Just One Season in London (15 page)

Portia bustled out of the drawing room, holding a china pitcher full of golden-yellow roses, which she held out to Rye. “Take these while I shift the others to make room on that side table. Good morning, Sophie—I'm trying to make space in the drawing room for the callers who will no doubt begin arriving at any moment.”

He didn't take the pitcher. “Now that she's finally up, Sophie can help you,” Rye pointed out. “They're her flowers. I'm going to my club.”

Portia paid no attention to his protest but thrust the roses into his hands. The pitcher lurched, and water sloshed over the lip of the container as Rye hastily held it away from him to keep from drenching his neckcloth. A small card that had been tucked in between the stems fell out.

Sophie picked up the card from the carpet at Rye's feet and read it. “Or perhaps I'm not such a Sensation. This bouquet is for you, Portia.” She held out the card.

Portia looked startled. “Surely not. That must be a mistake.”

Rye's eyes narrowed. “Let me see that card.”

“If it's mine,” Portia said, “then I am able to read it myself.”

Rye held the pitcher out of her reach with one hand and tried to seize the card from Sophie's grasp with the other. Sophie danced away, and the bouquet overbalanced and tipped out of his grasp. For what seemed endless seconds they all watched as the pitcher cartwheeled through the air; then it shattered on the marble floor, spraying bits of china and broken roses across the hall.

“Now see what you've made me do, Sophie,” Rye said.

“Me?” Sophie was incensed. “I'm not the one who was trying to snatch a card that's not mine.” She bent to scoop up a handful of wounded roses before someone stepped on them.

“Leave it, Sophie,” Portia said. “Here comes Jane now—she'll get the rest.”

As a housemaid hurried up to deal with the mess, the sound of the front door opening rose from the lower floor, followed by a peal of girlish giggles. The first callers had arrived.

Portia cocked her head to one side. “That sounds like Miss Mickelthorpe. I think we can assume you made a favorable impression last night on her at least, my lord.”

“Though you'd think,” Sophie said, “if she's seriously interested in you, Rye, she'd know better than to come here today. She should be at home, hoping you'll call on her, not seeking you out the morning after you met.”

Rye looked gloomy.

“Or else,” Portia suggested cheerfully, “perhaps she does know the etiquette, and this is her way of making it clear that she's
not
interested in you.”

“I'm not even supposed to be here. I'm going to my club—remember?”

“Too late for that,” Sophie said. “Padgett's bringing them up, and you can't simply brush past Miss Mickelthorpe and leave. Unless Jane's willing to smuggle you down the servants' stair…” The little maid giggled from the floor, where she was gathering shards of the china pitcher.

Sophie handed the card to Portia, who glanced at it and tucked it under a nearby vase. Sophie was impressed that her expression didn't even change.

“Swindon, eh?” said Rye, who'd been looking over Portia's shoulder. “Well, well. It seems I'm not the only one who made an impression last night.”

“I'm sure that's an opening gambit to get Sophie's attention,” Portia said with a shrug. “To whet her interest in him by making it seem he's not interested in her.”

“Did you send Miss Mickelthorpe flowers this morning, Rye?” Sophie asked brightly as she brushed a few stray droplets of water from her gown. “You should have done, you know.”

“No. I'll use Swindon's strategy and send them to her chaperone instead. I'm sure that will get her attention.”

Sophie advanced to the top of the stairs just as Padgett came into view. Directly behind him was Miss Mickelthorpe, who was wearing a confection in ruffled blue, topped by the most ridiculously overtrimmed hat Sophie had ever seen, full of ribbon roses and feathers and lace. She was flanked by Lady Flavia Summersby, and bringing up the rear was Lady Brindle.

Sophie put on the widest smile she could summon. “I am so glad you've come to visit, ladies. What a lovely ball it was, Lady Flavia.”

Lady Brindle stopped on the top stair and raised a quizzing glass. “Are you trying to start a new fashion, Miss Ryecroft? Carrying a sheaf of broken-stemmed roses that match your dress?”

Sophie let the sarcasm pass. “Only a small domestic accident, I'm afraid. It's entirely under control.” She handed the flowers she had rescued to Jane.

Portia said, “Do come into the drawing room, ladies.”

Lady Brindle swept down the hall and paused on the threshold of the drawing room. “But where is Lady Stone? And your mother, Miss Ryecroft? I was hoping to spend the morning with my good friend Miranda while you girls enjoyed chattering about last night. I was so caught up in dear Flavia's ball last evening that I had no time even to greet Miranda. Of course, your party was very late in arriving, I noticed… Surely your mother hasn't left you to receive guests alone this morning—without a chaperone?”

Rye stepped forward. “Miss Langford is here.”

“Oh. Yes. Miss Langford,” Lady Brindle said with a notable lack of enthusiasm.

“Where
is
Mother, do you suppose?” Sophie whispered to Rye. “She rang a peal over me before breakfast”—too late, she realized it might not have been wise to share that information with her brother—“but I haven't seen her since.”

He stepped aside in the hallway for Lady Flavia and Miss Mickelthorpe to precede him, then followed Portia and Sophie into the drawing room, where Lady Brindle had already chosen the most comfortable chair. He waited for the rest of the ladies to choose seats, and then—deliberately, Sophie thought—went to stand near Lady Brindle.

For an instant Miss Mickelthorpe looked annoyed. She had obviously, and carefully, chosen the long sofa and seated herself at one end in order to leave plenty of room for a gentleman. So much for the idea that she might not be interested in Rye after all.

“I'm glad to see your injury has healed, Lady Brindle,” Rye said.

Sophie winced, but there was nothing she could do.

“My injury? Oh, you mean that Banbury tale your mother was telling about my ankle and why I needed her to come to Brindle Park. I never did find out why she was so determined to come, you know… No, I'm pleased to say my ankle is as sound as ever.”

Rye looked daggers at Sophie, who tried to ignore him as she started talking nonsense with Miss Mickelthorpe.

It's not my fault
, Sophie thought. She would have remembered to tell him the strange tale of the unsprained ankle, if it hadn't been for things like Robert Wellingham coming to visit and Rye renting out the manor and Lady Stone inviting them to London… Did he expect her to remember
everything
?

Lady Stone came bustling in just then and flung herself down next to Lady Brindle. “Late to my own visiting hours,” she crowed. “But of course you started without me. Do tell me the latest
on-dits
, Ann Eliza, before we're overrun with other visitors. What are the gossips saying this morning? And better yet, is any of it true?”

The most powerful cli
max of her life left Miranda trembling, almost whimpering, and clinging to Marcus. He held her close, nestled in the safety of his arms…

What an odd way to put it
, Miranda thought. As if there had been anything
safe
about the way she had spiraled out of control!

He kissed her temple, her eyelids, her mouth, catching her sigh of satisfaction on his lips as the last tremors died away. “You hid your face and didn't let me watch you after all,” he whispered. “Next time… Come to bed with me, Miranda.”

Sanity returned. How could she possibly parade through the hall and up the stairs to Marcus's bedroom as if she didn't care who knew what they'd been doing here?

It was bad enough that his manservant, trained not to intrude, must have a good suspicion of what was going on in this quiet, private room. But to go out into the public areas of the house and confirm it…

Some people might not mind if the staff saw—or even if they gossiped. But Miranda did. And right now she felt so mussed that anyone who saw them would have to know what she had been doing.

Yet the tension within her was so strong that she suspected if she left him now, she would be in agony. And what kind of a mistress even considered leaving her lover with his desires unsatisfied?

“You've lost your cravat.”

“No, darling, it's not lost. It's right over there on the floor.” He kissed her, slowly, and withdrew his hand from under her skirt. She felt cold suddenly, and abandoned.

He took her hand, but instead of leading her back to the hallway, he took her across to the door where he had entered and opened it with a flourish.

The room beyond might have once been a music room or perhaps an extra parlor. Now it was, in all respects, a bedroom—complete with a huge and elaborately carved four-poster bed, neatly draped in deep blue velvet.

So neatly draped, in fact, that it seemed never to have been used. How perfectly convenient, she thought, to have this snug little hideaway ready at a moment's notice.

“Who but a rake would have thought to put a bedroom on the same floor as the drawing room?” she said.

“Someone who finds it a pointless waste of energy to run up and down extra flights of stairs every time I need to change clothes.
Not
to make it easier to entertain—though, at the moment, I am grateful for the inspiration. Miranda…” He drew her close.

She couldn't stop herself from melting into his body, where she seemed to fit perfectly. His chest rubbed hard against her breasts, and her nipples peaked in eager response. His hands slid down her back and came to rest on her hips, pulling her so tightly against his erection that she could feel his heat even through the fabric of her dress and chemise, and her response to it shocked her. She should have been sated; instead she felt an aching emptiness and an almost overwhelming urge to rip away the barriers that separated them. She tried to unfasten his shirt and settled for pulling it loose so she could at least slide her hands under the crisp linen and caress his skin.

“Let me deal with your buttons,” he said gently, “or we'll never get you put back together afterward.”

How accomplished he was in the practical aspects of carrying on an
affaire
, she thought. Thinking ahead so clearly, not letting passion get the better of him, not for an instant forgetting that she would have to appear again in public without arousing suspicion…

But then he must have done this many times, while it was only her first. She should, perhaps, be pleased that he was taking steps to protect her from her own shortsightedness.

But she would not have been human if part of her hadn't wanted him to lose control, to forget everything except her… and his desire for her.

His fingers worked with a great deal more efficiency than hers were capable of doing, but it still seemed to take a long time to free Miranda of the charcoal walking dress—mostly because he kept stopping to kiss her collarbone and nip at her shoulder and taste the rosy circles around her nipples.

By the time they were finally together on his bed, free of all restrictions, there was not a square inch of her that had not been caressed, and Miranda felt as if her entire body was aflame. The brush of his lightly haired chest against her breasts only served to heat her more, and the emptiness inside her had grown torturous. When at long last he parted her legs and moved over her, she pulled him closer, demanding with her body what she couldn't bring herself to put into words.

As carefully as if she'd been a virgin, he probed and slowly entered, looking deep into her eyes as he took her an inch at a time. He was hot and hard and big, and she realized that his breath was rasping with the effort he was making to be careful, to take his time.
How sweet
, she thought. She abruptly tilted her hips, moaning with satisfaction as she succeeded in pulling him deeply inside her.

“Wench,” he said and held still for a moment, as if to savor the sensation, before he started to move. Each long, deliciously firm thrust filled her completely; each withdrawal left her aching. Ever so slowly, the pace increased, each stroke just a little quicker, a little deeper, a little more forceful.

She caught his rhythm and met him eagerly, until—with her gaze locked with his—she lost herself once more just as he thrust hard and exploded deep inside her.

***

Lady Stone's offhanded p
rediction had been correct—within minutes more callers began to arrive, and inside half an hour they were overrun. Every few minutes Padgett trudged up to the drawing room to announce a new contingent of visitors. Young ladies with their mothers. Young men in small groups, as if clustered together for courage. Older men one at a time.

Rye kept on the move, greeting everyone and exchanging a few words in each small group. Portia, he noticed, was doing much the same thing as she tried to find chairs for everyone who wanted to sit, and once, they nearly collided near the windows overlooking Grosvenor Square. “You're supposed to be buttering up heiresses,” she said quietly. “Not making engagements with your friends to go inspect horses.”

So she'd been eavesdropping on his conversation, not paying attention to the matron who had been talking to her… Satisfaction surged through him. “I'm applying Lady Stone's advice not to seem too eager to please.”

“Not appearing overenthusiastic is one thing. Being stiff and unapproachable is another. You've barely exchanged a word with Miss Mickelthorpe, and Lady Brindle will excuse herself any moment now, because she's already overstayed the polite length of a visit. You'll lose the opportunity.”

Good
, thought Rye, before he could stop himself. Unfortunately, Portia was correct that he must not let this chance pass altogether. In this group, only Amalie Mickelthorpe was on Lady Stone's list of potential eligible brides.

He glanced around the room and noted that Lady Brindle had indeed slid to the edge of her chair as if she was about to say her farewells. Miss Mickelthorpe was still sitting on the long sofa where she had planted herself on arrival, and he was headed in that direction to do the pretty, when Padgett came into the room once more. This time the butler was ushering Lord Swindon. Rye couldn't help it; he looked over his shoulder to see how Portia would react to the sight of her favorite rake coming to make a morning call.

She had paused in midstep as if her attention was arrested for a moment by the mere sight of Swindon on the threshold. Then she turned to Sophie, who happened to be standing nearest her, with a brief comment. Rye was too far away to hear, but Sophie frowned a little, and he couldn't help but wonder whether Portia had been warning his sister to keep hands off. But surely not—a mere companion would not assume a nobleman was her property, much less caution a Beauty to stay away.

Between the scent of the flowers that seeped in from the hallway as each visitor entered, the shrill giggles of the young ladies, and the posturing of the men—young and not so young—who were trying to impress the ladies, Rye's head was beginning to ache in earnest.
And I don't even have to run up and down the stairs through that cloud of pollen.
“Poor Padgett.”

He wasn't aware he'd voiced his opinion until Amalie Mickelthorpe said, “Did you say ‘poor Padgett'? You mean the butler, my lord? But surely he should be thankful to have such a position.”

“I'm certain he is grateful to be employed. I only meant he can't be accustomed to Lady Stone receiving this sort of crowd. It must be hard on him at his age, having to tramp up and down every time the knocker falls.”

Miss Mickelthorpe looked puzzled. “But think of the honor—the house being so busy.” She pulled her ruffles aside, making room for him on the sofa, and for the first time he realized that she'd been holding that space open all morning. Rye glanced around, noting that—for a wonder—every lady in the room was seated at the moment, so he could sit too. Lady Stone caught his eye and nodded her approval, her beady black gaze sparkling over him and his companion.

As he sat down, Miss Mickelthorpe leaned toward him and dropped her voice to an intimate murmur. “Do tell me about Surrey, my lord. I have never been there, but I understand the countryside is pretty and that your home is close enough to the capital for easy visits.”

What he wouldn't give to go home to Ryecroft Manor right now, and stay there in peace and quiet. Only, he reminded himself, he would have to take this young woman—or one much like her—home with him. Forever.

At least, he thought philosophically, his father had not only built a good wine cellar, but stocked it well. Once he was back at Ryecroft, he could just go through his regular routine in a port-induced haze and not even notice Miss Mickelthorpe…

“Perhaps,” she went on, “with the days growing longer now, you will host a luncheon party there? I should so love to see Ryecroft Manor.”

The hair on Rye's nape stood up. “It's only a few hours' drive, true enough,” he admitted, “but it's not close enough to go all the way back and forth in a day and still enjoy the visit.”

Lady Flavia came up behind them. “In any case, since Ryecroft Manor is rented out for the Season, you can hardly go nosing about the place, Amalie.”

Automatically, Rye popped to his feet, wondering how that news had gotten out and why Lady Flavia had thought the fact important enough to notice.

“It's time to go,” Lady Flavia went on. “Lady Brindle is saying her farewells.”

Rye thanked heaven; his timing had been well-nigh perfect. “It is my bad fortune to have you swept away just as I'm finally free to join you, Miss Mickelthorpe.” He offered his hand to help her rise. “I shall see you this evening at the Farlings' musicale, I believe?”

“Oh yes. I do so appreciate music, though I have little talent in that direction myself.”

Somehow that announcement didn't surprise Rye.

“My gift is more in the arts. My watercolor teacher says I have an incredible feel for color and proportion.”

Rye's gaze fell on Miss Mickelthorpe's hat, loaded down with such a variety and number of trimmings that it must make her neck hurt to hold up the weight of it all, and he wondered whether the watercolor teacher was an incompetent artist or a master of ironic understatement.
Incredible
could have several interpretations…

Silence fell across the room, and for an instant Rye wondered if his expression had given away his thoughts. That would be untidy, if anyone happened to be watching him closely.

From the doorway Padgett cleared his throat and said, “Mr. Wellingham, my lady.”

Oh, that explains it
. A moneylender appearing in the drawing room of a peeress, during her regular visiting hours… In the eyes of society, Lady Stone might as well invite the butler himself to sit down and chat with this roomful of guests!

Robert Wellingham paused on the threshold and looked about him. Rye was close enough to see the ironic twinkle in the banker's eyes as his gaze swept over the crowd, and he liked the man even more for that humorous glint. He also wondered how many of the
ton
who had gathered in this overheated, overscented room were uncomfortable to see the banker there, not because of his social station, but because they owed Robert Wellingham money.

Probably not many, but Rye suspected it wasn't because they hadn't tried to borrow; it was more likely Wellingham had found them to be bad risks and turned down the bargain.

The silence stretched out. Lady Brindle broke it finally, her voice almost echoing through the drawing room. “Lady Stone, I declare—you do have such
amusing
taste in acquaintances!”

Lady Flavia gave a nervous titter.

Rye, feeling militant, stepped forward and offered his hand. “Wellingham, it's good to see you again. What brings you up to town? Nothing wrong at the manor, I hope?”

Robert Wellingham smiled. “No, my lord, though I have been entrusted with messages from your household staff for you and for Lady Ryecroft and for Miss Sophie.” His gaze flicked across the room and then returned to Rye's face. “Your mother is not present?”

That was quick
. And interesting too; there must be thirty people in the room, but in no more than a few seconds Wellingham had apparently noted that Lady Ryecroft wasn't one of them. “No, it appears she had… other obligations this morning.”

Wellingham's forehead creased.

It
did
sound odd. “Padgett,” he said quietly, before the butler could depart once more. “Have you seen my mother today?”

Padgett's gaze shifted. “I believe she went out, my lord.” He slid through the door into the hallway before Rye could ask anything else. Not that he'd have known what to ask. She'd gone
out
? What errand could possibly be more important to his mother than watching Sophie's triumph?