Just One Season in London (6 page)

“Perhaps,” Rye said, “we should excuse Miss Langford from this discussion, since she does not appear likely to enjoy it.”

“Oh, I'll enjoy hearing about your weaknesses. Would you like me to keep a detailed list as you uncover them, ma'am?”

Lady Stone had gone straight on. “Heiresses can be temperamental sorts, so we also need to plan out how best for you to approach them. If you're aloof, they will pay no attention at all. Yet you must not appear too eager, for nothing makes a girl less interested than a gentleman who presents no challenge. And you must not be too particular to any one of them until you've definitely made up your mind and are certain your offer will be accepted.”

There was a small, genteel sniff from the direction of the sofa.

But Lady Stone seemed to have heard nothing. “You face troubling competition this year as well. It's too bad you didn't come up last Season, Ryecroft.”

“He must still have been with his tutor then, ma'am.”

Rye told himself to ignore her, but with no effect. “It is true that last Season I had not yet reached my majority, Miss Langford, but the lessons to which I have applied myself in the past year are those of estate management.”

“No one could have outshone you.” Lady Stone sighed. “I vow, every bachelor on the Marriage Market last year had a cast in one eye or needed corsets or couldn't dance a step.”

“While this year, there's the Earl of Whitfield.” Miss Langford ticked off points on her fingers. “Good family, young, nice looking, a respectable estate, and just back from Italy, so he's got an air of romance about him.”

“Yes,” Lady Stone said gloomily. “All the girls will be after him.”

“And there's Swindon as well,” Miss Langford went on with an appreciative-sounding sigh. “He's a great deal older than Whitfield, but I understand he's declared his intention to set up his nursery at last. Don't you agree, Lady Stone, that there's something about a rake that is irresistible to young women?”

Rye couldn't stop himself. “Including you, Miss Langford?”

“Certainly,” Miss Langford said calmly.

“Then I won't fret about
him
, since your attractions will no doubt keep him too fully occupied to notice any young woman I might be interested in.”

To his regret, she refused to be drawn. “It is not I whose help you need in order to draw off the competition, my lord. The answer to your difficulty is plain.”

It might be plain to her, Rye thought, but there was no understanding the logic of the woman. He let his gaze linger on the way her neck curved as she bent over her tapestry once more. “I must beg you to clarify.”

“I recommend you consider your sister.”

“Sophie?” Rye said warily. “What about her?”

“Lady Stone has said she is beautiful. And you told me she is of a marriageable age.”

“True enough, on both counts. She's eighteen. But I don't see…”

“Bring her out now instead of waiting till next year. If she is indeed as lovely as Lady Stone believes, she will command the full attention of every gentleman who comes near her.”

Lady Stone began to laugh. “I see what you're up to, miss. All the other girls, seeing every man in London jostling for position round the Beauty…”

“…will naturally turn to the
only
male on the Marriage Market who cannot possibly be in love with Miss Ryecroft or interested in making her an offer,” Miss Langford said.

“Her brother! Portia, I vow you're a prodigy. That's the ticket, Ryecroft. Go home right now and fetch your sister.”

“My lady…” The confession that he couldn't stand the nonsense wasn't going to come easy—especially not under Miss Langford's cool, judgmental gaze.

“Oh, I know,” Lady Stone said with a wave of her hand. “You haven't a town house, and it's too late now to go looking for one to rent. All the really good addresses have been bespoken already, and the few that are left will command a king's ransom. It doesn't signify. Bring her to me, and Miss Ryecroft can make her debut from Grosvenor Square. Oh, Portia, my sweet—what fun we're going to have this Season!”

Miran
da thought for an instant that even the tall-case clock had paused in shock at her offer. But no, time had simply drawn out endlessly as Marcus looked at her and as her words seemed to echo in the still air of the library.

Give me the funds to provide my daughter with her chance, and I'll be your mistress…

Marcus took her goblet from her hand and set it down on the small table beside the settee. He turned toward her, his fingertips warmly cupping her chin and lifting it so he could look directly into her face. His eyes were so dark that she could barely see the difference between pupil and iris and so intent that her breath caught painfully in her chest.

Slowly, he bent closer. She could feel the heat of his skin burning away the air that separated them. His lips brushed the corner of her mouth almost tentatively, as if he expected that she would move away or protest. But she stayed still.

His hands slid over her shoulders and eased her back against the velvet cushions of the settee. He leaned over her, nibbling at her mouth. The tip of his tongue slowly traced the lines of her lips, exploring as carefully as if he were the first to see a new continent and needed to notice and remember every instant.

She could feel her heartbeat in her throat and in her ears. She was having trouble breathing, so she opened her mouth slightly. Instantly, he deepened the kiss, his tongue slipping easily between her lips. She could taste the wine on him, and the sensation shot straight to her head, making her dizzy and weak in a way the wine she had drunk would never have done.

She sighed, and his mouth grew more demanding, while his hands moved from her shoulders down the front of her riding habit, until he cupped her breasts. Even through the fine wool, her nipples peaked eagerly at the circling brush of his thumbs, and she arched her back, pressing into his palms. Heat seeped from her breasts down her body, pooling between her legs, an embarrassing, warm rush of desire. She shifted, trying to ease the pressure, and he whispered against her lips, “This is what I wanted to do all those years ago, Miranda.”

She nestled closer to him, and he eased her down farther on the settee, using his knee to nudge her legs apart. Her fingers spread across the hard plane of his back, urging him closer and closer yet, until her body was cradling his in a mimicry of the act of love. Only a few layers of cloth held them apart, and even those seemed to vanish as he pressed against her. She wasn't certain if the heat she felt came from his body or her own, but she was melting, desperate, hungry for him to possess her, to supply what she was missing…

Her skirt seemed to be dreadfully in the way. She tugged fitfully at it.

Against her lips, Marcus whispered, “I deeply regret that I must refuse your very flattering offer.”

For a moment she didn't even take in what he had said. Then it hit her with the force of a hammer blow.
Refuse?
When he was lying on top of her, practically making love to her already? When his erection was jutting proudly—insistently—against her?

Her voice was husky. “This jest isn't funny, Marcus.”

“I was not trying to amuse.”

Suddenly she was free. His weight was gone, her hands were empty, and she lay sprawled across the settee alone. She blinked up at him in confusion. “Marcus?”

“I find myself unable to take advantage of your offer, Lady Ryecroft.”

“But why?” She struggled to sit upright. She felt disheveled, so mussed that she suspected she might never feel neat again. “Don't tell me you're being self-righteous and moral! You're hardly a primer of good behavior—you've had mistresses.”

“I have,” he said levelly. “A fair number of them.”

“And they've been all kinds of women too, or so the gossip says. Beauties and bluestockings, widows and wives…”

He rose and went to refill his glass. “Only
unhappy
wives.”

“But all Americans, were they not?”

“It has to do with living there all those years, you see.”

He was laughing at her. Miranda gritted her teeth and plunged on, “So why not revenge yourself on the society that has turned a cold shoulder to you and refuses to admit you?”

“By taking one of their own as my mistress? It's an interesting bargain, I must admit. I could complete my collection.” Then he shook his head. “But no. It wouldn't do.”

“Why not? Because I've grown too old to interest you?” She knew she sounded bitter, but she didn't care any longer. She had gambled and lost. What did it matter, now, what he thought of her?

“Oh no. You're hardly old, my dear. And you do interest me—quite a lot, in fact. I thought that much would be obvious to a woman of your… experience.”

Of course it was obvious, she thought irritably. He had, after all, been pressed against her so intimately that if it had not been for a couple of layers of fabric they'd have been lovers already. She had felt the size and the heat of his erection against her. And even now, as he stood there leaning negligently against the corner of the mantel, she could see the telltale bulge in his pantaloons that said he was anything but indifferent. “Then what's the problem?”

“You're proposing to be my mistress for pay. There's a name for that, though it's not a pretty one, I'm afraid.”

Miranda closed her eyes in pain.

“I don't buy favors from women, Miranda. I only make love to the ones who want me as much as I want them, without money added into the equation. So I must decline your bargain.”

That was it, then. All that was left to her was her dignity—and there was precious little of that. She stood, shaking her skirts back into place. “Then I must ask you to ring for the butler to show me out, and to summon my groom.”

He gave a tug to the bellpull. “It's been entertaining, Miranda, as well as educational.” She was already on her way to the door when he added, “I look forward to our affair, my dear.”

She stopped and wheeled to face him. “But you said we aren't going to have an affair.”

“I merely said I wouldn't pay you for your favors. But we will make love, Miranda. You will be my mistress on my terms, not yours.” He paused just inches from her and brushed his thumb lightly but possessively across her lower lip. “Because you want me as much as I want you.”

***

Lord R
andall politely suggested that Sophie wait outside the stables for a suitable horse to be brought to her rather than take the risk of another fright by getting too close to the beasts.

Instead Sophie marched into the stables to run a practiced eye up and down the big old cob that was being saddled for her. “I'm sure you're sweet,” she murmured to the animal, holding out a carrot in her palm, “but I outgrew hobbyhorses years ago, and now I prefer something with more spirit. Like… that one.” She pointed at a nearby stall, where a dainty gray mare with four white feet and a blaze on her forehead tossed her head and nickered.

Lord Randall remonstrated. Sophie strolled into the mare's stall to feed her a carrot, while she pretended to listen to him. By the time the second carrot was gone, she and the mare were fast friends.

“She is a bad choice for a rider who's afraid of horses,” Lord Randall said firmly.

Sophie smiled at him. “But just look at how perfectly her gray coat sets off the powder blue of my habit. We'll make a nice picture together.”

He sputtered. “Color? You chose her because of her
color
? That's by far the liveliest mare in the stable!”

The head stableman cleared his throat. “Beg pardon, sir, but it do seem that the young miss knows what she's doing, handling horses as she does. And while Moondust is frisky, she's not a bad actor.”

“Thank you,” Sophie told him. “I can saddle her myself if you wish—and then it's not your responsibility at all.” Her smile at the nearest stablehand was just as effective as it was on other men, however, and even before Lord Randall had finished his lecture, the groom had led the mare to the mounting block and Sophie was springing up into the saddle.

Lord Randall looked horrified. He scrambled onto his own mount and followed, rattling away about how she should have more sense. By the time they had crossed the carriage drive and threaded through a copse of lime trees, however, he was nodding and smiling.

Clearly, demonstration was far more effective than argument where Lord Randall was concerned. She filed that bit of information away for future reference, patted the mare on the neck, and pulled up at the edge of a recently mowed meadow, unsure which direction to turn.

“Wonderful sense of humor you have,” Lord Randall called as he rode up. “You had me convinced for a while that you were afraid of horses. What a jester you are, young lady, but you must be careful that people don't take you seriously!”

“Yes,” Sophie said, her eyes downcast in what she hoped looked like modesty. “Levity is something my mother frequently warns me about.”

“We'll ride down toward the river, to the village,” Lord Randall said and pointed with his crop.

Brindle Park sat on the brow of a hill. The view was the best part of the entire estate, with a sweeping vista spreading out before her. She touched the mare with her heel and fell in beside Lord Randall, riding down the long slope toward a glint of water in the distance, where a river made a lazy turn. Houses nestled into a group in the little valley, surrounding a small stone church. Far on the other side of the river, halfway up another hill, a huge old stone block of a house nestled into a grove.

Sophie noted that once he was in the saddle, Lord Randall was a reasonably good horseman, with solid form and light hands. His assessment of the mare called Moondust was accurate too—or else he had listened more closely to the head stableman than he had to Sophie. Moondust
was
lively, and she had a way of making her wishes known—and it was clear that the mare would really like a gallop. Which, Sophie had to admit, was exactly the sort of morning she'd prefer too. But Lord Randall seemed to be content to jog along quietly, so she reined in the horse and rode sedately beside him.

“Will you be going up to London soon?” she asked. She knew the answer already, but there was no sense in letting him know the servants had been talking about him.

“Of course. There are certain expectations of one, you know. The Season is about to begin in earnest, and my presence is required.”

He made it sound as if the
ton
couldn't function without him! Sophie wanted to roll her eyes. “It must be such fun,” she said and knew she sounded wistful.

“There are moments that are enjoyable. This year in particular it is important that I be at hand.” He paused. “I do not wish to sound inhospitable, and indeed I am pleased that my mother's good friend has come to visit her, but I must admit surprise at Lady Ryecroft's timing. My mother's arrangements have already been made, and I came to Brindle Park this week in order to escort her to town.”

“And instead you find us here.” All the suspicion Sophie had felt when she discovered that Lady Brindle was not, after all, recovering from a sprained ankle mingled with the unease that had swept over her this morning when Lady Ryecroft had insisted on going out for a ride without her. What exactly was her mama up to?

“And a great pleasure it is,” Lord Randall added hastily, “to have such a dear old friend and her daughter in the house.”

“But you're anxious to be off to town and afraid that your mother won't tell us that it's time for us to be going home?”

“You see, there is a lady… and our intentions to wed are soon to be announced. It is necessary that I be in attendance for her official presentation, and my mother must be there as well.”

So much for the plan to ensnare him with her beauty, her charm, and her innocence.

She couldn't for the life of her feel sad about it, however. In fact, a little bubble of glee rose inside her as she realized it was no longer necessary to behave in the strict pattern that Lord Randall obviously seemed to think ladies should. The sudden relief was like a weight lifted from her shoulders, and she laughed merrily at her foolishness in thinking that he might be the answer to her problem.

Then she leaned forward, whispered to the mare, and touched Moondust's side with her heel—and they were off, horse and rider of one mind as they careened down the gentle slope in a wild, joyous, headlong flight. She reached the outskirts of the picturesque little village and was reluctantly beginning to slow her pace when a rider darted from between the stone church and the shop next door directly into her path and, it seemed, no more than inches away.

Sophie's heart leaped into her throat, but Moondust was already turning with a flash of white feet, and Sophie felt only the brush of a hard thigh and the scrape of the edge of a high-topped boot through the skirt of her habit as the other rider pulled his gelding aside.

Moondust skidded to a halt in the middle of the narrow street, leaving Sophie breathing hard. She was still frightened, but she was exhilarated as well—for what a display of horsemanship that had been. She patted the mare's neck in appreciation. “You're a good girl, Moondust!”

Lord Randall galloped up beside her and stretched out a hand to grab the mare's reins from her hand.

“What are you doing?” Sophie gasped, guiding the mare to one side so his fingers closed on thin air.

“How fortunate you were not thrown, Miss Ryecroft, because of her running away with you like that! And then to nearly unseat another rider… I shall lead her all the way home.”

“You shall do nothing of the sort,” Sophie snapped. “She didn't run away with me—I wanted to have a good gallop. But I'm afraid the rest is true, though it is entirely my fault and not Moondust's.” She turned the mare toward the rider she had almost collided with.