Just One Season in London (16 page)

He recalled, vaguely, that Sophie had said something about being on the receiving end of a scolding this morning, and then his sister had turned pink, as if she regretted mentioning it. Perhaps he should have asked what she'd done to deserve a tongue-lashing.

“I'm keeping you from Lady Stone, Wellingham,” Rye said. “And she doesn't like to be kept waiting. Perhaps we can talk later about those messages from the manor?”

“Of course, my lord.” Without hurry, Robert Wellingham moved across the room toward the tall-backed chair where Lady Stone was ensconced, pausing courteously along the way to greet Sophie and to nod to a number of other visitors. The hum of conversation picked up once again.

Lady Brindle went out, with Lady Flavia and Miss Mickelthorpe—the latter drooping and looking wistfully over her shoulder at Rye—in her wake. Rye, still standing near the drawing-room door, heard Lady Flavia's voice on the stairs. “Carrisbrooke! What a shame we're just leaving.”

The earl didn't seem inclined to pause on the stairs for conversation, because a moment later he bounded into the room ahead of Padgett.
Something like an undisciplined puppy
, Rye thought, and was amused at the comparison until Carrisbrooke's gaze came to rest on him.

He made a beeline straight for Rye. “Lord Ryecroft, I hardly dared to hope, when I came to call on Miss Ryecroft this morning, that you would be present. I should like to arrange an appointment with you at your earliest convenience.” Carrisbrooke lowered his voice. “I'm sure you understand that I cannot, in this public setting, disclose my reasons for needing to speak with you, since it involves a lady who is dear to both of us.”

Rye felt as if he'd stepped into some kind of storybook; Carrisbrooke's flowery language made him want to sneeze every bit as strongly as all Sophie's bouquets had earlier today.

Only it felt as if someone had torn out the middle pages of this fairy tale. There had been no doubt in Rye's mind that Sophie would be well received in London, but for him to field a request from an earl to court her, on the morning after she'd made her first official appearance… “Later today, if you like.” There was no point in putting it off, Rye supposed.

Carrisbrooke beamed at him and headed straight toward Sophie, cutting his way through the crowd.

Rye wandered toward to the windows, where Portia and Robert Wellingham were having a low-voiced conversation. At least she wasn't chatting privately with Swindon.

Portia looked up as he approached. “Is it my imagination, or have you just received the first request for Sophie's hand?”

“It appears that's what the pup has in mind. If so, I suppose I'll have to give my permission for him to press his suit. There's nothing about him to find objectionable. Good land, good family, plenty of money…”

Portia's small, pearly white teeth closed so firmly on her lower lip that Rye wouldn't have been surprised to see blood well up. He started to reach for her, intending to make her let go before she hurt herself. Then—annoyed because he had even noticed—he said, “I thought you'd be happy to have her out of your way, where Swindon is concerned. Isn't that who Lady Stone has in mind for you?”

Portia's gaze should have turned him to a cinder. “The question has nothing to do with me. But in my mind, a young man who is barely old enough to be out of the care of his governess does not seem to be the best candidate as a husband.”

Lord Swindon, Rye thought uncharitably, was probably old enough not to even
remember
his governess, which in Portia's view would seem to make him a wonderful choice as a husband. He reminded himself that whomever Portia Langford chose, it would be in no way his concern. Thank heaven.

“Especially for a girl Sophie's age,” she went on.

“I suppose you think there's an even more brilliant match in the offing for her?”

“I simply think you should not rush to approve this one. I recognize, of course, that you are eager to have the matter decided, so you can begin negotiating the marriage settlements.”

Despite the sparks in her eyes, her voice was calm and even. Rye had learned to be wary, however, for when Portia Langford's voice took on that sweetly reasonable tone, there would be hell to pay for someone.

“If Carrisbrooke is truly as infatuated as he appears,” she went on pleasantly, “and willing to make a huge settlement on Sophie, then your troubles will be over. If he comes through, you can look well beyond Miss Mickelthorpe and her sort for a match for yourself.”

Rye's jaw tightened till the muscles threatened to snap. “If you believe I will leap at the opportunity to sell my sister in order that I may choose a bride who has no dowry…”

“Oh no. I would
never
expect you to settle for a bride with no dowry, my lord. After all, you have a position to maintain.”

Rye had forgotten Wellingham was standing there until the banker said, “I'm certain Miss Langford did not mean to imply that anyone was for sale here.”

Rye wasn't certain of any such thing, but he was glad the man had spoken up and kept him from adding even more fuel to the fire.

“I'm sure she meant only that it would be wise to take your time and investigate the young man before giving consent,” Wellingham went on. “It is possible Carrisbrooke is not free of vices, but has simply had no opportunity as yet to get himself into trouble.”

The banker had a point, Rye had to admit. Carrisbrooke's uncle was some sort of adventurer, after all; that didn't bode well for the nephew he was shepherding around town. “I'd hardly be giving my approval to a match. I'd simply be allowing him to court Sophie to see if they suit.”

Portia looked unconvinced. “That's close enough to being the same thing that it will please all the other girls.”

“What? Why would it please them to have Carrisbrooke off the Marriage Market? They ought to look on him as a prize.”

“I mean, it would please them to have Sophie settled. The only reason there are so many young women here today is to befriend her, in the hope that the odd crumb will fall from her plate, but the sooner she is spoken for, the more rapidly all the other young men in town will look beyond her.”

Wellingham spoke up again. “On the surface, it would appear to be a brilliant match—Carrisbrooke and Miss Ryecroft. Such a pretty couple they are.” His tone was meditative, and his gaze, Rye noticed, was resting on the pair of bright heads as Carrisbrooke raised Sophie's hand to his lips and she laughed up at him.

“I'd better go break that up,” Portia said. “At least until you've given your permission, my lord, Sophie must not allow Carrisbrooke to behave as if he's been accepted.” She nodded at Wellingham and drifted off toward the couple in the center of the room.

Rye couldn't help but notice that Lord Swindon was standing near Sophie too. As Portia neared the group, she smiled and spoke to him even before she casually linked her arm into Sophie's to draw her away from Carrisbrooke.

“A foresighted young woman, that one,” Wellingham said.

“Sophie? Obviously you don't know my sister, or you wouldn't say that. No more sense than a soaked goose.”

“If that's the case, I wonder that you intend to leave Miss Ryecroft's choice of a husband entirely up to her.”

Rye was stung. “I don't.”

“My mistake. It sounded for a moment as if any man who was not objectionable to you would be allowed to pay her court—so she could be free to choose among them all. In any case, I was not referring just then to Miss Ryecroft, but to Miss Langford.”

“Foresighted?
Managing
is the word I'd use,” Rye muttered.

“And you must be grateful for it, I believe.” Wellingham turned away from the room. “As for the messages I bear, perhaps now would be an acceptable occasion to share them?”

Rye, too, put his back to the room so they would have some privacy. “What has broken at the manor this time?”

“There was a matter of a tree limb that came down in a strong wind, directly through the roof of the greenhouse. But it has been seen to, and the bill has been paid.”

“How? Carstairs can't have had that sort of money put aside.”

“I believe not.” Wellingham didn't sound interested.

“Well, if you paid the reckoning yourself, you're to send me the bill.” Rye's gaze was caught by a curricle pulling up in front of the house. A groom leaped from the back of the vehicle and ran to take the horses' heads. A moment later the driver—tall, dark-haired, wearing a greatcoat cut in the latest fashion—jumped down and turned to lift a lady from the high seat. A lady who was wearing a close-fitting bonnet and a dark gray cloak.

A lady
, Rye thought,
who looks an awfully lot like
…

No
, he told himself.
It can't be.

Beside him, Sophie's voice was high and strained. “Rye, is that
Mama
? I wonder where she's been—and why is Mr. Winston bringing her home?”

***

Every bone in Miranda's b
ody seemed to have melted away in the wake of that incredibly powerful orgasm. Not only did she not want to move, she was incapable… and Marcus seemed equally reluctant. He shifted position only enough to snuggle her against his side, resting his chin against the top of her head. Her hair had come undone, of course; he lifted the end of a curl from where it sprang madly across the pillow, and used it to caress the tip of her nose.

“Miranda, you are incredible.” His voice was richer than before, even more like honey spread across warm toast, and it reached so deeply inside her that it made her want him all over again.

Even though she shouldn't. She
couldn't
.

Despite the lassitude that dragged at every muscle, her mind was finally starting to work again, and Miranda was horrified at herself. What had come over her? What had made her act like a wanton, fixated only on her pleasure—and his? What had caused her to think, for this fleeting hour, only of what she wanted and not of what was sensible or right?

Lust
, she admitted. Just as a thick layer of cotton wool would deaden sound, the lust Marcus had fanned inside her had, for the first time in her life, quieted every whisper of common sense.

It wasn't as though she didn't know the rules, for Marcus had made them plain. All he was promising was an affair… and though she'd have been lying if she denied how wonderful it had felt to make love with him, she was clear-eyed enough to know there was no future in this.

She didn't blame him, for she had let this happen. She had
wanted
it to happen. In a moment of weakness—well, all right, an hour of weakness—she had given in to the demands of her body and to the memories of a young man she had been fond of long ago.

He lifted a lazy hand and traced the line of her jaw. “My sweet,” he said. “My lover…”

While his touch was gentle, it was also possessive, and though desire began to build in her again, it warred this time with wariness. She knew if she didn't make a move, she would once more lose herself in that rising hunger. And though half of her longed to make love with him again, the other half feared it would be all too easy to forget that this was temporary.

So she must end it herself, now. The fact that she had surrendered once didn't mean it would happen again. It certainly didn't mean she'd agreed to continue this… whatever
this
was. It was not technically an affair, surely, if it had only happened once…

His hand slipped to her breast, his thumb teasing lazily at her nipple. But when he roused himself to bend his head to taste the hollow between her breasts and then nibble his way up her throat, Miranda turned her head away. “I must go home. The girls will be receiving visitors this morning.”

“
The girls?
You have more than one?”

“I suppose I do, in a way. I like Miss Langford a great deal, and I admire her.”
If things were only different, Portia would make a good wife for Rye—and then she'd be my daughter too.

Marcus kissed the hollow at the base of her throat and sat up, reaching for his clothes. “Very well. If you must reappear, then you must. I haven't a lady's maid at hand, so I'm afraid you'll have to make do with me to help you back into your dress.”

He seemed not at all concerned or regretful that she was leaving. Miranda knew it was illogical to wish that he hadn't been so agreeable. But part of her, she had to admit, had hoped he would try to persuade her to spend the rest of the day in bed with him.

Not that she would have agreed to do so, of course. But it would have been nice to be asked.

Perhaps you were just an amusing distraction for an hour, but now he has other obligations.

That must be at least part of the reason that men had mistresses—because they could be ignored when the timing was not convenient. A wife, on the other hand, could not always be put aside so easily.

But that was too dangerous a direction for her thoughts to be allowed to flow.

“I suppose your man can find me a hackney?” she said as she wriggled into her chemise.

“My man will order my curricle, and I shall drive you home.”

“Drive me…” She paused until she had pulled her dress over her head and could see him once more. “You can't, Marcus!”

“On the contrary, my dear—my taking you home will confirm your story.”

“What story?”

“You stepped out this morning to shop before the press of visitors descended on you. But you were jostled—nearly pulled to bits—in the crowd. I happened to see you in Bond Street, just in time to prevent worse damage. But you were so shaken”—he turned her away from him and began to fasten buttons up the back of her dress—“and ruffled by the experience that I insisted I must see you safely home.”