Just One Season in London

by Leigh Michaels

  Marcus intervened. “But this is a waltz, isn’t it?” Amusement crept into his voice. “Miss Ryecroft, I’m sure Carrisbrooke has told you about the last time he waltzed. It was at a private party, with Lady Jersey.”

  Miranda saw an awkward flush sweep over Carrisbrooke’s face and felt sorry for the boy.

  “What happened?” Sophie asked suspiciously. Her gaze flicked from uncle to nephew.

  “She… she told me not to take the floor at Almack’s until I finished dancing lessons,” Carrisbrooke admitted.

  Miranda winced in sympathy. All the patronesses were known for sharp tongues; it seemed to be a requirement for the position. But for anyone to tell a young man that!

  “But I’ve saved this dance for you,” Sophie burst out. Then, to Miranda’s relief, she regained control of her temper. “We’ll just sit it out, then.”

  “Nonsense,” Marcus said. “A Beauty must not be seen sitting out such an important dance—your first waltz at Almack’s. Will you accept me as a poor substitute, Miss Ryecroft?”

  Miranda’s jaw dropped. Before she could recover, Marcus and Sophie had moved onto the floor, and she was left with Carrisbrooke.

  “I’ve had dancing lessons,” he said. “They didn’t help. But Miss Ryecroft was so set on this waltz…”

  “Ah yes.” Miranda recognized a cue when she heard one. “My daughter is”—what was that string of adjectives Marcus had used?—“difficult to manage. It’s like her to assume that you should bend to her wishes without ever considering yours.” She hoped that Sophie would never hear what she’d said.

  “But she’s so beautiful,” Carrisbrooke said wistfully. “I wish I could learn. She deserves someone who doesn’t dance as if he has two left feet.”

  Miranda felt so sorry for him that she forgot herself. “I taught my son to waltz, though I thought for a while that he did have two left feet. But look at him now.” She glanced across the floor to where Rye was sweeping past, with Juliana Farling in his arms.

  When she looked back at Carrisbrooke, she was stunned at the hopeful—almost worshipful—look in his eyes. “Will you teach me, ma’am? Please?”

  She took a long breath and let it out. The Carrisbrooke men, she thought, were absolutely impossible.

  Both of them.

  Fifteen

  Taking the floor with Carrisbrooke’s uncle was scarcely the way Sophie had pictured her first waltz ever in London society. It was apparent that Marcus Winston understood, for as the first notes sounded, he clasped her hand lightly and said, “You will not crush me by admitting the truth, Miss Ryecroft. I must seem a poor substitute for my nephew, but I assure you, I am the better dancer. Of course, he will learn, given time and practice.”

  Sophie admitted, “I’d prefer my partners not fall over my toes.”

  “I shall endeavor to give satisfaction. Are you enjoying Almack’s?”

  Sophie gave him a pert smile. “That’s a dangerous question, sir, for if I say no, I’ll appear spoiled and tiresome, and if I say yes, I’ll appear unfashionably easy to please.”

  He laughed. “Then I beg you will tell me the truth.”

  “It’s old looking, isn’t it? Not at all grand, as I had expected.”

  “It is the reputation, and not the surroundings, that makes these assemblies so exclusive. I’m afraid I cannot tell you much more than that about Almack’s, as this is my first visit in many years. Since I danced here with your mother, in fact, the winter before she married.”

  “Truly? That was her only Season. Do you remember it well—dancing with her?”

  “Very well indeed,” he murmured. “Tell me, Miss Ryecroft, which of the gentlemen you have met so far capture your fancy?”

  Sophie shot a look up at him and almost said, Carrisbrooke, before she remembered that she must be discreet. It would hardly be wise to tell him that she’d made up her mind to have Carrisbrooke when no offer had been made. Was he testing her somehow? Trying to find out how she felt about his nephew? “I can hardly say. I do not know any of them well enough as yet.”

  He smiled. “It is circumspect of you not to declare a favorite.”

  She felt rewarded somehow, but not yet entirely out of danger. “But there is someone I’d like to know more about, and I believe you could tell me—if you will.”

  “It would please me a great deal to be the confidant of the Season’s premiere Beauty. Though I must warn you, after so many years away from England, I have not memorized the dossiers of every gentleman of the ton, so if that is the sort of information you seek, you would far better apply to Lady Stone or to Miss Langford.”

  Sophie was startled. “Portia? But she’s nearly as new to London as I am. She only came to Lady Stone right before the Season started.”

  “Nevertheless, it seems she is wise in the ways of the world. Who is it you wish to know more of?”

  “Mr. Wellingham. I see he is not here this evening, but is it true, as Portia told me, that he would not be allowed in?”

  “I don’t read the patronesses’ minds, and their restrictions are sometimes eccentric rather than logical, but I believe it likely.”

  “Just because he made his money himself instead of inheriting it?”

  “In fact, he did inherit a large chunk of it.”

  “I know. He told me about his grandfather.”

  He looked at her oddly. “Did he, now?”

  “So there is a difference between moneylending grandfathers and estate-owning ones? Yet they allowed Mr. Brummell to come to Almack’s, and his father was a valet.”

  “True—but the Beau was a different sort of case. What the prince regent fancies is by definition fashionable. What fascinates you so about Mr. Wellingham?”

  She considered the question for a moment. “Only that he is different from anyone else I’ve ever met.” It was true enough, as far as it went. And even if someday Marcus Winston might be family if she married his nephew, he was still a stranger now. She couldn’t throw herself on his mercy and share her deepest suspicions about Mr. Wellingham having designs on her mother. She smiled brightly at him.

  “Miss Ryecroft, you are unique. Tell me about your home.”

  She seized the change of subject gratefully, and she was startled when the dance was finished and she found herself once more in front of her mother and Carrisbrooke.

  The young earl rushed toward her. “I am certain Miss Ryecroft would like a glass of lemonade,” Marcus Winston said.

  Sophie put her hand on Carrisbrooke’s arm. “Thank you, Mr. Winston.”

  He bowed.

  “Lady Ryecroft has agreed to give me dancing lessons,” Carrisbrooke said eagerly.

  He reminded her of something, Sophie thought idly. A newborn colt, perhaps…

  From the corner of the ballroom, Portia waved at her. Sophie sent Carrisbrooke off to the refreshment room for them and sank into a chair next to Portia’s, fanning herself.

  “Are you having fun, Sophie?”

  “These things are such a bore,” Sophie drawled, in her best imitation of Lady Flavia Summersby. Then she grinned. “Of course I am. And you?”

  “What do you think, silly goose? There is a vast difference between coming to Almack’s as the companion of an elderly lady and attending as the friend and sometime chaperone of the Season’s most acclaimed Beauty. There’s an enormous benefit to being the one standing next to you when your dance card is filled up, you must know. The young men simply turn to me next.”

  “Not all of them,” Sophie pointed out. “I saw you waltzing with Lord Whitfield, and he didn’t ask me, you know. Only you.”

  Portia gave her a sideways glance. “Does that upset you?”

  “That he’s not interested in me? No.” She wrinkled her nose. “Well, perhaps a little. Did you see Rye waltzing with Juliana Farling? I wasn’t sure she’d have the nerve to go out onto the floor. I think her mother may have pinched her. I know, I’m behaving badly.”

  Portia glanced around to be certain no
one was close enough to hear. “I think it wasn’t a pinch from her mother, but the look on Amalie Mickelthorpe’s face when she realized Juliana was Rye’s choice for the first waltz.”

  “What a difference a few days makes. Even Lady Flavia was eyeing Rye before the dancing started, and I think she put him down for a waltz as well.”

  “Lord Ryecroft is making a dent in society…” All the liveliness drained out of Portia’s voice. “My lord.”

  “Miss Langford.” Lord Swindon bowed deeply. “Surely you have not been abandoned by your partner so soon after the waltz was over? How unflattering of him. I would not have so lightly left your side.”

  “I’m honored by your regard, of course,” Portia said coolly.

  “I’ve come to beg a dance—if I am not too late?”

  “Regrettably, my card is full.”

  “Then I must act earlier next time.” His gaze slipped to Sophie. “Miss Ryecroft.”

  Sophie, still admiring how much Portia had conveyed by the tone of her voice, was surprised to be noticed. “My lord, we missed you at the Farlings’ musicale.”

  “There are limits to my endurance.” Seemingly oblivious to Portia’s set-down, he took a chair beside her. “But had I known that you wanted me there, Miss Langford…” He was no longer looking at Sophie.

  Carrisbrooke came back with three glasses of lemonade balanced between his hands, then stood, looking foolishly between the drinks and the ladies as if wondering how to divest himself of them. His first attempt sent lemonade over the rim, narrowly missing Portia’s hem and Lord Swindon’s breeches. The earl rose, his jaw tight and irritation evident in his voice. “You oaf!”

  “No harm done,” Portia said quickly. She extracted a glass from Carrisbrooke’s hands and thanked him. “Perhaps we could take a turn about the floor, my lord, while I sip my drink.”

  Carrisbrooke managed to shift a glass into Sophie’s hand without drenching her and sat down beside her. “Calling me an oaf,” he said bitterly. “I was tempted to draw his cork.”

  “That would have put paid to your hopes of waltzing at Almack’s. You can’t punch a gentleman in the face here, you sapskull!”

  Carrisbrooke looked stunned. “But for him to speak that way in front of you, Miss Ryecroft…”

  Sophie remembered—too late—that telling one’s intended he was a dolt was no way to move a romance forward, and drew breath to apologize.

  “It’s just a good thing Miss Langford wanted to go for a stroll, or I would have planted him a facer.”

  “But she didn’t want to go off with him. She took him away so you wouldn’t create a scene.” And Portia had done it so smoothly that Carrisbrooke would never have dreamed he was being treated like a child, if it hadn’t been for Sophie opening her mouth. “Never mind. Next time, my lord, have a waiter bring the glasses on a tray.”

  “Oh. Didn’t think of that.”

  Shallow brooks murmur most, Sophie thought and wondered if he would recognize the line. Wellingham would, she was almost certain, and he wouldn’t mistake it for flattery either. The corner of his mouth would twitch, and his eyes would twinkle, and then in that dry way of his, he would top her comment with something just as sly…

  It occurred to her that her question to Marcus Winston had garnered her precisely no new information about Robert Wellingham, but like Portia, Winston had turned the conversation so smoothly that she hadn’t noticed until now.

  Toast of the Season or not, she told herself, you have a lot to learn.

  ***

  Miranda tapped her toe impatiently throughout the first waltz. When it was finally over and Marcus returned her daughter to her, Sophie’s face was alight with laughter and the two of them seemed to be on the best of terms.

  Carrisbrooke jumped up from his chair next to Miranda’s. “Lady Ryecroft has agreed to give me dancing lessons,” he told Sophie.

  Marcus raised an eyebrow and sent the children off in search of lemonade. “Miranda, what inspired you to do such a thing?”

  “I might ask you the same question.”

  “Don’t be a goose. You know why I danced with your daughter.”

  “You didn’t have to flirt with her!”

  “Do you think it likely that Miss Ryecroft will get the wrong idea from a single waltz? If you wish, I’ll go and flirt with all the other young ladies present tonight, so she doesn’t feel she’s been singled out.”

  Miranda’s jaw snapped tight.

  “My darling, green only looks good on you when it’s in the form of a gown.”

  “I am not jealous.”

  “Of course not. There’s a secluded little corner not far from the ballroom, just large enough for you and me. Perhaps we should take this discussion there.”

  “I didn’t know there were any such corners at Almack’s.”

  “Neither did I, the last time we were here together. If I had—”

  “You wouldn’t have dared.”

  “Perhaps not. Your father was a force to contend with in those days.” He paused. “He’s why you married Henry, isn’t he?”

  “Not entirely,” she admitted. “My father wanted me to be settled well, yes, but he didn’t push for the match, because he didn’t believe Henry would offer for me.”

  “But when Henry came up to scratch, both of you leaped at the chance. Oh, I don’t blame you, Miranda—he was everything a girl dreams of. Good looks, charm, title, estate, fortune.” There was a cynical twist in his voice. “Or at least it appeared that way at the time.”

  “And I was in love with him,” Miranda said softly. “I didn’t know then that first love doesn’t last. I have often wondered…”

  “Wondered what, Miranda?”

  “Nothing,” she said firmly. “At least, nothing that pertains to the problem we face. But that’s why I don’t want Sophie to marry Carrisbrooke.”

  “Because first love doesn’t last?”

  “Exactly.” She looked across the floor, where the sets were forming for the next country dance. “If you’re going to flirt with every young lady who’s here tonight, Marcus, you’d best get started. I imagine all the ladies adore your accent. Even I find it fascinating to listen to the combination of Eton, Oxford, and Boston.”

  “If you will only slip off with me to that secluded little nook…”

  “I am absolutely not going to repeat what happened last night.”

  He smiled. “Don’t get starchy on me, Miranda. I was only going to offer to whisper in your ear.” He kissed her hand. “Since we’re not riding tomorrow, may I expect your visit in the morning?”

  “Certainly not.”

  “One can but try.” He bowed and took himself off, and a few minutes later she saw him partnering Amalie Mickelthorpe in the country dance.

  Miranda swallowed hard and turned away. Of course she had made the right decision. It would be even more difficult to watch if she was his mistress in truth.

  But she couldn’t help but wonder where that hidden little corner was to be found—and if he would take another woman there tonight.

  ***

  On the day before Lady Stone’s ball, Portia carried her notebook into the ballroom to check on the final preparations. She was looking at her list instead of around the room, so she didn’t see the young footman who was zooming around the dance floor as if it were a frozen lake, using rags for ice skates, until he plowed into her. She went flying backward, expecting to hit the edge of the still-open door. Instead a pair of arms closed round her, holding her safely. Breathless with relief, she let her head fall back against Rye’s warm, solid shoulder.

  From just above her ear, he demanded, “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  “Making certain the greenery is—”

  “Not you,” he growled. “I wouldn’t swear at you. Him.”

  The young footman gulped and hung his head.

  “Exactly what I told him to do, Lord Ryecroft,” Portia said. “Polish the wax on the dance floor. If he ha
s fun while he’s doing it, that’s not my affair.”

  “Nevertheless,” Rye said sharply, “watch where you’re going from now on.”

  The footman’s voice cracked. “Yes, sir.”

  “Now, really,” Portia said as the young man tiptoed away. Suddenly becoming aware that the room was full of interested servants, she reluctantly disentangled herself from his arms. She’d felt warm there and safe and… Better not to think about it. “Lord Ryecroft, I’ve never seen you yell at a servant before.”

  “He might have hurt you.” He retrieved her notebook and handed it to her.

  Portia led the way across the hall into the drawing room. “But he didn’t. You were there to save me.” She saw his brows draw together and added hastily, “All right—I didn’t want to terrify the boy, but I’ll admit that could have been a disastrous accident. As I was falling, all I could think of was that if I hit the door, I’d likely not be able to wear my new ball gown after all, because of the bruises.”

  Rye grunted. “That’s what you were thinking as you fell?”

  “Well, not quite. Thank you, my lord. You did save me from a nasty fall.”

  “Anytime. Where is everyone, anyway?”

  So much for the moment when she’d felt important to him; apparently everyone didn’t include her. “Lady Stone is still in bed, Sophie went riding with a party of young ladies, and Lady Ryecroft has gone out to shop.” Portia flipped the notebook open to her checklist.

  “Shop? What can she possibly need?”

  “It’s different for men. You could wear the same dark blue coat to every event all Season, and no one would pay much attention. But ladies can’t be seen to wear the same gown more than a few times, especially when they’re the center of attention, as Sophie is. Already her wardrobe needs to be replenished.”

  “But what’s Mama shopping for?”

  “How should I know? Perhaps she’s going to take Sophie’s advice and come to the ball wearing scarlet. Or perhaps she’s shopping for Sophie—the dressmaker has all her measurements, so Lady Ryecroft could simply choose the fabrics without Sophie even being present.” She ran a finger down her checklist. Wax and polish floor—Done. Replace candles—Done. Hang greenery… “You’re usually gone to your club by this time of the morning—or you’re out calling on heiresses. Why are you hanging around here and being such a bear this morning, anyway?”