Just One Season in London

by Leigh Michaels

  Or were those two things simply different sides of the same coin? Did she trust him because he was trying to marry her mother or in spite of it?

  Sophie was feeling confused, but before she could puzzle it out, he’d swept her around the room again.

  He really was an astoundingly good dancer, she mused, for someone who was seldom included in society balls. Sophie thought if every young woman in the room tonight could waltz with Robert Wellingham, he’d be so swamped with invitations that he’d never again have time for banking. Not that she was going to suggest it; she’d prefer to keep him for herself. There would be at least one more waltz of the evening… though regrettably, she’d already promised it to someone else.

  Just as well. A third dance with the same man in an evening would have all the gossips twittering—and when the young woman was the guest of honor and the man was Robert Wellingham, everyone would notice.

  “Those are lovely eardrops,” he said. “The diamonds are almost as bright and as beautiful as your eyes.”

  “Oh, don’t you start being poetical at me,” she scolded.

  He laughed so merrily that Sophie found herself smiling back. “They were a gift from Lady Stone. At least, I think they were a gift, but perhaps she intended them only as a loan. I must remember to ask.”

  “It’s not the sort of thing she’d wear, so you can assume she intended you to keep them. Miss Ryecroft, I wish to host a picnic next week. Can you think of anyone who might like to help me plan it?”

  Her eyes widened. “You know I love picnics.”

  “That fact had slipped my mind.” But the twinkle in his eyes told her that he hadn’t forgotten at all.

  “If you’re trying to win my favor, Mr. Wellingham”—for the first time, he looked just a little discomfited, and Sophie was pleased to have made a dent in his armor—“you’re going about it all wrong, you know. It’s not me you need to impress; it’s my mama.”

  “Indeed?”

  “And you can’t do that by walking away from her when Marcus Winston merely raises a finger to summon you. It’s not at all flattering to Mama that you were paying so little attention to her that you saw Mr. Winston beckoning.” She lifted her chin a little. “In fact, I can’t help but think that you may not be at all the thing for her.”

  He laughed. “I am sliced to the quick, Miss Ryecroft.”

  His laughter really was a beautiful thing. No wonder her mother had looked as if she was having such a good time…

  Still, there was something about the idea Sophie didn’t want to think about.

  Seventeen

  Portia watched from the shelter of a pillar in the corner of the ballroom as Carrisbrooke stormed away from Sophie, leaving her standing alone beside the dance floor. “Two matches to announce this evening, my lady?” she murmured. “Perhaps you’d like to back down from that prediction?”

  “We only wagered on one,” Lady Stone pointed out. “And it’s early yet. Where are you going?”

  “To get Sophie. She can’t just stand there alone.” But Portia realized Marcus Winston had already come to the rescue—had he been watching that scene play out?—so she settled back in her chair. “Is there anything I can do for you, Lady Stone? Would you care to lean on me for a stroll around the ballroom?”

  Lady Stone’s beady eyes gleamed. “I’m feeling remarkably fit tonight. Making a winning wager does that for me, you know—it’s so uplifting to watch it play out. This must be your partner for the waltz, coming to claim you, so go and dance.”

  Portia’s intention had been to sit out the waltz, but she knew that staying at the edge of the floor would only give her the opportunity to watch every fleeting expression on Rye’s face. It would be far better to be occupied, so she couldn’t wonder what he might be saying to Juliana Farling as they swirled around the room.

  She turned to greet her partner and stopped abruptly, for instead of the young man who had asked for this dance, it was Lord Swindon who bowed and offered his arm. “I do not think your name is on my card, my lord.”

  “Your partner is indisposed. I’ve come to offer myself as substitute.”

  Portia hesitated, but with Lady Stone right there, she could hardly point out that she didn’t like the way Lord Swindon had held her when they waltzed. Then she remembered that soft, starry look on Juliana Farling’s face, and she threw caution to the winds. If she was going to live on the edge tonight, why not dance with the rake as well? At least it would keep her mind off what might be happening on the other side of the ballroom…

  As they took the floor, Swindon said, “Lady Stone is full of crochets and odd notions.”

  “That’s what I like about her.”

  “It’s a good thing you get on well with her, with a lifetime stretching ahead of you as a companion.”

  A lifetime…

  As the orchestra struck up the waltz, Portia let her gaze sweep across the ballroom and saw Rye and Juliana Farling strolling out into the hall. Surely they would not be going down for a cool drink, with the waltz about to begin. And the supper hour was still some time off.

  No, they were clearly slipping away to some private spot. He wouldn’t go off alone with Juliana unless he intended to propose. Or perhaps he had already spoken, and that starry-eyed look of Juliana’s meant that she had said yes, and now the newly betrothed couple simply wanted privacy…

  But what about the triumph on Amalie Mickelthorpe’s face? Could Portia have been so wrong?

  Stop it. It doesn’t matter who he marries; it’s over.

  The ache in her chest would not let her deny the truth any longer. She had fallen in love with Rye.

  But she quickly realized that only the admission was new. The pain of loving him was not fresh at all; it was a dull ache that must have been lingering inside her for weeks, waiting only for her defenses to drop.

  The music started, but her feet seemed not to want to leave the floor at all. It took effort for her to fall into the rhythm of the waltz. At least Swindon seemed willing to obey the proprieties, and he didn’t try to draw her into a closer embrace.

  “There are options, of course,” Swindon said.

  Options? What was he talking about? Telling Rye what she’d discovered about herself?

  As if that would make a difference. Not without a fortune to go with her feelings.

  And even if she could conjure up enough money to rescue his beloved manor for all time, Portia was certain she would have been just another name on the list he and Lady Stone had assembled—a name to be kept in reserve, in case his first choices didn’t work out. She would like to think she would have been high on that list, but that was only vanity speaking. If Amalie Mickelthorpe’s voice bothered him enough that he’d opted to settle for a slightly smaller dowry, then Portia’s outspoken opinions—along with the lack of deference she had shown him from the beginning—would no doubt have kept her out of consideration entirely.

  Unless, of course, she had more money than Juliana Farling and Amalie Mickelthorpe put together. If that were the case, he’d no doubt convince himself he was besotted, at least long enough to win her hand… and that would be even worse.

  No. Portia would not marry a man who made no secret of the fact that money was more important to him than anything else, for she would never be able to trust anything he said.

  “You don’t have to be a companion forever,” Swindon said. “At least, not a companion to an old lady.”

  Lost in her thoughts, she didn’t follow what he was saying. “What do you mean?”

  Swindon laughed and drew her closer. “You don’t really want to dance right now, do you?”

  “No,” she said honestly.

  They were at the edge of the dance floor, near the doorway, and with a gentle sweep of the music, he urged her out into the hallway.

  Portia was so relieved to be away from prying eyes that, for a moment, she didn’t realize he wasn’t stopping there. Instead his hand tightened at the small of her back, and he urg
ed her on into Lady Stone’s music room and closed the door.

  She wouldn’t have been surprised to come face-to-face with Rye and Juliana Farling, but the room was empty, which left her with an entirely different problem.

  “You’re difficult to get alone long enough to ask a question,” Swindon said, and for once he sounded serious.

  Portia was startled. Everyone in London knew that Lord Swindon was seeking a bride this year. But he had showed no partiality to any of the debutantes. Was it possible his eye had fallen on Portia? He’d told her he liked her spirit…

  She should be flattered, of course, and pleased. But truly the last thing she wanted to deal with just now, with her senses in turmoil, was how to politely let down a gentleman who had worked up the courage to make an offer.

  Wasn’t it odd, though, that she’d had no hint of this before? He had sent that huge bouquet of yellow roses, of course… but surely a man who was developing a tendre for a woman gave off hints. Had she simply been so caught up in thinking about Rye—no, she argued to herself; she’d been caught up in thinking about Lady Stone’s ball, not Rye—that she’d missed the signs?

  Inside the music room, where only a single lamp glowed, his hold tightened. He caught her chin and turned her face up to his, then gave a low chuckle and kissed her, long and slowly.

  Portia’s body tightened in protest, and deliberately she forced herself to relax. What was so wrong about a stolen kiss, anyway? She’d made up her mind to live a little dangerously tonight—why not test this too? Perhaps she simply liked to be kissed, and that accounted for how she’d reacted when Rye had kissed her. And if Swindon was making her an offer…

  No. Stealing a kiss, just to find out what it felt like to slip off with a rake, was one thing. But committing herself to such a man was something else entirely.

  Swindon growled a little, pulling her even more tightly against his body. One hand pressed hard against her spine, grinding her against his pelvis. The hard contact jolted Portia out of her daydream. This was not a man to toy with. She leaned back, pushing against his chest, but she couldn’t escape the steel of his grip.

  He touched the cameo trinket at her throat, making it sway between her breasts. His eyes dilated; his fingertip trailed down her breastbone and under the edge of her neckline, rubbing the sensitive skin of her breast.

  “My lord,” she said sternly.

  “I will give you jewels to replace this trinket—rubies, I think, for the fire in you—and all you have to do is be nice to me.” He dropped his head to her breast and nuzzled her nipple. “I need a new mistress, and you’ll do very well.”

  Portia braced her hands against his waistcoat and pushed. “Let me go, sir.”

  “How I will enjoy having you get starchy with me like this when we’re in bed.”

  She clenched her fist and swung at him.

  He caught both her hands and mercilessly dragged them behind her. “You were willing enough a moment ago.”

  “I thought…” She stopped herself too late.

  He laughed. “You thought I was offering marriage? To you? A penniless companion? You’re nothing but a tease, making promises with your eyes and then holding out for more. I’ve heard the stories about how you’ve led men on to think you had some kind of fortune—from a sugar plantation in the Caribbean, wasn’t it? How convenient that it was so far away. One of them told me himself how lucky he was to discover the truth before he married you.”

  “I never said—”

  “You only hinted, didn’t you? It was your aunt who spread the rumor. We’ll take care of this right now, Miss Langford. After tonight you won’t be so high-and-mighty.”

  She struggled, but her efforts to break free of his punishing grip only pushed her harder against him, and she could feel his arousal growing. She opened her mouth to scream. But if they were discovered here…

  “Go ahead and yell,” he said, “if you want to have society witness your shame.”

  When she hesitated, he backed her against the wall, and his mouth came down hard on hers, muffling her protest.

  She couldn’t see past him, and she could barely hear over the pounding of blood in her ears. But suddenly there was a creak, and a shaft of light from the hallway cut through the gloom as the door opened.

  ***

  The ball should have been a joy. Miranda had looked forward to it, eager to see Rye and Sophie not just as guests at other people’s parties, but as the central figures of their own. But when the first dance was finished and she retired from the set, all she could think of was how much she wanted the evening to be finished, so she could go to her room and try to sleep.

  She had shared that first country dance with Marcus, and he’d said barely a word to her. As soon as the music ended, he bowed and went off to finish filling his card—at least, she assumed that was what he was doing, for after that, he was out on the floor for every dance—with Sophie, with Portia, with Juliana Farling, with Lady Flavia Summersby. When he stood up for a country dance with Amalie Mickelthorpe, Miranda turned her back.

  After everything he had said about wanting her to wear colors, he hadn’t even seemed to notice her dress. Oh, he’d been appropriately quiet when she’d walked into the drawing room, before the ball started, but his eyes hadn’t popped—as she must admit she’d hoped for.

  Of course, they hadn’t exactly parted on good terms yesterday, when she’d left him standing on his doorstep while she rode off in Robert Wellingham’s curricle.

  She calculated. The supper dance was still a long way off; the ball would go on for at least three more hours. She didn’t know if she could stand up so long, but she didn’t want to sit down, for fear she’d nod off.

  “I know it is not the polite thing to say,” Robert Wellingham told her, “but you seem tired, ma’am.”

  “Truth is often not polite, Mr. Wellingham, but that doesn’t make it any less true. Sometimes one devotes so much time and energy to getting ready for an event that the occasion itself does not live up to one’s expectation.” She surveyed him. “It was kind of you to lead my daughter out in the first dance.”

  “It was kind of her to include me by asking. She is an excellent dancer—like her mother, I suspect. Is your card filled, ma’am?”

  “No. I could hardly refuse to take part in the opening set, but as for the rest of the evening…” She shrugged a little, forgetting for a moment exactly how low-cut her dress was—until Lord Swindon, passing with his partner, paused to take a good look. Miranda felt suddenly naked under the intensity of his gaze.

  Without haste, Wellingham moved between them, presenting his back to Swindon to shield her from the rake’s stare. “I find myself without a partner for the next set, ma’am. Will you do me the honor?”

  If she refused him, he would think she was another of the snobs who thought less of him because of his livelihood. Besides, he had just done her a good turn. “Of course.”

  “I find that staying busy helps the time pass. And it is more entertaining to take part, not just watch.”

  He was right about that; she enjoyed following the complexities of the dance, and she was almost energized by the time it was finished, not only from the exercise, but from his dry wit and the droll observations he made each time they joined up again. The only bad moment was when she made a turn and came face-to-face with Marcus…

  “Winston has seemed out of sorts all evening,” Wellingham said as the dance finished. “I must find an opportunity to apologize to him for missing my appointment yesterday. I was on my way to his house to discuss a business matter when I encountered you, and I did not get back to Bloomsbury until far too late to call on him. I fear he must have thought I was enthralled with you and forgot him entirely.”

  Miranda couldn’t stop her little gurgle of amusement. “You didn’t tell him that all you did was to drive me straight home?”

  “No. I’ve been letting him think whatever he likes. It amuses me far more than it seems to entertain him. B
ut I see he is summoning me. Miss Sophie seems to have been deserted.”

  “What?” Miranda looked around. She put a hand on his sleeve. “Bring her to me.”

  “It would be better if she continues with the evening’s entertainment, as if nothing important has happened.”

  She stared up at him for a moment. “You’re right, of course. You’re very wise, Mr. Wellingham. And compassionate as well. You do realize that, do you not?”

  “Ah yes.” His voice held a note of irony. “The tendency toward compassion makes my profession difficult to practice sometimes, you understand.”

  She laughed at him, and he kissed her hand and strolled across the room without hurry toward her daughter.

  With Sophie once more in safe hands—and what an interesting conviction that was, Miranda thought—she went looking for a chair.

  Marcus fell into step beside her, offering his arm. “Did you see that our cubs have had a falling-out?”

  “That’s good news, surely.”

  “I have some ideas about how to capitalize on it.” His voice was low and intimate—every bit as much a caress as if he had run a hand across her bare shoulders.

  Wellingham must have explained to him about yesterday, she thought, since Marcus was back to his normal self. “And I suppose you want to discuss this in private? You have ideas about everything, and they all seem to end in the same place.”

  “Is that why you were not at Lady Emerson’s soiree last night after all? Because you were afraid you would succeed in tempting me into a dark corner?”

  “That I would tempt you? That’s the outside of enough, sir.”

  “It’s true. You’re a dangerous woman, Miranda.”

  “In any case, I was simply tired last night. I was not avoiding you.” She spotted a chair behind a potted palm. “It seems I must thank you for the opportunity to know Robert Wellingham better. Such a pleasant man. Very gentle. He tells me he was on his way to an appointment with you yesterday when I encountered him.”