we missed you at the Farlings' musicale.”

“There are limits to my endurance.” Seemingly oblivious to Portia's set-down, he took a chair beside her. “But had I known that you wanted me there, Miss Langford…” He was no longer looking at Sophie.

Carrisbrooke came back with three glasses of lemonade balanced between his hands, then stood, looking foolishly between the drinks and the ladies as if wondering how to divest himself of them. His first attempt sent lemonade over the rim, narrowly missing Portia's hem and Lord Swindon's breeches. The earl rose, his jaw tight and irritation evident in his voice. “You oaf!”

“No harm done,” Portia said quickly. She extracted a glass from Carrisbrooke's hands and thanked him. “Perhaps we could take a turn about the floor, my lord, while I sip my drink.”

Carrisbrooke managed to shift a glass into Sophie's hand without drenching her and sat down beside her. “Calling
me
an oaf,” he said bitterly. “I was tempted to draw his cork.”

“That would have put paid to your hopes of waltzing at Almack's. You can't punch a gentleman in the face
here
, you sapskull!”

Carrisbrooke looked stunned. “But for him to speak that way in front of you, Miss Ryecroft…”

Sophie remembered—too late—that telling one's intended he was a dolt was no way to move a romance forward, and drew breath to apologize.

“It's just a good thing Miss Langford wanted to go for a stroll, or I would have planted him a facer.”

“But she
didn't
want to go off with him. She took him away so you wouldn't create a scene.” And Portia had done it so smoothly that Carrisbrooke would never have dreamed he was being treated like a child, if it hadn't been for Sophie opening her mouth. “Never mind. Next time, my lord, have a waiter bring the glasses on a tray.”

“Oh. Didn't think of that.”

Shallow brooks murmur most,
Sophie thought and wondered if he would recognize the line. Wellingham would, she was almost certain, and he wouldn't mistake it for flattery either. The corner of his mouth would twitch, and his eyes would twinkle, and then in that dry way of his, he would top her comment with something just as sly…

It occurred to her that her question to Marcus Winston had garnered her precisely no new information about Robert Wellingham, but like Portia, Winston had turned the conversation so smoothly that she hadn't noticed until now.

Toast of the Season or not,
she told herself,
you have a lot to learn.

***

Miranda tapped her toe impatiently t
hroughout the first waltz. When it was finally over and Marcus returned her daughter to her, Sophie's face was alight with laughter and the two of them seemed to be on the best of terms.

Carrisbrooke jumped up from his chair next to Miranda's. “Lady Ryecroft has agreed to give me dancing lessons,” he told Sophie.

Marcus raised an eyebrow and sent the children off in search of lemonade. “Miranda, what inspired you to do such a thing?”

“I might ask you the same question.”

“Don't be a goose. You know why I danced with your daughter.”

“You didn't have to flirt with her!”

“Do you think it likely that Miss Ryecroft will get the wrong idea from a single waltz? If you wish, I'll go and flirt with all the other young ladies present tonight, so she doesn't feel she's been singled out.”

Miranda's jaw snapped tight.

“My darling, green only looks good on you when it's in the form of a gown.”

“I am not jealous.”

“Of course not. There's a secluded little corner not far from the ballroom, just large enough for you and me. Perhaps we should take this discussion there.”

“I didn't know there were any such corners at Almack's.”

“Neither did I, the last time we were here together. If I had—”

“You wouldn't have dared.”

“Perhaps not. Your father was a force to contend with in those days.” He paused. “He's why you married Henry, isn't he?”

“Not entirely,” she admitted. “My father wanted me to be settled well, yes, but he didn't push for the match, because he didn't believe Henry would offer for me.”

“But when Henry came up to scratch, both of you leaped at the chance. Oh, I don't blame you, Miranda—he was everything a girl dreams of. Good looks, charm, title, estate, fortune.” There was a cynical twist in his voice. “Or at least it appeared that way at the time.”

“And I was in love with him,” Miranda said softly. “I didn't know then that first love doesn't last. I have often wondered…”

“Wondered what, Miranda?”

“Nothing,” she said firmly. “At least, nothing that pertains to the problem we face. But that's why I don't want Sophie to marry Carrisbrooke.”

“Because first love doesn't last?”

“Exactly.” She looked across the floor, where the sets were forming for the next country dance. “If you're going to flirt with every young lady who's here tonight, Marcus, you'd best get started. I imagine all the ladies adore your accent. Even I find it fascinating to listen to the combination of Eton, Oxford, and Boston.”

“If you will only slip off with me to that secluded little nook…”

“I am absolutely not going to repeat what happened last night.”

He smiled. “Don't get starchy on me, Miranda. I was only going to offer to whisper in your ear.” He kissed her hand. “Since we're not riding tomorrow, may I expect your visit in the morning?”

“Certainly not.”

“One can but try.” He bowed and took himself off, and a few minutes later she saw him partnering Amalie Mickelthorpe in the country dance.

Miranda swallowed hard and turned away. Of course she had made the right decision. It would be even more difficult to watch if she was his mistress in truth.

But she couldn't help but wonder where that hidden little corner was to be found—and if he would take another woman there tonight.

***

On the day before Lady Stone's ball,
Portia carried her notebook into the ballroom to check on the final preparations. She was looking at her list instead of around the room, so she didn't see the young footman who was zooming around the dance floor as if it were a frozen lake, using rags for ice skates, until he plowed into her. She went flying backward, expecting to hit the edge of the still-open door. Instead a pair of arms closed round her, holding her safely. Breathless with relief, she let her head fall back against Rye's warm, solid shoulder.

From just above her ear, he demanded, “What the
hell
do you think you're doing?”

“Making certain the greenery is—”

“Not you,” he growled. “I wouldn't swear at you.
Him.

The young footman gulped and hung his head.

“Exactly what I told him to do, Lord Ryecroft,” Portia said. “Polish the wax on the dance floor. If he has fun while he's doing it, that's not my affair.”

“Nevertheless,” Rye said sharply, “watch where you're going from now on.”

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