Just One Season in London (27 page)

He sat down next to her. “Come now; let's not start that again. I've made up my mind to it, Portia, so why can't you?”

“That's the problem.
You've
made up your mind, so you think that's all there is to be said about it.”

“Isn't it? Would you have preferred me to just stand there and let you explain what really happened?”

She looked for a moment as if she was about to say yes.

“It's not as bad as that, surely. I won't beat you.” He half expected the comment to win a smile, but when it didn't, he said gloomily, “It won't be any different, really, than the sort of marriage I was contemplating before.”

“Except for the money.” Her voice was low and taut.

“Oh. The money. Well, yes.” For a while he'd almost managed to forget that little problem. He expected, now that he'd been reminded, that it would come crashing down on him once more. But it didn't; at the moment none of it seemed to matter. Perhaps he'd been sensible enough all along not to let himself count on ending up with a fortune. Or perhaps he was still too stunned by the turn of events to really take in what had happened tonight.

This unexpected betrothal was hard to forget, however, when Portia was right in front of him, for all practical purposes, occupying his bed. Even if she was, in Rye's opinion, definitely on the wrong side of the blanket at the moment.

“My lord—”

“You've been calling me Rye for some time now. And if you're going to marry me…” He shouldn't have said
if
.

“I understand, of course, that you have a duty to produce an heir.” She spoke softly.

It took Rye a moment to hear what she'd said—because from his new position he could look almost directly down the neckline of her nightgown, which only served to remind him once more of the glimpse of rosy, eager-looking nipple he'd had downstairs…

An heir? Oh yes. A wonderful duty, that one. Looking forward to it.

“I know that men can”—she stopped to lick her lips, sending a surge of hot blood to Rye's groin—“men can perform adequately, even when they're not particularly attracted to the woman, to make a child. That was, after all, what you expected with Miss Mickelthorpe or Miss Farling. So why would it be any different with me?”

Rye was feeling seriously at sea. “What makes you think I'm not attracted to you?”

Her face flushed, and she looked away.

This discussion was getting to be seriously interesting. Rye leaned a little closer. She smelled good too. Like rose water. Maybe lavender. Something sweet, anyway.

He wanted to pull her down under him and show her exactly how attracted he was.

“Because when you kissed me yesterday, you stopped.”

He couldn't keep from smiling. “You think I ended that kiss because I found it distasteful?”

“I know that I am not at all what you were looking for in a wife.”

“Well, that's true enough, and I'm sure if I climbed into a marriage bed with Amalie Mickelthorpe, I'd have to think of her money in order to perform my husbandly duty. Portia, the truth is any man would find you tempting.”

She shook her head.

Rye's heart sank. Had he missed the point entirely? “If what you're really saying is that you don't find me appealing, and you don't want to give me an heir…”

She looked down at her hands, which were clasped hard together. “I
do
want a family, Rye. But not if… Of course you'd say that you… like me. What else could a gentleman say?”

A tiny voice in Rye's brain whispered,
This is the foundation of the rest of your life. You have to get it right.
“So you're saying if I had to force myself in order to get an heir with you…”

“Then I would much prefer not to marry you. Even if it means being ruined.”

She had been right about one thing, Rye thought. She was absolutely
not
what he'd been contemplating in a wife. And he was beginning to think he was the luckiest fool in England.

“Portia, kiss me again the way you kissed me yesterday.”

She hesitated, and for a moment he thought she was going to refuse. Then she leaned toward him, and her lips brushed gently against his—a mere butterfly kiss. A kiss his sister might have pressed on him.

“No, that wasn't it at all. Let me show you.” He wanted to crush her against him—and under him—but he limited himself to kissing her, licking and nipping and tasting her lips, slowly working up to exploring her mouth. When her tongue finally darted out to sample him, a jolt of pure lust rocked him, and he had to back off to keep himself from spreading her out across the coverlet and taking her right then.

“That was… pleasant.” There was a quiver in her voice.

“So is the rest of what men and women do together, Portia. I stopped kissing you yesterday because if I didn't, I wouldn't have been able to stop. And that's why I'm going to take you back to your room now—even though I want to make love to you.”

She looked at him thoughtfully. “Don't stop.”

“Portia, you don't know what you're asking. If I go any further—”

“But that was only a kiss.”

“
Only?
Sweetheart—”

“I don't know if you're telling the truth or just being gallant, and I won't wait to find out till it's too late to change our minds. I mean it, Rye. Prove you really do want me, that you're not just saying so. Prove it right now, or I won't marry you, no matter what happens to me.”

She pulled away from him, but instead of climbing off the bed, she insinuated herself under the coverlet. Only after she was covered to her shoulders did she wriggle out of her wrapper and toss it aside.

Watching her was like setting a torch to tinder. All she'd really done was to get between his sheets, but her innocent, modest little maneuver was the most sensual dance he'd ever seen. The most practiced courtesan couldn't have inflamed him more completely.

“As the lady wishes.” He barely recognized the rasp of his own voice.

Rye held her gaze as he undressed, and he was rewarded with a little gasp when he dropped his breeches and his erect penis sprang free.

He climbed onto the bed and stripped the coverlet back so he could look at her. Without her wrapper, the fine lawn nightgown was almost transparent. The dark circles around her nipples and the shadowy triangle between her legs were even more alluring for being veiled. He didn't bother to remove her gown; instead he leaned over to kiss her again. After a long, hot, deep exploration of her mouth, he let his lips wander slowly down her throat, touched the tip of his tongue to her cleavage, cupped her breast in his palm, and slowly took her nipple into his mouth. The fine fabric went completely transparent as he licked and nipped and sucked.

Her breathing grew taut.

He shifted to the other breast and then unlaced the fastenings and spread the gown wide, feasting his eyes for a few seconds before tasting her once more. Her skin was soft as velvet, and he took his time, toying with her nipples until they peaked and trembled, while his hands wandered on to her waist, to the curve of her hip.

The hem of the long nightgown had ridden up as she slid under the blankets, leaving a good deal of leg bare. Still, it took all his ingenuity to get her out of the nightgown, and he thought about just ripping it before he managed the feat. But finally she lay before him, completely exposed.

Her gaze dropped to his erection. Her eyes were wide and a little fearful.

“Are you still worried that I might not be interested enough in you to perform adequately?” he asked dryly. “Portia, I promise you'll like this. I'll make sure you do.”
Even if it kills me.

Slowly, she relaxed, and he spread her knees and knelt between them. He kissed her navel, darting his tongue into the little depression, and briefly nuzzled the sweet little birthmark just over her right hip bone. Was it truly the shape of a heart? He'd have to check… some other time.

He parted her curls and bent closer to inhale her scent—spicy, clean, earthy. He held her open to expose the little pleasure nub and breathed on her. She said something incoherent.

Good,
he thought.
She's losing her mind just as surely as I am.

He settled back to taste and to stroke her with his tongue. Her first orgasm terrified her—he could see her apprehension—so he cradled her against his chest and held her till the tremors passed, whispering nonsense in her ear, and used his fingers to bring her to climax again. He watched the awe in her face and reminded himself that there was all the time in the world to enjoy her. He could wait till she was ready.

Only when she was limp and gasping did he once more move over her. This time he nudged with the head of his penis, slowly sliding into her slick, wet heat, inch by inch, then waiting until she had adjusted to him before moving again. When he came up against her maidenhead, he said, “This will hurt, but only for a moment,” and thrust firmly past the barricade.

She gave a tiny yelp and tried to pull away. He held her tightly, and after a moment she eased and he slid deeper. His head was beginning to feel fuzzy from the effort to restrain himself, and when she gave a tentative little thrust to meet him, he wanted to cheer. He began to move, slowly stroking her until he felt her muscles start to tighten around him. He pulled back just enough to be able to watch the fierce concentration in her face as she reached for her satisfaction—and just as she found it, he drove deep inside her and came, whispering her name.

***

After her maid left her tucked into bed, Sophie re
lit her candle, propped herself against a mass of pillows, and began to contemplate the Ryecroft family's future.

Because someone has to,
she thought pragmatically.

She liked the idea of having Portia as her sister, and she thoroughly approved of her as a wife for Rye. But lovely as it would be to officially add Portia to the family, she wasn't any help when it came to the financial conundrum.

In fact, Sophie admitted, the marriage would actually make things worse.

The money Robert Wellingham had paid to lease the manor wouldn't last forever. Rye was going to need a good chunk of whatever was left to purchase a special license—for clearly he couldn't wait for the banns to be read before he married Portia.

And it was Sophie's opinion that the remainder should be spent to brighten up the manor for its new mistress. A bride should at least have new sheets and bed hangings, along with a few bits and pieces to make her feel the house was truly hers.

Feeling both noble and practical over that decision, she moved on. There were, after all, two more Ryecrofts. And Sophie, who was far more realistic than her brother, wasn't entirely discounting their mother.

Until she had seen Lady Ryecroft and Robert Wellingham together in the ballroom, she hadn't put much faith in the idea of a match between the two of them. But she'd gotten a jolt tonight as she'd observed them. Only then had she realized that while it was eminently sensible for Wellingham to marry so far above himself, it was just as sensible for Lady Ryecroft to marry a fortune as it was for Rye to do so, or Sophie herself.

Then she'd gotten a second rude awakening when she'd gone to her mother's room. Whatever Rye said, Sophie was certain that she'd smelled a man's cologne. She'd almost recognized it—the scent had been familiar, but she couldn't be certain where she had encountered it before.

She was positive, however, that it wasn't the scent Wellingham used. Besides, he'd not only been standing right behind her at the time she smelled the mysterious cologne, but he'd been with her since long before her mother had left the ballroom.

Whatever Lady Ryecroft was up to—and Sophie had her suspicions—she wasn't likely to be bringing Robert Wellingham's fortune into the family.

So everything came down to Sophie.

There was still Carrisbrooke, of course—assuming that he'd ever speak to her again after she'd accused him of acting like a child.

Sophie decided that she could bring him around with a judicious amount of flattery, mixed with some eyelash batting, a charming giggle, and a few glimpses of a well-turned ankle. And if she were to allow him to steal a kiss, she was fairly certain she could be wearing an engagement ring within the week and be married by the end of the Season.

But then she would spend the rest of her life with a boy who might never grow up. A boy who would have good reason to believe she was a heartless Beauty who thought only of herself, because she would have married him for all the wrong reasons.

But what else could she do? Wait and see what happened?

Conditions change,
Marcus Winston had said.
And not only for your brother.

Well, he'd hit that nail right on the head. Conditions had changed, all right, but not in the direction he'd expected. Despite all Marcus Winston's platitudes about taking her time, the truth was Sophie had only a few more weeks to accomplish her mission.

And a desperate shortage of options.

Rye's voice held a wicked edge. “Did I perform
adequately and to my lady's satisfaction?”

They might have already made a child tonight. Portia felt herself grow warm at the thought. Or was she feeling that sensation because of Rye's hands on her? He'd spooned her body against his, with his palms cupping her breasts and her head tucked under his chin. Every breath he took stirred her hair. He had grown hard again almost at once too, and his penis nestled insistently against her derriere…

“Or do you think I need practice?” He sounded hopeful.

Portia, who was rapidly losing her innocence, knew that she had to act quickly. “Rye, there's one more thing.”

He pushed himself up on his elbow and looked down at her warily. “The last thing you wanted nearly wore me out.”

“Liar.”

He grinned. “All right, I admit it. I could do that every hour for the next week and not be satisfied. My dear, will you mind having my mother living with us? And my sister, if she doesn't marry? I had hoped to fix up the dower house, but—”

“I should not mind it at all, but perhaps you'll find that Lady Ryecroft has plans of her own.”

“Plans? Oh, you mean that nonsense of Sophie's? She gets these notions; ignore her. I don't mean that you'd be living under my mother's thumb…”

The sole candle still lighting the room popped and sputtered. It had burned almost down to the socket.

Rye pushed back the blankets. “It's almost morning, sweetheart. We need to get you back to your room before the servants begin stirring. We'll talk tomorrow—no,
today
—and plan our wedding. I wonder how soon we can be married.”

He insisted on helping her back into her nightgown—a process that took far longer than if she'd done it herself, for he seemed to think he needed to check every part of her body to be certain it was in good condition before he covered it, and he much preferred using his mouth to do the inspection. By the time he was finished, Rye was looking very satisfied with himself, and every square inch of Portia's skin was quivering with delight.

Tomorrow,
she thought.
I'll tell him tomorrow.

***

The household was slow to stir on the morning after
the ball. But when Sophie came into the breakfast room, expecting that she would be the first to appear, Rye was already there and tackling a sizable pile of eggs and ham.

She fixed her own plate and sat down across from him. “A night like that does give one an appetite.” She reached for the toast rack.

Rye leveled a stare at her.

“All that dancing.” Sophie kept her voice innocent. “What did you think I meant?”

He cut a bite of ham. “You told me you don't have any particular interest in Swindon, Sophie.”

“Not a whit.”

“You're never to be in a room alone with him.”

“I know. Portia told Mama what happened while I was helping fix the damage last night. You're quite the hero, Rye, stepping in to save the damsel in distress. Oh, don't look at me like that. I'm
glad
you're marrying her—she'll make you laugh, which is far more than any of the heiresses could do.”

“I doubt they'd have even tried.”

“Anyway, I told you long ago that if it came down to a choice between your marrying someone like Miss Mickelthorpe or my marrying a gentleman who amuses me”—Sophie noticed that her hand was shaking and put down her fork—“the answer is perfectly clear.”

“No, it isn't, Sophie. You are not to marry Carrisbrooke just because he's rich. We'll get along somehow. In any case”—he hesitated—“I think you should know that after Mama took you and Portia upstairs last night, Lady Brindle finally located Lady Flavia. She was in that little room at the far end of the hall—and Carrisbrooke was with her.”

How odd, to feel almost relieved… “Was she kissing him? I'm sure he could use the practice.”

Rye glared at her. “And how would you know he lacks experience?”

“Talk about the pot calling the kettle black! I only meant that a man who can't dance probably hasn't learned how to kiss either.”

From the doorway, Lady Stone said tartly, “This seems to be an edifying conversation for the breakfast table.”

Sophie's jaw dropped. Their hostess had never, during their entire stay, come downstairs for breakfast. For her to do so on the morning after a late party was unthinkable.

Lady Stone went on, “I don't suppose Portia has made an appearance as yet?”

Sophie darted a glance at Rye and said virtuously, “I haven't seen her since the ball ended last night.” It was true; she
hadn't
seen Portia in Rye's bedroom—only heard her.

Lady Stone eyed her speculatively.

Rye got to his feet and took a deep breath. “Ma'am, I know you're not best pleased about how things have turned out. You undertook to help me find an advantageous match, and I failed to follow your advice. Worse, I've treated you badly by stealing away your companion. But I hope you will believe that I will do my best to make her happy.”

Portia came in just then. She turned pink when Rye leaped to hold her chair.

Lady Stone snorted. “From the look of things, you'd best be off to get a special license this morning, Ryecroft.”

“I had thought to finish my breakfast first,” Rye said mildly. “But yes, that is my intention.” He kissed Portia's hand and gave it back to her with every appearance of reluctance.

Sophie was fascinated.

Lady Stone set her cup down with a crash. “This tea is cold. Sophie, ring for a fresh pot. Where do you wish to be married, Portia? St. George's, Hanover Square?”

Portia gave a little shiver. “Must it be so public?”

Sophie mused, “I always thought it would be most romantic to be married in the village church at Ryecroft.”

Portia's eyes lit up. “I'd like that. But is it possible?”

Padgett, standing in the doorway, cleared his throat. “My lady, Mr. Wellingham sends his compliments and asks—”

“Bring him in, Padgett.” Lady Stone said.

“—asks if Lord Ryecroft will see him,” the butler finished.

“Well, he can see him over breakfast, since Lord Ryecroft is eager to finish eating so he can go and get a special license.” Her tone was acerbic. “And send in a fresh pot of tea.”

“No, I'm finished.” Rye made a coolly formal bow to Lady Stone, kissed Portia's hand again, and completely ignored Sophie as he left the room.

Lady Stone pushed her untouched plate away. “Good. Now that he's no longer here to distract Portia, perhaps we can make progress. Sophie, go and ask your mother when she's coming down. We have a great deal of work to do.”

***

Wellingham was waiting in the smallest of the recep
tion rooms, warming his hands at the fire. “Let's go into the library,” Rye said.

Wellingham shook his head. “I need only a moment, my lord, and my business is not private. First allow me to express my congratulations on your betrothal.”

“Thank you. But does everyone know already?”

“I think not. Lady Stone confided in me late last night, but she swore me to secrecy.”

“She's not best pleased with me,” Rye admitted. “I'm thinking it's a good thing I have an excuse to take myself out of her sight this morning.”

“It occurs to me, my lord, that Miss Langford will want to see her new home at the earliest possible date, but I thought you might hesitate because of the small matter of the lease.”

“I hadn't got that far, to tell the truth. But thank you.”

“In fact, if you would prefer to be married from the manor, I understand. It is your home after all, and if you wish to take your bride there immediately, I will happily relinquish the remainder of the lease.”

Rye remembered the glow in Portia's eyes when Sophie had mentioned being married in the village church. “Unfortunately, I'm in no position to refund your payment—it has all been spent.”

“And in a good cause. Winning Miss Langford's hand and establishing Miss Ryecroft. In any case, I would not dream of accepting a refund. You may consider it a wedding gift.”

It was ironic, Rye thought, that the man seemed to be more of a romantic than anyone else he knew. But Wellingham had no shortage of funds and no estate to drain his pockets. He could afford grand gestures like writing off a quarter's lease payment…

Rye couldn't accept the offer, of course, because it would feel too much like accepting charity. Yet Portia had said it would be lovely to be married at Ryecroft… and it wasn't as if Wellingham was actually using the house. “If you really don't mind, then let us agree that as soon as I am able to repay you, I will do so.”

“Let us agree, instead, that we will discuss it when that time comes. Perhaps, my lord, if you truly wish to avoid Lady Stone for a while—”

“I do,” Rye admitted.

“Then go on down to the manor today and set things in motion. I intended to go myself, but there are a few things I must do in town, and you will be able to arrange things far more efficiently than I could.”

“Now that is a damn fine idea.” Except, of course, that if he was at the manor, and Portia remained in London, there would be no more opportunities for her to slip into his bedroom. His body stirred at the memory.

Clearly the faster he could arrange a wedding, the better.

***

The breakfast room was quiet for only a moment afte
r Sophie left, before Lady Stone said sternly, “In case you're thinking I'm going to cough up that diamond bracelet we spoke of last night, Miss Langford, you're wrong.”

Portia was startled. “A diamond…? Oh.” She hadn't given a thought this morning to the wager, for it seemed so long ago. She started to agree, then noticed her employer's expectant gaze. Lady Stone was spoiling for an argument, and it would be better to tussle over a bracelet than something else. “That's right. You wagered a diamond bracelet against my bonus that Lord Ryecroft would offer for Miss Farling. I'd say you lost.”

“Not at all. I said we'd have at least one match to announce before the end of the evening. And you made certain of that, so I win.”

“You obviously meant Miss Farling. Changing the terms of the wager is cheating, ma'am.”

Lady Stone's eyes were even beadier than usual. “And you would know all about cheating, miss, since you're the one who made certain Miss Farling was out of the running!” She smiled suddenly. “Oh, my dear, let an old lady have her fun. We'll call the wager a draw. You earned the bonus, and I'll throw in the diamond bracelet as a bride gift.”

Portia smiled ruefully. “It would be a great deal more than I deserve.”

“That's the truth. Deserting me like this… You're the only companion I've ever had who wouldn't let me bully her, though I thought for a moment this morning that you'd gone soft. But except for losing you, I am far from displeased. I must admit, in fact, that I'm quite proud of how it all worked out. Have you told Ryecroft yet?”

“Told him what? About Lord Swindon, you mean? He was right there; he knows what happened.”

“No, no. I mean the sugar plantation.”

Portia toyed with her teacup, trying to play for time, but Lady Stone's gaze was merciless. “You knew, ma'am?”

“I would hardly take an employee into my house without investigating her history. And it's remarkably difficult to keep that sort of information completely quiet.”

“But you never gave a hint…” No, perhaps that wasn't entirely true. There had been a moment here or there when she'd thought there was an edge to Lady Stone's voice or a possible double meaning in what she said. But each time, the moment would pass with no further comment, so Portia had assumed it was her guilty conscience speaking.

“I thought it was your own concern,” Lady Stone said, almost gently. “And by the by, it's not at all a bad way to test whether a gentleman is fond of you or only of your money—to persuade him that you have none. However, now that Ryecroft has proved himself—”

“It's not an enormous sum, ma'am. Respectable, yes, but not nearly the sort of fortune Miss Mickelthorpe has, or even Miss Farling.”

“You haven't answered my question, Portia.”

“No, ma'am. I haven't told him.”

“Why not?”

Because he was making love to me, and I couldn't think straight…
“There hasn't been much opportunity.”

“Make one. The gentleman stepped in and offered for you, even though he was giving up a fortune in the process. He didn't have to rescue you.”

“It would have ruined him if he hadn't. He… he was trapped either way.”

“And he's being remarkably sanguine about it. He's a good man. He deserves to know the truth.”

Rye
was
a good man, Portia thought, to have accepted the ruin of his plans with such cheerfulness. “Yes, ma'am.” She went to look for him.

He was not difficult to find, for he and Wellingham and Marcus Winston were all three in the entrance hall. Wellingham was leaving, Portia deduced, and Marcus Winston was just arriving, but the three of them seemed to be having a wonderful time. Rye was laughing as he accepted congratulations.

“You'll come to the wedding, Winston?” he asked. “We're going to be married at the manor, as soon as I can arrange it. Wellingham's agreed to let me buy back the lease, so I'm going down now to get everything in order.”

Buy back the lease
?
With what
? Just a couple of days ago he'd told her that his money had all been spent.

“We've been talking about possible improvements at the manor,” Rye went on. “Wellingham's going to drive down to give me his opinion. But I'd like your advice as well, Winston. Your experience at Carris Abbey would be helpful to me in deciding where investment would give the best return.”