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Authors: Leigh Michaels

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BOOK: Just One Season in London
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“Very well indeed. She's somewhere around here, awaiting your arrival.” He looked around vaguely. “Let me see you inside.”

Lady Ryecroft said, “Don't let us interrupt your ride.”

“No, no, that's not important at all now. I mean, I can hardly let our guests wait alone while the servants hunt down my mother.” He gestured toward the stairs leading up to the front door, where a butler waited majestically.

“I shouldn't think she'd be at all hard to find, lying on a sofa with her ankle propped up,” Sophie said.

Lady Ryecroft winced.

What?
Sophie wanted to say. Was she not supposed to say the word
ankle
in front of a gentleman?

“Oh, my mother's never to be found on a sofa,” Lord Randall said. “Ten to one, she's somewhere in the gardens. She's been out there for days already because the weather's been so pleasant this spring.”

In the gardens?

“But I thought—”

“Sophie,” Lady Ryecroft said. “Not now.” She put her hand on Randall's arm and let him lead her up the steps.

Sophie dawdled for a moment, thinking. There really were only two possible explanations, she concluded. The first was that Lady Brindle's son was so oblivious that he wasn't aware his mother had suffered an accident—which seemed unlikely.

But the second was that there was no sprained ankle at all, and Lady Ryecroft knew it. Judging by her lack of surprise just now, she must have known it even before they had left home.

So why had Sophie's mother dragged her across half of Surrey and the better part of Sussex in order to visit an injured old friend, if the old friend wasn't injured after all?

***

Grosvenor Square was lined with houses, and Rye had no idea which one might be Lady Stone's. But no one else on the street seemed to know either. The costermonger selling pies at the corner goggled at him when he asked, and said he'd like to know how he was supposed to know who was whom in the quality—at least, Rye thought that was what he said; he'd had to disentangle the man's Cockney accent. A flower girl walking along the pavement only giggled and offered to sell him a bunch of violets. He gave her a coin and tried in vain to refuse the flowers, but she pressed them into his hand anyway.

So he was holding a tight little handful of blooms when he turned round from talking to the flower girl and almost ran down a lady who had just stepped from a carriage onto the pavement. The violets burst from his hand and sprayed over her, catching in her hair, in the basket she carried, in the dark braid that trimmed her deep blue cloak.

She gave a gasp of annoyance and glared up at him.

“I beg your pardon,” Rye said. His gaze swept over her. She was young, though hardly a schoolgirl—twenty perhaps, or even older. She was not dressed like a young lady either. Her hair was caught up in a neat, not-quite-schoolmarmish chignon, under a plain dark chip of a hat—not one of the elaborate creations the young ladies of the
ton
commonly wore. Her gloves were serviceable rather than elegant—tan leather, but not the finest-grained kid. As she brushed at the violets on her shoulder, he saw that the fingertips were worn. Her cloak was fastened with an ordinary frog, not buttoned with gold.

Even more telltale was the fact that her face was not fashionably pale; this woman had been kissed by the sun. There were a couple of freckles on her nose, something that would likely have sent a society miss and her mother into strong hysterics the moment they were noticed.

Rye thought they were charming.

There was a violet caught in her lashes, right at the corner of her eye. She put up a hand to brush it away, and Rye found himself stepping forward. “Let me. It seems to be tangled, and if you pull at it, you might get pollen in your eye.”

She stood still as he leaned closer yet. No wonder the flower had caught; he'd never seen lashes so long and full, so curly and so dark. They were a shade darker than her hair—which wasn't simply brown, as he had thought, but a rich mixture of chestnut and honey, glinting in a sudden shaft of sunlight.

For a moment the noises of the square faded away—no costermonger's call, no rattle of carriage wheels—and he was caught up, surrounded by the scent of violets and the brush of his finger against her temple, where the skin was so soft that even through his glove he knew he had never touched anything so fine…

The violet came loose, and he stood holding it and feeling foolish.

“Have you finished?” she said coolly, and Rye realized he had grasped her arm, as if it had been necessary to hold her closely while he plucked at the flower with his other hand.

“What's this, Portia?” said a gravelly voice beside him.

Rye felt as if he'd been drifting away on a slowly ebbing tide until the grating voice jolted him back to the square. Too late, he realized he was standing far too close to the unknown young woman—closer even than if they had been waltzing—and that she hadn't been alone in the carriage after all.

The woman who had followed her was short and spry, with a beady black gaze that rested on him with a familiar glint.

“Lady Stone!” he said. “I… I was just…”

The young woman pursed her lips as if she was anxious to hear his answer. Rye stumbled to a halt.

“Accosting my companion?” Lady Stone said coolly.

Companion.
So she was not a friend or a relative, but an employee. It all made sense now. The young woman's plain hat and cloak and the way her hair was styled so as not to draw attention to herself. Even the freckles—they were far more typical on the face of a woman who was expected to go and fetch her employer's parasol rather than being free to twirl her own. A woman who would read aloud the books her employer wished to hear, not those of her own taste. Who would run her employer's errands, not shop for herself.

He let his hand drop to his side and stepped back from the young lady—quickly enough, he hoped, that Lady Stone wouldn't begin to think her companion was at fault and blame the poor girl.
Portia
, Lady Stone had called her. It suited her somehow. But now was not the time to be thinking of that.

Accosting my companion…
Lady Stone had sounded almost angry. Was an accident with a bunch of violets about to cause him to lose his one real hope of bettering himself? Sacrificing the only source of help that had been offered to him? Better that, he supposed, than if the companion were to suffer because of his clumsiness. At least he would be no worse off because of their encounter, while her situation might be dire indeed.

“I beg your pardon, Lady Stone,” he said. “I was calling to leave my card to let you know that I've arrived in town, when I… encountered… your companion.”


Encountered?
Is that what you young bucks are calling it these days when you're practically embracing a young woman on the pavement?”

“I assure you, ma'am, I was not—”

“Lady Stone,” the companion said quietly. “Nothing happened. The… gentleman… moves very quickly.”

It didn't sound to Rye as if she meant it as a compliment.

“Oh, very well. If you say nothing happened, then nothing happened. But be warned, I'm keeping an eye on you, girl.” The old woman's gaze raked over Rye, from the hat he had belatedly touched in respect, to the toes of his well-polished Hessians. “I wondered if you'd actually turn up, Ryecroft. But here you are, and looking as impressive in daylight as you were at the assembly. Don't you think so, Portia?”

“Since I did not attend the assembly, ma'am, I am unable to make a comparison. But if you are asking me in the abstract whether the gentleman is attractive, I should have to agree that he makes a passable figure.”

What a prim, smug, opinionated,
conceited
… Rye ran out of adjectives.

“There's a facer for you, Ryecroft.” Lady Stone made a vague gesture of introduction. “Viscount Ryecroft, Miss Langford.”

Rye swept the companion a bow. “I am honored by your regard, Miss Langford.” He managed to let only a trace of sarcasm oil his words. But he knew she'd heard the edge in his voice, for she inclined her head and made no comment.

Lady Stone said, “I'll expect you to call tomorrow morning, Ryecroft. Be ready to tell me exactly what you're looking for in a bride. There's no sense in wasting time with girls who haven't enough of a dowry to be acceptable to you. But I think as long as you're not unreasonable, we can fit you up nicely. What do you think, Portia? Summersby's eldest, perhaps?”

“I am unaware of any assets that make Lord Ryecroft eligible—apart from his title. Therefore, I'm sure you are a far better judge of the matter than I could be, ma'am.” Miss Langford's tone was almost colorless.

Rye knew she was only doing what a companion did best—agreeing with her employer and deferring to her opinion. Besides, what she said was no more than the truth. How would Miss Langford know anything of his family, his character, his habits, his assets? Yet the words rankled.

“Ryecroft could grab her before the rest of the young bucks have the opportunity,” Lady Stone said thoughtfully. “Her coming-out ball is still a couple of weeks away, and as yet she's barely been seen outside Berkeley Square. Or perhaps he'd do better with the Mickelthorpe girl. Hers is not as well-bred a family, of course, but that might be all to the good. It's a much larger step upward for her to become a viscountess than for the Summersby chit, so she'll appreciate it more. And she has an even larger portion, I understand.”

“I'm certain she would be honored to be chosen,” Miss Langford agreed.

Rye sketched an ironic bow at Lady Stone. Why had he ever thought this was a good idea?
Once I escape from this harpy
, he thought,
I will never set foot near Grosvenor Square again
!

“Come, girl.” Lady Stone turned on her heel and marched up the nearest set of steps without bothering to check whether her companion was following.

The younger woman obeyed without so much as a glance at Rye—and without a hint of resentment or irritation. Of course, when her employer issued an order, no matter what the words or the tone, a companion had no option but to comply.

She was half a dozen feet away from him, with one foot already on the lowest step, when Rye said, “Miss Langford.” He had no idea why he'd spoken, except that the careless note in the old woman's voice had jolted him.

She paused and half turned to face him, her head tilted to one side. Her foot was still on the step. He noticed how small her foot was and the slenderness of her ankle in the high-buttoned boot.

“I crave your pardon, Miss Langford, for any difficulty this incident might cause with your employer. I hope she does not blame you.”

“How kind of you to notice.” The irony that laced her voice was deft, almost delicate. “But of course, whether she blames me or not, you'll still call on Lady Stone tomorrow—because she can help you choose the richest heiress.”

It wasn't really a question, and he didn't owe her an answer, anyway. Who was she to question his motives or his reasons? But before Rye could even consider explaining, she had reached the top of the stairs, and the door closed firmly behind her.

At least now he knew which house was Lady Stone's.

And tomorrow Lady Stone expected he would come to give her his specifications for a bride. Namely, how much money an heiress must bring with her in order to become the next Viscountess Ryecroft.

Well, Lady Stone would be disappointed—for he would not appear tomorrow.

Except, he reminded himself, there was still Sophie to think of—and his mother—and that left him with no choice but to comply.

Thr
ee

Lord Randall's ponderous efforts to make them welcome set Miranda's teeth on edge. She felt easily eighty years old because of the way he tucked her solicitously into a chair and inquired whether she would like a hot brick or a shawl or a tisane to help her recover from the long journey.

The way he treated Sophie, though entirely different, was not much better. He kept apologizing for his horse and assuring Sophie that riding was the best pastime in the world. He even told her that if she would only give a try to a gentle old cob, one his father kept in his stables solely for the use of ladies who had been frightened by equines, she would soon get over this foolish prejudice of hers.

Miranda, keeping a careful eye on Sophie for signs of steam rising from her dainty ears, was pleased to see that her daughter resisted the temptation to set him straight.

Fortunately it was only a few minutes before Lady Brindle bustled in. If Lord Randall had kept it up for another quarter of an hour, Miranda thought, all bets would have been off. Sophie, despite her youth,
might
have been able to hold on to her temper, for she was clearly taking care to be on her best behavior. Miranda was fairly sure she herself would not have. One more offer of a pastille for her headache and she'd have given the young man an aching head of his own.

There was no doubt who the authority was in Lady Brindle's house. Within five minutes of her arrival, Lady Brindle had firmly dispatched Sophie to the guest room that had been set aside for her, in the care of the housekeeper, for a rest—without inquiring whether her young guest felt in need of one.

It was soon clear why she had done so, however. Without Sophie present to hold her son's attention, Lady Brindle was easily able to persuade Lord Randall to resume his interrupted ride. And soon thereafter Miranda and her old friend were settled in the drawing room with a glass of ratafia and a tray of cakes for what Lady Brindle called
a comfortable coze
. Miranda suspected it would be anything but comfortable.

Within moments of picking up her first cake, Lady Brindle said, “Now, Miranda, you must tell me what this is all about. I'm happy to have you visit of course, at any time, but why in heaven's name did you write to ask me to make up some ailment that would require you to come and stay for a few days?”

Miranda sipped her ratafia. It wasn't as though she hadn't anticipated the question or given thought to how to answer it. But she'd forgotten how like a bulldog Ann Eliza could be when there was something she wanted to know.

Perhaps, she thought wryly, she had
wanted
to forget.

“Since when,” Ann Eliza persisted, “aren't you free to come and go exactly as you like?”

“When one has children, it's hardly as easy as—”

“Oh pish. It's not as if they're still in the nursery. And you've had years to get used to the situation. That must be one of the best things about being a widow—not having to be accountable to a husband.” She sounded almost wistful, and not for the first time Miranda wondered whether Ann Eliza's determination to marry Brindle all those years ago had been such a wise thing. She seemed to have let herself run to seed.

But to an extent, Ann Eliza was right. There was definitely something to be said for the independence that came with being the widowed mother of a son who had achieved his majority and taken on the responsibilities left to him by his father.

If only, Miranda thought, the freedom she enjoyed had included an independent
income
, she would truly be a happy woman!

Ann Eliza hadn't stopped talking. “From everything you've told me, Ryecroft is the best of sons. Why wouldn't he agree for you to visit a friend just because you wanted to do so?”

“I didn't wish him to feel I was trying to avoid my responsibilities.”

Ann Eliza looked at her narrowly. “Do you mean by leaving Sophie at home with him as you said you were going to do? Did Ryecroft object to being left in charge of a young lady? Or did you not ask him? Miranda, you must give me leave to tell you that if you've trumped up this visit merely in order to bring your daughter to the attention of my son—”

“I most certainly have not! Ann Eliza, I'm shocked. Why you should think that I would do such a thing… I have
no
desire…” Miranda swallowed the rest of the sentence.
To see my daughter married to your selfish oaf of a son
, she had been starting to say. What in heaven's name was wrong with her tongue today that she'd almost insulted her hostess?

“Because I would have you know that his father and I have made plans for his marriage already,” Ann Eliza said firmly. “Summersby's eldest daughter—a considerable heiress in her own right. The money comes from her mother's side of the family, and the house that will be settled on her is only ten miles away from here.”

“How convenient,” Miranda managed to say.

“Yes, isn't it? Eventually Randall and Flavia will join the two estates.”

“Why haven't I heard this happy news before, Ann Eliza?”

“Oh, well, Lady Flavia's only seventeen. She will make her formal come-out in a few weeks, as soon as the Season gets well started. It's only fair for the girl to make her curtsy, after all, and have a bit of fun before settling down. But there's been an understanding for years now between Summersby and Brindle. I expect that by June we'll have a wedding.”

“My congratulations.”

“Yes, I'm well pleased to have that settled. She's such a biddable girl too—delightfully accommodating. I only wish I had a daughter of my own. Such fun it would be to match her up. After all, there's young Carrisbrooke, right here in the neighborhood. He's not reached marriageable age, of course, but in another year or two, when he reaches his majority—”

“And
his
estate is even closer—and larger—than Lady Flavia's,” Miranda put in acidly before her common sense kicked in.

“Yes, just three miles away… and an abbey. It would be so convenient to have my daughter right at hand and to have her be a countess as well. However, there's no sense crying over spilt milk; it wasn't meant to be. But I shall enjoy having a daughter-in-love—helping her set up her household, advising her as to the best way to go about things.”

Miranda couldn't help wondering if Ann Eliza's assistance would be as welcome as she expected.

Ann Eliza refilled her glass and selected another cake. “It seems to me you'll have your hands full presenting your Sophie, when the time comes. Surely you're not going to try this year, Miranda? It seems to me that more seasoning would be wise. Of course she's old enough and foolishly pretty—just as you were. But Blackett tells me she's something of a hoyden as well. He said she actually jumped from the carriage.”

“I'm surprised your butler thought it necessary to mention that Sophie
slipped
on the carriage step.”


Jumped
,” Ann Eliza went on ruthlessly, “and she practically knocked her hat off as well. My word, Miranda, how you are going to deal with a young miss like that one…”

At least, Miranda thought, Ann Eliza had distracted herself from the original question. “She only slipped because Lord Randall's horse startled her.”

“You mean she isn't familiar with horses? I thought he must be funning when he said that. I never thought a daughter of yours would be anything but a bruising rider.”

“She rides very well indeed. Speaking of riding,” Miranda added carelessly, “I wonder, Ann Eliza, if you will lend me a mount and a groom. Tomorrow, perhaps? I have a fancy to ride over some of the old paths and revisit the places I knew as a girl.”

“By all means. I'll send a message to the head stableman. But your plan sounds like fun, my dear. Perhaps I'll come along. We can take the carriage out and relive our youth together. No?” She laughed. “You looked quite put out for a moment. What are you up to, I wonder, Miranda Ryecroft? Something dodgy, I'll be bound. But as long as you swear on your mother's Bible that you're not trying to match up your ridiculously pretty Sophie with my boy—”

“I swear it,” Miranda said. And she had the virtuous reassurance that she was, at that moment, telling the absolute and complete truth.

For a change.

***

Portia took off her outdoor things, neatened her hair, and plucked a wayward violet from under her collar, where it had lodged somehow when that fortune-hunting oaf had almost knocked her into the street.

She had to admit the collision had been only an accident—the sort of thing that could have happened to anyone. But the way he'd let go of her and ducked away the instant he'd realized she was nothing more than a paid companion… now
that
had been intentional. Insulting, even, because he wouldn't have dropped her arm like a hot coal if she'd been one of the heiresses Lady Stone had promised him. He'd have bowed and scraped and begged her pardon and flattered her…

And you'd have hated it,
she reminded herself.

So it was just as well that he knew right up front she was a mere companion. And it was just as well that she knew he was a mere fortune hunter. Because otherwise…

Because otherwise she might have kept believing that eyes as dark and warm and sincere as his were, in that long instant when he'd looked down at her, must belong to a true gentleman. She might have kept thinking about how strong his grasp was when he held her, and how soft his touch had been against her temple as he untangled the violet from her eyelashes, and how his height had made her feel as fragile as a flower…

“A violet, perhaps,” Portia jeered at herself. “Just like that bunch he was holding. And look what happened to them—trampled in the street.” Except for the one that lay on her dressing table now.

She smiled at her foolishness, dismissed the thought of Viscount Ryecroft, and tapped on the door of Lady Stone's boudoir to ask if her employer would like her to read the next chapter of
Mansfield Park
.

“Not just now,” Lady Stone said. “Come and talk to me instead.”

Portia took a chair near the chaise where Lady Stone was reclining. “What shall I talk about, ma'am?”

“Whatever is on your mind. Lord Ryecroft, I expect.”

“Why would I be thinking about
him
? What inspired you to take him up, anyway?”

Lady Stone shot a shrewd look at her. “Do you think him too young for me?” she simpered.

“I think he'd be too young for your daughter, if you had one,” Portia said under her breath.

“I heard that, miss. My ears are as sharp as they ever were.”

“Yes, ma'am. Are you certain it's not misplaced maternal instincts that you're feeling?”

Lady Stone gave a rusty laugh. “You might be right. He did seem to treat his mother well, so perhaps I felt envious. At the time, however, I merely thought it might be amusing to have a tame young man around the house.”

“The blush having worn off the idea of having a companion?”

“Indeed it has. You've been here all of six weeks, Portia, and you're no longer showing me proper respect. I should turn you off and find someone new.”

“No one else would put up with you for six weeks, ma'am. But I still don't understand why Viscount Ryecroft has commanded your attention.”

Lady Stone shrugged. “When I met him at that assembly down in Surrey, I felt sorry for him. He's got this huge manor house that's falling to rack and ruin, or so it's said in the neighborhood. In short, he needs to marry an heiress, and a whomping great one too.”

“So you decided to be his fairy godmother and introduce him to Summersby's eldest daughter?”

“Not exactly.”

“You don't intend him for Summersby's daughter after all?”

“No, I meant I don't fancy myself as a fairy godmother—I wouldn't look at all good prancing around in wings, waving a magic wand. As for Summersby's daughter, her marriage portion may not be large enough to meet his needs. But she would thank me in the end if I did make a match between them.”

“Being married solely for her dowry? What an honor that would be.”

“Ryecroft's a great deal more interesting than Lord Randall is.”

“That,” Portia said, “is hardly a challenge. The last climbing boy who came out of the flue in my bedroom was a great deal more interesting than Lord Randall is.”

“Portia, my dear, you could make something of him, you know.”

“Ryecroft?”

“Certainly not. I told you,
he
needs an heiress. I meant Randall.”

“What could I make of him, pray tell? A leather wallet from his thick hide?”

Lady Stone's laugh pealed through the room. “It can't be denied that Randall's a dull stick, though a lively woman could keep him on his toes. But there's sufficient money there and a decent title. True, the estate is in Sussex, but…”

“There are worse places,” Portia conceded and regretted her momentary lapse into agreement when she saw Lady Stone's gaze sharpen.

“He's an only son, and there's not even a sister who needs a dowry funded. Besides, once I've peeled away Summersby's daughter, Randall will be ripe for the plucking for a lady who possesses some diplomacy. What do you think?”

“I think, my lady, that you have exceeded the bounds of good taste in matchmaking.”

“I'm only trying to make your life easier, my girl, but if you don't appreciate my efforts, I'll move on. If you're positive you don't want Randall—”

“I'm certain.”

“Then he can have Summersby's daughter with my blessing. Let's go back to Ryecroft.”

“Must we?” Portia muttered.

“There's Juliana Farling.”

“She seems sweet. Too sweet to waste on him. I thought you mentioned Miss Mickelthorpe.”

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