Just One Season in London

by Leigh Michaels

  “So of course you’re being received by everyone in society now, because if something should happen to Carrisbrooke, you’d be the next earl.”

  “Even Ann Eliza Brindle bowed and spoke to me this evening. She must have heard the news the moment she reached town.” There was a note of self-deprecating humor in his voice. “I was honored by the… well, I can’t honestly call it the warmth of her regard, but…”

  “So you really are looking to marry.”

  “It seems an option I should consider.”

  “Very well. Find a bride. But not Sophie.” Too late, she realized that protesting might only spur his interest. “Marcus, you’re not at all the right man for Sophie. I beg of you, don’t do this.”

  His eyes gleamed. “Oh, Miranda, you don’t know what the idea of you begging does to me. Do carry on. What sort of bargain are you offering? If I give up the idea of courting your daughter, what will you do in return?”

  She lifted her chin. “If you’re attempting to blackmail me into being your mistress…”

  He looked thoughtful. “What a flattering opinion you have of my character.”

  Why had she let her tongue run away with her? She should have acted instead as if she had no memory of those few minutes she’d spent in his arms at Carris Abbey…

  He added softly, “Would it work?”

  “Of course not!”

  “Then I shall not waste the effort.”

  “You’re too old for her. Too sophisticated.”

  His eyebrows arched. “Is there such a thing as being too sophisticated? I believe I am insulted. As for being too old, Swindon is only two years younger than I. I remember him well from our time at Eton, when he tormented the weaker boys. Yet I am convinced Lady Stone has arranged for his name to be inscribed on your daughter’s dance card.”

  “We’re not talking about him,” Miranda said stubbornly.

  “Very well. Let’s not talk at all. Speaking of dancing, you suggested I find a partner. Shall we share a dance for old times’ sake?”

  “I’m here as a chaperone.”

  “And you’re behaving as if you’re in your dotage—dressed in gray like the dowagers.”

  “I am a dowager.”

  “Only by the strictest of definitions. I thought perhaps that dress of yours was intended as a message for me.”

  “I do not dress to please—or displease—you.”

  He smiled. “You have no need to dress to please me.”

  Undressing seemed to be more on his mind; that was true enough.

  “Gray is not at all your color. But it does make clear that you’re past being interested in society and fun and men, so of course a man’s thoughts turn to younger women… You know, Miranda, it would be no wonder if a man, looking at you tonight, would think your daughter old enough to marry.”

  “She is old enough.”

  He slanted a look down at her.

  “Just not for someone with your… experience.”

  He smiled. “Stop quarreling and come and dance with me. Surely you will not begrudge me a dance. Or do you truly wish to be a dowager and live only to marry off your daughter?”

  She glared at him, but before she could find an objection, he slipped a hand to the small of her back and escorted her out onto the floor just as the orchestra struck up a waltz.

  A waltz, she thought. Of course, it would have to be a waltz.

  She hadn’t waltzed in what felt like ages—not since Sophie had made her first appearance at the local assemblies at least—but one never forgot how. And she hadn’t forgotten how it felt to circle the floor in Marcus’s arms either, even though it had been more than twenty years since she had danced with him.

  Only… she didn’t remember him being so imposing, so strong, so powerful. She didn’t remember feeling like thistledown in his arms, as he made the steps light and quick and effortless.

  It wasn’t entirely the exercise or the beat of the music that made her breathless, she admitted. It was being held so closely, with the light scent of his cologne and clean linen surrounding them. It was the warmth of his hand clasping hers, of her skirt brushing his legs as they danced.

  One waltz, she thought. She would put it into her drawer of memories along with the valentine he had made her so many years ago. She closed her eyes to soak up sensations.

  “I shall have to put a stop to that.” Marcus sounded annoyed and not at all breathless, as if to him the dance was nothing special at all.

  Miranda’s eyes popped open, and for a moment she wondered what she could possibly have done to displease him. But then he took them on a sweeping turn, and she saw Sophie sitting in a corner of the ballroom, on a settee that was far too small for two. And bent close over her was a set of golden ringlets that could only belong to Carrisbrooke.

  Miranda missed a step as she tried to move to the edge of the dance floor, the better to reach—and scold—Sophie.

  Marcus steadied her. “Stay. You will only call more attention to them if you storm off the floor and make a scene.” His arms tightened, pulling her just a fraction closer than was proper.

  “So you’re intending for us to create a scene right here instead?”

  He smiled at her and drew her nearer yet. “It would at least keep the minds of the ton away from your offspring.”

  The light scent of his cologne caught at her senses, and his knee, slipping between her legs in the steps of the dance, sent heat through her body.

  “Would it be such a bad thing if we were to enjoy each other, Miranda?” he whispered into her ear.

  How, she wondered, had he managed to get close enough to do that?

  Then they turned again, and she frowned at the sight of Sophie’s bright hair and Carrisbrooke’s ringlets.

  “Don’t fret. I will handle Carrisbrooke’s infatuation,” Marcus said firmly.

  But would he act only because he wanted Sophie for himself? Despite all her efforts to dissuade him, he hadn’t clearly said he wouldn’t pursue her daughter…Miranda’s heart felt like a lump of lead.

  ***

  When Portia introduced Lord Ryecroft to the heap of pink ruffles otherwise known as Amalie Mickelthorpe, she could have sworn that the young woman licked her lips at the sight of him. But when he asked if he might sign her dance card, Miss Mickelthorpe was coy about showing it to him. “I am already bespoken for this dance,” she said sweetly, “but the next is free.”

  The dance she was offering, Portia calculated, would be a waltz. Of course Miss Mickelthorpe wished to be the first to take the floor with the dashing young Lord Ryecroft for a waltz, for it was the most intimate and romantic of dances. It was the most meaningful as well, for dancers reserved the few waltzes of an evening for the most special of partners.

  Portia would dearly love to get a look at the dance card Amalie was protecting. She’d have bet her next quarter’s wages there was already a name on the line next to the first waltz, and that as soon as Portia’s back was turned and Rye had moved off into the next country dance, Amalie would be scrambling to disentangle herself from whomever she’d originally promised.

  And why should it matter to you? It’s the way the game is played.

  The sooner Lord Ryecroft found his heiress and made his intentions known, the better. Certainly Portia’s life would be more peaceful.

  She matched Lord Ryecroft up with Juliana Farling for the next country dance and, with a sigh of relief, returned to the pillared corner for some peace and quiet. That’s where you belong anyway, she told herself. In the corner with the dowagers and the companions.

  But she was still thinking of the look on Amalie Mickelthorpe’s face as she’d watched Lord Ryecroft—as if she’d been admiring a particularly savory cake she was about to bite into. Portia knew exactly how the girl felt. How lovely it had been to dance with him, to swirl through the figures with his strong arm to lean on, even if she had only been a placeholder until he could begin to meet the girls who really mattered. Portia could still f
eel the thrum of the music; her head felt muzzy yet from the quick turns and spins he had guided her through without ever making a misstep.

  She didn’t realize that Lady Ryecroft was not alone until she’d barged into the middle of what was obviously a tense moment.

  “Did you enjoy your turn about the floor?” Lady Ryecroft asked.

  It was only a polite question, Portia knew. She managed to say something bland and began wondering how to extricate herself. Whatever Lady Ryecroft and Mr. Winston had been discussing, it seemed to have left them at odds—yet he wasn’t going away, despite the fact that Lady Ryecroft had turned her back on him…

  Lady Stone returned. “You do not dance, Portia?”

  “I thought perhaps you would have need of me, ma’am.” Please, Portia wanted to say.

  “Yes, indeed. What a good idea. I shall lean on your arm as we walk about the room.”

  As soon as they were at a safe distance, Portia looked down at her employer. “Doing it up too brown, ma’am. It’s not like you to hobble—and if you can’t walk easily, why did you not just sit down in the corner?”

  “You mean you would have preferred to stay and play gooseberry to those two?” Lady Stone’s face brightened. “You there—Randall. Why aren’t you dancing?”

  Lord Randall bowed. “I dance only with Lady Flavia tonight.”

  “Well, that’s romantic. Also foolish to let her conclude, before she is firmly committed to you, that you have no possible interest in anyone else. But if you prefer not to dance, then take Miss Langford for a turn around the edge of the ballroom.”

  “Ma’am,” Portia protested, “there is no need.”

  “But, my dear, as you just told me—if I cannot walk easily, I must sit down and rest. Surely someone will come and talk to me; I have many old friends in attendance. Do go and enjoy the spectacle. Or take a breath of fresh air on the terrace. Lord Randall, Miss Langford was just mentioning how warm it is in here.” She winked.

  Portia would have made a face at her, if only there weren’t half a hundred potential observers. But Lord Randall had obediently offered his arm, so she laid her hand on his sleeve with the lightest possible touch. “Of course Lady Stone is joking about fresh air on the terrace.”

  “I should hope so. Though I have the greatest respect for your employer…”

  What a hum, Portia thought.

  “She has little understanding of the implications of such an act.”

  Oh, she understands perfectly well.

  “A gentleman might as well declare his intentions if he were to take an unmarried lady out to the terrace alone.” Belatedly, he seemed to realize that he was not flattering her. “I do beg your pardon, Miss Langford, but surely you must see—”

  “Oh, don’t go on, my lord. There is no need to explain to me that I don’t begin to reach your exalted level of society or that you’re doing me honor in simply walking about the room with me.”

  “That is true,” he said after a pause, as if he had given it a great deal of thought.

  Portia felt like pinching him. Instead she turned her attention to the dancers, only to meet the frowning gaze of Lady Brindle from across the ballroom. Now Lady Brindle will think I’m trying to flirt with her son.

  “But the dance is finishing,” Lord Randall said with unmistakable relief. “I must find Lady Flavia, for I am promised the honor of leading her out for the first waltz.” He bowed and left Portia at the edge of the floor. It was rude of him to abandon her there, but Portia couldn’t work herself up to be irritated. At least it should be clear to Lady Brindle that her darling was in no danger of having his head turned by Portia Langford…

  In any case, Portia realized, they had made nearly a full circuit of the ballroom, for from a dainty chair nearby, Lady Stone beckoned to her. For a moment Portia considered pretending not to have seen her, but Lady Stone was remarkably difficult to ignore. Her employer was not alone, she saw; a gentleman in purple stood by her chair.

  “Lord Swindon has no partner for this waltz,” Lady Stone announced. “And I have assured him you are a talented dancer.”

  Portia dropped a small curtsy. “Lady Stone exaggerates. Having never danced with me herself, she has inflated notions of my skills.”

  Swindon’s eyes gleamed.

  With humor? Portia wondered. Or something else?

  “But Lady Stone is never wrong.” His voice was low, with a rough edge. “I must test your skills for myself.”

  A chill slid up Portia’s spine. “I’m certain any of the young ladies would be delighted to honor you with a dance.”

  “But I want you. Come, the music is already starting.”

  With Lady Stone beaming at them, Portia could see no means of escape. Besides, it was only a dance. What was wrong with her tonight, anyway, that she was seeing hidden meanings in the most innocuous of phrases?

  The floor was less crowded than before, with the youngest girls not yet permitted to waltz and many older dancers preferring the slow and stately country figures to the exertion of this newer, more daring, more active dance. Across the room, Portia caught a glimpse of Lord Ryecroft with Amalie Mickelthorpe. His sober deep green coat looked like a leafy background to her petal-pink ruffles. Portia had to stifle a chuckle at the image.

  Lord Swindon had apparently followed her gaze. “I noticed you arranging partners for Ryecroft. Is that a companion’s duty now, to find entertainment for her employer’s”—his pause drew out significantly—“guest?”

  Was he implying that Ryecroft and Lady Stone were carrying on some kind of personal intrigue? And where is the surprise in that? You warned her yourself that people would talk.

  The only surprise was that Swindon would come so close to saying it. And to her, of all people—Lady Stone’s companion… She’d been right in thinking that the sooner Ryecroft chose his heiress, the better it would be for everyone.

  And there was no reason at all for her to feel low about it. “Lady Stone requested me to make him known to some of the young ladies.”

  Swindon chuckled. “Especially the ones with fortunes, I collect. Lady Stone is an untraditional lady.”

  “Indeed. I find her refreshing.”

  “No doubt, for you seem to be refreshing and untraditional as well. You are a mysterious companion, Miss Langford. Quite… unusual.”

  A quiver ran through her. “There’s no mystery about me.”

  “How did you come to meet Lady Stone?”

  Oh, why had he asked her for a waltz, where it was possible to chat all through the dance? “She was taking one of her treks up and down the country. I believe she spends her winters going from one house party to the next.”

  “And you were a guest at one of these house parties?”

  “Not precisely. But my aunt lives in the neighborhood of one of them, and we were invited to a dinner party at the great house.”

  “Where was that?”

  Portia pretended not to hear. The patterns of the dancers had shifted, and suddenly Lord Ryecroft was next to them. Swindon drew her closer, as though to avoid a collision, but Portia suspected he had only been waiting for an opportunity. She was sure of it when she tried to pull away and found his arm to be like steel.

  “Lady Stone and I found ourselves to be compatible, and as I wished to see the city, we came to an amicable arrangement for my employment.”

  “Your aunt must have been devastated to lose you.”

  “I believe she has come to terms with the loss.”

  “And of course you could always go back to her.”

  “Of course.” It was a casual answer to a casual comment, but Portia couldn’t help but wonder whether there had been a reason he had said it.

  She tried again to pull away, without success. Over Swindon’s shoulder, she caught Lord Ryecroft’s eye. He frowned a little, and she felt a bubble of annoyance rise inside her. What business was it of his whom she danced with or how she conducted herself on the floor? Why wasn’t he paying attention t
o the heiress in his arms, anyway, instead of sending disapproving looks in her direction? On the other hand, the fact that he’d noticed made her feel warm somehow. Perhaps she wasn’t the only one who was still feeling the aftereffects of that first country dance…

  She stopped resisting and let Swindon draw her half an inch closer yet into his arms. So much for Lord Ryecroft’s scandalized sensibilities.

  The next time she met his gaze, she sent a smile in his direction.

  Swindon’s arms tightened. “Ah yes. You are skilled indeed.”

  Portia smothered a sigh. How long could this waltz possibly continue? It already seemed to have been going on forever.

  Ten

  It was long after midnight when the carriage delivered them to Lady Stone’s mansion on Grosvenor Square, and Rye expected that the ladies would not rise until well into the morning.

  He, however, found himself in the breakfast room at the usual hour, feeling more irritable than usual, for he had barely slept. He’d tried counting heiresses instead of sheep, only to realize too late that dwelling on a parade of moneyed females was hardly a soothing sort of pastime for a man who was going to have to choose one of them, and soon.

  He didn’t feel like eating, but he finished his coffee, then continued to sit at the table, feeling as empty as his cup.

  Perhaps, he thought, if Sophie were to make the brilliant match they all hoped for, then he wouldn’t have to choose from the heiresses after all. But a shaft of disgust shot through him at the idea. What sort of man was he, to wish for his little sister to rescue him?

  A rustle in the hallway made him paste a smile on his face. It wouldn’t fool his mother, he suspected, but it might get by Sophie and buy him some time to talk himself round again.

  But it was Portia who came into the breakfast room.

  Portia. He wondered when he had started thinking of her that way. Not that it was surprising; after a couple of weeks of living under the same roof, of attending and discussing the same parties, even of standing about waiting for dressmakers and milliners to finish what Sophie insisted would take no more than a minute, it would have been difficult to maintain strict formality. Not that he would ever call her by her first name to her face, of course… She would freeze him in a minute if he tried.