Just One Season in London (5 page)

“Why do you need the money?”

She swallowed hard. “My daughter is soon to be nineteen.”

His gaze rested on her face, dark and unreadable. “Does she look like you?”

“She is said to.”

“A beauty, then.” His tone was careless, the observation offhand.

It was apparent, Miranda told herself sternly, that he hadn't intended to flatter her. So there was no reason for her to be flushing like a schoolgirl at the mere possibility he might still think her attractive. “I want to take her to London.”

“So she can make a good marriage.”

Someone who didn't know him well might have thought the wry twist in his voice was humor. Miranda knew better.

“To someone just like her father.” Now there was no doubt he was being sarcastic.

She felt herself flush with embarrassment and with fury—not so much at him as at herself. She hadn't anticipated how her request would sound to him—as if she thought he was good enough to pay for a come-out, even though someone with his background would never be considered eligible to marry her daughter.

Any more than he'd been eligible to marry Miranda herself.

“Except, no doubt, you'll be looking for someone who's wealthier than Henry was,” Marcus mused, “now that you're more experienced in the realities of life.”

She wanted to deny it, but her innate honesty wouldn't allow her to do so. She clenched her hand tightly under the concealing folds of her habit and stayed still. He would never be convinced she wasn't aiming to sell her daughter to the highest bidder. He wouldn't believe that while she
did
want more for Sophie than she had achieved for herself—a great deal more, in fact—she was not thinking of material things, only of giving Sophie the widest possible opportunity to find a man who suited her.

The silence dragged. Miranda counted the ticks of the tall-case clock in the corner of the library and wondered if he would speak again or simply throw her out.

Finally Marcus said, “What security do you offer that the loan will be repaid?”

She looked up at him in shock. “You'll do it?”

“I haven't agreed to anything yet. I'm merely taking a sensible approach to the question, as any good businessman would. You must admit, if nothing else, that I
am
a good businessman, or I wouldn't have the funds at my disposal to make such a loan. A London Season does not come cheaply.”

Miranda hesitated. “It's only… She
is
a lovely girl and a delightful one. If I can simply show her off in London…”

“You're making things worse, Miranda. Stick to business. If you have no resources to pay for this endeavor yourself, then what assurance do I have that you will be able to repay the loan after the Season ends? Will you, for instance, ask your daughter's husband to include the necessary funds in the marriage settlements?”

“I…” She stumbled to a halt.

“Or hadn't you thought that far ahead? You considered, perhaps, that I would think it so flattering to be tapped for this honor that I wouldn't require repayment?”

Miranda felt something snap inside her. She had hoped it wouldn't come to this—that the bonds of long-ago friendship would be enough to persuade him. But there seemed to be no option left. “I have nothing,” she said flatly. “Except… Once upon a time you wanted me, Marcus. Give me the funds to provide my daughter with her chance, and…”

“And…?” he asked softly.

She looked into the chasm that waited for her, and closed her eyes to take the leap. “And I'll be your mistress.”

***

On
the following morning, Rye presented himself at Lady Stone's door as ordered. The butler, without comment, led him up the first set of stairs and into a drawing room that overlooked the corner of Grosvenor Square. “I will tell Lady Stone you have arrived,” the butler said grandly and departed, closing the door.

The drawing room was surprisingly light and airy—not at all the sort of crowded, cramped, and overheated space he had expected Lady Stone to prefer—and he looked around with satisfaction at the pale-blue-and-cream furnishings.

Until he saw someone move. Miss Langford had been sitting quietly on a damask-covered sofa in front of one of the twin fireplaces. She was wearing a dusty shade of green, with some sort of tapestry thing spread across her lap.

She laid down her needlework and said, “So you did come back, just as I predicted you would.” She added, just a little too late to be respectful, “My lord.”

“I considered not returning, Miss Langford, but I found the idea insupportable.”

“You mean you could not support the thought of seeking out an heiress on your own?”

“No. The thought of never again hearing the dulcet tones of your being rude to me was more than I could bear.” Rye suspected she had to bite her lip to keep from smiling, and suddenly he longed to say something so amusing that she wouldn't be able to help herself.

He asked, with honest curiosity, “Why is it, Miss Langford, that you dislike me so much? I am certain we have never met before yesterday. What have I done to annoy you so greatly?”

“It is not personal, Lord Ryecroft. I simply don't appreciate men of your type.”

“Ah.
My type.
You are referring, I suppose, to tall, handsome, titled gentlemen?”

“You're tall and titled at least,” she said. “But… no.”

“Sadly, then, you must be referring to fortune hunters.”

“Indeed I am. Though, Lady Stone aside, it's rare to meet with such plain speaking when discussing the subject. Most gentlemen who seek wealthy brides prefer not to admit it. They are devious instead, denying their real motivations while pretending to be in love.”

“I see no point in attempting to conceal a fact that must be self-evident to all of society, Miss Langford, and no shame in admitting the truth. I
am
a fortune hunter. There are, I believe, a number of us.”

He had startled her; that was clear. Her eyes were wide and her face less guarded than he had seen it before. It made her far prettier somehow—as well as softer and more approachable. Not that he wanted to approach her. He swallowed the odd tickle in his throat.

“But will you make your reasons for marriage clear to the young woman you eventually choose?” she challenged. “Or will you dazzle her into thinking you care about her instead of only her wealth, until you are wed and it is too late for her to escape?”

“I believe it will be possible to choose a person I can learn to care for.”

“With her marriage portion as nothing but a welcome bonus?” She dismissed that possibility with a firm shake of the head. Her hair shimmered in the firelight.

“There must be a reason you so dislike fortune hunters, Miss Langford. Do you have a friend, perhaps, who was pursued for her money, not for herself?”

“How perceptive of you to think it, my lord.” She bent her head to her needlework once more, and her voice grew soft. “While I was at school, there was a young woman… Her father had gone out to the West Indies to work in the sugar industry. Just after she left school and went to live with an aunt, her father died. Soon a careless comment from her aunt caused a rumor to spread—unknown to the young woman herself—that she was an heiress. She thought the young gentleman who said such pretty things to her was telling the truth about his growing attachment for her, until his mother came to make a formal call and asked straight out what her financial circumstances were.”

“And when the facts were revealed, the young gentleman broke off his attachment?”

“When she told him her father had been a bookkeeper on the sugar plantation, he made an excuse—and she never heard from him again.”

“How fortunate,” Rye said.

“That he discovered the truth, you mean, before he had committed himself to her?”

“No. She was lucky to have discovered he was no gentleman before she had committed herself to him.”

“True enough, though it was hardly an adequate consolation for being duped. We shall see, whether you will do better.” She set another stitch and held the tapestry up to study the effect. Though the bits of gold thread caught the light, they paled beside the gleam of her hair.

He tore his gaze from her and glanced around the room. “Lady Stone seems to have been delayed.”

“She has not yet come downstairs this morning. Is finding your heiress so crucial that it could not wait until after breakfast?”

She was obviously regretting the momentary lapse in control that had made her confide that sad little story about her friend. Now she was back to being prickly Miss Langford… but the sharper she was, the easier it was for him to remember this woman was nothing like the one he was searching for.

“You may recall that your employer didn't specify a time—and I did not wish to be rude by keeping her waiting. Shall I come back later, or stay and let you sharpen your claws on me until she appears?”

“She always breakfasts in her room, and I expect she will be down before long. I asked you a question, my lord. Is finding an heiress truly so important to you?”

This time she sounded as if she really wanted to know. A polite inquiry from her made a nice change, Rye thought. “I'm afraid it is. In my defense, however, I should point out that my mother relies on me to provide for her future, and my sister is of a marriageable age and must make her curtsy no later than next year.”

“Then seek employment, my lord.” Her tone was crisp.

“I
have
employment, Miss Langford. More than three hundred people connected with my estate depend on me.”

“How selfless of you to take such pains to care for them. What a sacrifice it must be for you to have to marry a wealthy woman.”

So much for politeness
. And a snap of the fingers for the idea of wanting to make her smile. Why had such a nonsensical notion even crossed his mind? “And I suppose if a wealthy man offered for you, Miss Langford, you would reject him out of hand simply because his pockets were too plump?”

“Of course not.”

“Then what is the difference between you and me?”

“I am not trying to marry a wealthy man, my lord. Or, indeed, any man at all.”

“Probably wise of you,” Rye said.

Her gaze lifted to his for a moment, and he saw turbulence in her big hazel eyes—why had he not noticed how fine her eyes were yesterday? Was it only because he'd been so caught up in untangling those long, curly lashes? Something made him take a step closer to the sofa where she sat, but she merely picked up her needlework again.

“If I
were
trying to marry,” she said gently, “and if any man at all would suit my purpose, the only thing I would have to do is call out for the butler right now. By the time Padgett arrived, I could muss my hair and undo the top buttons of my dress—and no matter how much you protested your innocence, my lord, the evidence would say otherwise.”

Rye could almost feel his face going pale. If Lady Stone believed her companion had been compromised, she would insist that he instantly come up to scratch.

Marrying an heiress was one thing; at least it would still be his choice of whether to make an offer and when and to whom. But the possibility of being forced into marrying a termagant like Portia Langford was another thing entirely.

He didn't realize he'd taken yet another step toward her until she held out her palm to warn him off. “No, my lord, do not threaten me—you need have no fear for your reputation. I was merely having fun at your expense by pointing out the threat. I have no wish to be trapped in a scheme like that”—her gaze swept over him as if she was taking stock, before she finished levelly—“with a man who has nothing to recommend him but his title.”

Relief surged through him, mixed with a good dose of aggravation. He'd
never
threatened a woman… though he had to admit if there was one who could drive him that far, it was likely to be Portia Langford. She had the tongue of an adder—making it sound as if he was the last man on earth who could possibly interest her.

Not that he cared what she thought.

She rethreaded her needle with a different shade of wool. “Still, it's a trick you might wish to remember, my lord. If the heiress you choose is not agreeable to your suit, you could always manage to trap her in a room alone with you and arrange to be discovered by her mama.”

“I'll keep that in mind.” He went to the farthest corner of the drawing room to stand by the window, pretending to study the traffic down on the square. But even though his back was turned, he could feel her there. He could sense the movement of her hands as she plied the needle in fine, small, rhythmic motions. He could almost feel the cool touch of her fingertips—as though his skin were the canvas she was so carefully stitching.

Nothing to recommend him, hmm? He had half a notion to go over there and show her it wasn't just his title he could offer to a woman. It might be satisfying to kiss her senseless, to make her incapable of speaking, to leave her panting for his touch. To turn the stiff and upright Miss Langford into a puddle of femininity who would beg him not to stop…

It wasn't until the door opened and Lady Stone rustled in that Rye realized he had started across the room to act on the impulse. He cleared his throat and thanked heaven that she hadn't waited another two minutes to make her entrance.

Lady Stone ignored Miss Langford altogether and crossed directly to Rye, offering her hand. He bowed over it and apologized for being early.

She gave a rusty laugh. “Not at all, Ryecroft. Your eagerness to get started makes me feel important. Come and sit down, and let's discuss our strategy. For one thing we will need to consider how to play down your weak points and build on your strong ones.”

Rye thought he heard a murmured “if he
has
any strong points,” from Miss Langford.