Just One Season in London

by Leigh Michaels

  “Carrisbrooke,” Lady Ryecroft said tightly. “How pleasant to meet you. We must return to Brindle Park immediately, however, as we will be going home today.”

  Sophie goggled at her. “Today? But, Mama…”

  Lady Ryecroft gave her a quelling glance, and Sophie subsided. She’d been on the receiving end of that look frequently enough to know there was no ignoring it.

  The moment I meet someone interesting, Sophie thought. She let self-pity wash over her for a moment before she tugged on Moondust’s reins and obediently fell in beside her mother.

  But she darted a look back over her shoulder and was pleased to see that Carrisbrooke was watching her as she rode away.

  ***

  Portia held her tongue until the front door had closed behind Lord Ryecroft and his curricle had pulled away from the house and headed east from Grosvenor Square. Once she was absolutely certain he was gone, she turned from the drawing-room window to face Lady Stone. “You cannot be serious, ma’am.”

  “…forty-nine, fifty,” Lady Stone said. “It took less than fifty seconds for you to break down. What a disappointment you are, Portia. I wagered with myself that your nerves were so strong you weren’t going to say anything at all. But as it happens, you didn’t even hold out for a full minute.”

  “If you think making fun will keep me quiet, ma’am, I must tell you that you are deceived indeed. You, introduce a debutante? Sponsor her appearance in society?”

  “I am certainly able, you know. I fancy I know everyone who is anyone in this city.”

  “Take her all over London, to every ball and rout and party, day after day and night after night?”

  “I go to many of them anyway.”

  “And how long has it been since you attended an assembly at Almack’s?”

  “A while,” Lady Stone conceded. “Two or three years, perhaps. But I might enjoy it again.”

  “You would have to give up the card room and spend every moment chaperoning her.”

  “But you see, that’s the best part of the idea, because I won’t have to give up anything at all. That, my dear Miss Langford, is why I have you.”

  Portia was speechless.

  “As my companion, you’re the ideal chaperone for a young woman in her first Season.”

  “But you told Lord Ryecroft that you would personally see to it!”

  “As I have done, by putting his sister in your capable hands.”

  Portia had to admit, as she thought back over the conversation, that Lady Stone had not lied; she had merely allowed Lord Ryecroft—and Portia—to believe whatever they wished.

  “You’re the perfect chaperone, in fact.” Lady Stone sounded pleased with herself. “You’re young enough to mix into her crowd, so you can stay close at hand and see exactly what she’s up to. You can even hear what she says to the other chits when they’re chattering to each other in the withdrawing rooms at balls. That, you must admit, would be difficult for someone like me to accomplish.”

  Portia had to bite her lip hard at the image of Lady Stone surrounded by giggling young women—trading gossip with them, admiring new hats, tying their ribbons and corsets, mending rips… and sharing confidences along the way.

  “Yet you have that air of respectability that every chaperone requires.”

  Portia sighed. “And how do you think it’s going to look to society—your bringing out Lord Ryecroft’s sister?”

  Lady Stone sighed sentimentally and clasped her hands together under her chin in a gesture worthy of a charade. “I suppose society will fondly think I’m a childless lady who wishes to recapture lost opportunities by pretending, for a Season, to have a daughter.”

  “No,” Portia said bitterly. “They’ll think you’re an old woman who is trying to curry favor with an impecunious but handsome young man because you feel an unnatural attraction for him!”

  Lady Stone looked into the far distance for a moment. Her index finger tapped gently against her jaw.

  Portia didn’t know if she should feel pleased that her employer seemed to have understood her point at last, or concerned because the work of canceling this odd start of Lady Stone’s was bound to fall on her companion’s shoulders. The one thing Portia looked forward to even less than presiding over Sophie Ryecroft’s come-out was telling her brother the entire idea had been called off.

  She was thinking how best to break it to him when Lady Stone said, “Do you truly think he is?”

  “Poverty-stricken? My dear ma’am…”

  “No. You called him handsome.”

  Portia stared at her. “We’re talking about you here, Lady Stone—not me.”

  “Are we, my dear? But what an innocent you are if you do not realize there’s nothing at all unnatural about a woman of any age feeling attracted to a young buck like that one. He’s not only handsome; he has a winning way about him—unusual for a man his age. Inheriting so young—and facing such financial strictures—has matured him beyond his years.”

  Portia opened her mouth, thought better of what she’d like to say, and closed it again.

  Lady Stone laughed merrily. “Oh, don’t look at me like that—and don’t be such a ninnyhammer. Have you not even stopped to think? The girl has a mother, after all. Lady Ryecroft will hardly allow her daughter to be launched into society without her assistance.”

  “Oh,” Portia said feebly. “Of course.”

  “One might think you had your mind so firmly upon Lord Ryecroft that you’d forgotten all else… It will appear to the public that Miranda Ryecroft and I are the best of long-lost friends, especially since I’ve just returned from the corner of Surrey where she lives.”

  “And you think people will believe you’re giving Lady Ryecroft and her family houseroom only for her convenience?”

  “Perhaps not. But I’ll tell everyone I’m inviting them in order to make your life more lively.”

  “Mine?”

  “A dull existence you have of it, Miss Langford, being a companion to an old lady like me. But never let it be said that I’m not a thoughtful employer. With some young things about the house, you can’t possibly be bored to extinction.”

  Overworked, Portia thought. Annoyed… put-upon… aggravated beyond reason… But no, Lady Stone was right; with the Ryecrofts in the house, she would absolutely not be bored.

  “Yes, indeed,” Lady Stone mused. “It’s you I’m thinking of.”

  “I am honored beyond reason, ma’am.”

  Lady Stone didn’t seem to hear the ironic twist in Portia’s voice. “As well you should be, my girl, because the sort of man who will seriously court Sophie Ryecroft is exactly the kind you’re looking for.”

  “I am not looking—”

  “Then you should be. And since she can’t marry all of them…”

  “You believe that perhaps a crumb or two might fall my way?” Portia said dryly.

  “And why shouldn’t it? You’re presentable enough, and your pedigree is nearly as good as hers.”

  “If one leaves aside the fact that I earn my living as a companion.”

  “Irrelevant. Of course, you’ll need some new dresses too, if you’re to go about in the lovely Miss Ryecroft’s wake and help to keep her on the straight and narrow. You’d best get started on that right now so the dressmakers will be free by the time the Beauty arrives. I wonder how long Ryecroft will be about bringing them? Better inform the housekeeper that we’ll need the guest rooms opened and polished too.” Lady Stone yawned. “I believe I’ll have a nap; I was wakeful last night.”

  For a moment Portia feared Lady Stone intended to tell her exactly what had kept her awake. She’d been mooning over handsome young Lord Ryecroft, no doubt—perhaps picturing him in her boudoir or visualizing him shucking his clothes in her bedroom… Portia could see the details of that vision with no effort at all. Lord Ryecroft’s face alight with interest, with humor, with delight… with desire…

  Only it wasn’t Lady Stone he was looking at, in Portia’s imagina
tion. And it wasn’t Lady Stone’s boudoir that he seemed to fill to capacity, but her own smaller bedroom. She could actually see his hand, strong and tanned against the pure white of his cravat, as he began ever so slowly to unfasten it, revealing his throat… A little shiver ran over her. Of distaste, she told herself firmly.

  “I won’t need you for the rest of the morning, so you may start straightaway on arrangements for the ball.”

  “Ball?” Portia was surprised she could speak at all.

  “Yes, I’ll be giving a ball to formally introduce Miss Ryecroft—and her brother, of course—to the ton. In about three weeks, I think.”

  Portia was only surprised that Lady Stone had remembered Miss Ryecroft, and not her brother, was supposed to be the star of the show.

  “That should be enough time to build a buzz of expectation and to get them both properly fitted out with the right clothes. Oh, what fun that’s going to be!” Lady Stone gave a wicked chuckle. “Such a fine figure of a man he is. If his coats were only cut a wee bit closer to show off those magnificent shoulders, and his pantaloons just a shade tighter…”

  “Ma’am!” Portia wanted to clap her hands over her ears, but interrupting—even though it was also rude—would have to do. “You cannot be thinking of advising his tailor? Or sitting in while Lord Ryecroft is measured?”

  She wondered how broad his chest really was… and how much measuring it took to fit a gentleman’s pantaloons… The room was feeling a little too warm.

  “Of course not.” Lady Stone’s tone was virtuous, though there was a hint of laughter underneath. “My goodness, Miss Langford—such an idea for a lady to express. Do take your mind out of the chamber pot!”

  Six

  Ryecroft Manor might be shopworn, even verging on threadbare, but it was home, and Miranda was relieved to be back in her familiar surroundings.

  For about half a day.

  Once she had made the rounds of her domain, answered the questions that had arisen during her absence, and settled a minor tiff between the crusty old gardener and the cook over which herbs to add to the kitchen garden this year, she felt curiously at loose ends.

  Whenever she tried to sit quietly and read or sew or even plan a menu, she found her mind drifting back to that quiet library at Carris Abbey and that mortifying instant when Marcus Winston had rejected her.

  No. If she were honest, it wasn’t the moment of mortification that she recalled most clearly, but the few minutes that had preceded that embarrassment. The minutes in which she had let him hold her, caress her, touch her breasts… Even now, all she had to do was be still and she could feel his hands against her skin and the heat of his body as he pressed against her. She once more felt the tingle of desire in her breasts, along with a new rush of heat between her legs, reminding her that if he had not turned away from her, she would have become his lover right there on the settee…

  And she had to admit that part of her wished the moment of madness hadn’t ended.

  In a feeble attempt to wear herself down enough to rest, she announced—to the housekeeper’s horror—that she was going to turn out every room and cupboard at the manor. She began with a linen press that hadn’t been entirely emptied since before she’d arrived as a bride. She put Sophie to work counting towels, while Miranda sorted the sheets that could still be mended from those that should be cut down into pillow covers instead.

  But even as she handled the smooth linen and felt it warm under her hands, she remembered the way his crisp shirtfront had felt against her fingertips…

  On the third day of her cleaning spree, Miranda came downstairs early after a fitful sleep and found Sophie already in her riding habit, munching toast as she tiptoed across the hall toward the side door that was closest to the stables. Obviously she had intended to escape the house before her mother came downstairs, but she had been tripped up by her always-healthy appetite.

  “Oh, do come and sit down like a lady for a proper breakfast,” Miranda said crossly. “And after you’ve finished, you may ask Cook for some beef jelly to take to Mrs. Curtis at the gate cottage. Mrs. Carstairs tells me that the baby has arrived.”

  “Perhaps Mrs. Carstairs hoped that you would deliver it yourself and stop poking into her responsibilities,” Sophie offered as she perched on the edge of her chair to gulp her food. She was not exactly ladylike, Miranda noted.

  “If you don’t want the excuse for a ride,” Miranda began.

  Sophie shook her head and jumped up, still clutching the last of her toast. “No, I’ll do it.” The next moment she was gone, her boot heels clicking on the marble of the hallway, and Miranda was too glad of her absence to fuss about her daughter’s lack of manners.

  After Sophie had gone, Miranda turned over the pages of the newspaper, hardly seeing the stories, while she drank her coffee.

  You will be my mistress, Marcus had said.

  But of course that was laughable. How could she possibly become his mistress, when she was in Surrey, with no intention of leaving Ryecroft Manor anytime soon, and he was a hundred miles away?

  Because you want me as much as I want you…

  She simply must get over this nonsense; that was all. She felt like a violin string, tensed and taut as she waited for the bow to come to rest and draw forth a melody—which was completely foolish, since there was no possibility she would see him again. Ever.

  And the low feeling that gave her was the most ridiculous thing she’d ever experienced.

  She spent a couple of hours sorting out the contents of a drawer in her morning room. There were letters from girlhood friends whom she hadn’t heard from in years now, a calf-bound journal she’d received for her twelfth birthday and kept fitfully for a few months, and sentimental keepsakes of her childhood—including a red paper valentine that Marcus had given her when she was sixteen.

  She sat down, hard, her fingers trembling as she held the card. Not only had it slipped her mind that he had made it and given it to her, but she didn’t recall bringing it along with her as a bride. But here it was, tucked among her most precious mementos.

  At the door, Carstairs cleared his throat. “My lady, a… gentleman… has called and requests to see you.” The hesitation in the butler’s voice sent a flicker up Miranda’s spine. Carstairs never missed; if he said a man was a gentleman, then indeed he was. But if Carstairs wasn’t certain…

  Was it Marcus? Not that she expected even Carstairs could sniff out Marcus’s exact origins, but there had been an air of informality about Marcus when she’d seen him at Carris Abbey that she’d never noticed before. Perhaps it had been born of the years he had spent in the New World. Carstairs wouldn’t miss that.

  Still, it couldn’t be Marcus, for he wouldn’t dare to call on her at her home.

  You will be my mistress…

  But why wouldn’t he come to Ryecroft Manor? Even though a morning call at her home would violate the rules, it was no worse than the way Miranda had barged in on him at Carris Abbey…

  “He asked for the master,” Carstairs said, “but when I told him that Lord Ryecroft was not at home, he begged to have a moment with you, ma’am.”

  Marcus would not have asked for Rye. Relief swept over her, followed instantly by a sensation Miranda refused to admit—the barest sense of disappointment.

  She realized Carstairs was looking at her with ill-concealed curiosity and holding out a tray, and she picked up the visiting card that lay on it. Robert Wellingham, it said. It was not a name she recognized, though somehow there was a flicker of familiarity about it. But she had been away from society for so long it would be no wonder if she had grown rusty. For all she knew, he might be part of a distant branch of one of the nation’s most eminent families.

  She turned the card between her fingers. “Very well. I’ll see him. Show him into the drawing room in five minutes.”

  Carstairs inclined his head and went away.

  Miranda sat still for another few seconds, then put the valentine safely back
in the drawer and went down to the drawing room. She glanced around to be certain everything was in place, though there was no need; the maids had obviously not cut corners in their regular duties while she was gone. A fire blazed in the grate, and the velvet draperies had been pulled open to admit the spring sunshine that reflected off the early green of the gardens.

  Miranda noted that the strong rays fell across a thin spot on the carpet, and she sighed as she pulled a chair forward to mask the flaw. Of all the rooms in Ryecroft Manor, this one was least used, and despite the furnishings being dated and tired, it was still the most impressive. That was why she had chosen it to receive her unknown guest, though exactly why she had the odd sense that it was important to impress this man, she did not know.

  Carstairs brought in her caller, and she surveyed Robert Wellingham with curiosity. He was tall and broad-shouldered; his deep blue morning coat had obviously come from the hand of a fine tailor, and his neckcloth, though not elaborately tied, was of the whitest and best linen. His hair was dark, and there was the slightest touch of silver at his temples. More than that, however, the way he stood told her that he was nearly her own age, for he had an air of command that few younger men possessed. Even Rye, who had been born to rank, hadn’t quite mastered that attitude yet, though inheriting so young—and coming into an estate in such disarray—had matured him well beyond his actual age. She sensed, however, that Robert Wellingham had come by his aplomb the hard way—through work, not by inheritance.

  She nodded politely but did not invite him to sit. “Good morning, sir.”

  “Lady Ryecroft, thank you for receiving me.” He bowed over her hand. “I had the pleasure of meeting Lord Ryecroft in London several days ago. He indicated that he would soon be returning home, and we arranged that I would come to Surrey to discuss some business with him. But I must have misunderstood, for I am told he is still away.”

  “Yes.” Miranda kept her voice level. If Rye had intended to come home several days ago, where was he now? It was a matter of just a few hours’ drive to London… “I have not received word from him, so I regret that I cannot tell you more than that.”