Rye, too, put his back to the room so they would have some privacy. “What has broken at the manor this time?”
“There was a matter of a tree limb that came down in a strong wind, directly through the roof of the greenhouse. But it has been seen to, and the bill has been paid.”
“How? Carstairs can’t have had that sort of money put aside.”
“I believe not.” Wellingham didn’t sound interested.
“Well, if you paid the reckoning yourself, you’re to send me the bill.” Rye’s gaze was caught by a curricle pulling up in front of the house. A groom leaped from the back of the vehicle and ran to take the horses’ heads. A moment later the driver—tall, dark-haired, wearing a greatcoat cut in the latest fashion—jumped down and turned to lift a lady from the high seat. A lady who was wearing a close-fitting bonnet and a dark gray cloak.
A lady, Rye thought, who looks an awfully lot like…
No, he told himself. It can’t be.
Beside him, Sophie’s voice was high and strained. “Rye, is that Mama? I wonder where she’s been—and why is Mr. Winston bringing her home?”
***
Every bone in Miranda’s body seemed to have melted away in the wake of that incredibly powerful orgasm. Not only did she not want to move, she was incapable… and Marcus seemed equally reluctant. He shifted position only enough to snuggle her against his side, resting his chin against the top of her head. Her hair had come undone, of course; he lifted the end of a curl from where it sprang madly across the pillow, and used it to caress the tip of her nose.
“Miranda, you are incredible.” His voice was richer than before, even more like honey spread across warm toast, and it reached so deeply inside her that it made her want him all over again.
Even though she shouldn’t. She couldn’t.
Despite the lassitude that dragged at every muscle, her mind was finally starting to work again, and Miranda was horrified at herself. What had come over her? What had made her act like a wanton, fixated only on her pleasure—and his? What had caused her to think, for this fleeting hour, only of what she wanted and not of what was sensible or right?
Lust, she admitted. Just as a thick layer of cotton wool would deaden sound, the lust Marcus had fanned inside her had, for the first time in her life, quieted every whisper of common sense.
It wasn’t as though she didn’t know the rules, for Marcus had made them plain. All he was promising was an affair… and though she’d have been lying if she denied how wonderful it had felt to make love with him, she was clear-eyed enough to know there was no future in this.
She didn’t blame him, for she had let this happen. She had wanted it to happen. In a moment of weakness—well, all right, an hour of weakness—she had given in to the demands of her body and to the memories of a young man she had been fond of long ago.
He lifted a lazy hand and traced the line of her jaw. “My sweet,” he said. “My lover…”
While his touch was gentle, it was also possessive, and though desire began to build in her again, it warred this time with wariness. She knew if she didn’t make a move, she would once more lose herself in that rising hunger. And though half of her longed to make love with him again, the other half feared it would be all too easy to forget that this was temporary.
So she must end it herself, now. The fact that she had surrendered once didn’t mean it would happen again. It certainly didn’t mean she’d agreed to continue this… whatever this was. It was not technically an affair, surely, if it had only happened once…
His hand slipped to her breast, his thumb teasing lazily at her nipple. But when he roused himself to bend his head to taste the hollow between her breasts and then nibble his way up her throat, Miranda turned her head away. “I must go home. The girls will be receiving visitors this morning.”
“The girls? You have more than one?”
“I suppose I do, in a way. I like Miss Langford a great deal, and I admire her.” If things were only different, Portia would make a good wife for Rye—and then she’d be my daughter too.
Marcus kissed the hollow at the base of her throat and sat up, reaching for his clothes. “Very well. If you must reappear, then you must. I haven’t a lady’s maid at hand, so I’m afraid you’ll have to make do with me to help you back into your dress.”
He seemed not at all concerned or regretful that she was leaving. Miranda knew it was illogical to wish that he hadn’t been so agreeable. But part of her, she had to admit, had hoped he would try to persuade her to spend the rest of the day in bed with him.
Not that she would have agreed to do so, of course. But it would have been nice to be asked.
Perhaps you were just an amusing distraction for an hour, but now he has other obligations.
That must be at least part of the reason that men had mistresses—because they could be ignored when the timing was not convenient. A wife, on the other hand, could not always be put aside so easily.
But that was too dangerous a direction for her thoughts to be allowed to flow.
“I suppose your man can find me a hackney?” she said as she wriggled into her chemise.
“My man will order my curricle, and I shall drive you home.”
“Drive me…” She paused until she had pulled her dress over her head and could see him once more. “You can’t, Marcus!”
“On the contrary, my dear—my taking you home will confirm your story.”
“What story?”
“You stepped out this morning to shop before the press of visitors descended on you. But you were jostled—nearly pulled to bits—in the crowd. I happened to see you in Bond Street, just in time to prevent worse damage. But you were so shaken”—he turned her away from him and began to fasten buttons up the back of her dress—“and ruffled by the experience that I insisted I must see you safely home.”
“A truly convenient tale.”
“Have you a better way to explain why this bow at the back of your gown does not look as it did when your maid sent you out this morning? And as for your hair…” He looked her over thoughtfully and handed her a hairbrush. “You should have been shopping, by the way.”
“Instead of coming here?” She felt as if he had struck her.
His eyes lit up. “No, my dear. I meant in addition to coming here. This dress is an abomination. I am not referring to the style, for the cut flatters you. In fact, it makes your figure even more enticing than the lace you were wearing last night. But the color…”
“I don’t recall asking for your opinion.”
“Indeed you did not. But if you believe that dressing in drab colors will lessen my demands as your lover, think again. Seeing you wearing gray only makes me want to take your clothes off. When will you come to me again?”
Warmth swept over her—and then she remembered that she wasn’t cut out to be a mistress. “I won’t. This was a mistake, Marcus.”
He was buttoning his shirt, and she thought for a moment that he wasn’t going to answer at all. “How could something so wonderful be a mistake? Or are you going to tell me it wasn’t wonderful for you?”
She couldn’t, of course—not without being struck dead for lying. “Well, yes, it was.” She kept her voice cheerful. “I’m thinking much more clearly, now that I’m no longer confused and doubting myself. But it’s obvious to me that as enjoyable as this morning has been, it just isn’t what I want to continue.”
“You don’t wish to be my lover.” He retrieved a fresh neckcloth from a drawer and arranged it with swift, efficient motions, as if creating perfect folds was every bit as important as their conversation.
“Exactly. And you did tell me, you know, that you would not pursue Sophie and that you will stop Carrisbrooke from doing so—even though I don’t become your mistress.”
“Indeed I did.” He shrugged into his coat and reached for the bellpull. “But the question isn’t whether you become my mistress, it’s whether you remain so.”
She thought he might g
o sullen and silent and send her home in a hackney, despite his offer to drive her—for she had, after all, rejected him. But when the manservant appeared, Marcus ordered his curricle to be brought around. And on the drive, he chatted easily of ordinary things, like the musicale that evening—“I own I have no desire to hear young ladies warbling through their repertoire of songs.”
“Oh, it won’t be as bad as all that,” Miranda said bracingly. “No doubt some of them will play the harp instead.”
He groaned a little, and she was pleased.
The curricle swung round the corner and into Grosvenor Square, and Miranda gathered up her reticule and said, “Thank you. It was kind of you to bring me home.”
“I’m coming in. I need to speak to…” He paused as he feathered his horses neatly between two carriages that had stopped in the middle of the street.
Miranda’s heart went to her throat. Was he threatening her? Surely he would not tell Lady Stone about what she had done this morning. But if he did—if he were to let slip even a hint…
She could see her world—Rye’s future and Sophie’s—crumbling around her. Oh, why had she not realized that she had handed him a weapon—a perfect tool for blackmail?
“I must speak to my nephew,” Marcus went on, sounding abstracted. “That’s his curricle being walked up and down the street. One can’t miss it, with that ridiculous magenta-and-gold color scheme he insisted on.”
He pulled his pair to a stop in front of Lady Stone’s house and turned to look at Miranda, while his groom dismounted from the perch at the back. “Why, my dear—you’ve gone pale. I wonder… who did you think I meant to speak to? And what did you think I was planning to say?”
Twelve
Whatever Carrisbrooke was talking about—he was reciting a poem, if Portia’s ears hadn’t deceived her—it made Sophie laugh. And Sophie’s laugh—that delightful, effortless gurgle—in turn attracted attention from the entire room, which only served to make everyone notice that the young Lord Carrisbrooke and the beautiful Miss Ryecroft seemed to be on excellent terms. Even from halfway across the room, Portia could see speculation on the faces of several matrons. At least the crowd was greatly diminished now, as the fashionable hour for calls slipped away.
Still, with so many eyes focused on the pair in the center of the room, Portia knew that if she simply burst on the twosome and snatched Sophie away, the gossip would fly. She looked around for something—or someone—that might serve as a distraction.
Lord Swindon caught her eye, his gaze full of irony. “What a pretty child she is.”
“Indeed. And she’s as charming as she is beautiful.” Portia wished—not for the first time—that it was possible to speak her mind. Sophie was charming, but she was hardly the perfectly prim miss that Portia made her sound.
“So sweet, in fact, that she’s apt to give the sugar sickness to anyone who gets too close,” Swindon added.
Portia gave him a vague smile—one that said she was listening no more than was polite—and moved on toward Sophie. Why, she wondered, was it no fun at all to cross blades with Swindon? If Lord Ryecroft had said the same thing—about little Juliana Farling, for instance—Portia would have been struggling to keep from snorting with amusement.
“My dear,” she murmured into Sophie’s ear. “Your brother wishes to speak to you. Now.”
“Is Lord Ryecroft free?” Carrisbrooke said eagerly. “I wish to speak with him myself.” With a grand gesture, he offered his arm to Sophie. She flashed a look up at him and gave him her hand. Carrisbrooke tucked it into his elbow with care and strolled across the room with regal arrogance.
Portia sighed. Her effort to peel Sophie away from her suitor had only made things worse.
“Yet another duty for the put-upon companion,” Swindon murmured. “Minding the children and sending them to Papa for discipline. Are you paid extra for acting as a governess on top of your other responsibilities?”
Portia thought, There’s no pleasure in sharing a joke with him because Swindon says everything with a cruel twist. Rye would have made a simple observation of human nature, too true to be considered rude…
“I beg your pardon, Lord Swindon. My attention wandered for a moment. You were saying, I believe, that Miss Ryecroft has excellent manners?”
“I was saying that I prefer my companions to have more spirit.” His gaze lingered on her mouth.
Portia was relieved when Padgett appeared once more in the doorway. “Mr. Winston, my lady.”
With an air of leisure, Marcus Winston crossed the room to kiss Lady Stone’s hand. He murmured some-thing that made her laugh, and then turned as if he was magnetically drawn toward the small group by the window.
Carrisbrooke drew himself up to his full height as he faced his uncle. Unfortunately for him, he was still a couple of inches shorter than Mr. Winston and not nearly so impressive. “I should have known you would pursue me here,” he announced dramatically.
Marcus Winston laughed. “Pursue you? My dear boy, if you were trying to elude me, you should not have left that arrestingly painted vehicle of yours in the street outside. Not that it was difficult to predict your movements this morning. Lord Ryecroft, may I have a word with you?”
“If you want to talk to him about me,” Carrisbrooke began, belligerence in his tone.
Sophie stepped closer. “Where is Mama, Mr. Winston, and why did you bring her home?”
At least the girl had the good sense to keep her voice down. But why she was asking such a question when Lady Ryecroft was right there near the door…
She blinked. And just when did she come in?
“This house is far more interesting than a circus,” Swindon reflected. “In fact, it appears that at any moment we might have a bout of fisticuffs, for Miss Ryecroft is looking militant. It seems perhaps she is not so sweet after all, but is far more interesting than I thought.”
“Leave her alone,” Portia snapped. She saw the gleam of interest in Swindon’s eyes and wished she had bitten off her tongue. She turned away from him and went to join the group at the window. “Sophie, my dear, come with me a moment to bid good-bye to Lady…” She mumbled something that she hoped resembled a name.
Sophie tore her gaze away from Marcus Winston. “Who, Portia? I don’t see anyone leaving just now.”
“Well, they won’t ever leave if you carry on in this manner.” Portia kept her voice low. “Your mother’s right there by the door, but don’t ask me how long she’s been here, because I don’t know.”
“Not long,” Marcus Winston said easily. “She merely stepped upstairs to take off her bonnet.”
Sophie shot him a fuming look and went straight to Lady Ryecroft. Portia glanced around the room, hoping to see no other fires that needed to be extinguished before they could flare up into disaster. Robert Wellingham had moved away from the group at the window and was watching her thoughtfully from near the fireplace. “Being a companion seems an exhausting business, Miss Langford.”
“Some days are worse than others.”
“Miss Ryecroft appears to be a handful.” His eyes twinkled as if he was challenging her to disagree. “And her brother is too, I should think.”
Portia sighed. “Rye’s all right. And Sophie’s a dear, really.”
The twinkle grew into a gleam. “You’re very informal.”
“Well, I am chaperoning her, so using her Christian name is…” But that, Portia realized, was not what Wellingham had referred to. When, she asked herself, had she started thinking of Lord Ryecroft as Rye?
It’s only because Sophie calls him that, and his mother. I hear it all the time.
“I understand that he must, of course, marry an heiress,” Wellingham went on.
“If you’re trying to tempt me into gossiping, Mr. Wellingham…”
“Oddly enough, Miss Langford, I was not. I must go and say my farewells to my hostess now or risk being thought to be a hanger-on.”
Portia realized that the drawing room was n
ow almost empty. Carrisbrooke and Marcus Winston were still standing with Rye by the window, Sophie and her mother were near the door, and Lady Stone was beckoning to Wellingham. Everyone else had gone.
Portia congratulated herself for surviving the morning and strolled toward Sophie and Lady Ryecroft, stopping to plump a pillow that Lady Brindle had sat on and squashed.
“Robert,” Lady Stone demanded, “what brings you up to town again? I thought we had you comfortably settled at the manor for the duration.”
“Business, of course. But I also thought it might be amusing to see the Season unfold.”
Rye glanced around the room. “Lady Stone, may I trouble you for the use of your library for a few minutes to hold a private conversation?”
Portia felt Lady Ryecroft, standing next to her, go as rigid as a lamppost.
“And I was right,” Wellingham said under his breath. “It’s amusing indeed.”
Lady Stone waved a careless hand, causing the diamonds that lined her fingers to sparkle. “Of course, dear boy. No need to ask; use anything in the damned house anytime you care to.”
As the three gentlemen crossed the room on their leisurely way toward the library downstairs, Carrisbrooke paused to bow gracefully to Sophie, kiss her hand, and tell her that he would call on her again on the morrow.
Lady Ryecroft glared at Mr. Winston, who seemed unmoved.
Rye said, “Mama, Mr. Wellingham was looking for you earlier.”
“Was he?” Lady Ryecroft said without taking her gaze off Mr. Winston.
“I believe he has messages to deliver from the manor—from Carstairs.”
Finally Lady Ryecroft seemed able to focus on her son; then she looked past him to the banker with her most charming smile. “It is so nice to see you again, Mr. Wellingham. How delightfully thoughtful of you to bring messages, but I hope you did not have to make a special trip to do so?”
Good God, Portia thought. She’s flirting with him. She wondered what Rye would have to say to that, but apparently he was already out of earshot.
Just One Season in London Page 16
