Just One Season in London

by Leigh Michaels

  But then he must have done this many times, while it was only her first. She should, perhaps, be pleased that he was taking steps to protect her from her own shortsightedness.

  But she would not have been human if part of her hadn’t wanted him to lose control, to forget everything except her… and his desire for her.

  His fingers worked with a great deal more efficiency than hers were capable of doing, but it still seemed to take a long time to free Miranda of the charcoal walking dress—mostly because he kept stopping to kiss her collarbone and nip at her shoulder and taste the rosy circles around her nipples.

  By the time they were finally together on his bed, free of all restrictions, there was not a square inch of her that had not been caressed, and Miranda felt as if her entire body was aflame. The brush of his lightly haired chest against her breasts only served to heat her more, and the emptiness inside her had grown torturous. When at long last he parted her legs and moved over her, she pulled him closer, demanding with her body what she couldn’t bring herself to put into words.

  As carefully as if she’d been a virgin, he probed and slowly entered, looking deep into her eyes as he took her an inch at a time. He was hot and hard and big, and she realized that his breath was rasping with the effort he was making to be careful, to take his time. How sweet, she thought. She abruptly tilted her hips, moaning with satisfaction as she succeeded in pulling him deeply inside her.

  “Wench,” he said and held still for a moment, as if to savor the sensation, before he started to move. Each long, deliciously firm thrust filled her completely; each withdrawal left her aching. Ever so slowly, the pace increased, each stroke just a little quicker, a little deeper, a little more forceful.

  She caught his rhythm and met him eagerly, until—with her gaze locked with his—she lost herself once more just as he thrust hard and exploded deep inside her.

  ***

  Lady Stone’s offhanded prediction had been correct—within minutes more callers began to arrive, and inside half an hour they were overrun. Every few minutes Padgett trudged up to the drawing room to announce a new contingent of visitors. Young ladies with their mothers. Young men in small groups, as if clustered together for courage. Older men one at a time.

  Rye kept on the move, greeting everyone and exchanging a few words in each small group. Portia, he noticed, was doing much the same thing as she tried to find chairs for everyone who wanted to sit, and once, they nearly collided near the windows overlooking Grosvenor Square. “You’re supposed to be buttering up heiresses,” she said quietly. “Not making engagements with your friends to go inspect horses.”

  So she’d been eavesdropping on his conversation, not paying attention to the matron who had been talking to her… Satisfaction surged through him. “I’m applying Lady Stone’s advice not to seem too eager to please.”

  “Not appearing overenthusiastic is one thing. Being stiff and unapproachable is another. You’ve barely exchanged a word with Miss Mickelthorpe, and Lady Brindle will excuse herself any moment now, because she’s already overstayed the polite length of a visit. You’ll lose the opportunity.”

  Good, thought Rye, before he could stop himself. Unfortunately, Portia was correct that he must not let this chance pass altogether. In this group, only Amalie Mickelthorpe was on Lady Stone’s list of potential eligible brides.

  He glanced around the room and noted that Lady Brindle had indeed slid to the edge of her chair as if she was about to say her farewells. Miss Mickelthorpe was still sitting on the long sofa where she had planted herself on arrival, and he was headed in that direction to do the pretty, when Padgett came into the room once more. This time the butler was ushering Lord Swindon. Rye couldn’t help it; he looked over his shoulder to see how Portia would react to the sight of her favorite rake coming to make a morning call.

  She had paused in midstep as if her attention was arrested for a moment by the mere sight of Swindon on the threshold. Then she turned to Sophie, who happened to be standing nearest her, with a brief comment. Rye was too far away to hear, but Sophie frowned a little, and he couldn’t help but wonder whether Portia had been warning his sister to keep hands off. But surely not—a mere companion would not assume a nobleman was her property, much less caution a Beauty to stay away.

  Between the scent of the flowers that seeped in from the hallway as each visitor entered, the shrill giggles of the young ladies, and the posturing of the men—young and not so young—who were trying to impress the ladies, Rye’s head was beginning to ache in earnest. And I don’t even have to run up and down the stairs through that cloud of pollen. “Poor Padgett.”

  He wasn’t aware he’d voiced his opinion until Amalie Mickelthorpe said, “Did you say ‘poor Padgett’? You mean the butler, my lord? But surely he should be thankful to have such a position.”

  “I’m certain he is grateful to be employed. I only meant he can’t be accustomed to Lady Stone receiving this sort of crowd. It must be hard on him at his age, having to tramp up and down every time the knocker falls.”

  Miss Mickelthorpe looked puzzled. “But think of the honor—the house being so busy.” She pulled her ruffles aside, making room for him on the sofa, and for the first time he realized that she’d been holding that space open all morning. Rye glanced around, noting that—for a wonder—every lady in the room was seated at the moment, so he could sit too. Lady Stone caught his eye and nodded her approval, her beady black gaze sparkling over him and his companion.

  As he sat down, Miss Mickelthorpe leaned toward him and dropped her voice to an intimate murmur. “Do tell me about Surrey, my lord. I have never been there, but I understand the countryside is pretty and that your home is close enough to the capital for easy visits.”

  What he wouldn’t give to go home to Ryecroft Manor right now, and stay there in peace and quiet. Only, he reminded himself, he would have to take this young woman—or one much like her—home with him. Forever.

  At least, he thought philosophically, his father had not only built a good wine cellar, but stocked it well. Once he was back at Ryecroft, he could just go through his regular routine in a port-induced haze and not even notice Miss Mickelthorpe…

  “Perhaps,” she went on, “with the days growing longer now, you will host a luncheon party there? I should so love to see Ryecroft Manor.”

  The hair on Rye’s nape stood up. “It’s only a few hours’ drive, true enough,” he admitted, “but it’s not close enough to go all the way back and forth in a day and still enjoy the visit.”

  Lady Flavia came up behind them. “In any case, since Ryecroft Manor is rented out for the Season, you can hardly go nosing about the place, Amalie.”

  Automatically, Rye popped to his feet, wondering how that news had gotten out and why Lady Flavia had thought the fact important enough to notice.

  “It’s time to go,” Lady Flavia went on. “Lady Brindle is saying her farewells.”

  Rye thanked heaven; his timing had been well-nigh perfect. “It is my bad fortune to have you swept away just as I’m finally free to join you, Miss Mickelthorpe.” He offered his hand to help her rise. “I shall see you this evening at the Farlings’ musicale, I believe?”

  “Oh yes. I do so appreciate music, though I have little talent in that direction myself.”

  Somehow that announcement didn’t surprise Rye.

  “My gift is more in the arts. My watercolor teacher says I have an incredible feel for color and proportion.”

  Rye’s gaze fell on Miss Mickelthorpe’s hat, loaded down with such a variety and number of trimmings that it must make her neck hurt to hold up the weight of it all, and he wondered whether the watercolor teacher was an incompetent artist or a master of ironic understatement. Incredible could have several interpretations…

  Silence fell across the room, and for an instant Rye wondered if his expression had given away his thoughts. That would be untidy, if anyone happened to be watching him closely.

  From the doorway Padgett
cleared his throat and said, “Mr. Wellingham, my lady.”

  Oh, that explains it. A moneylender appearing in the drawing room of a peeress, during her regular visiting hours… In the eyes of society, Lady Stone might as well invite the butler himself to sit down and chat with this roomful of guests!

  Robert Wellingham paused on the threshold and looked about him. Rye was close enough to see the ironic twinkle in the banker’s eyes as his gaze swept over the crowd, and he liked the man even more for that humorous glint. He also wondered how many of the ton who had gathered in this overheated, overscented room were uncomfortable to see the banker there, not because of his social station, but because they owed Robert Wellingham money.

  Probably not many, but Rye suspected it wasn’t because they hadn’t tried to borrow; it was more likely Wellingham had found them to be bad risks and turned down the bargain.

  The silence stretched out. Lady Brindle broke it finally, her voice almost echoing through the drawing room. “Lady Stone, I declare—you do have such amusing taste in acquaintances!”

  Lady Flavia gave a nervous titter.

  Rye, feeling militant, stepped forward and offered his hand. “Wellingham, it’s good to see you again. What brings you up to town? Nothing wrong at the manor, I hope?”

  Robert Wellingham smiled. “No, my lord, though I have been entrusted with messages from your household staff for you and for Lady Ryecroft and for Miss Sophie.” His gaze flicked across the room and then returned to Rye’s face. “Your mother is not present?”

  That was quick. And interesting too; there must be thirty people in the room, but in no more than a few seconds Wellingham had apparently noted that Lady Ryecroft wasn’t one of them. “No, it appears she had… other obligations this morning.”

  Wellingham’s forehead creased.

  It did sound odd. “Padgett,” he said quietly, before the butler could depart once more. “Have you seen my mother today?”

  Padgett’s gaze shifted. “I believe she went out, my lord.” He slid through the door into the hallway before Rye could ask anything else. Not that he’d have known what to ask. She’d gone out? What errand could possibly be more important to his mother than watching Sophie’s triumph?

  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?”