Just One Season in London (19 page)

“I wondered if you had contrived to forget that.”

“No… but you must realize it's rude of you to comment about my gown, other than to tell me how pretty I look in it.”

He only raised his eyebrows inquiringly.

Sophie waited a moment for him to continue, but he obviously intended to ignore the hint. She reminded herself that she received plenty of compliments without needing to ask for them from people who obviously didn't know any better.

“And it's rude of
you
, Miss Ryecroft, to instruct your elders in matters of etiquette, so shall we consider that exchange a draw and move on? Without my renting the manor, your Season would be quite different, I believe. When your brother explained to me why the house would be available, and mentioned that he had a good use for the funds, I—” He broke off.

Sophie was startled. “Rye told you all that?”

“Since it was Lady Stone who introduced us, I believe he viewed me as a friend.”

She studied him thoughtfully. “What were you going to say just then?
When your brother explained to me
, you said, and then you seemed to be intending to add something.”

“Not at all.”

But he looked the slightest bit uncomfortable. “What sort of bargain did you and my brother make?” Sophie asked slowly. “What is it you want in return for all that money?”

Wellingham sipped his sherry. “My dear Miss Ryecroft, generally when a man rents a house, it's because he wants the use of the house.”

“But Rye told me you paid a great deal for it, which hardly seems a good investment, considering that you're not even in Surrey now, but in London.”

“I have business to conduct in town.”

“Exactly. So what do you want with a great house in the country when you're not even there?”

Rye came into the drawing room. Sophie thought he looked a little frazzled, but she understood; a discussion with their mama could do that.

He strode directly across to the serving tray and poured himself a sherry. “Evening, Wellingham.” He tossed off his drink, spotted Sophie, and looked around the room. “You—the two of you—you've been in here alone?”

Sophie's heart dropped into her toes. She'd been so eager to confront Robert Wellingham that she'd entirely forgotten the rules. She hadn't even realized that she'd been alone all this time with a man, unchaperoned. “Oh, for heaven's sake, Rye. Don't be so cork-brained.”

Wellingham's lips twitched. “I believe Miss Ryecroft is saying that she regards me in the light of a… shall we say, father figure?”

Sophie stared at him.
Father figure?
What was the man talking about?

With a swish of her skirts, Portia swept into the room. It was apparent she'd been close enough to hear Rye's question, for she glanced at each one of them in turn and then said briskly, “So sorry I had to step out for a moment to check on dinner. I trust you haven't found Miss Ryecroft a nuisance, Mr. Wellingham?”

Sophie waited tensely for him to say something about her want of conduct.

Instead he gave her a brilliant, breathtaking smile. “On the contrary. I have found her conversation enlightening, for she has given me entirely new directions to consider.”

“That's lovely,” Portia said, obviously preoccupied. She shot a look at Sophie and said softly, “Just be glad it wasn't Lady Ryecroft who discovered you alone in here. Good heavens, child—”

“Another sherry, Wellingham?” Rye asked. “I've been meaning to ask your opinion about something, if you will…”

“Thank you, my lord,” Wellingham said, taking his refilled glass. As the two men moved toward the fire at the far end of the room, Wellingham paused to look back at Sophie. “Miss Ryecroft, I would be remiss not to tell you that you look quite pretty in that gown.”

Portia frowned. “What was that all about?”

“Nothing,” Sophie muttered. The instant glow the comment had caused her was fading already—for as she untangled his words, she realized he had not, in fact, paid her the compliment it seemed. He had
not
said that she was pretty—only that good manners required him to tell her she was.

Well,
she thought as Padgett announced Lord Carrisbrooke and Mr. Winston.
We'll see about that, Mr. Wellingham. This isn't over yet.

Though the unconventiona
l makeup of the Grosvenor Square household meant that there was no male head of the house to preside over the dinner table, Lady Stone had solved the problem in her inimitable way. On the first night the Ryecrofts had stayed in Grosvenor Square, Lady Stone had asked Miranda to take one end of the table, while as the hostess, Lady Stone herself occupied the other.

In general, Miranda approved of the plan, for though it was unusual, it was better than having Rye pretending to be the host in Lady Stone's dining room. The messages that would send to society were too complicated even to consider.

Tonight, however, as Rye escorted her to her chair, Miranda had to smother a sigh as she looked around the dining room. What had possessed Lady Stone to put together this combination of people? At Miranda's right, Marcus Winston seated Portia with due care between his chair and Rye's, then waited with perfect manners until all the ladies had sat down. At Miranda's left, Robert Wellingham was making certain that Sophie was comfortable beside him, while beyond Sophie, Lord Carrisbrooke was fussing over Lady Stone. It was all correct in terms of etiquette, Miranda knew, but it felt like a disaster about to happen.

Padgett and the pair of footmen served the first course, and Miranda picked up her soup spoon and turned to the gentleman on her right, as protocol demanded. “I hope I see you well, Mr. Winston.” She hoped he would take the hint and keep their conversation on a mundane level.

“I was concerned when you were the last to arrive in the drawing room this evening, Miranda. I thought perhaps you would make an excuse and stay away.”

“I am not such a chickenheart as that.”

“Then the demands of your day did not exhaust you? I am glad to hear it.”

Whatever she said, he would no doubt find a way to turn it into suggestive banter. Obviously he intended to use this entire dinner party as a long attempt at verbal seduction—for all the good it would do him. She should just let him continue wasting his breath, while she listened with only half an ear as she drank her soup.

But she could not help feeling agitated at the risk he was taking, murmuring sensual nonsense within earshot of a group of people who would be agog if they knew what was going on. Even more important, she could not help but feel that he was keeping the banter flowing simply to keep her off balance, as a defense against the subject he must know she would bring up at the first opportunity.

“Stop it,” she ordered.

“No, I don't think I shall, my dear. Because when you color up like that, it reminds me of how you look when—”

Miranda interrupted. “I must speak with you.”

“You
are
speaking, Miranda.” He smiled. “Or do you mean privately? I am at your service. Where might we find a quiet enough location, I wonder? Shall I take you for a drive tomorrow morning?”

“And end up at your house? I think not. I spoke with my son before dinner, Marcus. He tells me that you and he and Carrisbrooke had an involved conversation about Sophie's future—and that you are of the opinion that Carrisbrooke should be allowed to pay court to her.”

“I am.”

Miranda kept her voice low, but it took effort. “After you promised me you would keep him away from her.”

“I promised you that he will not marry her,” Marcus corrected.

“And how do you plan to do that? By forbidding the match? Surely you can, because he's underage. But if that was your intention, why allow…?”

Marcus shook his head. “As I told you this morning, forbidding a thing only makes it more appealing. The youngsters deserve a chance to get to know each other better, to see if they suit. I know quite well they do not, and given time, I am convinced they'll see that too—unless your objections make it such a star-crossed romance that they don't realize how unhappy they would be together until it's too late.”

“And you plan to make them see this…
how
?”

“By encouraging them to spend plenty of time together, so they see past the froth and the romance to the real people underneath. All the while keeping them properly chaperoned, so it doesn't appear to society that their attentions are becoming too particular. In fact, it might be just as well if it appears they meet by accident.”

“You are surprisingly well acquainted with society's rules, considering that you choose not to live by them.”

“Thank you,” Marcus said smoothly, and Miranda had to bite her tongue to keep from pointing out that she had not intended the comment to be flattering.

“I've always thought it a good idea to thoroughly understand the conventions,” he went on, “so one can effectively circumvent them.”

“I don't see how you expect to carry out this plan.”

“That's because you didn't listen when I started to explain this morning, but… ahem… distracted me instead.”

There's a way to fix this, Miranda. But it requires your cooperation.
She had thought he was blackmailing her…

“You have Miss Ryecroft's best interests at heart, and I wish only for my nephew to be happily settled. So, together, we can chaperone them everywhere they wish to go.”

Miranda thought she was going to choke. “
Together?
”

“Starting tomorrow. I thought perhaps the four of us could meet—coincidentally, of course—on horseback along Rotten Row and ride through the park together. Shall we say nine o'clock?”

“If you think I'm going to help with this scheme of yours—”

“If you're saying you would prefer to spend our time together in other ways, I am at your command. Left to my own wishes, I would far rather drive than ride, and with only you beside me, not a couple of young nuisances. And we would reach a different destination as well… But it's entirely up to you, Miranda. Shall we keep control of our cubs—or indulge ourselves?”

***

As the footman set a plate of
soup in front of Sophie, she contemplated Robert Wellingham—who would be her captive audience until the next course required her to turn to talk with Carrisbrooke instead. She gave him a smile so charming that anyone who happened to be watching would think she was the world's most intriguing dinner partner, and said quietly, “You are no gentleman, sir.”

He seemed unmoved. “That, Miss Ryecroft, has never been in question. My father was a clerk in a banking establishment; my mother was the daughter of a moneylender, who did not make his fortune through offering generous terms to his clients. Being a gentleman is something that lies entirely out of my reach.”

“That was not what I meant, and you know it. Paying compliments that aren't meant as compliments…”

“What on earth did I say that wasn't true?”

Knowing that an explanation was beyond her, Sophie gave it up as a bad job. “I still want to know what bargain you and Rye made—because there must be something you want besides a few months' lodging at the manor.”

“You make your lovely home sound like the lowliest of inns, Miss Ryecroft.”

“I wish you would stop changing the subject.”

“You have reminded me, however, that I have not yet delivered all the messages entrusted to me by the staff at the manor. One of the maids asked me to inform you—”

“One of the maids? I thought it was the upper staff that had sent messages.”

“Do you mean to say I should not have allowed the rest of the servants to speak to me? You see, I'm hopeless at this entire business of being a gentleman.”

There was something about his tone of voice that said he was poking fun at her again, but he chatted on easily throughout the soup, and she could do little to redirect the conversation. As the soup plates were removed and her mother, in turning the table, claimed Wellingham's attention, Sophie prepared herself to listen to poetry from Carrisbrooke for a while.

But instead of admiring Carrisbrooke's polished delivery, she found herself thinking about Wellingham. What
did
he want with a house in the country?

After the fish course had been removed and the meat brought in, Lady Stone smoothly made some comment to Carrisbrooke, claiming his attention. Sophie turned once more to Wellingham, determined that this time she would get answers.

But before she could do more than open her mouth, he murmured, “Did you enjoy that lovely paean to your eyes? Now I understand what you mean by meaningful compliments, Miss Ryecroft, and I shall study hard to emulate Lord Carrisbrooke.”

“Oh, don't be ridiculous. It would sound foolish coming from you.”

“Perhaps you're right. It would hardly be a proper thing for someone you regard as a father figure to say to you, would it?”

Sophie felt a cold shiver run over her. It was the second time he'd said it.
Father figure
… But that meant…
Could
he mean…? Surely not—but she would not be able to rest until she found out what his intentions really were.

“Actually,” she said, trying to sound casual, “there
is
a way for you to become a gentleman, you know. You could marry a lady.”

“Easier said than done. Both the
marrying
and the
becoming
.”

His answer came so quickly and calmly that Sophie knew her suggestion had been no surprise. He must have thought it over. “I don't see why it should be difficult. Other than a certain levity, you have lovely manners. You dress well…”

“I am humbled,” he murmured.

“See? There's that levity popping up again. You're obviously educated. And you measure up nicely against the gentlemen of the
ton
—you're taller than Lord Whitfield is, for instance, and more athletic looking than Lord Swindon.”

“I suppose it would do no good to ask you to spare my blushes, Miss Ryecroft?”

She plunged on. “And Lady Stone says you're very wealthy.”

“I assumed you would, sooner or later, get to that particular qualification. I'm only surprised it took so long for you to work your way down the list of my assets. So which lady do you believe I should pay my addresses to? Lady Stone herself, perhaps?”

“Must you be nonsensical? Why should she marry again? She has a home, and there's no question of an heir. What would marriage offer at her age?”

The corner of Wellingham's mouth twitched. “What, indeed? Though there
might
be other reasons to wed besides homes and heirs.”

Sophie had moved on, unheeding. “Portia—Miss Langford—seems to like you.” She shot a sideways look at him to gauge his reaction. “But she is not of a high enough rank, I'm afraid. Marrying her would not vault you above your current station.”

“Then I agree we must strike her off the list.”

He'd taken the comment so calmly that Sophie's heart sank. He must have given a good deal of thought to the problem, to be so sanguine. “And that, unfortunately, leaves out Amalie Mickelthorpe as well. I was so hoping to find someone to match her up with, in order to dissuade Rye from the notion of marrying her.”

“Have you consulted your brother, to be certain he wants to be dissuaded?”

“Oh, that goes without saying. Do you
know
her?”

“I have not the honor.” His voice quivered just a little. “Are you certain it's Lord Ryecroft's welfare you're thinking of and not your own?”

He was laughing at her again, but at least this time he had reason. “All right, I admit it. I should not like to have Amalie Mickelthorpe as a sister.”

“Then by all means, if it would make life easier for you, Miss Ryecroft, I shall not hesitate to throw myself on my sword and offer for her.”

Sophie narrowed her eyes at him. “What a noble offer you make it sound! You know you're perfectly safe in suggesting it, because she simply won't do. You need someone of impeccable lineage. It would be best if she's at least the daughter of an earl, so she already has a title that will remain her own forever.”

“I am in awe of your reasoning.”

“Lady Flavia Summersby would be perfect. Perhaps I could introduce you at the musicale tonight.”

“I must stand excused, Miss Ryecroft, for I have not been invited to the musicale.”

“Oh, that doesn't matter. Lady Stone will take whomever she likes. And surely…” She paused, suddenly ill at ease.
Surely, with all your money, you'd be welcome anyway,
she'd been about to say.

“Regrettably, I have a business appointment after dinner.”

“Oh. Well, I suppose Lady Brindle wouldn't much like it if Lady Flavia didn't marry Lord Randall after all. But”—Sophie's gaze wandered around the dining room and came to rest on her mother. She could deny the facts no longer—“you said I looked at you as a father figure… You've set your cap at my mother, haven't you?”

“I cry pardon, Miss Ryecroft, but all I meant when I used that phrase was that we are a generation apart.”

“Oh no, you're not going to catch me out this time.”

She had, of course, seen it coming long ago—she simply hadn't wanted to admit it. Not only had he been hinting as much this evening, but there had been indications even before that. As they'd walked down the road together at the manor on that first afternoon, Wellingham had said he wanted Lady Ryecroft to think well of him… Perhaps that even explained why he'd been willing to pay such a high rent for the manor.

“If you're trying to convince me I'm the one who gave you the idea,” Sophie said, “simply because I suggested how you might win her good wishes…”

“You didn't suggest anything of the sort. You offered to, but before fulfilling your promise, you changed your mind.”

“Because you were laughing at me. And now you're doing it again.”

“I fear I cannot help it, Miss Ryecroft. You are an amusing child.”