Just One Season in London (23 page)

Miranda was not frightened, for she could never truly be afraid of him. But she had to admit she was the least bit uneasy about what he might do next.

“Shall I see you tonight at Lady Emerson's soiree? Not that it matters, really,” she added lightly. “I don't want you to think I'm feeling possessive, for I'm not. I was just making conversation.”

“Ever a lady,” he growled. “The hell with my appointment. We're going to sort this out right now.”

“Your clothing is still undone,” Miranda pointed out. While he was pulling himself together, she picked up her gloves and walked out.

The manservant was at the front door. He looked startled to see her, and he responded only with a nervous nod when she thanked him for opening the door for her. With her head high, she went out into the morning sunlight to look for a hackney.

She should have asked the manservant to find her one, she supposed. But she couldn't have waited inside Marcus's house, even for a few minutes. She didn't know what kind of sorting out he had in mind, but she suspected she wouldn't have liked it. Far better to leave under her own terms and her own power.

She would walk toward Mayfair, she decided. The exercise would be good for her, and sooner or later she would see a hackney she could hail.

She barely noticed a curricle moving slowly down the street, until the driver pulled his horses to a halt and leaped down from the high seat, leaving his groom to hold the team as he came toward her.

Of all the bad luck, she thought, it would have to be Robert Wellingham passing at the moment she left Marcus's house. But perhaps he hadn't seen which direction she had come from. “My goodness,” she said with false cheerfulness. “What a coincidence it is to run into you here.”

“I have a house just a few streets away. Lady Ryecroft, why do I find you here alone? Has your carriage been detained?”

It must have been.
The socially acceptable lie trembled on her lips, but she told the truth instead. “No.”

He looked closely at her, and she saw compassion in his eyes. “May I be of assistance? Perhaps I might escort you home?”

He really was kind—so much different than she had thought on that first day when he had appeared in her drawing room at Ryecroft Manor. “If it is not too much trouble. But I do not wish to take advantage.”

“My business will wait.”

He helped her up into the curricle. In the moment before the groom let the horses go, Wellingham touched the handle of his whip to the brim of his hat in a salute. Miranda glanced back at the house and saw Marcus standing on the top step.

Glowering.

Knowing that Marcus would see—and well aware that she was toying with danger—she turned to Wellingham with a bright smile. “What a happy chance it is that we have this opportunity to get acquainted.”

The corner of his mouth turned up. “Do you know, Lady Ryecroft, I was thinking exactly that myself.”

Each party she had attended in their
short weeks in town had been special, and Sophie had enjoyed them all. But this was to be her very own ball—or at least, hers and Rye's—and though only a country miss would admit to being excited, even the most jaded of debutantes must confess that it was pleasant indeed to be the center of attention.

So it was puzzling for Sophie that she didn't feel particularly exhilarated as the evening approached. Even after she was dressed in her white lace ball gown, with her mother's pearls at her throat and a charming ostrich-feather fan—a gift from Rye—in her hand, she didn't feel as if it was real.

She wandered down to the ballroom. It smelled of beeswax and lemon oil, of candles and roses. The windows and mirrors gleamed, and the floor was smooth and inviting. The days were growing longer now, and sunset still spilled through the windows at the back of the ballroom when Portia came looking for her.

“I'm glad to see you're already dressed, Sophie. You don't want to be late to your own ball.”

Portia herself looked lovely in burgundy silk, with a narrow black flounce at the hem and a neckline that was cut low and wide to show off her lovely shoulders. Her only ornament was a small cameo on a black ribbon at her throat.

“Lady Stone would like you to come to her room,” Portia went on. “And your mother wants you for a moment as well.”

“What have I done now?”

Portia smiled. “I think Lady Ryecroft only means to talk to you about who will lead you out to start the ball. It should be Rye, of course, since he's your guardian, but the two guests of honor can hardly take the floor for the first dance together.”

Sophie wrinkled her nose. “It's hard luck to have a guardian who's only a few years older than I am.” But Portia was in fact only half correct; a young woman's first dance at her debut ball should be with her father. Sophie wondered if that was what was wrong with her today. Might she be missing the father she had never had a chance to know?

I suppose next you'll be turning into a sentimental watering pot over something you never had.

Obediently, she went upstairs to Lady Stone's boudoir. Despite living in the house for weeks, she had not been summoned there before, and she felt suddenly timid as she tapped on the door.

Lady Stone's maid was still working on her hair, but with the ease of long practice, she kept pinning curls even as Lady Stone craned her neck to get a better look at Sophie.

“Oh yes, I see Miranda was right about how you'd look in a froth of white lace. But your ears look frightfully bare, child.” Lady Stone scrabbled among the mass of cosmetic pots on the dressing table and came up with a small blue velvet box. “Try these on for size.”

Sophie's gaze went to Lady Stone's earlobes. Each of them held a garish, showy amethyst surrounded by bright yellow diamonds, matching the wide collar of gold and jewels that lay around her throat.

Lady Stone cackled with laughter. “No, my dear, don't fret that I'd choose the same sort of jewels for you that I like for myself.”

Still wary, Sophie popped the box open and gasped. Lying on a bed of blue satin were a pair of dainty pearl eardrops, each set in a dusting of tiny diamonds—the perfect match for the necklace she wore.

She stammered her thanks, which Lady Stone brushed off. “Hurry and put them on,” she ordered. “The gentlemen will be waiting.”

Sophie hurriedly fastened the eardrops into place, and Lady Stone laid a hand on her arm as they descended the stairs.

Rye was already in the drawing room, chatting with Carrisbrooke and Marcus Winston, while Portia was having a low-voiced conversation in a corner with Robert Wellingham.

Sophie knew he had been invited; it was, after all, Lady Stone's house, and that made it—as Lady Stone had said—her own damned business and no one else's who she invited there. But Sophie hadn't been convinced he would appear, so she was pleased to find that he had come after all.

Carrisbrooke broke off in the middle of a sentence to rush across the room to her. “Miss Ryecroft—
And on that cheek, and o'er that brow/So soft, so calm, yet eloquent.
”

Sophie thought,
Whatever that means.

“May I beg the favor of your first dance?” he said eagerly.

Lady Ryecroft had followed her in so quietly that Sophie hadn't noticed her at all, and she'd completely forgotten about her mother wanting to talk to her. Now she was stunned at the sight of Lady Ryecroft in a gown of bittersweet red. It was the lowest-cut neckline Sophie had ever seen her wear, showing off a magnificent bosom and creamy white shoulders that were, Sophie admitted, prettier than her own. Lady Ryecroft's neckline was bare of jewels, but she wore a single diamond in each ear.

“Mama,” Sophie said in awe, “no wonder you were willing to loan me your pearls tonight! You are magnificent. If that dress is what has been taking you out to the shops on so many mornings—”

“Hush, child,” Lady Ryecroft said. “The gentlemen do not want to hear your views on my gown.”

Sophie thought the gentlemen could not have cared less what she said; they were all too busy looking to listen—and with good reason. Lady Ryecroft wearing something besides half-mourning colors was a sight to behold, and they were drinking her in.

Except for Carrisbrooke, who took one more step toward Sophie. “The first dance—will you share it with me, Miss Ryecroft?”

Sophie heard her mother suck in a breath. Before Lady Ryecroft could interfere, however, Sophie said smoothly, “Regrettably, my lord, I cannot, because I have already promised the first set to…” Oh,
why
hadn't she remembered to seek out her mother for a moment's counsel before coming downstairs? What did Lady Ryecroft expect her to do?

Sophie glanced around the circle in something like despair. Then her gaze met a pair of steady silvery-blue eyes, and she relaxed. Yes, there was safety there… “I have already promised it to Mr. Wellingham.”

Carrisbrooke's mouth dropped open in disbelief.

No one made a sound, until Lady Stone finally broke the silence. “What an unpredictable child you are.”

Sophie couldn't decide if she sounded pleased or shocked.

Lady Stone shooed them all toward the door. “Now, come along, everyone. Let's get this ball under way!”

***

Lady Stone's predictions of a crush had
been right on the money. Guests poured into Grosvenor Square, and Rye couldn't see how they were to find enough room for dancing.

His feeling of being smothered by the crowd was made even stronger, because every heiress on Lady Stone's list made it a point to drift past him, sending sultry smiles in an obvious invitation for him to ask for a spot on their dance cards.

When, he wondered, had there gotten to be so many of them? Or was he only imagining there were more possibilities than he'd thought, because he'd set his mind on making an offer tonight?

He was still trying to remember what had made him conclude that his only viable choices were Amalie Mickelthorpe and Juliana Farling when the orchestra struck up a long note to summon the dancers for the first set. He made his bow before Lady Stone to begin the ball.

She tapped him on the arm with her ivory fan. “You're looking smug, my lord.”

Rye realized that he was smiling. He'd been remembering Portia at luncheon today as she'd slyly pointed out that Lady Stone's infirmity came and went at her convenience.

No, he would not think of Portia. Though there was no reason he shouldn't daydream about her, for he was still perfectly free—for now. After the ball, once his offer had been made and accepted, then he must put Portia aside and devote his thoughts to his intended bride. It would be only fair.

But until then, he was free to remember how it had felt to hold her in his arms, the sweetness of her lips against his, the way her body had seemed to match his own…

She was just down the set from him, with Carrisbrooke as her partner. The young earl had eyes only for Sophie, who was still greeting the latest arrivals, except for the moments when he was glaring at Wellingham instead.
That may be a problem
, Rye thought. Though Carrisbrooke's dancing skills had improved remarkably in the last week, while he had been treading on the toes of every female Lady Ryecroft could coerce into practicing with him, he was not yet expert enough to move through the set without focusing his full attention on the figures.

But if anyone could keep him in line, it would be Portia. She was a woman in a million, and it was too bad Lady Stone didn't truly appreciate how special her companion was.

Sophie and Wellingham took their places in the set, and Rye felt a shock sweep through the dancers as they realized the banker was not only present, but was also going to take part. Sophie felt it too, obviously, but she merely looked around as if daring everyone present to object to her choice.

Rye wanted to cheer. He settled for catching her eye with an approving smile.

Wellingham apparently did not notice the reaction at all. The man seemed to be truly unflappable—so used to being snubbed that he was armored against it.

Between Rye and Portia, his mother was partnered with Marcus Winston. Rye still wasn't certain what to make of Winston, but tonight it was Lady Ryecroft who had seized attention. It would be a wonder if any man could make it through the figures without losing his place the moment he came in range of that scandalously low neckline. If Rye had had any idea
that
was what his mother was about on her shopping trips…

But she didn't look pleased with herself. She looked tired instead, and her face was pale against the brilliant color of her dress. Given the slender elegance of her figure and the beauty of her face, it was easy even for Rye to forget that his mother was no longer exactly young. She'd had too many late nights. Too many parties. Too many days of having to watch every word and every action, not only for herself, but for Sophie as well…

It was time to go home to the manor, he told himself. Time to make certain that his mother was provided for in her declining years.

He steeled himself to the decision he must make by the end of the evening. Amalie Mickelthorpe or Juliana Farling? Or was it foolish to think at this late date that perhaps one of the others would do as well?

As long as you're going to marry for money,
Portia had said,
you should make the effort worthwhile.

It was true that Amalie Mickelthorpe's portion was larger. The additional money she brought to Ryecroft Manor would allow him to renovate the dower house, so his mother would have her own home.

On the other hand, Juliana Farling was a gentle, unassuming soul who would surely be pleased to have Lady Ryecroft continue to live with them. And Sophie as well, of course. If his sister didn't settle on Carrisbrooke—and after getting to know the young man better, Rye was inclined to think it would be a disaster if she did—there seemed to be no one else who stood out among her covey of suitors.

If he didn't have to rebuild the dower house to provide a home for his mother and sister, then Juliana's smaller dowry would go just as far as Amalie's larger one.

Portia had suggested he flip a coin. Rye was beginning to think he might have to do exactly that.

***

After Portia had survived the first set
with Carrisbrooke as her partner, the rest of the ball should have been a pleasure. Instead she felt as if the dance floor was coated with molasses. It was impossible to truly feel the gliding joy of a waltz when she was in Marcus Winston's arms instead of in Rye's—no matter how much she told herself that she must not think of him.

When Robert Wellingham walked her through a country dance and once more took up the topic he'd broached in the drawing room before the ball began, she shot him a fulminating look.

“It's a romantic night,” he said. “You should go after what you wish for.”

“You're assuming a good deal about my wishes,” she said coldly and then ruined the effect by adding, “I could make the same point about you.”

“Mine is a different case.”

She would have argued, but the steps took them away from each other, so she moved on with all the grace she could muster.

When the set finally ended, she caught a glimpse of Rye with Amalie Mickelthorpe, just leaving the floor. Miss Mickelthorpe was wearing green tonight; it made her look like an olive, Portia thought uncharitably. But the young woman's smile held both satisfaction and triumph.

Portia had to assume that their exit meant Lord Ryecroft had not only made up his mind but had whispered as much to Amalie during that last dance.

Bile rose in her throat. She tried to tell herself that it was hardly fair of her to blame him for doing what she'd advised. He'd chosen the larger fortune, exactly as she'd told him he should.

But that only confirmed what she'd known all along: when it came right down to the end, only money mattered. And as for what he had told her long ago—that it was just as important to him to choose as his bride a woman he could learn to care for—well, at the time she'd thought that was pure rubbish, and she'd been right.

Portia looked around for her next partner, intending to make some excuse, because she hardly felt like waltzing. Instead her employer waved her over.

“Quite a success we have tonight,” Lady Stone rasped. “All due to you, my girl. There will be a nice bonus for you in pulling this ball off with such style. Would you care to have a wager?”

“On what, ma'am?”

“I say we'll have at least one match to announce before the end of the evening—and possibly two.”

Portia followed Lady Stone's gaze to Sophie and Carrisbrooke, at the edge of the dance floor, and then on to Rye, who was bowing before Juliana Farling. “Those particular two couples, you mean?” She kept her voice steady with an effort. “I'm inclined to think not, but—”