Buy back the lease? With what? Just a couple of days ago he’d told her that his money had all been spent.
“We’ve been talking about possible improvements at the manor,” Rye went on. “Wellingham’s going to drive down to give me his opinion. But I’d like your advice as well, Winston. Your experience at Carris Abbey would be helpful to me in deciding where investment would give the best return.”
Improvements? Investment? Portia felt frozen. All that would take money—and it sounded like large sums of money. But Rye had none at all. At least, yesterday he’d had none. And only one thing had changed in the meantime…
He must have known about her money after all, and he’d made a deliberate choice. He’d said something last night about how she had rescued him from Miss Farling—and a lucky escape that was.
Had Portia been on his list of heiresses, and he’d simply worked his way down the roster till he’d reached her?
And then, by making love to her last night, he had made certain that she no longer had the smallest whisper of choice about whether to marry him…
That was your own doing, she reminded herself. You practically forced him into it.
She heard a rustle above her on the stairway. The men looked up as Lady Ryecroft came into view, and Rye spotted Portia in the hall and came quickly toward her, his face alight.
He was contented at how things had turned out—but not, as she had thought, because of her.
If I climbed into a marriage bed with Amalie Mickelthorpe, he’d said last night, I’d have to think of her money in order to perform my husbandly duty.
Had he been counting Portia’s money in order to perform his husbandly duty?
Swindon had known about her past, though he’d had the details wrong. But others could have been closer to the mark. For that matter, Lady Stone herself could have told Rye—the wily old woman had practically admitted to engineering the outcome she preferred. And it would have been to Rye’s advantage to pretend not to know…
Only long practice kept her from shuddering away from Rye as he brought her hand to his lips. His gaze on hers was warm, and the message was clear—he was thinking about kissing much more than her hand. Or at least he wanted her to think he was.
“We’ll be married at Ryecroft, darling. Wellingham has offered to give up the lease for us.”
Interesting, she thought, that he didn’t mention paying for the favor.
“I’ll go down today to set things in motion, and you can follow as soon as you’re ready. Portia”—his voice dropped to a whisper—“don’t be long.”
She didn’t trust herself to speak, but she nodded.
She would marry him, for she had committed herself last night, and now there was nothing else she could do.
***
Miranda was not yet dressed when Sophie came to her room, and she was startled when her daughter delivered Lady Stone’s message and then simply went away.
Was the child moping over Carrisbrooke? Miranda hoped not, but only time would tell.
She was halfway down the stairs on her way to join Lady Stone when she saw Marcus standing near the front door with Wellingham, and her foot faltered on the tread. She hadn’t prepared herself to encounter him—not so early in the morning and not before she’d had a chance to adjust to the news that had burst on her last night.
She pasted on a smile. “Good morning, gentlemen. You show great courage to enter a house where there’s a wedding being planned. There will be time to discuss nothing else until the festivities are over.”
She was painfully aware of Marcus’s gaze, dark and intent on her, and she knew he understood the message underlying her words—that she had no intention of talking to him until after the wedding, and it would do him no good to persist in the meantime. She looked at Rye, standing with Portia in the shadow of the stairs. “Did I hear you say you’ve decided to be married at the manor?”
Rye nodded. “Just as soon as we can accomplish it, Mama. I’ve got some business to tend to this morning with these gentlemen, but as soon as that’s finished, I’m off to Surrey.”
“What business? Surely a special license doesn’t require all three of you—and confirmed bachelor that you are, Mr. Winston, I doubt you’re an expert on the subject.”
“Together, I’m sure we can work it out,” Marcus said. “Unless you’d rather I stay here and help the ladies plan the wedding.”
She eyed him coolly. “Hardly. By all means, enjoy the experience, since it’s no doubt the only time you’ll visit Doctors’ Commons.” She brushed past him and turned into the passage toward the breakfast room and heard Marcus laugh softly behind her.
“Ryecroft,” he said, “if your invitation to the wedding stands, I shall consider it my honor to escort the ladies to Surrey whenever the preparations are complete.”
***
The trip from London back to Ryecroft Manor seemed, to Sophie, to take an immense amount of time; they moved ever so much more slowly than on their journey up to town. They even stopped to rest the horses at a coaching inn in Staines rather than changing to a new team, because Lady Stone preferred not to use post-horses when her own would do perfectly well.
“Don’t look so woeful, Miss Ryecroft,” Marcus Winston told her. “It’s not only horses that must stop to rest and eat, and at any rate, the wedding isn’t until tomorrow.”
“Yours don’t seem to need rest at all,” she said, looking back over her shoulder at the glossy blacks, still harnessed to his curricle, that were being led away by a groom. Unlike the team that pulled Lady Stone’s traveling carriage, the blacks were still spirited and playful.
“Would you like to come up with me on the next stage instead of riding in the carriage?”
Sophie felt herself start to glow. “May I? And will you teach me to drive them?”
“Don’t get above yourself,” he advised.
For the rest of the drive—for once she was in the curricle, Sophie refused to return to the closed-in carriage—she had the benefit not only of a better view from the high seat, but she could enjoy the sunshine and the spring breeze, which was bracingly fresh against her face.
“You don’t seem to be mourning over Carrisbrooke’s defection,” Winston observed.
“Is it true he’s taken up with an opera dancer?”
“Who dared to tell you such a thing?”
“Lady Brindle whispered it to Lady Stone. But I’m nearly certain she intended me to overhear.”
“Ann Eliza was always generous that way, making certain that hurtful gossip was heard by the people who were most concerned in it. I’m glad to see it didn’t throw you off your stride.”
“Then he does have an opera dancer? No, it didn’t break my heart. Only”—only I don’t know what to do now—“she also told Lady Stone…” Sophie hesitated.
“Give over, brat. What scandal was she passing along this time?”
“She said it was such a shame that Lord Swindon fell down the stairs at his town house on the morning after the ball. And Lady Stone laughed and said that it wasn’t a shame; it was two black eyes and a broken nose for a good cause.”
“What an odd thing for her to say,” Winston mused. “Lady Stone, I mean.”
“Yes, especially since Lady Brindle hadn’t told her what his injuries were. She looked quite shocked that Lady Stone already knew.”
“That does seem strange,” he agreed.
“I think it must have been Rye who blacked Lord Swindon’s eyes.”
“My dear Miss Ryecroft, I’m shocked at your suspicions. Wellingham and I were with your brother all that morning, and I can swear to you—”
“That Lord Swindon didn’t fall down the stairs.”
He smiled, and it was answer enough. “My goodness, is that the village already?”
“Yes, and it is good to be home, even though Mama says…”
“What does your mama say?” His voice was edgy, as if this topic troubled him far more than Lord Swindon’s injurie
s.
Sophie sighed. “That we aren’t going back to London at all.”
“Does she, indeed? Perhaps she intends to stay at Ryecroft Manor to supervise the newlyweds.”
“No, she’d never do that. She said we might go to the seaside. But I’d much rather be in London, even if…” Her voice trailed off as the picturesque little village opened out before them.
Sophie couldn’t help remembering the last time she had ridden through here, holding a sweet bun as carefully as if it had held an explosive, not simply a message from Robert Wellingham. How innocent she had been, only a few weeks ago—plotting how to transport herself to London, thinking that merely being in the city would open the world to her, and then she could choose a means to support herself and have enough left over to save Ryecroft Manor.
She supposed she should count herself fortunate that it had been Wellingham she had approached. Another man might have outright laughed at her for being so bird-witted. Or worse, assumed that she was offering herself up as his mistress and simply picked her up and carried her off right then and there.
Winston shot a look at her. “Sophie, what are you up to now?”
They were well through the village. “Oh look—the gates of the manor. Just another mile across the park and we’ll be home. And there’s Rye up on the hill with his favorite hunter. I once took Admiral out for a gallop without permission, and Rye read me such a lecture I never dared touch that horse again.”
Her voice was airy. Winston laughed, and as the moment eased, Sophie returned to her thoughts.
She might just have a plan left to her credit after all.
***
Portia couldn’t deny a healthy curiosity as the carriage swung between the gateposts, past a stone gatekeeper’s cottage, and around a long, sweeping bend that showed off a grand view of Ryecroft Manor.
Sophie had described the house to her—or tried to at least; she kept wandering off into descriptions of the stables or the woods or the gardens, so Portia had never managed to get a good picture in her mind of the manor itself. It sounded ramshackle, to tell the truth, so she hadn’t pushed for a more complete description.
The reality took her by surprise. Ryecroft Manor was larger than she’d expected, an Elizabethan stone mansion with superb mullioned windows stretching across the deceptively simple facade. Smooth, rolling lawns led up to the front door. Ivy climbed one corner and wandered over the stone, though it had been neatly trimmed back from the glass. A puff of smoke rose from one of a dozen-or-so chimney pots atop the gabled roof.
“It looks like a home,” she whispered.
“You’re seeing it at the best time of year, my dear,” Lady Ryecroft said. “In the winter, all those windows get drafty. There’s Rye, coming to meet us.”
Portia looked out again and saw the black hunter trotting across the lawn. The horse reached the front door just as the carriage halted, and the rider swung down and tossed the reins to one of the postboys.
Portia found herself wishing for an instant that she hadn’t overheard that conversation in the hall at Lady Stone’s house, so she could arrive here with nothing but happiness and hope in her heart, looking forward to a lifetime with a man who could send her soaring, as he had on the first night of their betrothal.
But that was cowardly. And she was not a coward.
She swallowed hard and braced herself to come face-to-face with her future husband.
Twenty
It had only been three days since he’d said good-bye to his promised bride in London. How, Rye wondered, was it possible that she could look so different now? Beautiful, of course, for Portia could never be anything else in his eyes. But she also looked frightened as he handed her down from the carriage.
“I’d like a word in private, my dear, before we join the others.” He ignored Lady Stone’s knowing smile. “I’m sure everyone would prefer to freshen up after the drive, anyway.”
Carstairs was there to open the front door, and Mrs. Carstairs came bustling forward to greet the newcomers. Rye took two steps toward the library before changing his mind. As he drew Portia toward the staircase, Mrs. Carstairs gave a squeak of protest, and Rye turned on her. “Are you attempting to warn me that the rooms are not ready as ordered, Mrs. Carstairs?”
She said meekly, “They’re ready, my lord.”
The outburst made him feel better, though he’d have some fence-mending to do with the housekeeper later, he suspected. Especially if his mother had happened to be within earshot. But this was one conversation that was not going to be interrupted.
“You’ll be in the viscountess’s rooms,” he said. “It seemed silly to put you in a guest room, with the wedding tomorrow.”
Portia’s voice was tart. “You’re very thoughtful to the servants, my lord, considering how busy they’ll be.”
He opened the door to the viscountess’s suite and ushered her into the sitting room. She looked around, and he felt his pride prickle. Though everything was scrupulously clean—Mrs. Carstairs would have stood for nothing less—the room was far from matching the expensive luxury of Lady Stone’s house. Was Portia noticing how worn the upholstery was and how the draperies were carefully arranged to conceal the worst of the fading?
“And you?” she said. “Your room is…”
“Through there. But I’ll retire somewhere else tonight if you don’t care for the idea of my being next door before we’re wed.” That was not at all what he’d meant to say. “Portia…”
She looked at him with one eyebrow raised.
Rye felt his temper slip. “What do you have to say for yourself, ma’am?”
Sparks flared in her eyes. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, but I will not be treated this way. You will not coerce me by yelling, sir.”
It was past time to bring the facts into the open. “I suppose you believe because you are the one who brings money to this marriage, you’ll rule the house? Well, you’re wrong!”
Her face went pale. “You admit, then, that you knew.” Portia took off her bonnet and laid it aside. “I have no idea why it seems to upset you, unless you were anticipating a fortune the size of Amalie Mickelthorpe’s, my lord—and in that case, you must lower your expectations. Whoever led you to think that I am wealthy had it entirely wrong.”
“Really? I think it unlikely that Wellingham is mistaken about the extent of your resources, since he’s your trustee. Though perhaps, since you have left your business affairs entirely in his hands all this time…”
She was obviously shocked. “Wellingham told you?”
“He expected that I already knew. Dammit, Portia, how could you not have told me?”
She was staring at him with her mouth open, but rather than appearing awkward or foolish, she simply looked delectable. Rye had to swallow hard to keep from stepping forward and taking that tempting mouth and everything that went with it…
Because if he did, he suspected, they would never sort this out.
He watched with regret as her mouth thinned to a tight line. “When?” she asked.
Given a little time and patience, he could coax her to open it again. “I beg your pardon?”
“When did he tell you?”
“Yesterday. We were riding over the estate, and he kept suggesting ways to invest to improve the land—good ideas too, every one of them—until I finally said that would all be well and good if I had any real money to spend, but could he confine himself to things I could afford, ones that would turn a profit quickly, and he said…” Rye frowned. “What the hell do you mean, when did he tell me?”
“I thought perhaps it was… before.” She swallowed, and Rye watched the little flutter at the base of her throat and wanted to press his lips there. “You said as you were leaving Lady Stone’s that he’d agreed to sell back the lease. But I knew you didn’t have any money to buy it. So I thought…”
Pieces clicked together in his mind. “You thought I knew even before the ball that you were wealthy, and that�
��s why I seized the opportunity to marry you.”
She nodded.
His fists clenched. “You thought I was capable of that?”
“You are capable; you can’t deny it, Rye. You’d have married Juliana Farling, or even Amalie Mickelthorpe.”
“Instead I ended up with a woman I thought was a feisty, penniless companion. Imagine my surprise when I find you’re swimming in riches!”
“Hardly swimming,” Portia said coolly.
“Definitely swimming—so I couldn’t even fool myself about how I’d made a noble sacrifice in marrying you. It put me squarely in my place.”
“Well, at least the money is some compensation for a bad situation that we must make the best of—as people have always done.” There was a painful little twist in her voice.
His mouth went dry at the words. “Is it such a bad situation? You didn’t seem to feel so that night we spent together.” I should never have left you, my darling. I should have stayed right there… and convinced you every moment that this isn’t a calamity after all.
“You said all that yourself—about having to make the best of it.”
“What else could I say to you right then, when you’d had such a blow? At least I’d had the choice to speak up, but once I did, you had no options at all.”
“Neither of us did,” Portia mused. “You must have been furious, being trapped like that.”
“Perhaps I should have been upset at having all my plans washed out, but I wasn’t. Still, I could hardly confess that I was happy when you’d just had the roof dropped on you.”
“Happy?” she whispered. “You were happy about it?”
“I’m a fool not to have seen it long before I did. I would not have married any of those girls, Portia—and not because of a braying voice or a habit of speaking harshly to servants or an inclination toward being rude to my mother. If it hadn’t been for those things, I’d have found something else that disqualified them. I would never have married anyone but you.”
Just One Season in London Page 28
