Just One Season in London (8 page)

“That should be enough time to build a buzz of expectation and to get them both properly fitted out with the right clothes. Oh, what fun
that's
going to be!” Lady Stone gave a wicked chuckle. “Such a fine figure of a man he is. If his coats were only cut a wee bit closer to show off those magnificent shoulders, and his pantaloons just a
shade
tighter…”

“Ma'am!” Portia wanted to clap her hands over her ears, but interrupting—even though it was also rude—would have to do. “You
cannot
be thinking of advising his tailor? Or sitting in while Lord Ryecroft is measured?”

She wondered how broad his chest really was… and how much measuring it took to fit a gentleman's pantaloons… The room was feeling a little too warm.

“Of course not.” Lady Stone's tone was virtuous, though there was a hint of laughter underneath. “My goodness, Miss Langford—such an idea for a lady to express. Do take your mind out of the chamber pot!”

Ryecroft
Manor might be shopworn, even verging on threadbare, but it was home, and Miranda was relieved to be back in her familiar surroundings.

For about half a day.

Once she had made the rounds of her domain, answered the questions that had arisen during her absence, and settled a minor tiff between the crusty old gardener and the cook over which herbs to add to the kitchen garden this year, she felt curiously at loose ends.

Whenever she tried to sit quietly and read or sew or even plan a menu, she found her mind drifting back to that quiet library at Carris Abbey and that mortifying instant when Marcus Winston had rejected her.

No. If she were honest, it wasn't the moment of mortification that she recalled most clearly, but the few minutes that had preceded that embarrassment. The minutes in which she had let him hold her, caress her, touch her breasts… Even now, all she had to do was be still and she could feel his hands against her skin and the heat of his body as he pressed against her. She once more felt the tingle of desire in her breasts, along with a new rush of heat between her legs, reminding her that if he had not turned away from her, she would have become his lover right there on the settee…

And she had to admit that part of her wished the moment of madness hadn't ended.

In a feeble attempt to wear herself down enough to rest, she announced—to the housekeeper's horror—that she was going to turn out every room and cupboard at the manor. She began with a linen press that hadn't been entirely emptied since before she'd arrived as a bride. She put Sophie to work counting towels, while Miranda sorted the sheets that could still be mended from those that should be cut down into pillow covers instead.

But even as she handled the smooth linen and felt it warm under her hands, she remembered the way his crisp shirtfront had felt against her fingertips…

On the third day of her cleaning spree, Miranda came downstairs early after a fitful sleep and found Sophie already in her riding habit, munching toast as she tiptoed across the hall toward the side door that was closest to the stables. Obviously she had intended to escape the house before her mother came downstairs, but she had been tripped up by her always-healthy appetite.

“Oh, do come and sit down like a lady for a proper breakfast,” Miranda said crossly. “And after you've finished, you may ask Cook for some beef jelly to take to Mrs. Curtis at the gate cottage. Mrs. Carstairs tells me that the baby has arrived.”

“Perhaps Mrs. Carstairs hoped that you would deliver it yourself and stop poking into her responsibilities,” Sophie offered as she perched on the edge of her chair to gulp her food. She was not exactly ladylike, Miranda noted.

“If you don't want the excuse for a ride,” Miranda began.

Sophie shook her head and jumped up, still clutching the last of her toast. “No, I'll do it.” The next moment she was gone, her boot heels clicking on the marble of the hallway, and Miranda was too glad of her absence to fuss about her daughter's lack of manners.

After Sophie had gone, Miranda turned over the pages of the newspaper, hardly seeing the stories, while she drank her coffee.

You will be my mistress
, Marcus had said.

But of course that was laughable. How could she possibly become his mistress, when she was in Surrey, with no intention of leaving Ryecroft Manor anytime soon, and he was a hundred miles away?

Because you want me as much as I want you…

She simply must get over this nonsense; that was all. She felt like a violin string, tensed and taut as she waited for the bow to come to rest and draw forth a melody—which was completely foolish, since there was no possibility she would see him again.
Ever.

And the low feeling that gave her was the most ridiculous thing she'd ever experienced.

She spent a couple of hours sorting out the contents of a drawer in her morning room. There were letters from girlhood friends whom she hadn't heard from in years now, a calf-bound journal she'd received for her twelfth birthday and kept fitfully for a few months, and sentimental keepsakes of her childhood—including a red paper valentine that Marcus had given her when she was sixteen.

She sat down, hard, her fingers trembling as she held the card. Not only had it slipped her mind that he had made it and given it to her, but she didn't recall bringing it along with her as a bride. But here it was, tucked among her most precious mementos.

At the door, Carstairs cleared his throat. “My lady, a… gentleman… has called and requests to see you.” The hesitation in the butler's voice sent a flicker up Miranda's spine. Carstairs never missed; if he said a man was a gentleman, then indeed he was. But if Carstairs wasn't certain…

Was it Marcus? Not that she expected even Carstairs could sniff out Marcus's exact origins, but there had been an air of informality about Marcus when she'd seen him at Carris Abbey that she'd never noticed before. Perhaps it had been born of the years he had spent in the New World. Carstairs wouldn't miss that.

Still, it couldn't be Marcus, for he wouldn't dare to call on her at her home.

You will be my mistress…

But why wouldn't he come to Ryecroft Manor? Even though a morning call at her home would violate the rules, it was no worse than the way Miranda had barged in on him at Carris Abbey…

“He asked for the master,” Carstairs said, “but when I told him that Lord Ryecroft was not at home, he begged to have a moment with you, ma'am.”

Marcus would not have asked for Rye. Relief swept over her, followed instantly by a sensation Miranda refused to admit—the barest sense of disappointment.

She realized Carstairs was looking at her with ill-concealed curiosity and holding out a tray, and she picked up the visiting card that lay on it.
Robert Wellingham
, it said. It was not a name she recognized, though somehow there was a flicker of familiarity about it. But she had been away from society for so long it would be no wonder if she had grown rusty. For all she knew, he might be part of a distant branch of one of the nation's most eminent families.

She turned the card between her fingers. “Very well. I'll see him. Show him into the drawing room in five minutes.”

Carstairs inclined his head and went away.

Miranda sat still for another few seconds, then put the valentine safely back in the drawer and went down to the drawing room. She glanced around to be certain everything was in place, though there was no need; the maids had obviously not cut corners in their regular duties while she was gone. A fire blazed in the grate, and the velvet draperies had been pulled open to admit the spring sunshine that reflected off the early green of the gardens.

Miranda noted that the strong rays fell across a thin spot on the carpet, and she sighed as she pulled a chair forward to mask the flaw. Of all the rooms in Ryecroft Manor, this one was least used, and despite the furnishings being dated and tired, it was still the most impressive. That was why she had chosen it to receive her unknown guest, though exactly why she had the odd sense that it was important to impress this man, she did not know.

Carstairs brought in her caller, and she surveyed Robert Wellingham with curiosity. He was tall and broad-shouldered; his deep blue morning coat had obviously come from the hand of a fine tailor, and his neckcloth, though not elaborately tied, was of the whitest and best linen. His hair was dark, and there was the slightest touch of silver at his temples. More than that, however, the way he stood told her that he was nearly her own age, for he had an air of command that few younger men possessed. Even Rye, who had been born to rank, hadn't quite mastered that attitude yet, though inheriting so young—and coming into an estate in such disarray—had matured him well beyond his actual age. She sensed, however, that Robert Wellingham had come by his aplomb the hard way—through work, not by inheritance.

She nodded politely but did not invite him to sit. “Good morning, sir.”

“Lady Ryecroft, thank you for receiving me.” He bowed over her hand. “I had the pleasure of meeting Lord Ryecroft in London several days ago. He indicated that he would soon be returning home, and we arranged that I would come to Surrey to discuss some business with him. But I must have misunderstood, for I am told he is still away.”

“Yes.” Miranda kept her voice level. If Rye had intended to come home several days ago, where was he now? It was a matter of just a few hours' drive to London… “I have not received word from him, so I regret that I cannot tell you more than that.”

Then the rest of his words registered, and a chill slid down her spine.
What sort of business?
she wanted to ask.

Only now did she recall the odd expression she'd seen on Rye's face the morning he had announced he was going to London.
To see his tailor
, he'd said—as if she was likely to believe that tale. He'd had the same look on his face at the age of four, one day when he'd sworn to her that he did
not
have a snake in his pocket—
Indeed, Mama, I do not!
—right up to the instant when the snake had slithered down his leg and onto the carpet. Right about where Robert Wellingham was standing now, as a matter of fact.

But on that last morning at breakfast, she'd been concentrating on how to finagle a trip to see Ann Eliza without taking Sophie along, so Miranda hadn't pressed to find out exactly what had put that mulish look on Rye's face. In any case, she'd believed that whatever Rye was up to in London, it was no worse than the average young gentleman's pastime.

Now she wished she had insisted on knowing. He was of age, which meant that technically he was no longer answerable to his mother, but surely he wouldn't have lied to her.

What was it about Robert Wellingham's name that nagged at her?

He looked around appreciatively. “You have a lovely home, Lady Ryecroft. This is a most pleasant room.”

Carstairs had left the drawing-room door open, and from the corner of her eye, Miranda caught a flurry of activity in the hallway outside.

Then Sophie spoke, her clear voice resounding. “You said Mama's in the drawing room, Carstairs? Do please bring us a tray—I could smell Cook's lemon cakes baking as I came in, and I'm famished from being out in the air all morning.” She burst into the room. “Mama, I met Emily in the village, and she says her aunt is arranging a picnic party to—Oh, I beg your pardon.”

She stopped on the threshold, almost poised on tiptoe. One small hand clutched the long skirt of her riding habit, while the other was raised to her lips in apology.

“My daughter,” Miranda said ruefully. “Sophie, this is Mr. Wellingham.”

“Have I interrupted? Well, of course I have. I am so sorry to have interrupted you and your caller, Mama.” She curtsied. “It is lovely to meet you, sir.”

“Do not distress yourself, Miss Ryecroft; I was just taking my leave.”

“But you must not let me drive you off! Mama so seldom has gentleman callers…”

Sophie's eyes widened as she spoke, and Miranda could almost read her daughter's mind as she put the pieces together. A gentleman calling, alone, on her mother… Sophie's powers of observation and deduction might be improving, but she obviously had a long way to go yet.

“I see you've not been here long enough for her to offer you refreshment,” Sophie plunged on, “but Carstairs will be bringing a tray at any moment.” She perched on the edge of a sofa cushion. “Have you come from a great distance, sir?”

“I live in London—at present.”

“Really? How exciting. But then how did you meet Mama? Have you known her long?”

“Sophie!”

“Yes, Mama? Oh, do you mean to say I should go and change? Indeed, I must smell of horse.” She wrinkled her nose and jumped up again. “And then there will be no need for Mr. Wellingham to go away, and you can have the most comfortable chat together.”

Miranda could not stop herself. “Sophie, Mr. Wellingham is not that kind of caller!”

The instant the words were out, Miranda would have given anything to call them back. Wellingham's dark gaze met hers, and the challenging glint in his eyes left her breathless, for she understood only too clearly how he had interpreted her thoughtless remark.

What she had said was literally true; she'd simply meant that his call was business, not a social event, as Sophie obviously believed. But he had heard an insult—deliberate and crude. Carstairs had been right; he was
not
quite a gentleman, and he knew it. Therefore, he thought she must be warning Sophie that he did not belong in their world. That he was not a fit person for the sister and mother of a viscount to know…

“I regret that I have disturbed you, ma'am.” But the apology was no more than words; it was apparent to Miranda that he didn't mean it.

“Mr. Wellingham, it is I who must beg your pardon. I did not mean to imply…”

He cut her off crisply. “It is of no importance. I shall return to the village now. I shall be at the inn if Lord Ryecroft returns today.”

Repeating his name, however, had finally jolted Miranda's memory loose. “You're a banker,” she said slowly. Fear slithered along her veins.
What has Rye done? Why has he gone to the moneylenders?

A chill ran down her spine.
You have a lovely home
, Mr. Wellingham had said. But had it been an appreciative comment or an acquisitive one?
I live in London—at present.
Had there been a hidden meaning in that brief hesitation?

Was it possible that Rye had put a mortgage on the manor? He could not sell it, of course. The estate was entailed and had to pass along with the title. But borrowing against the land or the house—he might have found a way to do that. Now that he had full control of his affairs and his money—what there was of it—he would no longer even have to consult trustees before taking such a major step.