Just One Season in London (11 page)

Rye had obviously noticed Sophie's change in attitude too. “Don't go thinking that you're not as good as any of the other girls, for you're a whole lot better than any of them. And you'll do fine with Lady Stone and her dragon of a companion too. The first time you let fly at me in a temper—”

“I won't, Rye,” Sophie swore. “At least, I'll try not to.”

He laughed. “Go right ahead, for that's the one thing guaranteed to get you on good terms with Miss Langford.”

The carriage door opened. Rye swung out to help them descend and ushered them up the steps to the front door.

A painfully correct butler opened the door. “Lady Stone has gone out, but Miss Langford is awaiting you in the drawing room.”

“And no doubt she's thinking we're late.” Rye handed his greatcoat to the butler. “I'll go up and brave the fire first, Padgett—just in case.”

Miranda took a deep, steadying breath and reminded herself once more that accepting Lady Stone's offer was not the same as taking charity—even though at the moment she'd have been hard-pressed to explain the difference.

“If Miss Langford is such a dragon as Rye seems to think she is,” Sophie remarked, handing over her cloak and giving her head a careless shake to settle her curls into place, “I must wonder why he is in so great a hurry to greet her.”

“Indeed,” Miranda said. She noted the sudden stiffness in the butler's face. “However, Sophie, your brother spoke in jest, and you must not allow him to lead you a merry dance.” She smiled at the butler, inviting him to share the joke, and was relieved when his face relaxed.

So Padgett liked Miss Langford… which left her wondering why Rye, who wasn't typically hard to please, did not. Miranda made a mental note to warn Sophie to be careful what she said in front of Lady Stone's servants. Then she linked her arm in her daughter's, and together they followed the butler up the stairs to the drawing room.

Rye must have taken the steps two at a time
, Miranda thought. Though they were barely half a minute behind him, he had already crossed the long room to a table set by the front window. The table looked as if the entire contents of a stationer's shop had been dumped atop it, and behind the stacks of white paper sat a young woman who was dressed in a plain teal gown with a high neck and long sleeves. Obviously, this was the female Rye had called the
dragon of a companion
. One glance set her intuition tingling, for Portia Langford was both younger than Miranda had expected from Rye's laconic mention and far more attractive. The warm tone of Rye's voice as he spoke—and the slightly acerbic note in Miss Langford's as she answered him—served as confirmation. Intentionally or not, they were flirting.

No, Portia Langford was no dragon. She wasn't even a mere companion. Unless every maternal instinct Miranda possessed had just gone out the window, Portia Langford was going to be a
complication
.

***

Portia had as
ked Padgett to set up a table by the drawing-room window in order to capture the best light as she wrote out the invitations for this blasted ball Lady Stone insisted on holding—in just under three weeks' time now. She had settled herself there directly after luncheon, and she was still working her way down Lady Stone's scrawled list, writing out the last of the addresses, late in the afternoon when a carriage drew up in Grosvenor Square.

Portia put her pen down and watched. Perhaps it was someone calling on one of the neighbors. With any luck, it might be another four or five days before the Ryecrofts took up residence…

But she knew better. From this distance, she couldn't clearly see the crest on the carriage door, but she could tell by the prickle at her nape who was inside, even before the footman climbed down from his perch at the back to open the door.

Lord Ryecroft, of course, was the first to appear. Portia noted dispassionately that her breathing had gone shallow.
Not
, she told herself, because he was looking particularly handsome today. She was merely anticipating the next outrageous thing he would say to her. She was forced to admit that she'd gotten in a few good jabs herself during their last conversation. No doubt today, with Lady Stone gone out, he would seize the opportunity to take her to task for them.

Still, he had been straightforward about his intentions to marry an heiress. He hadn't tried at all to pretty up the facts or to make his goal sound noble. Furthermore, he'd been sympathetic to the plight of the young woman she had told him about, the one who had been courted when it was thought she had money, and dropped when it was clear she had none. The average fortune hunter, in her experience, was more likely to blame the young woman for raising hopes…

He said all the right things
, she reminded herself.
That doesn't mean he truly felt them.
Men who set out to marry for money never lacked for charming things to say—up to and including Ryecroft's canard about how he hoped to care more for the woman he married than for her money. Pretty words—but what did they mean, really?

As if he could feel her watching, he looked up at the drawing-room windows, and Portia shrank back behind the brocade draperies. Gawking out the window at a handsome young man—she could just hear what Lady Stone would have to say about
that
.

But he turned back toward the carriage, and Portia tore her gaze away from the breadth of his shoulders—because of the capes on his greatcoat, she couldn't get a good look anyway—and craned her neck to look at the young woman Lady Stone was so certain would be the Beauty of the Season. The young woman that Portia herself had goaded Lord Ryecroft to bring to London…

Yes, she admitted; she would have no one but herself to blame there if Sophie Ryecroft turned out to be as spoiled and temperamental as she was said to be beautiful.

But the next person to appear was a woman who was definitely not in the first blush of youth. Lady Ryecroft was small and slender, and she managed to descend from the carriage without showing even a hint of ankle—something Portia herself had never once managed.

Portia's heart sank. If Lady Ryecroft was in any way as exacting and proper as she appeared at first glance, it would be a long three months. She wondered, not for the first time, whether her employer truly knew
anything
about the three people she had so casually invited to share her house for the Season… except, of course, that the slapdash Lady Stone found young Lord Ryecroft to be utterly fascinating.

And, of course, she had Portia—so any unpleasant duties could simply be pushed off to her companion.

Portia looked down at her pen and the next sheet of fine stationery and considered writing a letter of resignation instead of yet another invitation. Being left in the lurch was exactly what Lady Stone deserved.

Still, Portia had to admit that having a front seat at the most exciting show of the Season would be some compensation for all the work and tact that would no doubt be required of her. And if Sophie Ryecroft really was the lodestone Lady Stone expected her to be… well, perhaps Lady Stone was right, and one of the crumbs that fell undesired from her plate would be exactly what Portia herself could appreciate.

Not that she was looking for a husband. But if the right man should come along…

Her gaze drifted back to Lord Ryecroft, who was once more reaching into the carriage—and an instant later Portia's thoughts scattered like pigeons in the park as the Beauty appeared, looking around Grosvenor Square as though she had expected an appreciative audience to be awaiting her.

Indeed, Sophie Ryecroft
was
a beauty—and clearly she knew it, judging by the way she carried herself and the smile she bestowed on her brother as he helped her down.

Lady Stone would be unbearable as she watched all her predictions come true, Portia thought. For there was no doubt her ladyship had been correct; Miss Ryecroft would have all the gentlemen of the
ton
at her feet the moment she made her first appearance in society. Lord Ryecroft would need to equip himself with a cricket bat to fend off all the offers. He'd likely have difficulty finding leisure to do his own courting by the time he dealt with all his sister's suitors…

Portia sighed and turned back to the invitations.

But before she had finished even one more address, she had spoiled two—one with a huge blot because, while she was holding her newly inked pen over the paper, her thoughts had wandered to the image of Ryecroft besieged by a line of would-be suitors; the other because she'd absentmindedly addressed it to Ryecroft himself, as if his name was the only one with the power to stick in her mind today.

Just as she put her pen down to flex her fingers, he spoke from the doorway. “I see you are keeping up with your correspondence, Miss Langford.” He strolled across the room to stand over her table. “Are
all
these love notes to… What was the rake's name?”

“Lord Swindon. And they are not love notes.” Portia patted the foot-high stack of finished invitations. “I have, on the contrary, been making a comprehensive list of your flaws, my lord.”

Too late, she realized that the ladies had not lingered belowstairs but had followed him into the room. Had they been in time to hear her comment? There was no way to tell from Lady Ryecroft's expression, though there was a set to her mouth as if she'd seen something distasteful.

Miss Ryecroft, on the other hand, gave a little crow of laughter.

The young woman didn't even giggle inanely as most girls her age would do, Portia thought irritably. Even her gurgling laugh was beautiful.

“A
comprehensive
list?” Miss Ryecroft said. “If that's your aim, Miss Langford, please do let me help. But we'll certainly need more ink!”

It wasn't th
at Miranda had missed going into society, for she had been content and busy at the manor, with life spiced by the occasional local party or assembly. She had told herself it was entirely for Sophie's sake that she longed for London.

And yet she had to admit it was pleasant to be surrounded by gaiety and—for the first time she could remember—not to have to make every single penny do double duty.

Her new dress, in a figured silvery-gray lace, was the finest thing she remembered owning. It made her feel almost young again, and even Rye gave her an appreciative look when she descended the stairs to attend the first party of their stay in London. “Mama, you're looking lovely tonight!”

Sophie, coming along behind her, gave an irritable sniff. “That is the last thing Mama needs to hear from
you
, Rye.”

Rye looked his sister up and down. “What's the matter, Soph? As long as you're cadging compliments, I must own you look fairly nice tonight too, though you'd do better to take that sour look off your face. But I'm used to that. Mama, on the other hand—”

Sophie didn't wait for him to finish. “
Mama, on the other hand
,” she mimicked, “is not nearly as lovely as she could be if she were wearing something both stylish and colorful. You should also be made aware, my dear brother, that your tone of surprise is not as flattering to her as you seem to believe it is.”

Rye looked as taken aback as if a brand-new puppy had bitten his hand.

“Every new dress she has bought,” Sophie went on, “is either dowager gray or the faintest, most sickly shade of lavender. When you tell her she's lovely in it, you merely encourage her to choose more of the same. The next thing you know she'll be wearing lace caps around the house. If she had bought the green silk I told her to instead—”

“I should look like an unripe apple,” Miranda finished. “To say nothing of appearing to compete with my daughter rather than chaperoning her. But thank you for the notion of the lace caps, Sophie. I shall keep that possibility in mind the next time we go shopping.” She glanced past Sophie to catch Miss Langford's eye, expecting her to share the joke. Instead Miss Langford was looking from Sophie to Rye as if she'd never seen either of them before. Miranda gave a small sigh. “Now a smile if you please, miss—and no squabbling with your brother at the ball, mind.”

Sophie obliged. She really was breathtaking, Miranda thought, in violet silk with a gauze overskirt embroidered in purple. Matching ribbons were woven through her hair. Her eyes were bright with excitement, and she looked more beautiful than Miranda had ever seen her appear before.

The only reason Sophie was making such a fuss about her mother's wardrobe, Miranda was certain, was to distract herself from the importance of this first evening party. They had met a few people, of course, as they made the rounds of the dressmakers and the shops. Some of Rye's friends had come to call on Lady Stone on her regular at-home days. And they had attended a few small parties and a dinner or two. Sophie had begun to make friends, gently guided by Portia Langford.

But tonight was Lady Flavia Summersby's coming-out ball, and Sophie was making her first official appearance before the
ton
. It would be no wonder if the girl was nervous, even though her dance card had already been half spoken for by Rye's friends.

Lady Stone's ball was now less than two weeks away—and it was crucial that Sophie make a good impression tonight. If society's elite found her unappealing and made excuses not to appear in answer to Lady Stone's invitation, then Sophie would be ruined and all their efforts would have been in vain. The mere idea made Miranda shiver as she put on her new charcoal-gray cloak and allowed Rye to hand her into Lady Stone's carriage.

The press of traffic around Berkeley Square was immense. “I don't remember it being this crowded when I was a girl.” Miranda peered out at the long line of vehicles waiting to drop off their passengers.

“I didn't expect anything like this,” Portia admitted. “I fear this evening sets a standard of success that every hostess for the rest of the Season must aspire to.”

“Nonsense,” said Lady Stone. “It's the first ball of any size of the Season; that's all. I say our affair will be even more of a crush—would any of you care to wager on it?”

By the time the ladies had left their cloaks, touched up their hair, and made their way to the ballroom to be announced, the dancing was about to begin. Bright dresses and dark coats filled the floor, and a young friend of Rye's who had been hovering anxiously near the door exclaimed in relief when he spotted Sophie.

“I thought you were never going to get here.” He gave Rye a friendly grin. “You could have walked from Grosvenor Square in the time.” He swept Sophie away into a set that was still forming.

“We're more fashionably late than I intended.” Lady Stone looked around. “It appears all the young ladies I was planning to introduce to you are already partnered, Ryecroft. Miss Langford, you may do the honors and step onto the floor with Lord Ryecroft.”

Miranda felt Miss Langford's sigh, but the girl didn't utter a word of protest. Rye guided her into a nearby set, and the music started.

Miranda said quietly, behind the dainty silver lace of her fan, “Do you think it wise, ma'am, to pair them up like that?”

Lady Stone's beady eyes grew even brighter. “Do
you
think it wise to leave him standing on the edge of the floor, looking as though he cannot find a willing partner?” Before Miranda could think of an answer, Lady Stone went on, “We can go over by that pillar in the corner. Look at the ripple across the room—all the men's heads are turning already, despite their partners, to look at your Sophie.”

Miranda couldn't help feeling a glow of satisfaction.

“There's Whitfield,” Lady Stone said. “On the far side of the floor, in the blue coat, dancing with the girl in pink ruffles. Is it that color that is so bad for her, or is the style even worse? She looks like a half-melted ice.”

Miranda let the prattle slide gently over her ears, picking up a name here and there from previous conversations about possible suitors for Sophie, while she admired the brilliant, shifting patterns as the dancers moved in the stately grace of the country dance.

“Swindon is the dark gentleman in purple,” Lady Stone said. “That coat of his will look lovely with Miss Sophie's dress tonight. I must make sure to introduce them straightaway… What is Carrisbrooke doing at a ball? He's barely out of the nursery himself—still at Oxford, at any rate. I suppose they invited him since he's a neighbor of the Brindles and not far removed from Summersby's country home.”

Miranda spotted Carrisbrooke's golden head at the far side of the ballroom. Such a young man he was, and how much his features looked like Marcus's—though, of course, he was angelically fair, while his uncle was dark. But Carrisbrooke need not concern her. She let her gaze drift on across the ballroom, back to the Earl of Whitfield.

“Well,” Lady Stone said in a different tone. “I'm surprised to see
you
here.”

Miranda pulled her attention back from the ruffled lady in pink who was dancing with the Earl of Whitfield—that dress wasn't just unfortunate; it was a disaster—and turned to see who had drawn that tone of asperity from Lady Stone.

Before her, sweeping deeply into a formal bow, was Marcus Winston.

Miranda's fingers went numb, and she dropped her fan.

Marcus swooped it up and returned it to her, balanced on his outstretched palm. “What a shame it would be to let this be stepped on and broken.”

Miranda willed herself to reach out casually and pick it up. To do so, she would have to touch him, but that was nothing to quail at. She was wearing gloves, and so was he. It would be nothing like touching his bare flesh…

She hesitated an instant too long, and she saw a gleam spring to life in his eyes as if he had read her mind. With his other hand, he took hold of hers, turning it over until he could lay the silver-and-lace confection in her palm. As he released her, his fingertips stroked gently down the back of her hand, a touch that was featherlight but burned nonetheless, sending an arc of sensation through her glove and deep into her flesh. As if he had touched her breast instead, her nipples tingled.

And he knew precisely what effect he was having on her, she thought. His eyes grew darker, and the barest hint of a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth—that strong, hot mouth that had so easily conquered her in the library at Carris Abbey…

“Lady Stone, Lady Ryecroft. A pleasure as always to see you… both.”

“And what gives us the honor of your company tonight, Winston?” Lady Stone's voice held a touch of acid.

Her tone sent a chill up Miranda's spine. Was this what society was like for Marcus—a sharp edge to every question, a slight hesitation from everyone who spoke to him? And what was she to do about it? Speak up and risk offending the woman to whom she owed so much? Or stay silent and allow it to seem as if she agreed with Lady Stone in thinking Marcus was out of place here? “I'm certain Mr. Winston is a valued guest wherever he goes,” she said tightly.

“Of course he is,” Lady Stone said. “When he deigns to appear, that is, which he seldom does. The Season started two weeks ago, but I don't recall seeing him at any society event until now.”

“Perhaps you simply overlooked me,” Marcus suggested.

Unlikely, Miranda thought. How could anyone overlook Marcus?

Lady Stone gave a disappointed grunt. “Don't be fatuous, Winston. I must wonder, therefore, what brings you out tonight.” But she wasn't looking at Marcus; her beady eyes were focused squarely on Miranda, who played with her fan and tried not to meet that searching gaze.

“Why does any man come to London in the Season, ma'am?” Marcus asked easily.

“To find a bride, of course,” Lady Stone said promptly. “But don't expect me to fall for that sort of faradiddle—not from
you
. At any rate, Flavia Summersby is spoken for already—or at least that's what Lord Randall believes. So why choose this ball, Winston?”

“Why not? We are neighbors, of a sort. But I am wounded to the quick, my lady, that you think my intentions anything but honorable. I see that I shall have to prove myself truthful.” He turned to Miranda. “My nephew informs me that you have a most beautiful daughter, Lady Ryecroft. I beg that you will introduce me to her.”

***

Though Rye had
visited London many times, he had never been to a ball during the Season, and though he told himself this evening was really no different from the assemblies in Surrey, he couldn't make himself believe it. The Earl of Summersby's ballroom glittered with candlelight and mirrors, the music was provided by a small orchestra, and the dancers gleamed in their finery.

The figures of the country dance partnered him with each of the other ladies in the set in turn, then brought him face-to-face with Portia Langford. She danced much better than any of the others, he noticed, and she looked quite elegant in her dark bronze dress tonight. He started to tell her so as they went down the set together, but she didn't give him the opportunity.

“Notice the young woman in pink, just over there,” she said as they circled and once more retreated.

He tried to glance without being obvious and caught a glimpse of a young woman who looked like an overgrown bonbon coated in pink icing. A moment later, as he and Miss Langford waited their turn, he said, “It doesn't seem like you, somehow, to call attention to such an appalling choice of dress.”

“It's not the dress I was pointing out, you muttonhead, but the woman wearing it. That's Miss Amalie Mickelthorpe.”

Ah.
One of the heiresses Lady Stone had listed—and if his memory was correct, the most likely of them all to find a debt-burdened Surrey estate attractive, so long as a viscountess's title was attached to it. Rye did his best to keep his face expressionless.

Apparently, however, he was not successful, for as the dance ended and he offered his arm to escort her off the floor, Miss Langford said sweetly, “But do not let her choice of dressmaker put you off. If she would agree to take instruction from your mother's exquisite taste, she might do you proud.”

She sounded less than convinced, however. Rye nodded at the other dancers as they passed.

“And that was the Earl of Whitfield she was dancing with. One of your more serious competitors in the Marriage Mart this year, you must recall.”

Rye took a careful look at the earl. What was it Miss Langford had said about him? Oh yes, he'd been to Italy and had an air of romance… He couldn't see what would make her believe Whitfield would be a catch. “I thought you said he looked the romantic sort.”

“Perhaps not at this moment. I doubt he's thinking as seriously about Miss Mickelthorpe as she is thinking about him.”

“There's a comfort.”

She gave him a sharp look, but she didn't pursue the subject. “Lady Stone likes to stay at the corners of the room, by the way. At any ball, look for a group of pillars, and that's where you're likely to find her.”

“I shall keep that in mind.”

“You should indeed, and not only so you can vanish in the opposite direction. Tonight I believe she intends to put you on display.”

Rye suppressed a shudder. All this was necessary, he knew—and he had, after all, asked for it. With the advantage of his extra height, he looked over the crowd. Near the group of pillars Miss Langford had pointed out, there was a bustle of bodies and voices, and as he and Miss Langford drew closer, he saw his sister's bright hair in the center of the group, with Lady Stone performing introductions. Off to the side, his mother stood, looking like an icicle in her silvery-gray gown.