Just One Season in London

by Leigh Michaels

Miranda was horrified at herself. He had made a fool of her once before; had she learned nothing at all in the library at Carris Abbey? “I… bed your pardon.” Her voice cracked. “I mean… beg your pardon.”

  “Since you now wish to become my mistress, Miranda… I accept.” His fingertips brushed over her hair and then flicked against her cheek. “But I intend to have things absolutely clear between us. I want no misunderstanding of how—and why—we become lovers. You are not sacrificing yourself for the sake of your daughter. You are going to make love with me because you want me as much as I want you.”

  Miranda sat frozen as his thumb traced her lower lip, and she felt herself tremble against his touch. “I do not want—” But she couldn’t finish, for her words were caught between his mouth and hers. The tip of his tongue brushed the corner of her mouth—slowly, as though he were tasting a new dish.

  “Don’t you?” he whispered. “Isn’t this exactly why you came here today, because you want me to make love to you? You could have merely spoken to me about Carrisbrooke tonight at the Farlings’ musicale.”

  “How was I to know you would be there?”

  He smiled a little at what she had to admit had been a feeble protest. “Or at Almack’s tomorrow. Surely you don’t think I would miss that. But you didn’t wait; you came here today instead. Alone—without even your maid to chaperone you. What else could you have had in mind, but this?”

  Somehow—Miranda was uncertain just how it had happened—she was lying back on the sofa, and he was beside her, big and warm and strong, with one hand at her nape and the other cupping her jaw to turn her face up to his.

  “Ever since the first time you suggested we have an affair, I have regretted letting you go.” His voice was soft, but there was a rough edge underneath. “And since you have renewed the offer, I shall not insult you by refusing again.”

  “No,” she managed to say. “That’s not why…” She stopped, too confused to go on. Why hadn’t she waited until this evening, when she could have spoken to him without putting her reputation at risk? Why hadn’t she dispatched a note asking him to call on her?

  “Then why did you rush to accept a bargain I did not offer?” He nibbled gently at her lower lip, tasting, then traced the edge with the tip of his tongue.

  Was it possible that he was right?

  “Tell me you don’t want me, Miranda, and make me believe it, and I’ll let you go.” He kissed her throat, slowly working his way down to the tiny ruffle that edged the neckline of her gown.

  She tried to say the words, but they seemed to stick in her throat. She couldn’t deny it any longer. She hadn’t realized it, hadn’t admitted it, hadn’t planned it, but this had been her intention, or she would have found another way. A way that did not involve being alone with him, privately and intimately…

  Marcus seemed to read her mind. He ran a possessive hand over her body, pausing over her breast, cupping her hip for a moment, sliding the length of her leg to where the hem of her skirt had slipped higher than was proper, and lingering a couple of inches above her ankle, where her boot top ended.

  There was an instant when she could have stopped him. An instant when he paused, as if waiting for her to object.

  But she didn’t want to. Miranda felt herself quivering, but was it with shame or anticipation?

  The instant passed, and Marcus began to work his way back up—under her skirt this time. His fingertips were firm against the silk of her stocking, gentle against the bare skin above her garter and masterful as he found the slit in her drawers and cupped his palm over her mound.

  His eyes blazed with satisfaction and desire, and heat ran through her at the confirmation that he wanted her. He had not put her aside so easily after all that day at Carris Abbey when he had sent her away. And just as she had been thinking of him ever since, perhaps he had been thinking of her…

  He kissed her again, long and deep, his tongue delving into her mouth even as his fingertip sought another warm, moist place. She whimpered a little and opened her legs for him.

  “So lusciously wet,” he whispered against her lips. “So deliciously eager. Show me, Miranda, how much you want me.”

  He slipped his finger inside her and began to stroke softly, and she moaned and let her head fall back against the velvet cushions. She could feel her heart pounding, her muscles tensing in anticipation, her mouth going dry as he nudged her closer to the brink. All she could do was feel, but she was afraid to, for she had never felt this way before.

  She opened her eyes and realized he had pulled back as if to watch her. Miranda felt embarrassment sweep over her at the idea of the spectacle she was presenting—skirt hiked up, head thrown back, breath rasping…

  If only, she thought, he weren’t looking at her! If it had been dark, she wouldn’t have minded. Or at least—if she were being truthful—she wouldn’t have minded so much. Instead here she was. In the middle of the morning, with sunlight pouring in through the windows, she was spread out across a sofa like a trollop as she took her pleasure…

  She was taking, she realized belatedly, but she was not giving in return. Was that why Marcus had withdrawn ever so slightly—because she was doing something wrong? Exactly what was expected of a mistress, anyway? For surely it must be different from what was appropriate for a wife.

  Enthusiasm—yes, that much was obvious. And of course a mistress should show concern for her partner’s needs… Yes, that must be where she had fallen short. Too focused on her own unfamiliar sensations, she had forgotten his.

  She reached up to him, clutching his cravat and tugging. His pearl stickpin went flying as the neckcloth came loose, and she caressed his bare throat, then slid her hands down the front of his shirt to the waistband of his pantaloons, trying to release his buttons. But her fingers didn’t seem to work.

  “Stop,” he said gently. “This is for you this time.”

  She wasn’t certain she’d heard him correctly. “But that’s not… not fair. You can’t enjoy…”

  “We’ve only begun, Miranda. I will be satisfied, I assure you, before we’ve finished. For now, look at me. I want to watch you come apart in my arms.” His caresses grew firmer, more demanding.

  Miranda whimpered, and everything around her seemed to turn slightly blue. “I want…” Her voice was so ragged that she couldn’t finish. She reached for him instead, brushing her palm across his nape and tugging him down to her so she could bury her face in his shoulder—a rock to cling to as the storm broke deep inside her.

  ***

  Sophie paid particular attention to her toilette, just in case her mother was still in a mood to be critical. By the time she went downstairs, feeling as bright as the sunshine in a butter-yellow muslin morning gown, a good part of the day was already gone. The first thing she heard as she descended the stairs was Rye sneezing, so she looked around the newel post to wish a blessing for him.

  “The place has turned into a damned conservatory,” he said irritably.

  Sophie came face-to-face with a row of floral arrangements that stretched from the drawing-room doors at the front of the house to the round window that looked out over the garden at the back.

  “Oh my goodness,” she whispered. “Are all these for me? Maybe I am a Sensation.” There were big bouquets and tiny nosegays, roses of every shade, along with daisies and violets and bachelor buttons and flowers Sophie had never seen before. Not only was there a rainbow of colors, but the multitude of blooms gave off a clash of scents that threatened to make her head ache. And she’d only had to smell them for a couple of minutes; no wonder Rye was cranky.

  He sneezed again, his whole face disappearing into a large white handkerchief.

  Portia bustled out of the drawing room, holding a china pitcher full of golden-yellow roses, which she held out to Rye. “Take these while I shift the others to make room on that side table. Good morning, Sophie—I’m trying to make space in the drawing room for the callers who will no doubt begin arriving at any moment.�
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  He didn’t take the pitcher. “Now that she’s finally up, Sophie can help you,” Rye pointed out. “They’re her flowers. I’m going to my club.”

  Portia paid no attention to his protest but thrust the roses into his hands. The pitcher lurched, and water sloshed over the lip of the container as Rye hastily held it away from him to keep from drenching his neckcloth. A small card that had been tucked in between the stems fell out.

  Sophie picked up the card from the carpet at Rye’s feet and read it. “Or perhaps I’m not such a Sensation. This bouquet is for you, Portia.” She held out the card.

  Portia looked startled. “Surely not. That must be a mistake.”

  Rye’s eyes narrowed. “Let me see that card.”

  “If it’s mine,” Portia said, “then I am able to read it myself.”

  Rye held the pitcher out of her reach with one hand and tried to seize the card from Sophie’s grasp with the other. Sophie danced away, and the bouquet overbalanced and tipped out of his grasp. For what seemed endless seconds they all watched as the pitcher cartwheeled through the air; then it shattered on the marble floor, spraying bits of china and broken roses across the hall.

  “Now see what you’ve made me do, Sophie,” Rye said.

  “Me?” Sophie was incensed. “I’m not the one who was trying to snatch a card that’s not mine.” She bent to scoop up a handful of wounded roses before someone stepped on them.

  “Leave it, Sophie,” Portia said. “Here comes Jane now—she’ll get the rest.”

  As a housemaid hurried up to deal with the mess, the sound of the front door opening rose from the lower floor, followed by a peal of girlish giggles. The first callers had arrived.

  Portia cocked her head to one side. “That sounds like Miss Mickelthorpe. I think we can assume you made a favorable impression last night on her at least, my lord.”

  “Though you’d think,” Sophie said, “if she’s seriously interested in you, Rye, she’d know better than to come here today. She should be at home, hoping you’ll call on her, not seeking you out the morning after you met.”

  Rye looked gloomy.

  “Or else,” Portia suggested cheerfully, “perhaps she does know the etiquette, and this is her way of making it clear that she’s not interested in you.”

  “I’m not even supposed to be here. I’m going to my club—remember?”

  “Too late for that,” Sophie said. “Padgett’s bringing them up, and you can’t simply brush past Miss Mickelthorpe and leave. Unless Jane’s willing to smuggle you down the servants’ stair…” The little maid giggled from the floor, where she was gathering shards of the china pitcher.

  Sophie handed the card to Portia, who glanced at it and tucked it under a nearby vase. Sophie was impressed that her expression didn’t even change.

  “Swindon, eh?” said Rye, who’d been looking over Portia’s shoulder. “Well, well. It seems I’m not the only one who made an impression last night.”

  “I’m sure that’s an opening gambit to get Sophie’s attention,” Portia said with a shrug. “To whet her interest in him by making it seem he’s not interested in her.”

  “Did you send Miss Mickelthorpe flowers this morning, Rye?” Sophie asked brightly as she brushed a few stray droplets of water from her gown. “You should have done, you know.”

  “No. I’ll use Swindon’s strategy and send them to her chaperone instead. I’m sure that will get her attention.”

  Sophie advanced to the top of the stairs just as Padgett came into view. Directly behind him was Miss Mickelthorpe, who was wearing a confection in ruffled blue, topped by the most ridiculously overtrimmed hat Sophie had ever seen, full of ribbon roses and feathers and lace. She was flanked by Lady Flavia Summersby, and bringing up the rear was Lady Brindle.

  Sophie put on the widest smile she could summon. “I am so glad you’ve come to visit, ladies. What a lovely ball it was, Lady Flavia.”

  Lady Brindle stopped on the top stair and raised a quizzing glass. “Are you trying to start a new fashion, Miss Ryecroft? Carrying a sheaf of broken-stemmed roses that match your dress?”

  Sophie let the sarcasm pass. “Only a small domestic accident, I’m afraid. It’s entirely under control.” She handed the flowers she had rescued to Jane.

  Portia said, “Do come into the drawing room, ladies.”

  Lady Brindle swept down the hall and paused on the threshold of the drawing room. “But where is Lady Stone? And your mother, Miss Ryecroft? I was hoping to spend the morning with my good friend Miranda while you girls enjoyed chattering about last night. I was so caught up in dear Flavia’s ball last evening that I had no time even to greet Miranda. Of course, your party was very late in arriving, I noticed… Surely your mother hasn’t left you to receive guests alone this morning—without a chaperone?”

  Rye stepped forward. “Miss Langford is here.”

  “Oh. Yes. Miss Langford,” Lady Brindle said with a notable lack of enthusiasm.

  “Where is Mother, do you suppose?” Sophie whispered to Rye. “She rang a peal over me before breakfast”—too late, she realized it might not have been wise to share that information with her brother—“but I haven’t seen her since.”

  He stepped aside in the hallway for Lady Flavia and Miss Mickelthorpe to precede him, then followed Portia and Sophie into the drawing room, where Lady Brindle had already chosen the most comfortable chair. He waited for the rest of the ladies to choose seats, and then—deliberately, Sophie thought—went to stand near Lady Brindle.

  For an instant Miss Mickelthorpe looked annoyed. She had obviously, and carefully, chosen the long sofa and seated herself at one end in order to leave plenty of room for a gentleman. So much for the idea that she might not be interested in Rye after all.

  “I’m glad to see your injury has healed, Lady Brindle,” Rye said.

  Sophie winced, but there was nothing she could do.

  “My injury? Oh, you mean that Banbury tale your mother was telling about my ankle and why I needed her to come to Brindle Park. I never did find out why she was so determined to come, you know… No, I’m pleased to say my ankle is as sound as ever.”

  Rye looked daggers at Sophie, who tried to ignore him as she started talking nonsense with Miss Mickelthorpe.

  It’s not my fault, Sophie thought. She would have remembered to tell him the strange tale of the unsprained ankle, if it hadn’t been for things like Robert Wellingham coming to visit and Rye renting out the manor and Lady Stone inviting them to London… Did he expect her to remember everything?

  Lady Stone came bustling in just then and flung herself down next to Lady Brindle. “Late to my own visiting hours,” she crowed. “But of course you started without me. Do tell me the latest on-dits, Ann Eliza, before we’re overrun with other visitors. What are the gossips saying this morning? And better yet, is any of it true?”

  Eleven

  The most powerful climax of her life left Miranda trembling, almost whimpering, and clinging to Marcus. He held her close, nestled in the safety of his arms…

  What an odd way to put it, Miranda thought. As if there had been anything safe about the way she had spiraled out of control!

  He kissed her temple, her eyelids, her mouth, catching her sigh of satisfaction on his lips as the last tremors died away. “You hid your face and didn’t let me watch you after all,” he whispered. “Next time… Come to bed with me, Miranda.”

  Sanity returned. How could she possibly parade through the hall and up the stairs to Marcus’s bedroom as if she didn’t care who knew what they’d been doing here?

  It was bad enough that his manservant, trained not to intrude, must have a good suspicion of what was going on in this quiet, private room. But to go out into the public areas of the house and confirm it…

  Some people might not mind if the staff saw—or even if they gossiped. But Miranda did. And right now she felt so mussed that anyone who saw them would have to know what she had been doing.

  Y
et the tension within her was so strong that she suspected if she left him now, she would be in agony. And what kind of a mistress even considered leaving her lover with his desires unsatisfied?

  “You’ve lost your cravat.”

  “No, darling, it’s not lost. It’s right over there on the floor.” He kissed her, slowly, and withdrew his hand from under her skirt. She felt cold suddenly, and abandoned.

  He took her hand, but instead of leading her back to the hallway, he took her across to the door where he had entered and opened it with a flourish.

  The room beyond might have once been a music room or perhaps an extra parlor. Now it was, in all respects, a bedroom—complete with a huge and elaborately carved four-poster bed, neatly draped in deep blue velvet.

  So neatly draped, in fact, that it seemed never to have been used. How perfectly convenient, she thought, to have this snug little hideaway ready at a moment’s notice.

  “Who but a rake would have thought to put a bedroom on the same floor as the drawing room?” she said.

  “Someone who finds it a pointless waste of energy to run up and down extra flights of stairs every time I need to change clothes. Not to make it easier to entertain—though, at the moment, I am grateful for the inspiration. Miranda…” He drew her close.

  She couldn’t stop herself from melting into his body, where she seemed to fit perfectly. His chest rubbed hard against her breasts, and her nipples peaked in eager response. His hands slid down her back and came to rest on her hips, pulling her so tightly against his erection that she could feel his heat even through the fabric of her dress and chemise, and her response to it shocked her. She should have been sated; instead she felt an aching emptiness and an almost overwhelming urge to rip away the barriers that separated them. She tried to unfasten his shirt and settled for pulling it loose so she could at least slide her hands under the crisp linen and caress his skin.

  “Let me deal with your buttons,” he said gently, “or we’ll never get you put back together afterward.”

  How accomplished he was in the practical aspects of carrying on an affaire, she thought. Thinking ahead so clearly, not letting passion get the better of him, not for an instant forgetting that she would have to appear again in public without arousing suspicion…