Just One Season in London

by Leigh Michaels

  She was biting her lower lip. He wanted to make her stop so he could kiss the injured spot. No, he just wanted to kiss her… But she didn’t quite look convinced.

  “The last thing I expected that night was for you to seduce me,” he said. “But you were the most perfect thing that’s ever happened in my life.”

  She turned a promising shade of pink.

  “Of course, there was still the problem of how to make the manor support us. I dragged Wellingham down here in the hope that he’d invest enough to help me turn the estate around—and he’s agreed to do so. It may be a long time before I can pay him back, especially if Sophie needs a second Season. But if I’m very careful—”

  Portia’s eyes widened. “You’re not going to mortgage the manor.”

  “No, for we worked out an agreement. Portia, I can’t promise that Wellingham didn’t take your fortune into account when he agreed to help me, but I assure you I didn’t. The only thing I want from this marriage is you—my feisty, sassy, opinionated companion. And I’ll rebuild the manor without a cent of your money if that’s what it takes to convince you.”

  “That would be foolish.” She dug into her reticule and pulled out a small rectangular metal box. “This is my father’s snuffbox. It’s the only thing I have of his.”

  “Aside from the sugar plantation, of course. Was he really the bookkeeper?”

  “To start with, yes.” She opened the lid and handed him the box.

  Inside was a dried-up, weedy-looking purplish object. Rye squinted at it. “Is that a violet?”

  She nodded. “From the first day outside Lady Stone’s house, when you accidentally showered me with them. Even then, Rye, I knew you were special. I knew I could care about you if I wasn’t careful. But you seemed so determined to marry a woman who had money, even if you could never love her—”

  “Oh, I love you, all right. Did I forget to tell you that?” He reached for her cautiously—not wanting to frighten her. “Portia, are you finished with being careful? Will you try to love me in return?”

  “I don’t have to try… my lord.” Her eyes were brilliant, and she came willingly into his arms. Her mouth was just as sweet as he remembered. But her body was taut and even more eager than before—now that she knew what making love could be like.

  “The wedding’s tomorrow,” he said, as much to remind himself as her. “We shouldn’t.”

  She smiled up at him. “The wedding’s tomorrow,” she repeated softly. “So why not?”

  ***

  Sophie’s maid exclaimed in horror that her face was windburned from the drive, and insisted on slathering her with cream and settling her for a rest. The moment the maid was out of sight, Sophie wiped the cream off on a handy towel and settled on the window seat to look out over the park.

  She’d only been upstairs for a few minutes; the coach was still standing in front of the house, while a swarm of servants unloaded baggage. But already she felt as if she’d never been gone at all. The view from her window was one of her favorite things about the manor, one she would miss if Lady Ryecroft insisted on removing herself to the seaside…

  But Sophie wasn’t going to think about that just now. She had a plan to put into operation. She’d begin in just a few minutes, when everyone gathered downstairs.

  A curricle swept around the side of the house and drew up by the front door. Not a visitor, for the vehicle had come from the stable block. It wasn’t Marcus Winston’s, and it wasn’t Rye’s. But she had seen it before.

  Her eyes widened. A tall man in a lightweight coat with capes on the shoulders came out of the house and climbed up onto the driving seat. The groom who had been driving leaped down, then swung onto the perch at the back as the driver lowered the reins and let the horses free. Sophie spotted a small trunk strapped to the back, next to the groom’s seat. With a spray of gravel, the curricle pulled away.

  Wellingham was leaving the manor.

  Sophie almost flew down the stairs and out the front door. But he was wasting no time; the curricle was already at the bend in the drive and gaining speed. Last time, she had run across the lawns and through the woods and barely managed to catch him before he reached the gate. But today he had a longer start.

  She looked around wildly. Why was there never a horse saddled and waiting by the front door at the moment when she needed one?

  But there was; Rye’s hunter had been left standing, reins looped around a post, because the grooms were all helping to unload the carriage. Sophie untied Admiral and led him over to the largest trunk she could see, stepped up onto the lid, and scrambled into the saddle. The skirt of her traveling dress was too narrow to ride astride, and it split under the strain. The stirrups were too long, but she managed to get her balance without them and leaned forward, nudging the horse with her heel.

  She had to catch Wellingham before he reached the gate, or she might never see him again.

  ***

  Miranda leaned back on the chaise longue while Mary massaged her temples. “Everything appears to be well in order, ma’am. Mrs. Carstairs says the house ran just as you like it the entire time you were away. Mr. Wellingham seems not to have changed anything.”

  “That might be because Mr. Wellingham was scarcely here at all. Thank you, Mary. I think I’ll rest.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Mary covered her with a light blanket and tiptoed away.

  Miranda was already drifting off, when she sensed someone standing over her, and opened her eyes to see Marcus beside her. “Oh no.”

  “In the last three days, you’ve used up every possible excuse not to talk to me, Miranda. And I’ve offered you a wide range of reasonable options to have this conversation—such as inviting you to ride in my curricle on the drive down here. You avoided every one of them. So I’m taking advantage of this unreasonable option and invading your nap.”

  Miranda didn’t stir. “And if I choose not to talk to you now?”

  “Then I’ll return in the middle of the night, and I’ll make sure your son, or Lady Stone, discovers me here.”

  “You would not, for either of them would attempt to make you marry me.”

  “Do you really think I would shame so easily?”

  “No,” Miranda said wearily. “I don’t. Trying to force you is a futile exercise.”

  “I’m glad you recognize that. You were about to tell me, that night in your bedroom at Lady Stone’s when Sophie so inconveniently interrupted, what has made you ill and tired and out of sorts.”

  “You. So now that I’ve answered the question, go away.”

  He pulled the chair away from her dressing table, turned it to face her, and sat down. He should have looked foolish, sitting there on the small flowery seat, but instead he commanded the room. “Sophie tells me you’re not planning to go back to London.”

  “Sophronia should learn not to gossip.”

  “The Season is barely half gone. You would take her away from all her success?”

  “Once Rye is married, Portia can deal with Sophie and see her through the rest of the Season.”

  “And you?”

  “I’m going away. I don’t know where—and if I did know, I wouldn’t tell you.”

  He was silent for a moment. “Are you so tired of me, Miranda?”

  “No, just tired.” Too tired, in fact, to think up any more stories, so she told the truth. “I’ll find some little village where I can live quietly. Where no one will realize, when the widowed lady’s child is born, that her husband died years ago, not within the last few months.”

  Marcus went very still. “A baby—and you weren’t going to tell me?”

  She felt a twinge of guilt, because she’d considered keeping her secret. “I don’t know for certain. And I’m telling you now.”

  “Only because I’ve twisted it out of you. Why wait so long?”

  “I couldn’t risk the scandal, for Sophie’s sake and Rye’s.”

  “You thought I would make this a subject of gossip?” His fur
y was obvious, though he didn’t raise his voice.

  “Of course not. But I expected you would behave differently as soon as you knew, and it would cause talk if you suddenly didn’t come around anymore or dance with Sophie or…” Her voice trailed off. “I was going to tell you tomorrow—after the wedding. I thought it would be better that way, and then I could just go away directly. Make a clean break of it.”

  “You think it won’t cause talk if you just disappear?”

  “I don’t see why it should.”

  Marcus shook his head. “You’re incredible, Miranda.”

  “I told you I’d be a terrible mistress,” she said irritably.

  “I don’t recall your saying anything of the kind.”

  “Well, perhaps I only thought it. But it’s true enough—what kind of a mistress doesn’t consider that there might be consequences?”

  “And that’s really what you want to do? Go away? Have your baby alone?”

  Your baby. Not our baby. “What other option is there? I can’t exactly move through society, unmarried and with a child. And I won’t trap you into a marriage that neither of us wants.”

  “No,” he said softly, “you most certainly will not.” He reached into the inner pocket of his coat. “Oddly enough, I suspected I might need this today.” He drew out a sheet of parchment and dangled it in front of her, inches out of reach. “It’s a special license, Miranda—for you and me.”

  She gaped at him.

  “It was your idea,” he reminded. “You suggested I go along with Rye to Doctors’ Commons, to enjoy the experience.”

  “Rye knows you have this?”

  “No. I went back the next day.” He refolded the page and put it safely away. “No traps, Miranda, but you will marry me. Unless you truly want our child to be a bastard? And before you flare up at me for saying that—no, I do not play fair. Not when it’s this important.”

  She sank back on the chaise. “I’m not good at marriage. I never considered marrying again.”

  “Nonsense, darling. You told me you had your eye on Robert Wellingham.”

  “Not that it bothered you in the least.” She knew she sounded bitter.

  Marcus’s tone was meditative. “It’s true that if you had threatened to become his mistress, I would have been far more worried.”

  Miranda felt her breath catch in horror at the idea of such an intimate relationship with anyone but Marcus. “In any case, marrying him would have been different. No one would have been confused about love, and so…”

  “Love. Yes, Miranda—tell me about love. You loved Henry, yet you weren’t happy. Were you?”

  “Neither was he,” she admitted painfully. “First love doesn’t last. As soon as the bloom wore off, and we stopped being in love… If he had continued to love me, he wouldn’t have gambled. He wouldn’t have gone around in a drunken haze. He wouldn’t have risked his children’s future—and mine.”

  “Yes, he would. I knew Henry too, and because he was my brother’s friend, I saw sides of him that you didn’t. But you were too blinded by his title, and his elegant manners, to listen to me—especially when all I could offer then was to run away with you.”

  Perhaps there was an element of truth in what he said, but it didn’t matter now. “At any rate, that’s why I didn’t want Carrisbrooke for Sophie.”

  “Because first love doesn’t last? I think it was because Carrisbrooke is a great deal like Henry, and you saw that. The truth is, first love does last, when it’s truly love and not the sort of infatuation you and Henry felt. I’ve loved you forever, Miranda.”

  Her heart skipped a beat.

  “I just didn’t know whether you were still the woman I loved, or if I’d only imagined her—not until I saw you again. When you visited me at Carris Abbey and offered to be my mistress, I have to admit I wanted to punish you a little for not caring enough to come to me after your husband died. I’m sorry, my darling. I should have asked you to marry me that day. But I don’t think you would have agreed. And after that, any time we weren’t actually making love, you were too busy pushing me away for me to ask.”

  Her throat was too tight to speak.

  Marcus stood. “Sleep now. I’m going to go hunt up your son and ask his permission to pay my addresses to you. Or something like that.”

  Sadness washed over Miranda, and tears threatened to overflow. “I can’t help but feel… You haven’t even touched me. You don’t really want this, Marcus. Perhaps you suspected—about the baby—and that’s why you got the license.”

  “I hoped, and there was a note in your voice when you talked about Rye’s special license…”

  She was past the point of hearing. “But you don’t truly want a wife, and I won’t be of much use as a mistress when I’m big as a house!”

  “And you’re too emotional at the moment to realize that you’re making no sense at all. But since you need convincing…” He settled himself beside her on the chaise and gathered her close in his arms and stopped her protests by kissing her until she forgot what she’d intended to say. “Now, do you really think I’m being forced into this?”

  She wriggled a little against him. “I still can’t believe it. If it hadn’t been for Lady Stone, and Wellingham taking a wild notion to lease a house in the country, you and I might never have…” She snapped her fingers. “I was right, wasn’t I? There was something fishy about his leasing the manor. Did you…?”

  But he kissed her again, and suddenly nothing else seemed important enough to pursue.

  “I’m marrying you because I adore you,” Marcus whispered finally. “And you’ll marry me, because if you don’t, I’ll stand up at Almack’s next week and announce that you’re to have my child. Besides, you gave yourself away just now.”

  She frowned.

  “You said marrying Wellingham would have been different than marrying me, because with him, love wasn’t involved. You do love me, don’t you?”

  “I always have,” she whispered, and the admission sent a wave of peace over her.

  “Then it’s perfect. You’re going to be my wife and my mistress. Forever.”

  His kiss was tender, but the expression in his eyes was wickedly suggestive—and Miranda knew the choice was hers.

  “Today,” she said shyly, “I’d rather be your mistress.”

  Marcus laughed and granted her wish.

  ***

  Sophie took the path across the park and through the woods as fast as she dared, and she was breathlessly clinging to the back of Rye’s hunter when she plunged down the bank and into the carriageway just as Wellingham’s horses came around the last bend. She turned Admiral to face his team and held up her hand.

  The curricle came to a gentle halt just a few feet from her, and Wellingham looked across at her from the driving seat with polite inquiry.

  “I need to speak with you, sir,” Sophie said.

  He nudged the team closer, until the front wheel of the curricle almost brushed Sophie’s foot. “Come here.” He shifted the reins into one hand and held the other out to her.

  “The word please would not come amiss,” she said. He did not seem amused. Or perhaps he didn’t remember saying it to her the first time she had held him up here.

  It was the most awkward dismount of Sophie’s life, and she had to admit she felt safer once she was off the back of the hunter and perched in the curricle. Though not a great deal safer, she realized as she faced the blazing wrath in Wellingham’s eyes. There would be no pleasantries this time about holdups and masks and pistols.

  “Take the hunter back to the stables, Henry,” Wellingham told his groom. “I will make sure Miss Ryecroft gets home.”

  “But I don’t want to go home. I want to talk to you.”

  “Speak quickly, then. You have until we reach the front door.”

  This was not going at all the way Sophie had planned. “I know why you’re leaving. It’s so you don’t have to meet Mr. Winston face-to-face, and it’s entirely my faul
t. I don’t know why he was in Mama’s bedroom the night of the ball when we went to get her, but I know it was him, because I recognized his cologne today as we were driving—and if I hadn’t said what I did in front of you about her having a man there that night, you would never have known, and so—”

  “Stop for a breath, Miss Ryecroft, or you shall faint and tumble out.”

  “And so I’m the reason that you’ve given up the idea of marrying Mama to improve your social status, and it’s only fair that I make it up to you, so I’ll marry you instead.”

  He jerked on the reins as if his muscles had gone into spasm, and for a moment he was fully occupied in correcting the gesture and soothing the team. When he set them back into motion, it was at a gentle walk, and he turned to look at Sophie. “Miss Ryecroft, your willingness to make such a sacrifice is noble indeed. However, I must decline.”

  “I don’t see why.”

  “Because you think being my wife would be a much more pleasant alternative for you than dancing in a theater.”

  “Of course it would.” Then she frowned, for he seemed not in the least flattered that she preferred him to a career as a performer. “I mean… well, the two things aren’t really alike.”

  “Aren’t they?”

  “Dancing in a theater would be much more like being your mistress rather than your wife. Not at all respectable. But if you don’t want to marry me, then I suppose—”

  “Marrying someone solely for money is not at all respectable either. Miss Ryecroft, though I am not at liberty to give you the details just now, I can assure you that your family’s finances are no longer a concern, so there is no need for you to sell yourself to me or to anyone else.”

  “Oh.” It didn’t occur to her to doubt him, for if Robert Wellingham said it, then it was true. And if she no longer needed to bring a fortune into the family, then…

  But Sophie didn’t feel the overwhelming relief she would have expected. It wasn’t a matter of need; the Ryecrofts’ lack of cash had only been the excuse to go after what she wanted.

  And what she wanted was Robert Wellingham.

  The sudden realization shook Sophie to her core. She felt dizzy, and she clenched the edge of the seat to hold herself upright.