Portia thought about ignoring him, but something told her they were going to have this conversation sooner or later, and perhaps it would be better to keep it private. “If you don’t need me right now, ma’am,” she called after Lady Stone, “I believe I’ll go and choose a book to take up to bed with me.”
“Of course I don’t want to chat about this evening; I only want to forget it,” Lady Stone said without looking back. “A book? My dear, the music wasn’t boring enough to put you to sleep?”
Portia, glad that Lady Stone obviously didn’t expect an answer, didn’t look at Rye as she picked up a candlestick from the hall table and crossed to the library. “I’ll only be a minute, Padgett.”
Rye had obviously had to wait for Padgett to go away before following her, for by the time he came in a couple of minutes later, Portia was wishing she’d kept her cloak on. Her thin gown had been perfect for the Farlings’ overheated drawing room, but in the dark, chilly library, it was hopelessly inadequate.
When the door opened, she ran a finger along the leather spines, pretending to browse the shelves, until she was certain there were no servants in view.
“You’re freezing,” Rye said. “We need a fire.”
“How perfectly noble of you. But it would be half an hour before the chill went off this room, so don’t bother to summon a footman. Let’s just make this quick, shall we?”
“I wasn’t going to call for a servant. I can build a fire myself, you know.”
“Well, don’t let any of the heiresses see you do it, or she’ll think you’re hopelessly lower-class. At any rate, you seemed to want to speak to me.” She set her candle down on the desk and held her hands over the feeble warmth it offered. “What kind of a gudgeon are you, my lord—to let yourself be drawn into a room alone with Amalie Mickelthorpe?” She couldn’t keep herself from shivering—from the chill, she told herself firmly, not from the vision of what would have happened tonight had Miss Mickelthorpe succeeded and someone like Lady Brindle had happened to find them.
It was none of her affair, after all.
Rye stripped off his coat and draped it around her shoulders. If Lady Flavia had seen him do that—especially without waiting for his valet to assist—she’d no doubt have swooned at the shock.
But he still hadn’t answered, and Portia frowned, trying to puzzle out why he hadn’t just come straight out with the thanks he so clearly owed her. “Unless it was your scheme and not Miss Mickelthorpe’s. And if that is the case, then you truly are a fool. So if you expect me to apologize for interfering…”
He smoothed the wool across her shoulders, wrapping the coat more tightly around her. The silk lining snuggled closely against her bare arms, and the wool collar was warm along the arch of her throat. But the transferred heat from his body did not make Portia more comfortable; the warm wool seemed only to drive the shivers more deeply into her body, until every bit of her was quaking.
“It was my intention to express my appreciation for your timely intervention.”
Portia felt the knots of tension inside her loosen. “I accept your gratitude.” She should have stopped there, she knew, but the shivers seemed to have driven out common sense. “Of course, you must be more careful in future. The next time I may not be available to come to your rescue.”
“Rescue? You do want a lot of credit, don’t you?”
She should have done the ladylike thing and demurred. Instead she told the truth. “As it happens, I saved your reputation tonight, my lord.”
“Yes, you did.”
“There. Was that so hard to admit?”
“And very flattering it is to know that you were paying such close attention to my actions this evening that you knew with precision exactly where to find me and exactly when to strike for the maximum effect.”
Portia found herself stammering. “I didn’t! Watch you, I mean—or notice!”
“Are you certain of that, Miss Langford? Never mind; we’ll leave it there for now.”
“Well then. If that is all…” Reluctantly, she took his coat from around her shoulders and handed it back. The air in the library seemed even colder now. He was watching her so closely he could probably count the goose bumps rising on her skin.
The sensation frightened her, and his silence even more so.
Without taking his gaze off her, he shrugged back into his coat.
“Lady Stone would no doubt say that your tailor should be rebuked for making your coat too loose-fitting,” she said.
“Because, unlike the dandy set, I don’t require a valet to pry me into it? I’m inclined to believe that Lady Stone would more likely think fondly back to her salad days.”
Portia frowned. “What do you mean?”
“Simply that there are advantages to being able to get in and out of one’s clothes without waiting for a servant to help, and I’d bet a pony Lady Stone knows that firsthand.”
She could feel herself turning pink. Lady Stone’s affairs of the heart were a subject Portia preferred not to dwell on.
“Run along now,” he said softly, “before you freeze. I’ll wait before I come out.”
So the servants wouldn’t see them together, of course. “I’m glad to see that you’re wiser now than you were at the start of the evening.” She smiled at him in approval, but it wasn’t easy to do.
“Though in this case it’s hardly necessary, since—unlike Miss Mickelthorpe—you have no designs on me.”
Portia was already on her way to the door. “Of course I do not.”
“Then there’s no reason for me not to do… this.”
She turned back in surprise. Rye was standing closer to her than she’d realized, and before she could react, he reached out and cupped his palm under her chin, then tipped her face up to his.
In the shadowed dimness of the library, his eyes were dark and intense. She could feel his warm breath on her face, and his fingertips seemed to burn her cheek. He had taken off his gloves. She did not recall ever before being touched in such a way, by a man’s naked hand…
She didn’t move. She couldn’t move. But she wasn’t cold anymore.
His mouth brushed hers so softly that, for a moment, she would have thought she’d imagined it—if it hadn’t been that she could taste him.
They stood there for a timeless moment… and then Rye dropped his hand and stepped back. “My apologies, Miss Langford.”
He just remembered the heiresses. “I should think so, my lord.”
“I only wanted… to thank you.” His voice had a rough edge.
Portia gave a curt little nod and rushed out of the room.
In the entrance hall, Padgett was greeting Lady Ryecroft and Sophie, who had just been delivered to the door by Marcus Winston’s carriage. Portia hoped that Rye could hear the commotion through the library door, so he would stay there a moment longer and not walk straight into his mother while Portia’s kiss was still warm on his lips.
Not that she had kissed him; he’d kissed her.
Or perhaps, she thought, it hadn’t counted as a kiss. After all, there had barely been any contact.
Yes, that was it, she told herself hopefully. It had been more like a nudge, really; it hadn’t truly been a kiss. Though she suspected she would remember the taste of him forever.
***
Rye waited impatiently at the base of the stairway, shifting from one foot to the other and rhythmically slapping his riding gloves against his palm. If Sophie was so keen on riding at the crack of dawn, she could at least have the decency to be dressed on time. But then their mother was late as well, and that wasn’t like her.
At the sound of boot heels on the stairs, he looked up to see Portia coming down. She was wearing a riding habit the color of dull copper.
This morning she was obviously the same rigid maiden who had been insulted by his kiss. Last night, for just a moment, she had been soft and yielding and willing in his arms. And then, in his dreams, she had come to his bed and made love with him so
sweetly that he had tried to stretch the illusion out to last for hours…
But he must not think about that.
“You?” he said, too startled to consider how it would sound.
“It wasn’t my idea to join this party. Your mother has a headache, so she asked me to take her place.”
Rye grunted. “All these late nights must be taking a toll on her. I’m not surprised, at her age.”
Portia raised an eyebrow. “I doubt that’s the problem, since Lady Stone keeps up the pace. Lady Ryecroft didn’t tell me you were riding, but since a brother is a perfectly adequate chaperone under these circumstances, there is no need to for me to go.”
Sophie called from the landing, “Oh, do come, Portia. You’ve been stuck in the house for days, arranging the details for our ball.”
“Many of which remain to be settled,” Portia pointed out.
“What you need right now is fresh air. The ball is still a week off. You can put Rye to work on it when we get back from our ride.”
Portia’s gaze was full of irony. “I think I’d do better to take care of things myself.”
“And me too, of course, but I’ve already offered to help,” Sophie went on. “Oh fie—I forgot my riding crop.” She started up the stairs once more.
Portia paused on the bottom step. “Regardless of Sophie’s opinion, it is not necessary that I come along.”
“And if my mother thought I alone would be an adequate guardian, then she wouldn’t have asked you to take her place.”
Portia looked at him steadily for a long moment. “I can well believe that,” she said at last.
“In any case, I was merely startled to see you, not displeased. Unless you are afraid of riding?” He intended it to sound like a challenge and was pleased when Portia’s eyes blazed and her hand tightened on her crop as if she’d like to take a swing at him.
As they picked their way through the morning traffic toward Hyde Park, she made it a point to stay on the opposite side of Sophie, who kept up a steady stream of chatter. Rye held his big bay at a comfortable gait; because the women were so preoccupied, he was the first to spot Marcus Winston and the Earl of Carrisbrooke, trotting easily toward them down Rotten Row.
The moment they met, Carrisbrooke edged Sophie’s horse away from the others. Rye and Portia exchanged a glance, and Portia nudged her horse with her heel and followed them.
Winston turned his gelding and came up beside Rye. “Lady Ryecroft does not ride this morning?”
“I am told she has a headache. From the music last night, no doubt.”
“Is that what it was called?”
Rye laughed as he looked toward the trio of riders just ahead of them. He had no doubts about Sophie’s skill in the saddle, but he watched Portia for a minute, until he was certain she was nearly as much at ease on the back of a horse as his sister was. “I don’t know why my mother thought Sophie needed two chaperones today. On horseback, she’s perfectly able to take care of herself.”
Marcus Winston smiled. “Who knows what goes through a mother’s head?”
“Not much of a conversationalist, your nephew,” Rye observed, “but he’s a good horseman—cutting Sophie out of the pack like that. Of course, she allowed it, or he’d never have managed.”
“Riding was one of the few skills my brother imparted to his son.”
“Not much impressed with him, are you?”
“My nephew? Oh, he’ll do well enough—when he’s had a chance to grow up. Miss Langford rides well.”
Rye jumped as he realized his gaze had drifted back to Portia once more. Her copper-colored habit was a colorful splash against the greenery of Hyde Park…
“You don’t mind if I ride ahead with her?” Winston asked casually. “Only to keep a better eye on our cubs, of course.”
And Rye could say nothing to object—no matter how much he would have liked to.
***
It seemed to Miranda that Almack’s remained exactly as it had when she made her own debut there. As they came into the assembly rooms, she could almost feel time folding in around her.
Only the fashions had changed, she thought wryly. In her day, the ladies had still been wearing frilled tuckers, and nearly every skirt had sported a train…
Within moments they were surrounded, and Sophie was filling out her dance card. Rye went off to arrange his partners for the evening; Lady Stone claimed Portia’s assistance in getting settled in the most comfortable chair the assembly rooms boasted, and Miranda was once more left to her memories.
But she did not indulge herself for long, for she could feel Marcus approaching even before she saw him. She braced herself for his smile, for his touch.
“I missed you this morning,” he said with a conventional bow. But rather than merely brushing the back of her hand with his lips, as politeness dictated, and then releasing her, he stroked her palm with his fingertips. “You would have enjoyed the ride, I think, for it ended up being a lively group. Lady Flavia and Lord Randall joined us… and Robert Wellingham.”
There was the faintest flicker in his voice. It wasn’t amusement, surely, Miranda thought. Was it challenge, perhaps? Satisfaction that she had missed an opportunity to cement her standing with the banker? Regret that he hadn’t been able to watch her try?
She shrugged. “I thought it less likely to cause comment if Sophie went out with her brother and her friend instead of making a foursome of it.”
Marcus didn’t comment.
Sophie came up to them. “Mama, I have to take my place now for the first set. But if Lord Carrisbrooke comes to talk to you, tell him I kept my promise from this morning and saved the first waltz for him.”
She was off before Miranda could answer.
“I hope you were not going to protest,” Marcus said.
“No. You’re right about opposition only making her more determined. And she does seem to be set on having him; even Rye was taken aback by how firmly she says it.”
“That might work to our advantage. Even young men who are head over heels in love prefer being the pursuer, not the prey.”
“Well, I could almost wish the tiresome boy would come down with… not measles, I suppose; I don’t wish him anything that’s dangerous. But can you not find an excuse to take him home to Sussex?”
“I could. But I will not.”
“Because that would only increase the attraction between them; I know.”
“No. Because taking him down to Carris Abbey means I would have to leave you behind, Miranda, and I would regret not being able to see you every day.”
There was a sensual note to his voice that told her he wasn’t thinking of formal visits, but of a much more intimate sort of contact—and the reminder of the morning they’d spent in his bed created a rush of warmth and wetness between her legs.
“I’ve told you I have no intention of repeating that.”
Marcus gave her a long and lazy smile that was as intimate as a caress—and she realized that she’d given herself away. She should have made the conventional reply, as she would have done to any other gentleman, merely expressing regret at missing a formal call.
“I did not think you a coward, Miranda—until this morning. But refusing to ride? What other explanation can I believe, except that you are too afraid of your feelings to trust yourself around me?”
“Arrogance is hardly your most attractive attribute, sir.” But part of her whispered, He’s only telling the truth.
“My dear, I assure you that no man can seduce a lady while she’s on horseback—though it’s flattering of you to think I might be the exception to that law.”
Miranda would have said it was impossible to seduce a woman while standing at the edge of the dance floor at Almack’s under the watchful gaze of all the patronesses, but he seemed to be doing just fine with that. The air sizzled between them, even though he’d finally let go of her hand and was standing at a distance that was perfectly polite.
“Leave Carrisbrooke t
o me,” he suggested.
“I don’t see you doing much about it!”
“On the contrary. My nephew and I had a lengthy conversation about beauty this morning on our way to Hyde Park.”
“And he quoted Byron to tell you that it walks like the night, I suppose?” Miranda knew she sounded waspish, but she no longer cared.
“No, my dear. I imparted the wisdom of my many years of experience and pointed out that a Beauty is always arrogant, spoiled, self-satisfied, and notoriously difficult to manage. And since good looks never last as long as arrogance and self-satisfaction do, it is far more sensible to choose a woman who will show gratitude for the honor of a man’s name, not make his life miserable with her whims.”
“Do you believe that’s true?”
Marcus looked down at her, his eyes gleaming. “Of course not. You, my dear, are remarkably beautiful and will no doubt remain so—without being arrogant, spoiled, or self-satisfied.” He added thoughtfully, “Though you are perhaps just a trifle difficult to manage. As for your whims, it would be my pleasure to—”
“I wasn’t talking about me. I meant, do you think Sophie is spoiled and… all those things?”
“No.” The tinge of humor had faded from his voice. “I think you’ve done a marvelous job. But Carrisbrooke already believes that he ought to listen to me—”
“Because of the incredible breadth of your experience with women, I suppose?”
“Of course,” Marcus said easily. “And every time Miss Ryecroft shows impatience with him, he’s going to have even more faith that I am a fountain of wisdom.”
“You’re remarkably certain she’ll do so. But if she truly is determined to snare him…”
“You would have enjoyed the ride this morning, Miranda, particularly the moment when your daughter cut Carrisbrooke off midline in his peroration about love—I think it was Shelley he was quoting—so she could listen to Wellingham talk about banking.”
“I would have liked to see that,” Miranda admitted.
“Then we must set up another opportunity. Not tomorrow, perhaps—there is a risk of having too much of a good thing. But we could ride the day after that.”
The first country dance ended, and just as Sophie’s partner brought her back to Miranda, Carrisbrooke turned up as well. He greeted Miranda politely, spoke respectfully to his uncle, and bowed to Sophie. “This is my dance, I believe,” he said, and she laid a hand on his arm.
Just One Season in London Page 20
