Just One Season in London

by Leigh Michaels

  “Why does any man come to London in the Season, ma’am?” Marcus asked easily.

  “To find a bride, of course,” Lady Stone said promptly. “But don’t expect me to fall for that sort of faradiddle—not from you. At any rate, Flavia Summersby is spoken for already—or at least that’s what Lord Randall believes. So why choose this ball, Winston?”

  “Why not? We are neighbors, of a sort. But I am wounded to the quick, my lady, that you think my intentions anything but honorable. I see that I shall have to prove myself truthful.” He turned to Miranda. “My nephew informs me that you have a most beautiful daughter, Lady Ryecroft. I beg that you will introduce me to her.”

  ***

  Though Rye had visited London many times, he had never been to a ball during the Season, and though he told himself this evening was really no different from the assemblies in Surrey, he couldn’t make himself believe it. The Earl of Summersby’s ballroom glittered with candlelight and mirrors, the music was provided by a small orchestra, and the dancers gleamed in their finery.

  The figures of the country dance partnered him with each of the other ladies in the set in turn, then brought him face-to-face with Portia Langford. She danced much better than any of the others, he noticed, and she looked quite elegant in her dark bronze dress tonight. He started to tell her so as they went down the set together, but she didn’t give him the opportunity.

  “Notice the young woman in pink, just over there,” she said as they circled and once more retreated.

  He tried to glance without being obvious and caught a glimpse of a young woman who looked like an overgrown bonbon coated in pink icing. A moment later, as he and Miss Langford waited their turn, he said, “It doesn’t seem like you, somehow, to call attention to such an appalling choice of dress.”

  “It’s not the dress I was pointing out, you muttonhead, but the woman wearing it. That’s Miss Amalie Mickelthorpe.”

  Ah. One of the heiresses Lady Stone had listed—and if his memory was correct, the most likely of them all to find a debt-burdened Surrey estate attractive, so long as a viscountess’s title was attached to it. Rye did his best to keep his face expressionless.

  Apparently, however, he was not successful, for as the dance ended and he offered his arm to escort her off the floor, Miss Langford said sweetly, “But do not let her choice of dressmaker put you off. If she would agree to take instruction from your mother’s exquisite taste, she might do you proud.”

  She sounded less than convinced, however. Rye nodded at the other dancers as they passed.

  “And that was the Earl of Whitfield she was dancing with. One of your more serious competitors in the Marriage Mart this year, you must recall.”

  Rye took a careful look at the earl. What was it Miss Langford had said about him? Oh yes, he’d been to Italy and had an air of romance… He couldn’t see what would make her believe Whitfield would be a catch. “I thought you said he looked the romantic sort.”

  “Perhaps not at this moment. I doubt he’s thinking as seriously about Miss Mickelthorpe as she is thinking about him.”

  “There’s a comfort.”

  She gave him a sharp look, but she didn’t pursue the subject. “Lady Stone likes to stay at the corners of the room, by the way. At any ball, look for a group of pillars, and that’s where you’re likely to find her.”

  “I shall keep that in mind.”

  “You should indeed, and not only so you can vanish in the opposite direction. Tonight I believe she intends to put you on display.”

  Rye suppressed a shudder. All this was necessary, he knew—and he had, after all, asked for it. With the advantage of his extra height, he looked over the crowd. Near the group of pillars Miss Langford had pointed out, there was a bustle of bodies and voices, and as he and Miss Langford drew closer, he saw his sister’s bright hair in the center of the group, with Lady Stone performing introductions. Off to the side, his mother stood, looking like an icicle in her silvery-gray gown.

  “I see your sister has already been discovered,” Miss Langford said. “But it appears you won’t have Lady Stone’s assistance in finding a partner for the next dance, since she is fully occupied at the moment. Come, and I’ll introduce you to Miss Mickelthorpe myself.”

  Miss Langford, Rye thought with a tinge of regret, seemed a great deal more eager to get him off her hands than he was to leave her presence.

  ***

  Sophie was afraid she would never remember all the names Lady Stone was tossing at her. She only hoped that the gentlemen who were vying to fill in the remaining lines on her dance card would write legibly. If the names were readable, tomorrow she could study the card, think back over the evening, and try to remember whether the Earl of Whitfield was dark or fair, what color coat Lord Swindon had been wearing, and which of Rye’s acquaintances had danced with her because they had really wanted to versus which ones had asked her only because it was a duty to a friend.

  She was almost relieved when her mother beckoned to her, so she could break free of the group. “Yes, Mama?”

  “I wish to make you known to an old friend of mine, Sophie,” Lady Ryecroft said.

  Sophie had never heard her mother’s voice sound so brittle. And she looked almost ill—her face was nearly as colorless as her dress. Sophie took a step forward, concerned that Lady Ryecroft would faint right there, but her mother shook her head slightly.

  “Mr. Winston, Miss Ryecroft,” Lady Ryecroft said, and for the first time, Sophie looked at the man her mother was presenting. He was tall and very elegant in a plain black coat and snowy-white linen that made every other man in the room look overdressed. He was handsome too—no question about that. But there was something about him that made Sophie feel odd.

  “Miss Ryecroft,” he said. “May I beg the pleasure of a dance?” He stretched out a hand for her dance card.

  Sophie was glad to see, when she glanced down at the small paper booklet listing the evening’s dances, that there were no empty lines. She held it up with a tiny shake of the head.

  “My misfortune,” he said.

  His smile was singularly attractive, and she wondered if her first reaction had been wide of the mark. Then she glanced at her mother again, and that odd, shivery feeling came back.

  “Perhaps another time, Miss Ryecroft.”

  “Certainly, sir,” Sophie said politely. She was relieved when her next partner came up to suggest that they go and get a cold drink before the music started again.

  She tried to remember her new partner’s name, but her mind had gone blank. Was this the Earl of Whitfield, she wondered, or Lord Swindon? Or someone else entirely? She wished she’d had a moment to look more closely at her dance card and refresh her memory about who was next.

  It was another country dance, and after the music ended, the young man ushered her to the edge of the floor and stood beside her, silent and stiff, obviously waiting only for her next partner to appear so he could hand her over.

  “The next dance is a waltz, is it not?” Sophie asked.

  A light feminine voice cut in, “What a pity you have not yet been to Almack’s and, therefore, are not yet approved to waltz, Miss Ryecroft. Perhaps that is why your next partner has yet to appear.”

  Lady Flavia Summersby was strolling by with her hand on Lord Randall’s arm as they prepared to take the floor together for the first waltz of her coming-out ball.

  Lady Flavia had been presented to Sophie at Hookham’s last week. In the bookshop, she had been ordinary looking—small and dark and almost plain. Tonight she was all in white—from the pearls in her hair to her soft dancing slippers—as befitted the debutante, and there was a haughty look on her face.

  “I imagine you’re right,” Sophie said earnestly.

  Lady Flavia looked disappointed that she hadn’t risen to the bait.

  Sophie had to admit, however, to a tinge of envy. Since she had not yet been approved by the patronesses of Almack’s to waltz there, her mother and Lady Stone felt
it was wiser for her to err on the side of caution tonight, even though this was a private party. So Sophie would be left on the sidelines while Lady Flavia waltzed.

  As she looked past Sophie, Lady Flavia’s eyes widened with shock. Only a moment later a young man with golden hair and a truly monumental neckcloth bowed before Sophie. “Miss Ryecroft, I am here to partner you for this dance.”

  Carrisbrooke. But his name could not be on her dance card, Sophie was certain, or she would have remembered. And of course Lady Flavia was right there to see… “Then I’m afraid you’re mistaken, Carrisbrooke.” Sophie lifted the card that dangled from her wrist. “I don’t see your name here.”

  The young earl’s smile made it seem as if the sun had risen right there in the ballroom. “I am on your dance card now, for I bribed your partner to give up his place to me.”

  Lady Flavia looked as if she’d swallowed a lemon whole.

  “Oh, well,” Sophie said lightly, “in that case…” She thanked her previous partner with a smile. “That’s not entirely flattering, however. That my intended partner would give up a dance with me, I mean; not the part about bribing him. That fact is flattering indeed. How large a bribe did it take?”

  “I told him he could drive my new pair of grays through the park tomorrow.”

  “Horses? And a mere drive around London—not even a good run out in the country?” Sophie sighed in mock distress. “I suppose it’s just as well that I know where I rank.”

  Behind her, Lady Flavia gave a little snort, but just then the music began, and Sophie heard her rustle away.

  “I’m glad you don’t waltz as yet,” Carrisbrooke confided. “I’m not good at it myself.” He guided Sophie to a nearby corner with an overstuffed seat just large enough for two.

  Sophie hesitated. But surely the seat wouldn’t have been placed there, so invitingly close to the dance floor, if it was not considered suitable to use it. She perched at one end, and Carrisbrooke took the other, sitting almost sideways so he could look directly at her.

  “I trust you took no harm from our little encounter in the village,” he said. “I could not bear it if something as lovely as you were to be injured through my fault. Truly, you walk in beauty, like the night.”

  More poetry? Sophie’s heart gave a funny little flutter. “That’s Byron again, isn’t it?”

  “You know your poets well, Miss Ryecroft. Did your governess share them with you?”

  “No, my mother was my first teacher. No one has ever quoted poetry to me before, Lord Carrisbrooke, but you’ve done it twice now.”

  “Then it is their loss and their shortsightedness. For you are…”

  But Sophie’s gaze had been suddenly drawn to the dancers swirling around the floor. Surely her eyes deceived her—that spot of silvery gray simply couldn’t be her mother’s new dress; she must be seeing things. The dancers were, after all, moving quickly.

  But she kept looking, just in case.

  There was Rye, partnering a girl in horrid pink ruffles… and Portia, in the arms of a gentleman in purple. And…

  No, she hadn’t been mistaken. This time Sophie could see Lady Ryecroft’s partner; she was dancing with the man she had so stiffly introduced to her daughter barely half an hour ago.

  “That gentleman,” Sophie said abruptly.

  Carrisbrooke looked affronted that she had interrupted his poem. “Which gentleman?”

  “The one dancing with my mother. Who is he?”

  “Oh, that’s just my uncle Winston. I expect he felt obligated to dance with her, since I asked him to scrape an acquaintance with your mother. Because of you, of course, Miss Ryecroft. For thy fair hair my heart enchained. That’s a line from Sir Philip Sidney.” And as he smiled at her once more, Sophie felt her heart melt.

  Nine

  He wanted to be introduced to her daughter? Because he was looking for a bride?

  Miranda almost burst out laughing, for the idea was so insane that it couldn’t possibly be real. Then she looked more closely at Marcus and realized there was no glint of humor in his eyes. His expression was calm, interested, almost sober.

  She felt much the same way as she had once in Rye’s childhood when he’d been learning to skip stones on the lake and let fly with a rock that had hit her instead of the water. But this time she couldn’t decide whether she was frustrated, furious, or simply stunned. All she knew was that she wanted to scream at the notion that Marcus Winston could nearly make love to her, then ask—in that so polite tone—to court her daughter.

  Nearly, she reminded herself—for he hadn’t made her his mistress. Quite.

  Had this scheme been in his mind even then, when she’d told him she wanted to take Sophie to London and give her a Season? Had he been laughing at her? Even plotting to seek revenge because all those years ago Miranda had turned him down and married Henry Ryecroft instead?

  Miranda barely noticed when Lady Stone moved away to intercept Sophie and introduce her to the young gentlemen who crowded around. She faced Marcus squarely and demanded, “What is your intent, sir?”

  “Only what I said. I wish to be introduced to your daughter.” His gaze drifted to the little knot of eager suitors surrounding Sophie. “She has the look of you, ma’am, and your beauty.”

  Miranda glared at him. “If you think to bring me around with flattery…”

  “I pay no compliments I do not mean, Miranda. When I tell you that your daughter is lovely, it is the truth.” He let the silence draw out. “You have no reason to refuse my request. None, at least, that society will accept.”

  He was only asking for an introduction, after all—for now at least.

  Miranda caught Sophie’s eye and beckoned. She felt sure her voice would crack as she presented them, but long training held firm. She couldn’t help the satisfaction she felt on finding that Sophie’s dance card was full, but Marcus didn’t look as disappointed as she had hoped he would.

  Portia Langford came up just then, looking abstracted. She was standing next to Miranda before she seemed to see Marcus at all. “Lady Ryecroft, Mr. Winston. I beg your pardon—it was not my intent to interrupt your conversation.”

  “Not at all, my dear.” Miranda purposefully turned her back on Marcus, hoping he would take the hint and go away. Sophie had gone off with her next partner, so there was nothing left for him here. He’d accomplished his main purpose anyway—for, now that he’d been properly introduced, he could lie in wait and ask for a dance any evening for the rest of the Season.

  “Did you enjoy your turn around the floor, Portia?”

  “Yes, of course. Lord Ryecroft is an accomplished dancer. I’m sure all the young ladies will appreciate his talents.”

  Miranda noted the carefully casual tone of Portia’s voice, and her heart sank.

  The sets had formed again, and the music was well under way by the time Lady Stone waved off the last of the gentlemen she had gathered and returned to the shadow of the pillars. “You do not dance, Portia?”

  “I thought perhaps you would have need of me, ma’am.”

  “Yes, indeed. What a good idea. I shall lean on your arm as we walk about the room.”

  Miranda noted that Miss Langford did not turn a hair at the notion that the spry and lively Lady Stone suddenly found herself in need of a human cane. She offered her arm instead, and they strolled off.

  “That young woman is really a delightful companion,” Marcus murmured. “She displays an incredible amount of patience.”

  Miranda sighed. “Are you still here?”

  “Since I may not have a dance with your daughter, I find myself at loose ends.”

  “Well, go find someone else to dance with, then. There are plenty of eligible young ladies here. Surely you don’t expect me to believe that, based on less than a minute’s acquaintance, you’ve made up your mind to pursue Sophie and only Sophie.”

  “Of course not,” he said.

  Miranda relaxed.

  “I’m not acting on a minute�
��s acquaintance. I have already heard a great deal about her, from my nephew.”

  “Your nephew has spent little more than a minute with her himself. What are you plotting, Marcus? You are all wrong for Sophie, and you know it.”

  “Indeed? What makes you say so?”

  “You’re too old for her. If you’re trying to get even with me for rejecting you all those years ago by courting my daughter…” She bit her tongue. There was no point in telling him how best to annoy her.

  “To marry your daughter would surely be an odd way to exact revenge on you,” Marcus observed. “Since I’m most likely wealthier than any other suitor who is apt to come Miss Ryecroft’s way, and since your stated goal is for her to be financially secure, I’d be playing straight into your hands.”

  “If your intent was to marry her, perhaps, rather than to ruin her.” She knew she sounded breathless, worried. She really must get hold of herself. “At any rate, money is far from the only consideration in choosing a husband.”

  “If you’re still concerned about my unorthodox birth, Miranda…”

  “I was never concerned about your birth, and you know it!”

  “…then you might be interested to know that my father went to a great deal of trouble, in the last years of his life, to make me legitimate.”

  Miranda goggled at him. “How in heaven’s name did he manage that?”

  “Lied through his teeth, I should imagine,” Marcus said calmly. “Though since I was still in America at the time, I don’t really know. Perhaps he faked a set of marriage lines naming him and my mother.”

  “But why?”

  Marcus shrugged. “It must have begun after my brother died. My father seems to have been singularly unimpressed with his grandson, so perhaps he wanted a second heir on hand in case young Carrisbrooke continues to be more interested in poetry than in continuing the family line.”