She stammered her thanks, which Lady Stone brushed off. “Hurry and put them on,” she ordered. “The gentlemen will be waiting.”
Sophie hurriedly fastened the eardrops into place, and Lady Stone laid a hand on her arm as they descended the stairs.
Rye was already in the drawing room, chatting with Carrisbrooke and Marcus Winston, while Portia was having a low-voiced conversation in a corner with Robert Wellingham.
Sophie knew he had been invited; it was, after all, Lady Stone’s house, and that made it—as Lady Stone had said—her own damned business and no one else’s who she invited there. But Sophie hadn’t been convinced he would appear, so she was pleased to find that he had come after all.
Carrisbrooke broke off in the middle of a sentence to rush across the room to her. “Miss Ryecroft—And on that cheek, and o’er that brow/So soft, so calm, yet eloquent.”
Sophie thought, Whatever that means.
“May I beg the favor of your first dance?” he said eagerly.
Lady Ryecroft had followed her in so quietly that Sophie hadn’t noticed her at all, and she’d completely forgotten about her mother wanting to talk to her. Now she was stunned at the sight of Lady Ryecroft in a gown of bittersweet red. It was the lowest-cut neckline Sophie had ever seen her wear, showing off a magnificent bosom and creamy white shoulders that were, Sophie admitted, prettier than her own. Lady Ryecroft’s neckline was bare of jewels, but she wore a single diamond in each ear.
“Mama,” Sophie said in awe, “no wonder you were willing to loan me your pearls tonight! You are magnificent. If that dress is what has been taking you out to the shops on so many mornings—”
“Hush, child,” Lady Ryecroft said. “The gentlemen do not want to hear your views on my gown.”
Sophie thought the gentlemen could not have cared less what she said; they were all too busy looking to listen—and with good reason. Lady Ryecroft wearing something besides half-mourning colors was a sight to behold, and they were drinking her in.
Except for Carrisbrooke, who took one more step toward Sophie. “The first dance—will you share it with me, Miss Ryecroft?”
Sophie heard her mother suck in a breath. Before Lady Ryecroft could interfere, however, Sophie said smoothly, “Regrettably, my lord, I cannot, because I have already promised the first set to…” Oh, why hadn’t she remembered to seek out her mother for a moment’s counsel before coming downstairs? What did Lady Ryecroft expect her to do?
Sophie glanced around the circle in something like despair. Then her gaze met a pair of steady silvery-blue eyes, and she relaxed. Yes, there was safety there… “I have already promised it to Mr. Wellingham.”
Carrisbrooke’s mouth dropped open in disbelief.
No one made a sound, until Lady Stone finally broke the silence. “What an unpredictable child you are.”
Sophie couldn’t decide if she sounded pleased or shocked.
Lady Stone shooed them all toward the door. “Now, come along, everyone. Let’s get this ball under way!”
***
Lady Stone’s predictions of a crush had been right on the money. Guests poured into Grosvenor Square, and Rye couldn’t see how they were to find enough room for dancing.
His feeling of being smothered by the crowd was made even stronger, because every heiress on Lady Stone’s list made it a point to drift past him, sending sultry smiles in an obvious invitation for him to ask for a spot on their dance cards.
When, he wondered, had there gotten to be so many of them? Or was he only imagining there were more possibilities than he’d thought, because he’d set his mind on making an offer tonight?
He was still trying to remember what had made him conclude that his only viable choices were Amalie Mickelthorpe and Juliana Farling when the orchestra struck up a long note to summon the dancers for the first set. He made his bow before Lady Stone to begin the ball.
She tapped him on the arm with her ivory fan. “You’re looking smug, my lord.”
Rye realized that he was smiling. He’d been remembering Portia at luncheon today as she’d slyly pointed out that Lady Stone’s infirmity came and went at her convenience.
No, he would not think of Portia. Though there was no reason he shouldn’t daydream about her, for he was still perfectly free—for now. After the ball, once his offer had been made and accepted, then he must put Portia aside and devote his thoughts to his intended bride. It would be only fair.
But until then, he was free to remember how it had felt to hold her in his arms, the sweetness of her lips against his, the way her body had seemed to match his own…
She was just down the set from him, with Carrisbrooke as her partner. The young earl had eyes only for Sophie, who was still greeting the latest arrivals, except for the moments when he was glaring at Wellingham instead. That may be a problem, Rye thought. Though Carrisbrooke’s dancing skills had improved remarkably in the last week, while he had been treading on the toes of every female Lady Ryecroft could coerce into practicing with him, he was not yet expert enough to move through the set without focusing his full attention on the figures.
But if anyone could keep him in line, it would be Portia. She was a woman in a million, and it was too bad Lady Stone didn’t truly appreciate how special her companion was.
Sophie and Wellingham took their places in the set, and Rye felt a shock sweep through the dancers as they realized the banker was not only present, but was also going to take part. Sophie felt it too, obviously, but she merely looked around as if daring everyone present to object to her choice.
Rye wanted to cheer. He settled for catching her eye with an approving smile.
Wellingham apparently did not notice the reaction at all. The man seemed to be truly unflappable—so used to being snubbed that he was armored against it.
Between Rye and Portia, his mother was partnered with Marcus Winston. Rye still wasn’t certain what to make of Winston, but tonight it was Lady Ryecroft who had seized attention. It would be a wonder if any man could make it through the figures without losing his place the moment he came in range of that scandalously low neckline. If Rye had had any idea that was what his mother was about on her shopping trips…
But she didn’t look pleased with herself. She looked tired instead, and her face was pale against the brilliant color of her dress. Given the slender elegance of her figure and the beauty of her face, it was easy even for Rye to forget that his mother was no longer exactly young. She’d had too many late nights. Too many parties. Too many days of having to watch every word and every action, not only for herself, but for Sophie as well…
It was time to go home to the manor, he told himself. Time to make certain that his mother was provided for in her declining years.
He steeled himself to the decision he must make by the end of the evening. Amalie Mickelthorpe or Juliana Farling? Or was it foolish to think at this late date that perhaps one of the others would do as well?
As long as you’re going to marry for money, Portia had said, you should make the effort worthwhile.
It was true that Amalie Mickelthorpe’s portion was larger. The additional money she brought to Ryecroft Manor would allow him to renovate the dower house, so his mother would have her own home.
On the other hand, Juliana Farling was a gentle, unassuming soul who would surely be pleased to have Lady Ryecroft continue to live with them. And Sophie as well, of course. If his sister didn’t settle on Carrisbrooke—and after getting to know the young man better, Rye was inclined to think it would be a disaster if she did—there seemed to be no one else who stood out among her covey of suitors.
If he didn’t have to rebuild the dower house to provide a home for his mother and sister, then Juliana’s smaller dowry would go just as far as Amalie’s larger one.
Portia had suggested he flip a coin. Rye was beginning to think he might have to do exactly that.
***
After Portia had survived the first set with Carrisbrooke as her partner
, the rest of the ball should have been a pleasure. Instead she felt as if the dance floor was coated with molasses. It was impossible to truly feel the gliding joy of a waltz when she was in Marcus Winston’s arms instead of in Rye’s—no matter how much she told herself that she must not think of him.
When Robert Wellingham walked her through a country dance and once more took up the topic he’d broached in the drawing room before the ball began, she shot him a fulminating look.
“It’s a romantic night,” he said. “You should go after what you wish for.”
“You’re assuming a good deal about my wishes,” she said coldly and then ruined the effect by adding, “I could make the same point about you.”
“Mine is a different case.”
She would have argued, but the steps took them away from each other, so she moved on with all the grace she could muster.
When the set finally ended, she caught a glimpse of Rye with Amalie Mickelthorpe, just leaving the floor. Miss Mickelthorpe was wearing green tonight; it made her look like an olive, Portia thought uncharitably. But the young woman’s smile held both satisfaction and triumph.
Portia had to assume that their exit meant Lord Ryecroft had not only made up his mind but had whispered as much to Amalie during that last dance.
Bile rose in her throat. She tried to tell herself that it was hardly fair of her to blame him for doing what she’d advised. He’d chosen the larger fortune, exactly as she’d told him he should.
But that only confirmed what she’d known all along: when it came right down to the end, only money mattered. And as for what he had told her long ago—that it was just as important to him to choose as his bride a woman he could learn to care for—well, at the time she’d thought that was pure rubbish, and she’d been right.
Portia looked around for her next partner, intending to make some excuse, because she hardly felt like waltzing. Instead her employer waved her over.
“Quite a success we have tonight,” Lady Stone rasped. “All due to you, my girl. There will be a nice bonus for you in pulling this ball off with such style. Would you care to have a wager?”
“On what, ma’am?”
“I say we’ll have at least one match to announce before the end of the evening—and possibly two.”
Portia followed Lady Stone’s gaze to Sophie and Carrisbrooke, at the edge of the dance floor, and then on to Rye, who was bowing before Juliana Farling. “Those particular two couples, you mean?” She kept her voice steady with an effort. “I’m inclined to think not, but—”
Lady Stone beamed. “I never thought I’d see the day when you’d be willing to take a sporting chance! Done, my girl. I’ll lay a diamond bracelet against…” She considered and said slyly, “What would you like to give me when I win?”
Portia started to point out that she’d only been offering an opinion, not agreeing to a wager. Then something cracked deep inside her, and a surge of recklessness swept through her veins. She was tired of acting sensible and practical—of always being the voice of reason. If Lord Ryecroft was cork-brained enough to offer for Amalie Mickelthorpe despite knowing that the sound of her voice already grated on him—as though he thought that rasp would get better with increased intimacy!—Portia might as well benefit to the tune of a diamond bracelet.
“I’ll stake that bonus you were talking of, ma’am. But since it must be a large bonus, in line with the amount of work this ball has been, you’ll need to make it a nice diamond bracelet.”
Lady Stone chuckled merrily. “Done. I like a wager that’s got some spirit to it. Oh, now, look at that.”
Portia glanced over her shoulder, just in time to see Rye lean down to Juliana Farling and say something that made the young woman go all soft-faced and starry-eyed.
She felt her heart drop to her toes.
“Yes.” Lady Stone clicked her tongue with satisfaction. “One match at least before the evening’s out… Unless you’d you care to raise the stakes and bet on two?”
***
Carrisbrooke’s dancing lessons had helped a great deal to keep his partners from being trampled on, but in Sophie’s opinion, he now had a great deal more self-confidence than his skill warranted. She hadn’t been able to refuse him a waltz, but accepting him as a partner was a great deal different from looking forward to dancing with him, she thought wearily, spotting him standing at the edge of the floor waiting for her to finish a set.
He had obviously been watching her and her partner, the Earl of Swindon, as they progressed through the country dance that preceded the second waltz of the evening. As Carrisbrooke presented himself, Swindon said in his cool, bored way, “Such enthusiasm must not be denied, I believe.” He strolled away.
“If you’re so excited about dancing,” Sophie said, “I don’t know why you haven’t asked someone else instead of simply standing there watching me all evening.”
Carrisbrooke beamed. “You’ve been watching me as well, then. It’s because I only want to dance with you, Miss Ryecroft, not any of the other girls. I still don’t understand why you wouldn’t have me as a partner for the first dance.”
“It’s not that I wouldn’t,” Sophie said with more diplomacy than truth. “I couldn’t. To have led off the ball with you would have been as good as making a declaration that we were betrothed.”
“But what would be wrong with that?”
Everything. The instant mental protest made her feel guilty, so she kept her voice light and amused. “To begin with, you haven’t asked me.”
“Only because your brother and my uncle felt it was too soon. But since you’re expecting my offer… shall I get down on one knee?”
“In the middle of a ballroom? Have you no sense at all?”
He seized her hand instead and raised it to his lips. “Have I caught my heav’nly jewel…? That’s by Sir Philip Sidney, by the way.”
Irritated beyond measure, Sophie snapped, “Oh, do please stop behaving like a child!”
Carrisbrooke went silent, and suddenly, under the boyish enthusiasm, she could see the man he would someday be.
“I didn’t mean…” she began warily.
“A child, am I? I’ve noticed you seem to prefer older men.”
“I prefer sensible ones,” Sophie admitted.
“My uncle was right. You are a heartless Beauty, thinking only of yourself. And you have a want of breeding, to prefer a moneylender to me.”
She was outraged. “Your uncle said I lack breeding? I cannot believe that Mr. Winston said any such thing!”
“No, I saw that part all on my own.” He sounded proud of himself. “And I don’t want to dance with you anymore.”
Clearly his moment of maturity had passed. “Good. Go away, my lord.”
All she wanted was to sit for a while, anyway. Perhaps even—if there weren’t so many people about—put her head down on her mama’s shoulder for a moment and be soothed.
But though Lady Ryecroft, in her bittersweet dress, was not difficult to spot even in the crowded ballroom, she obviously hadn’t seen Sophie’s distress, for she was otherwise occupied. She had just left the floor after a country dance with Robert Wellingham, and she was laughing with him as if they were the most intimate of friends.
Sophie barely noticed when Carrisbrooke stomped off. But she felt the ripple when others in the ballroom realized that she was suddenly standing alone at the edge of the floor.
Marcus Winston strolled up and handed her a glass of lemonade. “It seems my nephew has yet to learn tact.”
“And a great many other things as well.” Sophie caught herself and added primly, “But knowing a man’s faults is a positive thing, for then a woman understands what adjustments would be necessary in herself, should they decide they suit.”
“There’s nothing wrong with the boy that time won’t cure. Give him a year or two.” He watched Carrisbrooke move across the floor. “Or, more likely, five. It will take him longer to grow up than it has your brother.”
; He had a point, and Sophie knew it. Carrisbrooke was simply young. With time he’d be less foolish, less flighty, less silly. Also more self-confident, a great deal harder to manipulate, and a far better bargain as a husband.
“I don’t have a year or two to wait,” she said, almost to herself.
“I believe you are mistaken, Miss Ryecroft. There is time. I urge you to take it—and to make no decisions that you cannot later modify.”
“My brother cannot afford a second Season for me.”
“Circumstances change—and not only for your brother.”
Winston wasn’t looking at her. She followed his gaze across the ballroom to her mother, who had just laid a hand on Wellingham’s arm.
Obviously Winston recognized the peculiar intimacy of that combination just as clearly as Sophie did. He beckoned, and Wellingham nodded, lifted Lady Ryecroft’s hand to his lips with a courtly gesture, then left her standing with a group of matrons and crossed the room toward them.
“Miss Ryecroft needs a partner for this waltz,” Winston said. “I should be the one to oblige, since it is my nephew who so rudely left the belle of the ball standing alone, but I regret that I am already committed.”
“It would be my pleasure,” Wellingham said. “Miss Ryecroft?”
She had noticed long ago how beautiful his voice was, but never before had she realized that he could turn her name into a poem far more powerful than the lines Carrisbrooke spouted with such facile ease.
The music began, and Sophie found herself floating onto the floor. When her fingers trembled in his grasp, he closed his warmly and reassuringly around them. His hand at the small of her back exerted just the right pressure to tell her which direction to move. She could close her eyes and still never miss a step.
She felt as if she had waltzed with him many times before—and as if she could dance on forever.
His gaze was steady, sober, as he studied her. “I must admit to being puzzled. Why did you choose me to lead you out in the first dance?”
Because I was thinking of my father…
But that wasn’t the reason at all, Sophie realized. Though she hadn’t forgotten for a moment what Wellingham had said, days ago now, about her looking at him as a father figure, it was not that image that had influenced her tonight. It had been the overwhelming feeling of safety she’d experienced when she’d looked at him there in the drawing room.
Just One Season in London Page 23
