Just One Season in London (29 page)

He was silent for a moment. “Are you so tired of me, Miranda?”

“No, just tired.” Too tired, in fact, to think up any more stories, so she told the truth. “I'll find some little village where I can live quietly. Where no one will realize, when the widowed lady's child is born, that her husband died years ago, not within the last few months.”

Marcus went very still. “A baby—and you weren't going to tell me?”

She felt a twinge of guilt, because she'd considered keeping her secret. “I don't know for certain. And I'm telling you now.”

“Only because I've twisted it out of you. Why wait so long?”

“I couldn't risk the scandal, for Sophie's sake and Rye's.”

“You thought I would make this a subject of gossip?” His fury was obvious, though he didn't raise his voice.

“Of course not. But I expected you would behave differently as soon as you knew, and it would cause talk if you suddenly didn't come around anymore or dance with Sophie or…” Her voice trailed off. “I was going to tell you tomorrow—after the wedding. I thought it would be better that way, and then I could just go away directly. Make a clean break of it.”

“You think it won't cause talk if you just disappear?”

“I don't see why it should.”

Marcus shook his head. “You're incredible, Miranda.”

“I told you I'd be a terrible mistress,” she said irritably.

“I don't recall your saying anything of the kind.”

“Well, perhaps I only thought it. But it's true enough—what kind of a mistress doesn't consider that there might be consequences?”

“And that's really what you want to do? Go away? Have your baby alone?”

Your
baby. Not
our
baby. “What other option is there? I can't exactly move through society, unmarried and with a child. And I won't trap you into a marriage that neither of us wants.”

“No,” he said softly, “you most certainly will not.” He reached into the inner pocket of his coat. “Oddly enough, I suspected I might need this today.” He drew out a sheet of parchment and dangled it in front of her, inches out of reach. “It's a special license, Miranda—for you and me.”

She gaped at him.

“It was your idea,” he reminded. “You suggested I go along with Rye to Doctors' Commons, to enjoy the experience.”

“
Rye
knows you have this?”

“No. I went back the next day.” He refolded the page and put it safely away. “No traps, Miranda, but you will marry me. Unless you truly want our child to be a bastard? And before you flare up at me for saying that—no, I do
not
play fair. Not when it's this important.”

She sank back on the chaise. “I'm not good at marriage. I never considered marrying again.”

“Nonsense, darling. You told me you had your eye on Robert Wellingham.”

“Not that it bothered you in the least.” She knew she sounded bitter.

Marcus's tone was meditative. “It's true that if you had threatened to become his mistress, I would have been far more worried.”

Miranda felt her breath catch in horror at the idea of such an intimate relationship with anyone but Marcus. “In any case, marrying him would have been different. No one would have been confused about love, and so…”

“Love. Yes, Miranda—tell me about love. You loved Henry, yet you weren't happy. Were you?”

“Neither was he,” she admitted painfully. “First love doesn't last. As soon as the bloom wore off, and we stopped being in love… If he had continued to love me, he wouldn't have gambled. He wouldn't have gone around in a drunken haze. He wouldn't have risked his children's future—and mine.”

“Yes, he would. I knew Henry too, and because he was my brother's friend, I saw sides of him that you didn't. But you were too blinded by his title, and his elegant manners, to listen to me—especially when all I could offer then was to run away with you.”

Perhaps there was an element of truth in what he said, but it didn't matter now. “At any rate, that's why I didn't want Carrisbrooke for Sophie.”

“Because first love doesn't last? I think it was because Carrisbrooke is a great deal like Henry, and you saw that. The truth is, first love
does
last, when it's truly love and not the sort of infatuation you and Henry felt. I've loved you forever, Miranda.”

Her heart skipped a beat.

“I just didn't know whether you were still the woman I loved, or if I'd only imagined her—not until I saw you again. When you visited me at Carris Abbey and offered to be my mistress, I have to admit I wanted to punish you a little for not caring enough to come to me after your husband died. I'm sorry, my darling. I should have asked you to marry me that day. But I don't think you would have agreed. And after that, any time we weren't actually making love, you were too busy pushing me away for me to ask.”

Her throat was too tight to speak.

Marcus stood. “Sleep now. I'm going to go hunt up your son and ask his permission to pay my addresses to you. Or something like that.”

Sadness washed over Miranda, and tears threatened to overflow. “I can't help but feel… You haven't even touched me. You don't really want this, Marcus. Perhaps you suspected—about the baby—and that's why you got the license.”

“I hoped, and there was a note in your voice when you talked about Rye's special license…”

She was past the point of hearing. “But you don't truly want a wife, and I won't be of much use as a mistress when I'm big as a house!”

“And you're too emotional at the moment to realize that you're making no sense at all. But since you need convincing…” He settled himself beside her on the chaise and gathered her close in his arms and stopped her protests by kissing her until she forgot what she'd intended to say. “Now, do you really think I'm being forced into this?”

She wriggled a little against him. “I still can't believe it. If it hadn't been for Lady Stone, and Wellingham taking a wild notion to lease a house in the country, you and I might never have…” She snapped her fingers. “I was right, wasn't I? There
was
something fishy about his leasing the manor. Did you…?”

But he kissed her again, and suddenly nothing else seemed important enough to pursue.

“I'm marrying you because I adore you,” Marcus whispered finally. “And you'll marry me, because if you don't, I'll stand up at Almack's next week and announce that you're to have my child. Besides, you gave yourself away just now.”

She frowned.

“You said marrying Wellingham would have been different than marrying me, because with him, love wasn't involved. You do love me, don't you?”

“I always have,” she whispered, and the admission sent a wave of peace over her.

“Then it's perfect. You're going to be my wife
and
my mistress. Forever.”

His kiss was tender, but the expression in his eyes was wickedly suggestive—and Miranda knew the choice was hers.

“Today,” she said shyly, “I'd rather be your mistress.”

Marcus laughed and granted her wish.

***

Sophie took the path across the park and through the woods as
fast as she dared, and she was breathlessly clinging to the back of Rye's hunter when she plunged down the bank and into the carriageway just as Wellingham's horses came around the last bend. She turned Admiral to face his team and held up her hand.

The curricle came to a gentle halt just a few feet from her, and Wellingham looked across at her from the driving seat with polite inquiry.

“I need to speak with you, sir,” Sophie said.

He nudged the team closer, until the front wheel of the curricle almost brushed Sophie's foot. “Come here.” He shifted the reins into one hand and held the other out to her.

“The word
please
would not come amiss,” she said. He did not seem amused. Or perhaps he didn't remember saying it to her the first time she had held him up here.

It was the most awkward dismount of Sophie's life, and she had to admit she felt safer once she was off the back of the hunter and perched in the curricle. Though not a great deal safer, she realized as she faced the blazing wrath in Wellingham's eyes. There would be no pleasantries this time about holdups and masks and pistols.

“Take the hunter back to the stables, Henry,” Wellingham told his groom. “I will make sure Miss Ryecroft gets home.”

“But I don't want to go home. I want to talk to you.”

“Speak quickly, then. You have until we reach the front door.”

This was not going at all the way Sophie had planned. “I know why you're leaving. It's so you don't have to meet Mr. Winston face-to-face, and it's entirely my fault. I don't know why he was in Mama's bedroom the night of the ball when we went to get her, but I know it was him, because I recognized his cologne today as we were driving—and if I hadn't said what I did in front of you about her having a man there that night, you would never have known, and so—”

“Stop for a breath, Miss Ryecroft, or you shall faint and tumble out.”

“And so I'm the reason that you've given up the idea of marrying Mama to improve your social status, and it's only fair that I make it up to you, so I'll marry you instead.”

He jerked on the reins as if his muscles had gone into spasm, and for a moment he was fully occupied in correcting the gesture and soothing the team. When he set them back into motion, it was at a gentle walk, and he turned to look at Sophie. “Miss Ryecroft, your willingness to make such a sacrifice is noble indeed. However, I must decline.”

“I don't see why.”

“Because you think being my wife would be a much more pleasant alternative for you than dancing in a theater.”

“Of course it would.” Then she frowned, for he seemed not in the least flattered that she preferred him to a career as a performer. “I mean… well, the two things aren't
really
alike.”

“Aren't they?”

“Dancing in a theater would be much more like being your mistress rather than your wife. Not at all respectable. But if you don't want to marry me, then I suppose—”

“Marrying someone solely for money is not at all respectable either. Miss Ryecroft, though I am not at liberty to give you the details just now, I can assure you that your family's finances are no longer a concern, so there is no need for you to sell yourself to me or to anyone else.”

“Oh.” It didn't occur to her to doubt him, for if Robert Wellingham said it, then it was true. And if she no longer needed to bring a fortune into the family, then…

But Sophie didn't feel the overwhelming relief she would have expected. It wasn't a matter of need; the Ryecrofts' lack of cash had only been the excuse to go after what she wanted.

And what she wanted was Robert Wellingham.

The sudden realization shook Sophie to her core. She felt dizzy, and she clenched the edge of the seat to hold herself upright.

No wonder she'd so enjoyed dancing with him and carrying on their verbal fencing matches. No wonder her mood always lightened the moment he appeared. No wonder she felt safe when he was in the room. And no wonder she'd had such mixed-up feelings when she thought he was courting her mother—because what Sophie had really wanted was for him to fall in love with her instead.

The curricle pulled up in front of the manor. She'd been brought home like a wayward child. Not that she didn't deserve it; she'd acted like one. She even looked the part—dress torn, hair falling down, hat and gloves forgotten, a sore spot on her palm where the reins had rubbed…

“Thank you for bringing me back,” she said with dignity.

A groom came running, and Wellingham climbed down and held up a hand to help Sophie out of the curricle.

At least he wasn't going to drive straight off and leave her. “I suppose you're coming in to tell my mother?” Sophie tried to pat her hair back into place.

The corner of his mouth twitched. “I suspect Lady Ryecroft will notice for herself that something is awry.”

Lady Stone was alone in the drawing room, drinking a glass of port in solitary splendor. “Looking for Miranda?” she asked. “Or perhaps for Lord Ryecroft? I'm sure they'll all be along sooner or later. However, I'm betting on
later
, so I think I'll go have a nap.” She started to close the door behind her, then leaned back into the room to whisper, “I look forward to collecting my winnings, Robert.”

“Winnings?” Sophie asked.

“A very poor joke. Should you not go and change clothes? You've torn your skirt.”

“I couldn't possibly abandon you to your own devices.”
Because you might seize the chance to escape.
Sophie settled herself on the sofa, wrapping her skirt carefully around her legs to conceal the split as best she could. From the corner of her eye, she saw Wellingham watching, his gaze intent, so she took her time and smoothed the fabric over her knees until it was just right.

She filled a glass for him from the wine decanter, and with obvious reluctance, he came close enough to take it from her hand. She leaned back on the sofa with her own glass. If she kept him busy, he might not notice for a while that they were alone in a room. “Did you enjoy living at the manor? How long were you actually here, anyway, before the lure of town drew you back? Because I have to tell you, sir, I still think you only pretended to rent the manor so you could give money to Rye without Mama knowing it was a loan.”

“Perceptive of you, Miss Ryecroft. But it was not a loan.”

“Then what made you act as our benefactor? It can't have been my telling you I wanted to go to London—or at least not entirely, for you'd already made the deal.”