Just One Season in London (24 page)

Lady Stone beamed. “I never thought I'd see the day when
you'd
be willing to take a sporting chance! Done, my girl. I'll lay a diamond bracelet against…” She considered and said slyly, “What would you like to give me when I win?”

Portia started to point out that she'd only been offering an opinion, not agreeing to a wager. Then something cracked deep inside her, and a surge of recklessness swept through her veins. She was tired of acting sensible and practical—of always being the voice of reason. If Lord Ryecroft was cork-brained enough to offer for Amalie Mickelthorpe despite knowing that the sound of her voice already grated on him—as though he thought that rasp would get better with increased intimacy!—Portia might as well benefit to the tune of a diamond bracelet.

“I'll stake that bonus you were talking of, ma'am. But since it must be a large bonus, in line with the amount of work this ball has been, you'll need to make it a nice diamond bracelet.”

Lady Stone chuckled merrily. “Done. I like a wager that's got some spirit to it. Oh, now, look at that.”

Portia glanced over her shoulder, just in time to see Rye lean down to Juliana Farling and say something that made the young woman go all soft-faced and starry-eyed.

She felt her heart drop to her toes.

“Yes.” Lady Stone clicked her tongue with satisfaction. “One match at least before the evening's out… Unless you'd you care to raise the stakes and bet on two?”

***

Carrisbrooke's dancing lessons had helped
a great deal to keep his partners from being trampled on, but in Sophie's opinion, he now had a great deal more self-confidence than his skill warranted. She hadn't been able to refuse him a waltz, but accepting him as a partner was a great deal different from looking forward to dancing with him, she thought wearily, spotting him standing at the edge of the floor waiting for her to finish a set.

He had obviously been watching her and her partner, the Earl of Swindon, as they progressed through the country dance that preceded the second waltz of the evening. As Carrisbrooke presented himself, Swindon said in his cool, bored way, “Such enthusiasm must not be denied, I believe.” He strolled away.

“If you're so excited about dancing,” Sophie said, “I don't know why you haven't asked someone else instead of simply standing there watching me all evening.”

Carrisbrooke beamed. “You've been watching me as well, then. It's because I only want to dance with you, Miss Ryecroft, not any of the other girls. I still don't understand why you wouldn't have me as a partner for the first dance.”

“It's not that I
wouldn't
,” Sophie said with more diplomacy than truth. “I
couldn't
. To have led off the ball with you would have been as good as making a declaration that we were betrothed.”

“But what would be wrong with that?”

Everything.
The instant mental protest made her feel guilty, so she kept her voice light and amused. “To begin with, you haven't asked me.”

“Only because your brother and my uncle felt it was too soon. But since you're expecting my offer… shall I get down on one knee?”

“In the middle of a ballroom? Have you no sense at all?”

He seized her hand instead and raised it to his lips. “
Have I caught my heav'nly jewel
…? That's by Sir Philip Sidney, by the way.”

Irritated beyond measure, Sophie snapped, “Oh, do please stop behaving like a child!”

Carrisbrooke went silent, and suddenly, under the boyish enthusiasm, she could see the man he would someday be.

“I didn't mean…” she began warily.

“A child, am I? I've noticed you seem to prefer older men.”

“I prefer sensible ones,” Sophie admitted.

“My uncle was right. You
are
a heartless Beauty, thinking only of yourself.
And
you have a want of breeding, to prefer a moneylender to me.”

She was outraged. “Your uncle said I lack breeding? I cannot believe that Mr. Winston said any such thing!”

“No, I saw that part all on my own.” He sounded proud of himself. “And I don't want to dance with you anymore.”

Clearly his moment of maturity had passed. “Good. Go away, my lord.”

All she wanted was to sit for a while, anyway. Perhaps even—if there weren't so many people about—put her head down on her mama's shoulder for a moment and be soothed.

But though Lady Ryecroft, in her bittersweet dress, was not difficult to spot even in the crowded ballroom, she obviously hadn't seen Sophie's distress, for she was otherwise occupied. She had just left the floor after a country dance with Robert Wellingham, and she was laughing with him as if they were the most intimate of friends.

Sophie barely noticed when Carrisbrooke stomped off. But she felt the ripple when others in the ballroom realized that she was suddenly standing alone at the edge of the floor.

Marcus Winston strolled up and handed her a glass of lemonade. “It seems my nephew has yet to learn tact.”

“And a great many other things as well.” Sophie caught herself and added primly, “But knowing a man's faults is a positive thing, for then a woman understands what adjustments would be necessary in herself, should they decide they suit.”

“There's nothing wrong with the boy that time won't cure. Give him a year or two.” He watched Carrisbrooke move across the floor. “Or, more likely, five. It will take him longer to grow up than it has your brother.”

He had a point, and Sophie knew it. Carrisbrooke
was
simply young. With time he'd be less foolish, less flighty, less silly. Also more self-confident, a great deal harder to manipulate, and a far better bargain as a husband.

“I don't have a year or two to wait,” she said, almost to herself.

“I believe you are mistaken, M
iss Ryecroft. There
is
time. I urge you to take it—and to make no decisions that you cannot later modify.”

“My brother cannot afford a second Season for me.”

“Circumstances change—and not only for your brother.”

Winston wasn't looking at her. She followed his gaze across the ballroom to her mother, who had just laid a hand on Wellingham's arm.

Obviously Winston recognized the peculiar intimacy of that combination just as clearly as Sophie did. He beckoned, and Wellingham nodded, lifted Lady Ryecroft's hand to his lips with a courtly gesture, then left her standing with a group of matrons and crossed the room toward them.

“Miss Ryecroft needs a partner for this waltz,” Winston said. “I should be the one to oblige, since it is my nephew who so rudely left the belle of the ball standing alone, but I regret that I am already committed.”

“It would be my pleasure,” Wellingham said. “Miss Ryecroft?”

She had noticed long ago how beautiful his voice was, but never before had she realized that he could turn her name into a poem far more powerful than the lines Carrisbrooke spouted with such facile ease.

The music began, and Sophie found herself floating onto the floor. When her fingers trembled in his grasp, he closed his warmly and reassuringly around them. His hand at the small of her back exerted just the right pressure to tell her which direction to move. She could close her eyes and still never miss a step.

She felt as if she had waltzed with him many times before—and as if she could dance on forever.

His gaze was steady, sober, as he studied her. “I must admit to being puzzled. Why did you choose me to lead you out in the first dance?”

Because I was thinking of my father…

But that wasn't the reason at all, Sophie realized. Though she hadn't forgotten for a moment what Wellingham had said, days ago now, about her looking at him as a father figure, it was not that image that had influenced her tonight. It had been the overwhelming feeling of safety she'd experienced when she'd looked at him there in the drawing room.

Or were those two things simply different sides of the same coin? Did she trust him because he was trying to marry her mother or in spite of it?

Sophie was feeling confused, but before she could puzzle it out, he'd swept her around the room again.

He really was an astoundingly good dancer, she mused, for someone who was seldom included in society balls. Sophie thought if every young woman in the room tonight could waltz with Robert Wellingham, he'd be so swamped with invitations that he'd never again have time for banking. Not that she was going to suggest it; she'd prefer to keep him for herself. There would be at least one more waltz of the evening… though regrettably, she'd already promised it to someone else.

Just as well. A third dance with the same man in an evening would have all the gossips twittering—and when the young woman was the guest of honor and the man was Robert Wellingham, everyone would notice.

“Those are lovely eardrops,” he said. “The diamonds are almost as bright and as beautiful as your eyes.”

“Oh, don't
you
start being poetical at me,” she scolded.

He laughed so merrily that Sophie found herself smiling back. “They were a gift from Lady Stone. At least, I think they were a gift, but perhaps she intended them only as a loan. I must remember to ask.”

“It's not the sort of thing she'd wear, so you can assume she intended you to keep them. Miss Ryecroft, I wish to host a picnic next week. Can you think of anyone who might like to help me plan it?”

Her eyes widened. “You know I love picnics.”

“That fact had slipped my mind.” But the twinkle in his eyes told her that he hadn't forgotten at all.

“If you're trying to win my favor, Mr. Wellingham”—for the first time, he looked just a little discomfited, and Sophie was pleased to have made a dent in his armor—“you're going about it all wrong, you know. It's not me you need to impress; it's my mama.”

“Indeed?”

“And you can't do that by walking away from her when Marcus Winston merely raises a finger to summon you. It's not at all flattering to Mama that you were paying so little attention to her that you saw Mr. Winston beckoning.” She lifted her chin a little. “In fact, I can't help but think that you may not be at all the thing for her.”

He laughed. “I am sliced to the quick, Miss Ryecroft.”

His laughter really was a beautiful thing. No wonder her mother had looked as if she was having such a good time…

Still, there was something about the idea Sophie didn't want to think about.

Portia watched from the shelter of a pillar in the corner of the ballroom as Carrisbrooke stormed away from Sophie, leaving her standing alone beside the dance floor. “
Two
matches to announce this evening, my lady?” she murmured. “Perhaps you'd like to back down from that prediction?”

“We only wagered on one,” Lady Stone pointed out. “And it's early yet. Where are you going?”

“To get Sophie. She can't just stand there alone.” But Portia realized Marcus Winston had already come to the rescue—had he been watching that scene play out?—so she settled back in her chair. “Is there anything I can do for you, Lady Stone? Would you care to lean on me for a stroll around the ballroom?”

Lady Stone's beady eyes gleamed. “I'm feeling remarkably fit tonight. Making a winning wager does that for me, you know—it's so uplifting to watch it play out. This must be your partner for the waltz, coming to claim you, so go and dance.”

Portia's intention had been to sit out the waltz, but she knew that staying at the edge of the floor would only give her the opportunity to watch every fleeting expression on Rye's face. It would be far better to be occupied, so she couldn't wonder what he might be saying to Juliana Farling as they swirled around the room.

She turned to greet her partner and stopped abruptly, for instead of the young man who had asked for this dance, it was Lord Swindon who bowed and offered his arm. “I do not think your name is on my card, my lord.”

“Your partner is indisposed. I've come to offer myself as substitute.”

Portia hesitated, but with Lady Stone right there, she could hardly point out that she didn't like the way Lord Swindon had held her when they waltzed. Then she remembered that soft, starry look on Juliana Farling's face, and she threw caution to the winds. If she was going to live on the edge tonight, why not dance with the rake as well? At least it would keep her mind off what might be happening on the other side of the ballroom…

As they took the floor, Swindon said, “Lady Stone is full of crochets and odd notions.”

“That's what I like about her.”

“It's a good thing you get on well with her, with a lifetime stretching ahead of you as a companion.”

A lifetime…

As the orchestra struck up the waltz, Portia let her gaze sweep across the ballroom and saw Rye and Juliana Farling strolling out into the hall. Surely they would not be going down for a cool drink, with the waltz about to begin. And the supper hour was still some time off.

No, they were clearly slipping away to some private spot. He wouldn't go off alone with Juliana unless he intended to propose. Or perhaps he had already spoken, and that starry-eyed look of Juliana's meant that she had said yes, and now the newly betrothed couple simply wanted privacy…

But what about the triumph on Amalie Mickelthorpe's face? Could Portia have been so wrong?

Stop it. It doesn't matter who he marries; it's over.

The ache in her chest would not let her deny the truth any longer. She had fallen in love with Rye.

But she quickly realized that only the admission was new. The pain of loving him was not fresh at all; it was a dull ache that must have been lingering inside her for weeks, waiting only for her defenses to drop.

The music started, but her feet seemed not to want to leave the floor at all. It took effort for her to fall into the rhythm of the waltz. At least Swindon seemed willing to obey the proprieties, and he didn't try to draw her into a closer embrace.

“There are options, of course,” Swindon said.

Options
? What was he talking about? Telling Rye what she'd discovered about herself?

As if that would make a difference. Not without a fortune to go with her feelings.

And even if she could conjure up enough money to rescue his beloved manor for all time, Portia was certain she would have been just another name on the list he and Lady Stone had assembled—a name to be kept in reserve, in case his first choices didn't work out. She would like to think she would have been high on that list, but that was only vanity speaking. If Amalie Mickelthorpe's voice bothered him enough that he'd opted to settle for a slightly smaller dowry, then Portia's outspoken opinions—along with the lack of deference she had shown him from the beginning—would no doubt have kept her out of consideration entirely.

Unless, of course, she had more money than Juliana Farling and Amalie Mickelthorpe put together. If that were the case, he'd no doubt convince himself he was besotted, at least long enough to win her hand… and that would be even worse.

No. Portia would not marry a man who made no secret of the fact that money was more important to him than anything else, for she would never be able to trust anything he said.

“You don't have to be a companion forever,” Swindon said. “At least, not a companion to an old lady.”

Lost in her thoughts, she didn't follow what he was saying. “What do you mean?”

Swindon laughed and drew her closer. “You don't really want to dance right now, do you?”

“No,” she said honestly.

They were at the edge of the dance floor, near the doorway, and with a gentle sweep of the music, he urged her out into the hallway.

Portia was so relieved to be away from prying eyes that, for a moment, she didn't realize he wasn't stopping there. Instead his hand tightened at the small of her back, and he urged her on into Lady Stone's music room and closed the door.

She wouldn't have been surprised to come face-to-face with Rye and Juliana Farling, but the room was empty, which left her with an entirely different problem.

“You're difficult to get alone long enough to ask a question,” Swindon said, and for once he sounded serious.

Portia was startled. Everyone in London knew that Lord Swindon was seeking a bride this year. But he had showed no partiality to any of the debutantes. Was it possible his eye had fallen on Portia? He'd told her he liked her spirit…

She should be flattered, of course, and pleased. But truly the last thing she wanted to deal with just now, with her senses in turmoil, was how to politely let down a gentleman who had worked up the courage to make an offer.

Wasn't it odd, though, that she'd had no hint of this before? He had sent that huge bouquet of yellow roses, of course… but surely a man who was developing a
tendre
for a woman gave off hints. Had she simply been so caught up in thinking about Rye—
no,
she argued to herself; she'd been caught up in thinking about Lady Stone's ball, not Rye—that she'd missed the signs?

Inside the music room, where only a single lamp glowed, his hold tightened. He caught her chin and turned her face up to his, then gave a low chuckle and kissed her, long and slowly.

Portia's body tightened in protest, and deliberately she forced herself to relax. What was so wrong about a stolen kiss, anyway? She'd made up her mind to live a little dangerously tonight—why not test this too? Perhaps she simply liked to be kissed, and that accounted for how she'd reacted when Rye had kissed her. And if Swindon was making her an offer…

No. Stealing a kiss, just to find out what it felt like to slip off with a rake, was one thing. But committing herself to such a man was something else entirely.

Swindon growled a little, pulling her even more tightly against his body. One hand pressed hard against her spine, grinding her against his pelvis. The hard contact jolted Portia out of her daydream. This was not a man to toy with. She leaned back, pushing against his chest, but she couldn't escape the steel of his grip.

He touched the cameo trinket at her throat, making it sway between her breasts. His eyes dilated; his fingertip trailed down her breastbone and under the edge of her neckline, rubbing the sensitive skin of her breast.

“My lord,” she said sternly.

“I will give you jewels to replace this trinket—rubies, I think, for the fire in you—and all you have to do is be nice to me.” He dropped his head to her breast and nuzzled her nipple. “I need a new mistress, and you'll do very well.”

Portia braced her hands against his waistcoat and pushed. “Let me go, sir.”

“How I will enjoy having you get starchy with me like this when we're in bed.”

She clenched her fist and swung at him.

He caught both her hands and mercilessly dragged them behind her. “You were willing enough a moment ago.”

“I thought…” She stopped herself too late.

He laughed. “You thought I was offering marriage? To
you
? A penniless companion? You're nothing but a tease, making promises with your eyes and then holding out for more. I've heard the stories about how you've led men on to think you had some kind of fortune—from a sugar plantation in the Caribbean, wasn't it? How convenient that it was so far away. One of them told me himself how lucky he was to discover the truth before he married you.”

“I never said—”

“You only hinted, didn't you? It was your aunt who spread the rumor. We'll take care of this right now,
Miss Langford
. After tonight you won't be so high-and-mighty.”

She struggled, but her efforts to break free of his punishing grip only pushed her harder against him, and she could feel his arousal growing. She opened her mouth to scream. But if they were discovered here…

“Go ahead and yell,” he said, “if you want to have society witness your shame.”

When she hesitated, he backed her against the wall, and his mouth came down hard on hers, muffling her protest.

She couldn't see past him, and she could barely hear over the pounding of blood in her ears. But suddenly there was a creak, and a shaft of light from the hallway cut through the gloom as the door opened.

***

The ball should have been a joy. Miranda ha
d looked forward to it, eager to see Rye and Sophie not just as guests at other people's parties, but as the central figures of their own. But when the first dance was finished and she retired from the set, all she could think of was how much she wanted the evening to be finished, so she could go to her room and try to sleep.

She had shared that first country dance with Marcus, and he'd said barely a word to her. As soon as the music ended, he bowed and went off to finish filling his card—at least, she assumed that was what he was doing, for after that, he was out on the floor for every dance—with Sophie, with Portia, with Juliana Farling, with Lady Flavia Summersby. When he stood up for a country dance with Amalie Mickelthorpe, Miranda turned her back.

After everything he had said about wanting her to wear colors, he hadn't even seemed to notice her dress. Oh, he'd been appropriately quiet when she'd walked into the drawing room, before the ball started, but his eyes hadn't popped—as she must admit she'd hoped for.

Of course, they hadn't exactly parted on good terms yesterday, when she'd left him standing on his doorstep while she rode off in Robert Wellingham's curricle.

She calculated. The supper dance was still a long way off; the ball would go on for at least three more hours. She didn't know if she could stand up so long, but she didn't want to sit down, for fear she'd nod off.

“I know it is not the polite thing to say,” Robert Wellingham told her, “but you seem tired, ma'am.”

“Truth is often not polite, Mr. Wellingham, but that doesn't make it any less true. Sometimes one devotes so much time and energy to getting ready for an event that the occasion itself does not live up to one's expectation.” She surveyed him. “It was kind of you to lead my daughter out in the first dance.”

“It was kind of her to include me by asking. She is an excellent dancer—like her mother, I suspect. Is your card filled, ma'am?”

“No. I could hardly refuse to take part in the opening set, but as for the rest of the evening…” She shrugged a little, forgetting for a moment exactly how low-cut her dress was—until Lord Swindon, passing with his partner, paused to take a good look. Miranda felt suddenly naked under the intensity of his gaze.

Without haste, Wellingham moved between them, presenting his back to Swindon to shield her from the rake's stare. “I find myself without a partner for the next set, ma'am. Will you do me the honor?”

If she refused him, he would think she was another of the snobs who thought less of him because of his livelihood. Besides, he had just done her a good turn. “Of course.”

“I find that staying busy helps the time pass. And it is more entertaining to take part, not just watch.”

He was right about that; she enjoyed following the complexities of the dance, and she was almost energized by the time it was finished, not only from the exercise, but from his dry wit and the droll observations he made each time they joined up again. The only bad moment was when she made a turn and came face-to-face with Marcus…

“Winston has seemed out of sorts all evening,” Wellingham said as the dance finished. “I must find an opportunity to apologize to him for missing my appointment yesterday. I was on my way to his house to discuss a business matter when I encountered you, and I did not get back to Bloomsbury until far too late to call on him. I fear he must have thought I was enthralled with you and forgot him entirely.”

Miranda couldn't stop her little gurgle of amusement. “You didn't tell him that all you did was to drive me straight home?”

“No. I've been letting him think whatever he likes. It amuses me far more than it seems to entertain him. But I see he is summoning me. Miss Sophie seems to have been deserted.”

“What?” Miranda looked around. She put a hand on his sleeve. “Bring her to me.”

“It would be better if she continues with the evening's entertainment, as if nothing important has happened.”

She stared up at him for a moment. “You're right, of course. You're very wise, Mr. Wellingham. And compassionate as well. You do realize that, do you not?”