Just One Season in London

by Leigh Michaels

  No wonder she’d so enjoyed dancing with him and carrying on their verbal fencing matches. No wonder her mood always lightened the moment he appeared. No wonder she felt safe when he was in the room. And no wonder she’d had such mixed-up feelings when she thought he was courting her mother—because what Sophie had really wanted was for him to fall in love with her instead.

  The curricle pulled up in front of the manor. She’d been brought home like a wayward child. Not that she didn’t deserve it; she’d acted like one. She even looked the part—dress torn, hair falling down, hat and gloves forgotten, a sore spot on her palm where the reins had rubbed…

  “Thank you for bringing me back,” she said with dignity.

  A groom came running, and Wellingham climbed down and held up a hand to help Sophie out of the curricle.

  At least he wasn’t going to drive straight off and leave her. “I suppose you’re coming in to tell my mother?” Sophie tried to pat her hair back into place.

  The corner of his mouth twitched. “I suspect Lady Ryecroft will notice for herself that something is awry.”

  Lady Stone was alone in the drawing room, drinking a glass of port in solitary splendor. “Looking for Miranda?” she asked. “Or perhaps for Lord Ryecroft? I’m sure they’ll all be along sooner or later. However, I’m betting on later, so I think I’ll go have a nap.” She started to close the door behind her, then leaned back into the room to whisper, “I look forward to collecting my winnings, Robert.”

  “Winnings?” Sophie asked.

  “A very poor joke. Should you not go and change clothes? You’ve torn your skirt.”

  “I couldn’t possibly abandon you to your own devices.” Because you might seize the chance to escape. Sophie settled herself on the sofa, wrapping her skirt carefully around her legs to conceal the split as best she could. From the corner of her eye, she saw Wellingham watching, his gaze intent, so she took her time and smoothed the fabric over her knees until it was just right.

  She filled a glass for him from the wine decanter, and with obvious reluctance, he came close enough to take it from her hand. She leaned back on the sofa with her own glass. If she kept him busy, he might not notice for a while that they were alone in a room. “Did you enjoy living at the manor? How long were you actually here, anyway, before the lure of town drew you back? Because I have to tell you, sir, I still think you only pretended to rent the manor so you could give money to Rye without Mama knowing it was a loan.”

  “Perceptive of you, Miss Ryecroft. But it was not a loan.”

  “Then what made you act as our benefactor? It can’t have been my telling you I wanted to go to London—or at least not entirely, for you’d already made the deal.”

  “I must admit that meeting you on the carriageway cemented the notion, but you’re correct. I acted for a friend.”

  “Lady Stone, of course—so Rye would have the funds to take us to London.” But the idea didn’t feel right.

  “No. In fact, it was Marcus Winston who asked me to act in his stead. He wanted your mother in London, I believe, so he made it possible for her to present you.”

  “It was his money you gave Rye?”

  “Not entirely,” Wellingham admitted. “It seemed to me he’d underestimated the amount required to launch a Beauty.”

  Sophie studied him. Did he mean he truly thought she was beautiful? No, the twinkle in his eyes was subdued, but it was there; he was laughing at her. “So you added funds of your own. No wonder it seemed such a generous offer. But if you knew how Mr. Winston felt—”

  “I knew that he has long cherished a tendre for Lady Ryecroft, yes.”

  Sophie frowned. “If you weren’t interested in Mama that way, why did you keep telling me I should look on you as a father figure?”

  “I was reminding myself, as well as you, that I’m nearly old enough to be your father.”

  “That’s sheer nonsense; you’re not. And if you have to remind yourself of it all the time… Well, it almost sounds as if you find me appealing.”

  “Appealing and enticing and charming and delightful—and very tempting. Does that frighten you, Miss Ryecroft? Because it should.”

  “Not at all. You told me once that when you’ve given your word, you do not make a practice of breaking it.”

  “That’s true.” He sounded wary.

  “Well then. You promised to take me to London, and I demand that you keep your word. If you weasel out of it, I shall tell my brother you have toyed with my affections.”

  “You’re doing an excellent job of proving how very young you are.” He picked up his hat. “Miss Ryecroft, adieu.”

  “Not so fast, sir.” His stern look almost made her quail, but Sophie steeled herself. “The truth is I am disappointed to find that you don’t wish to marry me. Because”—her voice was very soft—“because I find that I want to marry you.”

  Silence dropped over the drawing room like morning fog.

  “But if you truly have no desire to make me your wife—”

  “I never said I didn’t.” He sounded as if the words had been squeezed out of him.

  Sophie felt something relax deep inside her. “In all this time, I haven’t found anyone I like nearly as well as I like you.”

  “All this time? A few weeks of a single Season?”

  “I’ve been out a lot longer than that in Surrey.” Sophie noticed the rip in her skirt had opened up again when she felt cool air—and a warm gaze—on her knee. She shifted just a bit, and her silk garter peeked out. She thought she heard Wellingham gulp. “And I have yet to find anyone who makes me feel as safe as you do either.” She tipped her head to one side and regarded him thoughtfully. “Though not when you look at me like that.”

  “Like what?”

  “As if you want to consume me,” she said frankly. “Except I think, as long as it was you, I shouldn’t mind that either.” She stood, slowly smoothing her skirt back into place, and moved a little closer.

  “If I were to tell you I’ve lost my entire fortune in a single bad investment—”

  “I wouldn’t believe you. But if you had, how exciting it would be! Then you’d have to train me as a clerk or something to work with you, so we could start over.”

  He shook his head as if to clear it.

  “Oh, do stop being such a dunderhead, Robert. The truth is I’ve been chasing after you, one way or another, ever since that first day. I knew then that I wanted you; it just took me a while to admit it.” She let her fingertips skim his face. “How long is it going to take you to stop running?”

  He caught her hands, holding them closely against his chest. She could feel his heartbeat against her palms.

  He took a deep breath. “You’re certain, Sophie?”

  “Yes,” she whispered and stood on tiptoe to press her lips against his.

  The kiss might have started out as her idea, but barely an instant later he took control, and Sophie was swept away. She’d had no notion that kisses could be so powerful, so all-enveloping, so nice. It was lovely to learn that a man’s lips could be soft, gentle, teasing, insistent, warm, caressing, demanding—and that he didn’t want to just kiss her mouth, but her eyebrow, her ear, her throat… “Oooh,” she said as his hand skimmed over her breast.

  Wellingham looked down at her warily, as if he expected to see shock or distaste in her face. Sophie laughed and molded herself closer to him. “Do that again, please—all of it. I didn’t know kissing would make me feel so warm all over that I want to tear off my dress.”

  “What little is left of it. But please don’t… Not that it would make much difference if your brother walks in.”

  “Oh, he’d only blacken both your eyes and break your nose if you refused to marry me.” Sophie’s voice was airy. “And you are going to, aren’t you, Robert?”

  “Yes, and may heaven help me. Shall you mind very much, I wonder, being married to a banker rather than a gentleman of leisure?”

  “That depends. When we’re marri
ed, will you take me on picnics?”

  “Now and then.”

  “Will you escort me to dances?”

  “If we’re invited, but I’m not certain marrying you will improve my social standing—hoyden that you are.”

  “Poor Robert. Will you recite poetry to me?”

  “Doubtful.”

  “All the right answers. By the way, if you think I’m letting you leave now, to go to London without me—”

  “I was only going as far as the inn in the village. I wouldn’t miss this wedding.”

  “Well, even that’s too far to suit me.” Sophie tipped her head to make it easier for him to nibble her earlobe. “What was Lady Stone talking about—collecting her winnings?”

  “I asked her for a favor, and she finagled me into a wager before she’d agree. She said you were going to marry me despite myself, and I bet her a ruby ring that you wouldn’t.”

  Sophie shook her head. “I thought you were more sensible than that. What was the favor?”

  “I wanted you to have something special for your ball, but your mother would never have allowed you to accept jewelry from me.”

  “And so you didn’t even hint that those eardrops were your gift? Robert, it’s not very flattering that you seemed to be trying to win that wager. I may yet have to save up my pin money for a mask and a pistol.”

  “I shall give you both as a wedding gift, so you’ll be properly equipped the next time. And knowing you, I’m sure there will be a next time.”

  “Count on it,” Sophie said. “But the next time I hold you up, it’s going to be forever.” And then she didn’t talk any more at all.

  Acknowledgments

  Special thanks to: my writing buddies, Rachelle and Elaine, who held my hand throughout the writing of this story. My devoted agent, Christine Witthohn of Book Cents Literary Agency. My editor, Deb Werksman, and the support staff at Sourcebooks Casablanca, who display more concern for every word and comma in my stories than even I could ask. My good friends Margaret, Sandi, Desiree, and Bev. My family, both by blood and by affection—Linda; Amanda, Ashley and Karina; Irene and Sue. My romance-writing students at Gotham Writers’ Workshop—thank you for keeping me on my toes!

  And above all, my husband, who listened patiently to every word of this story three separate times and never once fell asleep while I was reading.

  About the Author

  Leigh Michaels is the author of nearly one hundred books, including eighty contemporary novels and more than a dozen nonfiction books. More than thirty-five million copies of her romance novels have been sold. A six-time RITA finalist, she has also received two Reviewer’s Choice awards from RT Book Reviews and was the 2003 recipient of the Iowa Library Association’s Johnson Brigham Plaque Award. She is the author of On Writing Romance from Writer’s Digest Books. Leigh also teaches romance writing on the Internet at Gotham Writers’ Workshop: www.writingclasses.com. Visit her website at www.leighmichaels.com. She lives in Ottumwa, Iowa.

  Read on for an excerpt from The Wedding Affair

  Coming Fall 2011 from Sourcebooks Casablanca and Leigh Michaels

  One

  When the heavy brass knocker fell against the front door, the crash echoed through the cottage. Olivia ignored it. She wasn’t expecting callers; she wasn’t prepared for callers; and she didn’t want to greet callers.

  But barely half a minute later, the knocker dropped once more. She abandoned the bread dough she’d been kneading and wiped her hands on her apron. The baking was late already, and this interruption wasn’t going to help.

  As she crossed the narrow hall, she noticed a dusting of flour on her blue muslin skirt and brushed feebly at it, but she managed only to make the smear look worse.

  The man waiting on the doorstep was short, stout, and past middle-aged. His face was red, as if the warmth of the day was too much for him, or perhaps his neckcloth was just too tight. He looked astounded to see her there. “Lady Reyne, where are your servants today?”

  All two of them? Olivia wanted to answer. But she didn’t think Sir Jasper Folsom really wished to know that this was the housemaid’s weekly afternoon out or that Nurse was upstairs putting Charlotte down for her nap. And since he hadn’t asked about Kate Blakely, who was Olivia’s guest, she felt no need to explain that Kate had gone to call at the vicarage.

  At any rate, Sir Jasper was Olivia’s landlord, not her keeper, so she didn’t feel obliged to tell him why she was the only one available to answer her door in the middle of a sunny Wednesday afternoon.

  She smiled vaguely. “I find it terribly boring to sit and be waited on, Sir Jasper.”

  “You are a most unusual lady, ma’am. I have come to collect the next quarter’s rent.”

  “Of course.” Olivia hesitated and then stepped back. Better, she thought, not to have this conversation on the doorstep. “Would you care to come inside?”

  He looked startled at the invitation, though an instant later he had masked the expression. He bowed and followed her into the tiny parlor, where the single window stood open and a fire had been freshly laid, ready to light in case the evening should turn cool.

  Sir Jasper took off his hat and looked around the room. “Quite delightful.”

  Threadbare was the word Olivia would have used for the furnishings Sir Jasper had supplied along with the cottage, but she supposed there was a certain cozy charm about the mismatched chairs and the way personal items—a smock she was hemming for Charlotte, a shawl Kate had started knitting last night—were sprinkled around.

  Don’t be so snobbish, she told herself. The cottage wasn’t grand, but it was home in a way that her previous residence had never been, and she was grateful to Sir Jasper for offering it at a rent she could afford.

  At least, she had been able to afford the rent until now. She braced herself to tell him that at this moment she could not pay the entire amount she owed, but she found she couldn’t come straight out with it.

  “I don’t keep ale in the house,” Olivia said, “since we do not as a rule have gentleman callers. But I can offer you tea.”

  Sir Jasper smiled, displaying yellowing teeth. “That would be most welcome, my lady.”

  Olivia poured the tea and drew a breath to begin explaining.

  Sir Jasper sipped. “I’m sure you’re excited by the news. The entire countryside is agog.”

  “What news?” She was almost relieved to be interrupted, though also surprised. Rarely did anything worthy of comment happen in Steadham; Olivia found the quiet to be one of the village’s greatest attractions.

  “The wedding, of course. Lady Daphne’s wedding.” He looked startled when she didn’t react. “You did not receive an invitation? I would have thought… The festivities are to be held here. At Halstead, to be precise.”

  Halstead—one of the few country houses in England that had only one name, as if the single word made it clear to any audience what was being discussed. The country seat of the Duke of Somervale, the manor house at Halstead lay less than a mile from the village if one walked across the fields and the park. But the estate was so large and self-contained that when the family was not in residence, it was easy for the villagers to forget the manor lay so close by.

  In the months since she had arrived in Steadham village, Olivia had seen Halstead only from a distance. Apparently that wasn’t going to change in the foreseeable future. But then, she would have expected nothing else.

  Sir Jasper went on, “The wedding itself is to be in the village church, I understand.”

  He understood? Then Sir Jasper must not have received an invitation, either. That surprised Olivia much more than the fact she had not been included on the guest list—for though Sir Jasper was a mere baronet, he must have been a neighbor of the Somervale family for years.

  “I felt sure you would be invited,” he mused. “As the widow of an earl… but the duchess is even higher in the instep than I believed.”

  “It’s hardly a snub for me not to be included,
Sir Jasper. So far as I am aware, I have never met any of the family, and I doubt the duchess even knows I’ve taken up residence in the neighborhood.” Or would care in the slightest, if she knew.

  Sir Jasper’s face had tightened as if the mere mention of a snub had made his own exclusion sting more.

  So Olivia hurried on. “Perhaps it’s a very small wedding—just the family.”

  “A small wedding? For one of the Somervales? That family doesn’t know the meaning of the word.”

  The firm click of the empty cup as he set it down made Olivia fear for her mother’s china; she had managed to save fewer than a dozen good pieces as it was.

  “But perhaps you are correct,” Sir Jasper went on. “Now I must continue my rounds. The rent, Lady Reyne?”

  Olivia’s fingers trembled as she took her reticule from under the smock in her sewing basket and opened it. “I can give you half of the rent today, Sir Jasper, but I’m not able to pay for the entire three months right now. I had hoped to make an agreement in regard to the remainder.”

  He was silent for so long that the rattle of a carriage wheel in the road outside the parlor window seemed to echo through the room. “What sort of agreement did you have in mind?” His tone was low and suggestive.