Just One Season in London (25 page)

“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.”

A smile tugged at the corner of Marcus's mouth. “Then he didn't tell you the entire truth. He had already knocked, and Evans told him that I was with a caller. A few minutes later you came out.”

“So he knows I was…” She bit her lip.

Marcus nodded. “Alone, in my house, with me.”

“But he didn't mention it just now.”

“He won't ever mention it to anyone—if I ask him not to. As you said, he's a pleasant man, and very gentle.”

“And what must I do in return?”

“I'm sure I can think of something.” His eyes lit with mischief. “Something exciting. Admit it, Miranda—he's not at all right for you. You should give up the idea of marrying him before it comes back to embarrass you.”

She couldn't deny that he was correct, though it made her feel sad. It would have been such a practical match.

“I'm planning an outing next week,” he went on. “A visit to Vauxhall. It's so temptingly full of dark passages and private spots where one isn't interrupted. Will you come? If you turn me down, I shall cancel the party.”

She felt longing and desire pool between her legs at the mere idea of trysting with him in a dark corner of the pleasure gardens. “I'm amazed you'd trust yourself with me there.”

“Oh, we'll let the youngsters chaperone us. I'm inviting them all—and Lady Stone too—as an excuse.”

Suddenly weariness swept over her. “Goodness,” she said, looking down at her hem. “I've torn a ruffle. You must excuse me while I go and repair it.”

“What's wrong, Miranda?” The teasing note was suddenly gone from his voice. “You're tense, you look tired, and your face is drawn as if you're ill.”

“How ungallant of you to tell me so. Now I must go up to my bedroom and fix my ruffle.” He frowned, but she ignored him and circled the ballroom. She was so tired she didn't know if she could climb the stairs to her room.

In the hallway, she almost collided with Rye and Juliana Farling as they came up from the dining room, where refreshments had been laid out. Juliana was still clutching a glass of punch.

“Mama,” Rye said. “What's wrong?”

Miranda shook her head. “Just a minor repair. I didn't see Portia in the ballroom. Will you ask her to keep an eye on Sophie while I'm gone?” She didn't wait for Rye's nod but grasped the newel post and began hauling herself up the stairs.

In her bedroom, her maid was sitting by the fire, repairing the delicate lace edging on the cuff of a morning dress. She jumped up when Miranda came in. “Ma'am?”

“It's nothing, Mary. I just need to rest for a few minutes.”

“And a cup of tea, perhaps?” Mary tucked her up on the chaise longue and left the room to fetch a tray.

Miranda turned her head to look at the fire. The room was dark, and the crackle of the embers was soothing. She was soon lulled into such a state of relaxation that when the door opened, she barely noticed. Perhaps Mary would think she was asleep and not bother her with tea.

A chair scraped as Marcus set it between her and the fire, directly in her line of vision. Miranda sat up so quickly that her head spun. “What are you doing in my bedroom?”

“Talking to you, unless you have a better idea to suggest.”

“Get out.”

“No. You walked away from me yesterday; this evening you were careful not to appear until we were surrounded by people, and one cannot have a serious conversation at a ball. But when you leave your daughter unsupervised…”

“She is not unsupervised. Portia will look after her, and Lady Stone.”

“And when I dare to point out that you look ill, you make an excuse and leave the room. You didn't tear a ruffle, did you?”

“No.” She leaned back against the cushions. “I just needed—”

There was a scratch on the door, and Miranda shot up again. “That's my maid. She can't find you here!”

Marcus didn't move. “She's the one who told me which room was yours.”

“Go!” Miranda pointed toward the dressing room.

The door opened, and Sophie peeked in. The light of the candle she carried fell across her face and reflected off the white lace of her dress. “Mama?” she said anxiously.

Miranda shot a look toward Marcus, but he was no longer by the fire. She could barely see him lurking in the shadows of her dressing room. He'd moved across the dark, unfamiliar bedroom in absolute silence—a truly handy talent, acquired through years of practice, no doubt.

“Oh, please, Mama,” Sophie wailed. “You
have
to be here. We need you!”

***

Though Rye would have only one dance with Jul
iana tonight, she had saved one of the few precious waltzes of the evening for him, and he took it as a sign that his offer would be accepted. He wouldn't get a better opportunity than that waltz. As they danced, he would ask her for a moment alone. Then, in private, he would tell her that if she was indeed receptive to his offer, he would call on her father tomorrow to set the formalities in motion.

It was not the accepted protocol, to ask the young lady before presenting himself to her father to request formal permission. But Rye had hashed out the plan with Lady Stone, who agreed that he had only one shot at pulling this off. When a man asked a young lady's father for permission to court her, word got around, so Rye needed to be certain that the first heiress he asked would accept him, and only then carry on to the next step.

He presented himself to Juliana when the preceding country dance was finished, and she suggested that they go down to the dining room for a cold drink. He was mentally rehearsing his question as she slowly sipped her ice, and twice he had to ask her to repeat a comment. The second time, she said crisply, “If you don't wish to talk to me, my lord, we may as well go back up to the ballroom. Perhaps the waltz is still going on.” She picked up her reticule and her glass and started off without him.

“It's not that, Miss Farling,” he said as he caught up with her by the stairs. “I
do
want to talk to you. I
need
to talk to you. I just—I'm not sure how to say…” They reached the upper hallway, and his mother almost bowled him over as she came out of the ballroom. “Mama, what's wrong?”

“Just a minor repair,” Lady Ryecroft said. “I didn't see Portia in the ballroom. Will you ask her to keep an eye on Sophie while I'm gone?”

Rye nodded, but she had already started up the stairs. He looked after her, frowning.
A repair
, she'd said, but it looked a great deal more serious than that to him, to cause her to rush off as if something were chasing her.

He took a deep breath and turned to Juliana. Instead of looking at him, she was gazing up the stairs to where the last glimpse of Lady Ryecroft's dress was disappearing onto the bedroom floor. Her eyes were narrowed.

There was no point in postponing further, and for the moment they were entirely alone in the hallway. “Miss Farling, I wish to ask you a question.”

“Yes?” she cooed and set her iced punch on a handy table.

“I wish to ask you…”

He paused as a maid came out of the ballroom, balancing a tray of empty glasses. She picked up another from a plant stand just outside the drawing room and then came toward them on her way to the door at the back of the house that blocked off the servants' staircase. As she passed, she bobbed a little curtsy and reached for the glass Miss Farling had just set down.

“Leave it,” Miss Farling said sharply and raised her hand as if to strike the girl. “Can't you see I wasn't finished with it, you fool?”

The maid stammered an apology and hurried off.

“Servants are so annoying.” Miss Farling gave an irritated little sigh and picked up her glass again. “Yes, my lord? Do go on with what you were saying.”

Rye told himself it was a small thing, the sort of display of temper that anyone might show when nerves were taut and important questions were interrupted. In any case, it was her upbringing that was at fault, not her nature. Perhaps she hadn't been taught to treat servants well. She could learn better…

But the words felt hollow.

“I don't recall just now,” he heard himself say. “I'm sorry, but I must do as my mother requested.”

She tossed her head. “Oh yes. Such a good boy you are, to go looking for that tiresome Miss Langford. No doubt you will always obey your mama's wishes above all else… unless a wife makes it clear that she will not live under your mama's thumb. If you
happen
to remember what it is you wanted to ask, my lord, you may call on me tomorrow—and rest assured, none of my mother's servants would dare to interfere in a private conversation.” She thrust her empty glass into his hand and walked off with her head high.

If the gentle Juliana Farling had suddenly turned into a cobra, Rye couldn't have been more startled. He would never have dreamed her voice could be so cutting, her entire bearing so sarcastic. As for the notion of her happily sharing Ryecroft Manor with his mother—how had he fooled himself so completely?

She'd be waiting a good long time before he paid a call or requested a private conversation. But with her out of the running… perhaps Miss Mickelthorpe's voice wasn't so unbearable after all.

He set the empty glass down on a table outside Lady Stone's music room and heard a rustle from inside. There wasn't supposed to be anyone in there, but no doubt a couple had slipped away for a moment's privacy.

Only… had that been a protest he'd heard, or just a passionate sort of gulp?

Rye quietly opened the door. He wouldn't look at who was inside, he told himself. He was only going to make certain that both of them were willing participants, and then he'd go away.

The couple was veiled in shadow and entwined embarrassingly closely. As the light from the doorway fell across his shoulders, the man said something that sounded like a curse.

Swindon. That was no surprise. Rye looked more closely. “Portia?”

“Go away,” Swindon muttered.

“Gladly,” Rye growled. “Your pardon—both of you.”

Portia gave a little squeak and jammed her fist into Swindon's ribs. As he jerked back, she slid past him and flung herself at Rye. She slammed hard into his chest and dug her face into his shoulder. Automatically his arms closed around her. She was shaking.

“It's all right,” he whispered into her hair. “It's all right now. You're safe.”

Swindon snorted. “Before you challenge me to a duel, Ryecroft, you should know that I didn't drag the… lady… here against her wishes. She's no better than she should be.”

“You will say nothing of this, Swindon,” Rye ordered.

“Definitely not. I wouldn't want my future bride—whichever of this year's brainless broodmares I eventually choose—to know about my mistress. So I'll keep my tongue between my teeth. Unless Miss Langford refuses me.”

He ran a hand over his neckcloth, opened the door carefully to glance out, and was gone.

Portia huddled against Rye. Even as he held her close, he felt his temper hit the boiling point. “You came in here with him
willingly
?”

She sniffed, but only once, and stood up straight. “I must thank you for your timely intervention, my lord.”

Her bodice had been pulled askew, and one nipple peeked temptingly out over the black lace at the edge of her neckline. Rye tried not to look, but the sight of the pert little peak was almost enough to undo him. He had dreamed about her breasts, but even the most powerful fantasy could never quite capture the dainty shape or the exquisite smoothness of her skin. “Dammit, Portia, what were you thinking, to toy with a man like that one?”

“Naturally you would believe that it must be entirely my fault!” Her voice quivered on the edge of hysteria. “Will you please just go away?”

She tried to fix her dress, but her hands were trembling too much. He saw a shadow on her wrist, just above the edge of her glove—the mark of a strong man who had held her against her will. Fury burned through him, along with a primitive urge to call Swindon out and kill him—slowly.

“Oh, Portia, of course it's not your fault.” He pulled her close, cradling her like a child. “I'm sorry. I'm sorry.” She sagged against him, and Rye buried his lips in her hair and held her tightly. It was a long time before she sighed and stepped away and began a feeble effort to tidy herself up. Rye's palms itched with the desire to help her.