“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.”
“I’m not a child. This is a foolish notion, of course. I understand how you would have got your hopes up, but you must not misinterpret my mother. She is always gentle with…” Sophie stopped, feeling suddenly awkward.
“Social inferiors? I did not find her gentle when we first met at Ryecroft Manor.”
“Oh, that was when she was terribly worried that Rye might have mortgaged the manor to borrow money from you. Once she understood that he hadn’t… At any rate, today she was much more like her usual self, and I understand how it might have seemed that she was… well… flirting with you.”
“Flirting? With me? My dear Miss Ryecroft, I assure you I had no such understanding.”
“That’s all right, then.” Sophie felt a great wave of relief engulf her.
His eyes twinkled. “But now that you bring the possibility to my attention… Perhaps it is fortunate that my business here will require several days, during which I will need to call on Lady Stone from time to time. I can only hope to be fortunate enough to encounter Lady Ryecroft during my visits. I shall, of course, take pains to keep you informed of my progress…”
From her other side came a plaintive voice. “Miss Ryecroft,” Carrisbrooke said. Oh, do stop whimpering at me! she wanted to snap at him. Instead she smiled and pretended to listen as he once more launched into verse—Shelley, this time.
He’ll recite poetry at you over the breakfast table, Rye had warned her. And, it seemed, a great many other places too.
There were worse traits in a prospective husband, she told herself philosophically. Far worse traits indeed.
At least he wasn’t laughing at her.
***
The Farlings lived off Cavendish Square, in a street that was no longer quite fashionable. But the house itself was lavish, large enough to accommodate a surprising number of people who had come to listen to the youngest ladies of the ton show off their talents at singing and instrument playing.
The first thing Rye spotted when they were shown into the great drawing room—turned into a performance hall for the night, complete with a small platform at one end—was a harp. Apparently he didn’t succeed in swallowing his groan, for Portia, walking along in front of him, glanced over her shoulder as if to ask what was wrong with him.
“Only an unpleasant memory,” he said quickly. “Sophie tried to play one of those once, until she broke so many strings that she was persuaded to give it up. Worst fifteen minutes of my life.”
Portia’s laugh rang out, and the tilt of her head, along with the candlelight falling across her face, made her look enchanting. For a moment Rye forgot all about the harp and the excruciating evening that awaited and wished there were a silhouette artist at hand to recreate her profile, so he could admire it forever.
Sophie poked him in the side, not at all gently.
“Well, it was,” Rye said. “I still think those strings broke just to escape from you.”
“You had better give up making fun of my harp lessons and pay attention.”
Rye blinked and found himself standing in front of Lady Farling—a large lady who was holding a small quizzing glass that, at the moment, was focused directly on him. “My lady.” He swept her a magnificent bow.
With the formalities satisfied, they moved farther into the room to look for seats. Rye’s preference would have been to sit at the back—since spending the evening out in the square wasn’t an option—but by the time he’d looked over the crowd, his mother was moving purposefully toward a row of seats near the front of the room, with Portia on one side of her and Sophie on the other.
“I think we’ve been left to fend for ourselves, Ryecroft,” Marcus Winston said, “since there is only room for the ladies there in the front. Unless… Yes, I believe Miss Mickelthorpe is beckoning to you from the far corner.”
“Damnation. I don’t suppose I can pretend not to see her and retreat to the card room instead.”
“If there were a card room on offer tonight, there would hardly be a crush here.”
“And if I’m to comment sensibly on Miss Farling’s performance, I suppose I should listen to it,” Rye admitted.
Winston’s smile was sympathetic. “I don’t see why. ‘Charming performance, Miss Farling… You have an amazing talent… Such an impression you have made on me.’ Simple, once you get the hang of it.”
Rye grinned. “It’s that easy, is it?”
“Well, perhaps not for you tonight—since you’re paying court to two young women at the same time, and one of them seems to be a possessive sort. Take Carrisbrooke with you. He can stare at Miss Ryecroft just as well from that corner of the room, and at least then it won’t look as if you and Miss Mickelthorpe are a pair.”
“Thank you, sir. But what about you?”
“Oh, I’ll manage. I see a friend I must speak to.”
Rye succeeded in maneuvering Carrisbrooke ahead of him into the row so that Rye ended up one seat away from Miss Mickelthorpe rather than directly beside her. She didn’t look particularly pleased, but instead of making a fuss about it, she began chattering to Carrisbrooke, who responded mechanically without ever looking at her. His gaze was focused on Sophie, across the room.
Rye settled back in his chair. Winston had been right, he thought absently. From this angle, Carrisbrooke had a perfect view of Sophie as she sat with her head bowed. Next to her, Portia was perfectly still, until Sophie murmured something. Then Portia’s face lit up, and she laughed once more.
It wasn’t a loud laugh; her enjoyment didn’t ring out above the rattle of conversation around him. But somehow to Rye her laughter was far clearer than Miss Mickelthorpe’s harsh voice, almost next to him. It wasn’t until Miss Mickelthorpe cleared her throat forcefully that he even heard her.
“As I was saying, Lord Ryecroft,” she began.
But just then a hush fell over the crowd as three young women stepped onto the small platform. One sat down at the harp, and one raised a violin. Miss Farling stood between them, her hands clasped over her midriff as if she was about to burst into an aria.
The first notes of the violin sounded like a tortured cat. Rye tried his best to tune it out. From the corner Miss Mickelthorpe had chosen, he at least had a good view of the crowd, so he settled back once more to watch instead of listen.
And if his gaze rested more frequently on Portia than on anyone else… well, there was no harm in looking. Or in remembering the fresh scent of her or the warmth of her as he had helped her to don her cloak as they left Grosvenor Square…
He applauded with enthusiasm when the noise stopped, and he was just thinking that the concert hadn’t been too awful after all—and was a great deal shorter than he’d expected—when Miss Mickelthorpe said, “There’s time to go and get an iced drink before the next performers begin.”
Carrisbrooke’s face was alight at the idea, and he jumped up so quickly that he almost got his feet tangled with Rye’s as he plunged off toward the front row and Sophie.
Miss Mickelthorpe smiled sweetly at Rye, who could do nothing but take the hint. “I shall be pleased to bring you something, Miss Mickelthorpe.”
“Oh, it’s so warm in here,” she murmured. “Even the hallway must be cooler. A breath of fresher air would be welcome.”
Few people seemed to agree, however, for there was no bustle in the hallway. In fact, Rye was startled to see that they were almost alone. He heard a trill of voices but couldn’t tell where they were coming from; for the moment no one was in sight.
Carrisbrooke must not have offered to fet
ch Sophie refreshments after all, Rye thought idly. He’d probably preferred the opportunity to worship her from nearby.
“Here, I think,” Miss Mickelthorpe said, pausing beside a closed door across the hall from the drawing room. “I’m certain Miss Farling said the food and drink would be laid out here because it’s so much more convenient than having to go all the way downstairs.”
Rye turned the knob, and Miss Mickelthorpe whisked past him into the room. Which, he realized too late, was dimly lit and far too quiet.
Convenient, he thought.
“But perhaps I was mistaken.” She hovered just inside the door, smiled at him coquettishly, and laid a hand on his chest. “Oh, do come in, Lord Ryecroft. We’ve had no chance at all to be alone.”
Rye tried not to gulp in dismay. If he went into that room, he knew he was committing himself to Amalie Mickelthorpe. Even if no one discovered them alone together, she would expect a proposal—and with good reason. Despite the fact that she’d arranged the tryst herself, a gentleman did not sweep a lady off into a private room for an interlude without coming up to scratch.
Clearly he could not cross that threshold. But if he turned down her invitation, she would be offended. Possibly so deeply offended that any chance he had to woo the Mickelthorpe fortune would be gone…
Perhaps if he told her she was far too tempting, that being alone with her was more than any man could bear…? No, for then she really would expect him to be calling on her father tomorrow.
You are truly in the soup, Ryecroft.
A clear, crisp voice behind him said, “If you are looking for the usual sort of refreshments, Lord Ryecroft, they are being served later in the dining room, downstairs.”
Portia, he thought with a gust of relief. Bless the woman.
“That, I believe, is Lady Farling’s private sitting room,” she went on, looking past him. “The performance is about to start again, Miss Mickelthorpe. Perhaps we should go back into the drawing room now.” She linked her arm in the heiress’s and led her away.
“How silly of us to get confused.” Miss Mickelthorpe giggled.
“Indeed,” Portia said coolly, and then they were out of sight.
Rye pulled the door closed and sank back against the stair railing, feeling too relieved to move. From across the hall, the caterwauling started up once more, and he edged into the very back of the drawing room.
That had been an uncomfortably close call. But it wasn’t Amalie Mickelthorpe he found himself thinking of as he listened to Juliana Farling butcher yet another song. If it had been Portia who had led him into a quiet, dim room…
But it hadn’t been. And she was never going to let him forget this one.
Fourteen
Miranda had been careful to choose a section of the room where there were only three open seats, though she wasn’t pleased to note that they would be sitting right in front—under observation by the entire crowd. Being watched would likely only become an issue if Miss Farling’s performance was worse than usual and Sophie’s sense of humor got out of hand—but even that, she knew, she could deal with more easily than she could have withstood another hour with Marcus Winston beside her.
As it was, even though she had escaped his constant presence, she could still feel him in the room as clearly as if he were standing beside her. The light aroma of his cologne seemed to have stuck in her mind, for each breath she took reminded her of his scent. The sensation was so pervasive that she looked up to make absolutely certain he wasn’t standing next to her.
He was more than ten feet away, bending over an elderly lady who was sitting at the end of a row and clutching his sleeve as if she intended never to let him go. Miranda relaxed and smiled at the gentleman on her right. He smiled back and then looked at something beyond her.
Just as the harpist took her place, the violinist raised her bow, and Miss Farling opened her mouth and clutched her hands together in an operatic pose, the gentleman sitting next to Miranda rose abruptly and made his way over to the doorway.
A moment later Marcus slipped into the empty chair. He shifted slightly, and his sleeve touched Miranda’s elbow. Though it was the faintest of contacts, she felt it as clearly as if he had jostled against her, and despite her long kid glove, she could feel his body warmth. Until that moment Miranda hadn’t realized exactly how spindly the chairs were or how closely they were crammed together. Now she felt as if she didn’t have room to take a full breath, for fear that she would brush against him—and he would think she had done it deliberately.
“That seat is taken,” she said quietly.
“Not any longer. Your neighbor has gone to join my good friend George Kingsley for what will probably be a lengthy chat.” He seemed to turn his attention to the little stage, but Miranda knew better. She could feel the vibrations of his body—or was it her own tension that made every muscle feel tight and hot? Worse, she knew exactly what would make her feel better. The only thing that would soothe the ache was the long, slow caress of his hands against her skin, and then his body stroking inside hers, as he brought her again and again to the brink of orgasm…
Stop it, she told herself.
Her hands had gone nerveless, and her lace-edged handkerchief dropped soundlessly from her fingers. Without seeming even to look at it, Marcus reached down and snagged it from the floor before she could react.
She watched helplessly as he spread the dainty white lawn over his palm and rubbed his fingertips across it, smoothing out the creases where she had clutched it too tightly. He folded it with just as much care as he had used to undress her…
Her mouth went dry.
Only when the folds seemed to satisfy him did he turn his attention back to Miranda. She stretched out her hand to take her property. But rather than simply lay the fabric in her palm, he cupped his hand under hers—as if she would not be able to support the weight without assistance—and used the lace edge of the handkerchief to brush the spot where the buttons of her glove left a tiny sliver of her wrist uncovered.
She felt naked.
She barely heard Miss Farling’s performance; the rasp of her own breathing drowned out the music. She applauded mechanically with the rest of the audience.
And when Marcus said, “Come with me for a breath of air before we have to listen to more of this,” she rose as if she had no will of her own and went with him.
They didn’t go far—only across the hall. He paused just long enough to be certain no one was in sight; then he opened the door for her, and Miranda stepped into a small, dimly lit room where a fire had burned down to embers and not even a candle glowed.
But the lack of light seemed to be no problem for Marcus. His hands went unerringly to her shoulders, then slid urgently down her back to her hips, pressing her against him until the length of her body was molded into his and the heat of his erection prodded firmly against her belly. He took her mouth with a sureness that made her hunger even more explosive, and she answered with a silent demand for satisfaction. Surely she’d seen the dim outline of a sofa… Though right now a wall would do just as well.
Abruptly he let go of her—and only then did Miranda hear a telltale creak. Silently Marcus drew her into the even darker shadow of the slowly opening door, and she tried to still her panting breaths and at the same time to smooth her skirt, which she was nearly sure had been gathered up in a most unladylike manner only a moment ago.
Light cascaded in from the hallway, and a young woman said, “Perhaps I was mistaken… Oh, do come in, Lord Ryecroft.”
Only Marcus’s finger across her lips smothered Miranda’s gasp, and she felt her stomach twist. It was bad enough to be discovered in such a compromising position at all, but the incident could be passed off, perhaps entirely overlooked, if they had been surprised by a stranger. But to be found by her son…
Even before the full weight of what she had done settled over Miranda’s heart, Portia’s crisp, clear voice rang out in the hallway. “If you are looking for the usual s
ort of refreshments, Lord Ryecroft, they are being served later in the dining room, downstairs.”
Miranda held her breath until she heard footsteps retreating toward the drawing room. The door closed almost silently, and the room was once more dark. But by now her eyes had adjusted, and she could see Marcus shaking his head, though she wasn’t certain if his expression was consternation or amusement.
“That was Rye,” she whispered. “If he had walked in and found us—”
“Then he’d have been mightily startled, considering what he was up to! But he does seem to have spoiled the mood. The hell with riding tomorrow—let the youngsters deal with their own affairs and come to my house instead.”
“No. This must stop, because…”
His eyebrow quirked. “Because?”
What would he accept as a reason? And what would make it impossible for her to forget herself again and give in to base desires?
“Because”—her voice felt strange, and the words seemed to tear at her throat—“I intend to marry.”
“Do you, darling?” He sounded a little out of breath. “Ah, is it anyone I know?”
He could not, Miranda thought, have made it more obvious that it did not matter to him.
“Yes. I am going to marry Robert Wellingham.” Where the name had come from, she did not know; only when she opened her mouth, it popped out.
Marcus looked at her for a long moment. “Then,” he said gently, “I shall dance at your wedding.”
***
After the musicale was over, Portia rode back to Grosvenor Square sitting across from Rye in Lady Stone’s carriage. She made a random answer now and then to Lady Stone’s comments, but Rye was entirely silent. Once inside the house, Lady Stone sighed in relief and started up the stairs, but as Portia handed her cloak to Padgett, Rye caught her eye and jerked his head toward the library.
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