Just One Season in London

by Leigh Michaels

  For a moment she thought he wasn’t going to answer. Then he said quietly, “It’s the idea that Sophie needs more clothes.”

  “Oh. Because that means more money to be laid out.”

  He nodded. “The quarter’s rent that Wellingham paid for the manor—it’s almost gone.” He ran a finger around his collar. “It seemed like such a lot, at first. But then the bills starting coming in.”

  She stepped a little closer to him, laid a hand on his lapel, and looked up, intending to make some comforting comment about things turning out all right in the end. But the words felt so inane that she couldn’t force them out. How could it be all right, when Sophie’s best chance of a rich marriage was an infatuated boy who wasn’t yet out of his teens? When Rye’s best chance of a rich marriage was Amalie Mickelthorpe?

  His hands came to rest on her shoulders, and suddenly his mouth brushed hers, soft and pleading. Portia was too startled to resist. He drew her closer, his body hard and urgent against hers. But his lips were still gentle—asking rather than commanding—as he tugged at her lower lip and nipped the corners of her mouth. She felt tiny and precious in his arms, nurtured and cared for and safe… and she melted into him, her hand curving around his neck, her fingertips tangling in the springy curls at his nape.

  His tongue explored her mouth. “You taste like coffee,” he murmured against her lips.

  The rumble of his voice vibrated through her, caressing her breasts and sending a streak of heat through her belly.

  “Oh God, Portia…”

  As if her name had jolted him, he jerked away, breaking the kiss but continuing to hold her tightly against him. He expelled a long breath, reached up to peel her hand away from the back of his neck, and eased her away from him.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “For a moment I forgot myself.”

  Embarrassment swept over her—then Portia told herself she’d simply been taken off guard by the situation. It wasn’t that she’d wanted him to kiss her. All right, that was a lie. But it was perfectly clear he’d been overcome by a whim and he hadn’t meant anything by it.

  They had been living under the same roof, in this forced proximity, for so long now that their defenses had gone down—that was all. Portia had tried to tell Lady Stone at the beginning that this was a dangerous plan… She just hadn’t realized exactly where the danger lay, and that was why she’d been taken aback.

  Feeling dreary, she said, “What will you do?”

  “Make an offer at the ball tomorrow.”

  The tone of his voice—firm, determined—made Portia feel cold. “An offer for whom? Or does it matter? Perhaps you can just flip a coin as the ball starts, or wait to see which of the ladies on your list greets you with the biggest smile, before you decide.”

  To Portia’s surprise, he seemed to take her question seriously. “Juliana Farling, most likely.”

  “Amalie Mickelthorpe has a larger dowry.” She wasn’t sure what had made her say it. “As long as you’re going to marry for money, you should make the effort worthwhile.”

  “I don’t think I could bear to hear that voice of hers day after day.”

  And night after night as well, Portia thought.

  “At least Miss Farling is…” He paused, as if he didn’t know how to go on.

  And perhaps he didn’t, Portia realized. What more was there to say? Juliana Farling was a cipher, a nothing. She seemed to have no opinions of her own, no convictions, no beliefs. She wasn’t even a woman, really—at least, obviously not to Lord Ryecroft. She would be a body to occupy his bed and give him an heir…

  And that was exactly what he had come to London to find. So why should Portia be surprised now—or disappointed by his decision?

  ***

  Until the moment she let the knocker fall on the front door of Marcus’s house in Bloomsbury, Miranda had kept telling herself that she wouldn’t go through with her plan. Even when she’d strolled two blocks away from Grosvenor Square before climbing into a hackney… Even when she’d told the jarvey to take her to Bloomsbury… Even when she paid the fare and climbed out… Even when she’d stood on the step with her hand raised…

  She could have still backed out. But she didn’t.

  She had seen Marcus half a dozen times in the past week, and every time she’d laid eyes on him, her longing had grown stronger. Every time they met, he had suggested an assignation—and he had told her in detail where he would like to take her and what he planned to do there. She now knew that there was a private room at the booksellers and a hidden alcove under the stairs at Lady Sprague’s house and a handy corner off a concert hall near Piccadilly Circus.

  She even knew that the music room in Lady Stone’s house was a favorite with the rakes. Marcus had told her about that one morning when he’d sat in on Carrisbrooke’s dancing lessons.

  Not that Miranda had gone with him to all the places he described. At least, physically she had not. But in her dreams…

  And twice she had given in to temptation. In a thickly curtained window embrasure in St. James Square, he had kissed her so thoroughly that she was astounded afterward when no one seemed to notice. And after the dinner party they’d attended last night, he’d served up the most memorable dessert of her life by intercepting her in their host’s conservatory and taking her behind a dense screen of palm trees, where he’d knelt and used his tongue to bring her to climax.

  Then he had taken her back to the party. She’d still been quaking from the aftershocks, but he had asked nothing for himself.

  Not that he hadn’t wanted more. That had been abundantly clear from his body’s responses and the way he had kissed her afterward. Miranda had not been able to sleep because of the guilt she’d felt about being satiated by that incredibly powerful climax, while knowing that he must be frustrated beyond bearing.

  She told herself it had been his choice to visit the conservatory and his fault if he was disappointed, for she hadn’t encouraged him. Except she knew in her heart she hadn’t exactly discouraged him either. That was why, after her largely sleepless night, she had come to Bloomsbury. She would restore the balance by satisfying him as he had satisfied her last night. Then she could truly declare an end—and this time she would mean it.

  The manservant answered the door. Without a word, he stepped back to invite her inside. As he was showing her to the same small reception room where she had waited last time, a door opened farther down the hall, and Marcus looked out. “Evans, have you seen…?”

  Miranda stepped out from behind the manservant and stood, silent and still, in the center of the hall.

  Marcus blinked as if he didn’t believe what he saw. He gestured the servant away, and Miranda started toward him.

  The hallway seemed very long, and the closer she got to him, the more urgency she felt. But she kept her steps short, because she noticed the way his eyes had widened as he watched her walk toward him with her hips swaying and her head high.

  She reached him and glanced over his shoulder into a small, cozy library set up as a businesslike office. There was a big desk at the center of the room and two large chairs in front of the fire.

  “This will do,” she said primly and saw disappointment in his eyes. No doubt he’d hoped she would suggest they go straight to his bedroom. Now he probably thought she’d come for a talk… perhaps to beg him to stop seducing her with every word he spoke to her, every brush of his hand.

  “What brings you here this morning, Miranda?”

  She waited until he had closed the door, and then she began to unbutton her gloves. “It seems unfair that recently you have only been able to watch my pleasure, not feel your own.”

  “I assure you, I enjoy our encounters, Miranda.”

  “But surely not as much as you would under other circumstances.” She laid her gloves aside and ran her fingers down his chest, over the embroidered waistcoat to the front of his pantaloons, where his erection jutted, and she smiled as she loosened the fastenings and took him between h
er hands.

  He drew in a short, sharp breath.

  “I don’t know why I didn’t think of this last night in the conservatory.” She knelt, brushing her lips against the velvety tip of his penis. “I suppose because I’ve never done it before.” Her touch was tentative, exploratory. He tasted salty. In a way, she thought, he reminded her of caviar.

  He groaned, and his breathing grew uneven.

  She pulled back. “Am I hurting you?”

  “Yes,” he said roughly, and she hesitated. But she didn’t believe him, so she gave a tentative lick to the soft skin.

  He flung out one arm and, with a single sweep, cleared the desktop of papers, inkwell, and candlestick—fortunately not lit at the moment. Then he lifted her and set her on the edge of the desk. “I’ll happily allow you to experiment some other time.” His voice was harsh. “But after a full week of teasing, I want—I need—to be inside you. Right now.” He fumbled with her skirt—the first time, Miranda noted almost calmly, that he’d been anything but suave and controlled. Then he parted her legs, and with a single long, hard thrust, he buried himself deeply inside her.

  She should have felt violated. He had not been gentle, and he had not taken time to make certain she was ready for him.

  Then she saw the relief on his face as he realized that she was wet and slick and welcoming. Tenderness swept over her, and she threw her head back and gave herself up to the pleasure of his possession.

  “Tell me this is what you want,” he whispered, and Miranda had to admit that she had lied to herself. She had thought she could come here and coolly minister to him as he had to her… but the truth was that she needed more. She wanted him above her and inside her. She wanted to feel once more the heat and power of his lovemaking. She needed to be swept away by what they were doing together, not only because of what he did to her.

  Her last coherent thought fled in the sensations he aroused as he began to move inside her.

  She clung to him as he rocked with her, faster and faster, and she whispered his name as she toppled over the edge. An instant later he drove even deeper into her and groaned in release.

  In the aftermath, he leaned over the desk, bracing himself with one hand, his other arm still cradling her, his face buried in the curve of her neck. The harsh gasps of his breath seemed to scour her skin.

  “You’re not as shy as you used to be, Miranda.” He still sounded breathless as he slowly—almost reluctantly—withdrew from her.

  She felt shy right now—sitting there like a hussy, her skirt creased around her waist, her body still aflame, too embarrassed by the power of her response and the wantonness of her conduct to answer.

  “I wish I had time to take you upstairs and finish this properly.”

  She wondered why he couldn’t, and then told herself crisply that it was none of her business. In any case, she couldn’t afford to disappear from Grosvenor Square for hours again, raising questions about where she had been.

  She slid off the desk and shook out her skirts. “That’s all right,” she said as calmly as she could. “Though that wasn’t what I intended to happen today, I believe you found the encounter satisfactory.”

  “Satisfactory?” His eyes narrowed. “What are you up to, Miranda?”

  “Just what I said. Things between us have seemed… unfair… in the last few days. I’ve been weak, and I have allowed you to believe that we could go on indefinitely. Now we’re even.”

  His jaw tightened.

  Miranda was not frightened, for she could never truly be afraid of him. But she had to admit she was the least bit uneasy about what he might do next.

  “Shall I see you tonight at Lady Emerson’s soiree? Not that it matters, really,” she added lightly. “I don’t want you to think I’m feeling possessive, for I’m not. I was just making conversation.”

  “Ever a lady,” he growled. “The hell with my appointment. We’re going to sort this out right now.”

  “Your clothing is still undone,” Miranda pointed out. While he was pulling himself together, she picked up her gloves and walked out.

  The manservant was at the front door. He looked startled to see her, and he responded only with a nervous nod when she thanked him for opening the door for her. With her head high, she went out into the morning sunlight to look for a hackney.

  She should have asked the manservant to find her one, she supposed. But she couldn’t have waited inside Marcus’s house, even for a few minutes. She didn’t know what kind of sorting out he had in mind, but she suspected she wouldn’t have liked it. Far better to leave under her own terms and her own power.

  She would walk toward Mayfair, she decided. The exercise would be good for her, and sooner or later she would see a hackney she could hail.

  She barely noticed a curricle moving slowly down the street, until the driver pulled his horses to a halt and leaped down from the high seat, leaving his groom to hold the team as he came toward her.

  Of all the bad luck, she thought, it would have to be Robert Wellingham passing at the moment she left Marcus’s house. But perhaps he hadn’t seen which direction she had come from. “My goodness,” she said with false cheerfulness. “What a coincidence it is to run into you here.”

  “I have a house just a few streets away. Lady Ryecroft, why do I find you here alone? Has your carriage been detained?”

  It must have been. The socially acceptable lie trembled on her lips, but she told the truth instead. “No.”

  He looked closely at her, and she saw compassion in his eyes. “May I be of assistance? Perhaps I might escort you home?”

  He really was kind—so much different than she had thought on that first day when he had appeared in her drawing room at Ryecroft Manor. “If it is not too much trouble. But I do not wish to take advantage.”

  “My business will wait.”

  He helped her up into the curricle. In the moment before the groom let the horses go, Wellingham touched the handle of his whip to the brim of his hat in a salute. Miranda glanced back at the house and saw Marcus standing on the top step.

  Glowering.

  Knowing that Marcus would see—and well aware that she was toying with danger—she turned to Wellingham with a bright smile. “What a happy chance it is that we have this opportunity to get acquainted.”

  The corner of his mouth turned up. “Do you know, Lady Ryecroft, I was thinking exactly that myself.”

  Sixteen

  Each party she had attended in their short weeks in town had been special, and Sophie had enjoyed them all. But this was to be her very own ball—or at least, hers and Rye’s—and though only a country miss would admit to being excited, even the most jaded of debutantes must confess that it was pleasant indeed to be the center of attention.

  So it was puzzling for Sophie that she didn’t feel particularly exhilarated as the evening approached. Even after she was dressed in her white lace ball gown, with her mother’s pearls at her throat and a charming ostrich-feather fan—a gift from Rye—in her hand, she didn’t feel as if it was real.

  She wandered down to the ballroom. It smelled of beeswax and lemon oil, of candles and roses. The windows and mirrors gleamed, and the floor was smooth and inviting. The days were growing longer now, and sunset still spilled through the windows at the back of the ballroom when Portia came looking for her.

  “I’m glad to see you’re already dressed, Sophie. You don’t want to be late to your own ball.”

  Portia herself looked lovely in burgundy silk, with a narrow black flounce at the hem and a neckline that was cut low and wide to show off her lovely shoulders. Her only ornament was a small cameo on a black ribbon at her throat.

  “Lady Stone would like you to come to her room,” Portia went on. “And your mother wants you for a moment as well.”

  “What have I done now?”

  Portia smiled. “I think Lady Ryecroft only means to talk to you about who will lead you out to start the ball. It should be Rye, of course, since he’s yo
ur guardian, but the two guests of honor can hardly take the floor for the first dance together.”

  Sophie wrinkled her nose. “It’s hard luck to have a guardian who’s only a few years older than I am.” But Portia was in fact only half correct; a young woman’s first dance at her debut ball should be with her father. Sophie wondered if that was what was wrong with her today. Might she be missing the father she had never had a chance to know?

  I suppose next you’ll be turning into a sentimental watering pot over something you never had.

  Obediently, she went upstairs to Lady Stone’s boudoir. Despite living in the house for weeks, she had not been summoned there before, and she felt suddenly timid as she tapped on the door.

  Lady Stone’s maid was still working on her hair, but with the ease of long practice, she kept pinning curls even as Lady Stone craned her neck to get a better look at Sophie.

  “Oh yes, I see Miranda was right about how you’d look in a froth of white lace. But your ears look frightfully bare, child.” Lady Stone scrabbled among the mass of cosmetic pots on the dressing table and came up with a small blue velvet box. “Try these on for size.”

  Sophie’s gaze went to Lady Stone’s earlobes. Each of them held a garish, showy amethyst surrounded by bright yellow diamonds, matching the wide collar of gold and jewels that lay around her throat.

  Lady Stone cackled with laughter. “No, my dear, don’t fret that I’d choose the same sort of jewels for you that I like for myself.”

  Still wary, Sophie popped the box open and gasped. Lying on a bed of blue satin were a pair of dainty pearl eardrops, each set in a dusting of tiny diamonds—the perfect match for the necklace she wore.