Just One Season in London (22 page)

The footman's voice cracked. “Yes, sir.”

“Now, really,” Portia said as the young man tiptoed away. Suddenly becoming aware that the room was full of interested servants, she reluctantly disentangled herself from his arms. She'd felt warm there and safe and…
Better not to think about it
. “Lord Ryecroft, I've never seen you yell at a servant before.”

“He might have hurt you.” He retrieved her notebook and handed it to her.

Portia led the way across the hall into the drawing room. “But he didn't. You were there to save me.” She saw his brows draw together and added hastily, “All right—I didn't want to terrify the boy, but I'll admit that could have been a disastrous accident. As I was falling, all I could think of was that if I hit the door, I'd likely not be able to wear my new ball gown after all, because of the bruises.”

Rye grunted. “
That's
what you were thinking as you fell?”

“Well, not quite. Thank you, my lord. You did save me from a nasty fall.”

“Anytime. Where is everyone, anyway?”

So much for the moment when she'd felt important to him; apparently
everyone
didn't include her. “Lady Stone is still in bed, Sophie went riding with a party of young ladies, and Lady Ryecroft has gone out to shop.” Portia flipped the notebook open to her checklist.

“Shop? What can she possibly need?”

“It's different for men. You could wear the same dark blue coat to every event all Season, and no one would pay much attention. But ladies can't be seen to wear the same gown more than a few times, especially when they're the center of attention, as Sophie is. Already her wardrobe needs to be replenished.”

“But what's Mama shopping for?”

“How should I know? Perhaps she's going to take Sophie's advice and come to the ball wearing scarlet. Or perhaps she's shopping for Sophie—the dressmaker has all her measurements, so Lady Ryecroft could simply choose the fabrics without Sophie even being present.” She ran a finger down her checklist.
Wax and polish floor—Done. Replace candles—Done. Hang greenery…
“You're usually gone to your club by this time of the morning—or you're out calling on heiresses. Why are you hanging around here and being such a bear this morning, anyway?”

For a moment she thought he wasn't going to answer. Then he said quietly, “It's the idea that Sophie needs more clothes.”

“Oh. Because that means more money to be laid out.”

He nodded. “The quarter's rent that Wellingham paid for the manor—it's almost gone.” He ran a finger around his collar. “It seemed like such a lot, at first. But then the bills starting coming in.”

She stepped a little closer to him, laid a hand on his lapel, and looked up, intending to make some comforting comment about things turning out all right in the end. But the words felt so inane that she couldn't force them out. How
could
it be all right, when Sophie's best chance of a rich marriage was an infatuated boy who wasn't yet out of his teens? When Rye's best chance of a rich marriage was Amalie Mickelthorpe?

His hands came to rest on her shoulders, and suddenly his mouth brushed hers, soft and pleading. Portia was too startled to resist. He drew her closer, his body hard and urgent against hers. But his lips were still gentle—asking rather than commanding—as he tugged at her lower lip and nipped the corners of her mouth. She felt tiny and precious in his arms, nurtured and cared for and safe… and she melted into him, her hand curving around his neck, her fingertips tangling in the springy curls at his nape.

His tongue explored her mouth. “You taste like coffee,” he murmured against her lips.

The rumble of his voice vibrated through her, caressing her breasts and sending a streak of heat through her belly.

“Oh God, Portia…”

As if her name had jolted him, he jerked away, breaking the kiss but continuing to hold her tightly against him. He expelled a long breath, reached up to peel her hand away from the back of his neck, and eased her away from him.

“I'm sorry,” he said. “For a moment I forgot myself.”

Embarrassment swept over her—then Portia told herself she'd simply been taken off guard by the situation. It wasn't that she'd
wanted
him to kiss her. All right, that was a lie. But it was perfectly clear he'd been overcome by a whim and he hadn't meant anything by it.

They had been living under the same roof, in this forced proximity, for so long now that their defenses had gone down—that was all. Portia had tried to tell Lady Stone at the beginning that this was a dangerous plan… She just hadn't realized exactly where the danger lay, and that was why she'd been taken aback.

Feeling dreary, she said, “What will you do?”

“Make an offer at the ball tomorrow.”

The tone of his voice—firm, determined—made Portia feel cold. “An offer for whom? Or does it matter? Perhaps you can just flip a coin as the ball starts, or wait to see which of the ladies on your list greets you with the biggest smile, before you decide.”

To Portia's surprise, he seemed to take her question seriously. “Juliana Farling, most likely.”

“Amalie Mickelthorpe has a larger dowry.” She wasn't sure what had made her say it. “As long as you're going to marry for money, you should make the effort worthwhile.”

“I don't think I could bear to hear that voice of hers day after day.”

And night after night as well
, Portia thought.

“At least Miss Farling is…” He paused, as if he didn't know how to go on.

And perhaps he didn't, Portia realized. What more was there to say? Juliana Farling was a cipher, a nothing. She seemed to have no opinions of her own, no convictions, no beliefs. She wasn't even a woman, really—at least, obviously not to Lord Ryecroft. She would be a body to occupy his bed and give him an heir…

And that was exactly what he had come to London to find. So why should Portia be surprised now—or disappointed by his decision?

***

Until the moment she let the knocker
fall on the front door of Marcus's house in Bloomsbury, Miranda had kept telling herself that she wouldn't go through with her plan. Even when she'd strolled two blocks away from Grosvenor Square before climbing into a hackney… Even when she'd told the jarvey to take her to Bloomsbury… Even when she paid the fare and climbed out… Even when she'd stood on the step with her hand raised…

She could have still backed out. But she didn't.

She had seen Marcus half a dozen times in the past week, and every time she'd laid eyes on him, her longing had grown stronger. Every time they met, he had suggested an assignation—and he had told her in detail where he would like to take her and what he planned to do there. She now knew that there was a private room at the booksellers and a hidden alcove under the stairs at Lady Sprague's house and a handy corner off a concert hall near Piccadilly Circus.

She even knew that the music room in Lady Stone's house was a favorite with the rakes. Marcus had told her about that one morning when he'd sat in on Carrisbrooke's dancing lessons.

Not that Miranda had gone with him to all the places he described. At least, physically she had not. But in her dreams…

And twice she had given in to temptation. In a thickly curtained window embrasure in St. James Square, he had kissed her so thoroughly that she was astounded afterward when no one seemed to notice. And after the dinner party they'd attended last night, he'd served up the most memorable dessert of her life by intercepting her in their host's conservatory and taking her behind a dense screen of palm trees, where he'd knelt and used his tongue to bring her to climax.

Then he had taken her back to the party. She'd still been quaking from the aftershocks, but he had asked nothing for himself.

Not that he hadn't wanted more. That had been abundantly clear from his body's responses and the way he had kissed her afterward. Miranda had not been able to sleep because of the guilt she'd felt about being satiated by that incredibly powerful climax, while knowing that he must be frustrated beyond bearing.

She told herself it had been his choice to visit the conservatory and his fault if he was disappointed, for she hadn't encouraged him. Except she knew in her heart she hadn't exactly
discouraged
him either. That was why, after her largely sleepless night, she had come to Bloomsbury. She would restore the balance by satisfying him as he had satisfied her last night. Then she could truly declare an end—and this time she would mean it.

The manservant answered the door. Without a word, he stepped back to invite her inside. As he was showing her to the same small reception room where she had waited last time, a door opened farther down the hall, and Marcus looked out. “Evans, have you seen…?”

Miranda stepped out from behind the manservant and stood, silent and still, in the center of the hall.

Marcus blinked as if he didn't believe what he saw. He gestured the servant away, and Miranda started toward him.

The hallway seemed very long, and the closer she got to him, the more urgency she felt. But she kept her steps short, because she noticed the way his eyes had widened as he watched her walk toward him with her hips swaying and her head high.

She reached him and glanced over his shoulder into a small, cozy library set up as a businesslike office. There was a big desk at the center of the room and two large chairs in front of the fire.

“This will do,” she said primly and saw disappointment in his eyes. No doubt he'd hoped she would suggest they go straight to his bedroom. Now he probably thought she'd come for a talk… perhaps to beg him to stop seducing her with every word he spoke to her, every brush of his hand.

“What brings you here this morning, Miranda?”

She waited until he had closed the door, and then she began to unbutton her gloves. “It seems unfair that recently you have only been able to watch my pleasure, not feel your own.”

“I assure you, I enjoy our encounters, Miranda.”

“But surely not as much as you would under other circumstances.” She laid her gloves aside and ran her fingers down his chest, over the embroidered waistcoat to the front of his pantaloons, where his erection jutted, and she smiled as she loosened the fastenings and took him between her hands.

He drew in a short, sharp breath.

“I don't know why I didn't think of this last night in the conservatory.” She knelt, brushing her lips against the velvety tip of his penis. “I suppose because I've never done it before.” Her touch was tentative, exploratory. He tasted salty. In a way, she thought, he reminded her of caviar.

He groaned, and his breathing grew uneven.

She pulled back. “Am I hurting you?”

“Yes,” he said roughly, and she hesitated. But she didn't believe him, so she gave a tentative lick to the soft skin.

He flung out one arm and, with a single sweep, cleared the desktop of papers, inkwell, and candlestick—fortunately not lit at the moment. Then he lifted her and set her on the edge of the desk. “I'll happily allow you to experiment some other time.” His voice was harsh. “But after a full week of teasing, I want—I need—to be inside you. Right now.” He fumbled with her skirt—the first time, Miranda noted almost calmly, that he'd been anything but suave and controlled. Then he parted her legs, and with a single long, hard thrust, he buried himself deeply inside her.

She should have felt violated. He had not been gentle, and he had not taken time to make certain she was ready for him.

Then she saw the relief on his face as he realized that she was wet and slick and welcoming. Tenderness swept over her, and she threw her head back and gave herself up to the pleasure of his possession.

“Tell me this is what you want,” he whispered, and Miranda had to admit that she had lied to herself. She had thought she could come here and coolly minister to him as he had to her… but the truth was that she needed more. She wanted him above her and inside her. She wanted to feel once more the heat and power of his lovemaking. She needed to be swept away by what they were doing together, not only because of what he did to her.

Her last coherent thought fled in the sensations he aroused as he began to move inside her.

She clung to him as he rocked with her, faster and faster, and she whispered his name as she toppled over the edge. An instant later he drove even deeper into her and groaned in release.

In the aftermath, he leaned over the desk, bracing himself with one hand, his other arm still cradling her, his face buried in the curve of her neck. The harsh gasps of his breath seemed to scour her skin.

“You're not as shy as you used to be, Miranda.” He still sounded breathless as he slowly—almost reluctantly—withdrew from her.

She felt shy right now—sitting there like a hussy, her skirt creased around her waist, her body still aflame, too embarrassed by the power of her response and the wantonness of her conduct to answer.

“I wish I had time to take you upstairs and finish this properly.”

She wondered why he couldn't, and then told herself crisply that it was none of her business. In any case, she couldn't afford to disappear from Grosvenor Square for hours again, raising questions about where she had been.

She slid off the desk and shook out her skirts. “That's all right,” she said as calmly as she could. “Though that wasn't what I intended to happen today, I believe you found the encounter satisfactory.”

“Satisfactory?” His eyes narrowed. “What are you up to, Miranda?”

“Just what I said. Things between us have seemed… unfair… in the last few days. I've been weak, and I have allowed you to believe that we could go on indefinitely. Now we're even.”

His jaw tightened.