Jack looked supremely bored. Having by dint of superior experience won through to her side, he towered over her, his expression rigidly controlled, his eyes a chilly blue.
Sophie felt distinctly irate. He was intimidating her suitors. She did not like her current course, but it was the only one open to her, a fact she felt Jack should acknowledge, rather than get on his high ropes because… Well, the only conclusion she could reach was that he was jealous of the attention she was paying the other men.
But it was from among them she would have to chose a husband, and she felt increasingly annoyed when Jack continued to make her task more difficult. When Sir Stuart Mablethorpe, a distinguished scholar, met Jack’s gaze and promptly forgot whatever lengthy peroration he had been about to utter, Sophie shot her nemesis a frosty glance.
Jack met it with bland imperturbability.
Thoroughly incensed, Sophie was only too ready to smile at Lord Ruthven, a gentleman she suspected had much in common with Jack Lester, in all respects bar one. Lord Ruthven did not need a wealthy bride.
One of Lord Ruthven’s dark brows rose fractionally. “Perhaps, Miss Winterton,” he said as he straightened from his bow, “you might care to stroll the room?” His gaze flicked to Jack, then returned to Sophie’s face.
Ignoring the glint in Ruthven’s eyes, Sophie replied, “Indeed, sir. I’m becoming quite fatigued standing here.”
Ruthven’s lips twitched. “No doubt. Permit me to offer you an escape, my dear.” Thus saying, he offered her his arm.
With determined serenity, Sophie placed her hand on his lordship’s sleeve, refusing to acknowledge the charged silence beside her. She was too wise to even glance at Jack as, with Ruthven, she left his side.
Which was just as well. Only when he was sure his emotions were once more under control did Jack allow so much as a muscle to move. And by then, Sophie and Ruthven were halfway down the room. His expression stony, Jack considered the possibilities; only the glint in his eyes betrayed his mood. Then, with his usual languid air, he strolled into the crowd, his course set for a collision with his golden head.
By the time she reached the end of the room, Sophie had realized that Ruthven’s green eyes saw rather more than most. All the way down the room, he had subtly twitted her on her keeper. She suspected, however, that his lordship’s indolent interest was more excited by the prospect of tweaking Jack’s nose than by her own inherent attractions. Which was both comforting and a trifle worrying.
Together, she and Lord Ruthven paused beneath the minstrels’ gallery and turned to survey the room.
“Ah, there you are, Ruthven.” Jack materialized out of the crowd. He smiled easily at his lordship. “I just saw Lady Orkney by the stairs. She was asking after you.”
Sophie glanced round in time to see an expression compounded of chagrin and suspicion flit across his lordship’s handsome face. “Indeed?” One brow elevated, Ruthven regarded Jack sceptically.
Jack’s smile grew. “Just so. Quite insistent on speaking with you. You know how she is.”
Lord Ruthven grimaced. “As you say.” Turning to Sophie, Ruthven said, “I fear I must ask you to excuse me, Miss Winterton. My aunt can become quite hysterical if denied.” Again one of his lordship’s brows rose, this time in resignation. “I dare say Lester will be only too happy to escort you about.” With a wry smile, he bowed gracefully over her hand and departed.
Sophie eyed his retreating back through narrowed eyes. She had not seriously considered Ruthven as a suitor but she would certainly not consider a man who aggravated a lady’s position, then deserted her, leaving her to face the consequences alone.
As Jack’s fingers closed about her hand, she glanced up at his face. His impassive expression didn’t fool her for a moment. Then he looked down at her, his eyes hard and very blue.
“Come with me, Miss Winterton.” Her hand trapped on his sleeve, Jack headed towards the windows leading onto the terrace.
Sophie dug in her heels. “I have no intention of going anywhere private with you, Mr. Lester.”
“Jack.” The single syllable left Sophie in no doubt of his mood. “And if you would rather air our differences in public…” he shrugged. “…who am I to deny a lady?”
Looking up into his eyes, and seeing, as she had twice before, the dark brooding presence that lurked behind them, Sophie felt her throat constrict. But her own temper was not far behind his—he was behaving like a dog in a manger. “Very well, Mr. Lester,” she replied, holding his gaze. “But not on the terrace.” From the corner of her eye, Sophie could see the rippling curtains that sealed off the music room, built out at the end of the ballroom under the minstrels’ gallery. Half-concealed as it was by the gallery above and a row of ironwork urns, it was doubtful anyone else had thought to use the room. They could be private there while still remaining in the ballroom. Her lips firming, Sophie nodded to the curtain. “This way.”
Jack followed her into the shadows beneath the gallery, then held back the curtain as she slipped through. He followed her. The heavy curtain fell to, deadening the noise from the ballroom. Candelabra shed ample light about the room, casting a mellow glow on the polished surfaces of the pianoforte and harpsichord. It was a comfortable little nook furnished with well-stuffed chaises and two armchairs. Sophie ignored its amenities and stode to the middle of the Aubusson rug in the centre of the floor.
Chin high, she swung to face Jack. “Now, Mr. Lester. Perhaps we may speak plainly.”
“Precisely my thinking,” Jack replied, strolling forward until he stood directly before her, no more than a foot away.
Mentally cursing, Sophie had to lift her head higher to meet his eyes.
“Perhaps,” Jack suggested, “we could start with what, precisely, you think to achieve with all the gentlemen you’ve been so busily collecting?”
“A most pertinent point,” Sophie agreed. She took a moment to marshall her thoughts, then began, her tone calm and quietly determined. “As I believe I told you, my first Season, four years ago, was cut very short.”
Jack nodded curtly.
“As you also know, not only my aunt, but all my mother’s friends are very keen…” Sophie paused, then amended, “Positively determined that I should wed. Indeed—” she met Jack’s gaze challengingly “—I can see no other alternative.”
A muscle shifted in Jack’s jaw. “Quite.”
“Thus,” Sophie continued, “I must set about…er, gathering suitable suitors.” She frowned slightly. Put like that, it sounded decidedly cold.
Jack frowned too. “Why?”
Sophie blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
Jack gritted his teeth and hung on to his temper. “Why do you need a whole pack of eligibles? Won’t one do?”
Sophie frowned again, but this time at him. “Of course not,” she answered, irritated by what could only be deliberate obtuseness. She drew herself up, her own eyes glittering. “I refuse to marry a man who does not have at least some of the attributes I consider appropriate.”
Jack’s frown intensified. “What attributes?”
“Attributes such as having estates in the country and a willingness to spend most of the year there. And being fond of children.” Sophie blushed and hurried on, “And who can…can…well, who likes riding and…”
“Who can waltz you off your feet?” Jack’s expression relaxed.
Sophie shot him a wary glance and saw the taunting gleam in his eye. She put up her chin. “There is a whole host of attributes I consider necessary in the gentleman I would wish to marry.”
Jack nodded. “Nevertheless, coming to appreciate the attributes of the gentleman you’re going to marry does not, for my money, necessitate gathering a small crowd with which to compare him.”
“But of course it does!” Sophie glared. “How do you imagine I’m going to know that the one I accept is the right one if I do not—” she gestured with one hand “—look over the field?” Her tone was decidedly belligerent.
Jack frowned, recalling Lucilla’s words. Did Sophie really need to compare him with others to be sure?
“And how,” Sophie demanded, “am I supposed to do that, other than by talking and dancing with them?”
Jack’s lips compressed into a thin line.
Sophie nodded. “Precisely. And I have to say,” she continued, her nose in the air, “that I consider it most unfair of you to get in my way.”
A moment’s silence followed.
“Sophie,” Jack growled, his voice very low, his eyes fixed on Sophie’s face. “Believe me when I say that I have no intention whatever of letting you loose amongst the ton’s bachelors.”
Sophie very nearly stamped her foot. Dragging in a portentous breath, she fixed him with a steely glare. “You are behaving outrageously! You do understand that I must marry, do you not?”
“Yes. But—”
“And that I must therefore choose between whatever suitors I may have?”
Jack’s expression darkened. “Yes. But—”
“Well, then—with all your remarkable experience, perhaps you’d like to tell me how I’m to learn enough about each of them to discover which one will make the best husband?”
Jack’s eyes narrowed. “It’s very easy.”
“Indeed?” Sophie’s brows flew. “How?”
Jack focused on her lips, lushly full and all but pouting. “You should marry the man who loves you the most.”
“I see,” Sophie said, her temper still in alt. “And how, pray tell, am I supposed to identify him?” Her tone stated very clearly that she expected no sensible answer.
Very slowly, Jack’s lips curved. His eyes lifted to Sophie’s. “Like this,” he said. Bending his head, he touched his lips to hers.
Sophie shivered, then went quite still. Her lids lowered, then shut as a wave of sweet longing swept through her. His lips were warm, smooth and firm against the softness of hers. His fingers found hers and laced through them; her fingers curled about his, clinging as if to a lifeline. She knew she should draw back, but made no move to do so, held, trapped, not by his desire, but her own. The realization made her tremble; his hands left hers to gently frame her face, holding her still as his lips teased and taunted, soothed and sipped.
Another wave of longing swept through her, keener, sweeter, more urgent. Sophie felt her senses start to slide into some blissful vale; she raised her hands and gripped his lapels as she leant into the kiss, offering her lips, seeking his.
Jack shuddered as his passions surged. Ruthlessly he quelled them, refusing to rupture the magic of the moment by allowing them free rein. Sophie’s lips were warm and inviting, as sweet as nectar, just as he had imagined they would be. She drew nearer, her breasts brushing his chest. Her lips softened under his, she shivered delicately—and he knew he had been right from the start. She was his.
He felt his passions swell, possessively triumphant; he stood firm against their prompting, even though his arms ached to hold her. Unable to completely resist the beguiling temptation of her lips, he allowed the kiss to deepen by imperceptible degrees, until he had to struggle to shackle the need to taste her passionate sweetness.
Reluctantly he drew back, bringing the kiss to an end, his breathing sounding harsh in his ears. He forced his hands from her face, willing them to his sides.
Slowly Sophie’s eyes opened. Her wise, starry gaze searched his face.
Bemused, bewildered, Sophie eased her grip on his lapels and lowered her hands. But she did not step back. She stared up at him and struggled to understand. She was teetering on the brink of some abyss; her senses pushed her on, urging her into his arms. Dimly she wondered what magic it was that could so overset her reason.
She wanted him to kiss her again. She needed to feel his arms close about her—even though she knew it would only further complicate an already difficult situation.
Jack read her desire in her eyes, in the parting of her full lips. He tensed against his instincts, against the building urge to sweep her into his arms.
Sophie saw the dark prowling beast that raged, caged, behind his eyes. And suddenly she understood. She caught her breath, fighting the excitement the welled within her, an unknown, never-before-experienced longing to meet his passion with her own. To fling herself into the dark depths of his gaze.
Jack saw the spark that lit her eyes, the glow that softened her face. The sight shredded his will. His control wavered.
The curtain cutting off the ballroom lifted and the noise of the ball rushed in.
As one, Sophie and Jack turned to see Phillip Marston holding the curtain back. His expression could only be described as severely disapproving.
“There you are, Miss Winterton. Permit me to escort you back to your aunt.”
Sophie did not move. She drew in a breath, then slanted a glance at Jack. He met it, his expression arrogantly distant. Sophie held her breath; she thought she saw one brow lift slightly. Then, to her relief, he offered her his arm.
“You’re mistaken, Marston; Miss Winterton needs no other escort than mine.”
A delicious little thrill coursed down Sophie’s spine; sternly, she suppressed the sensation and placed her hand on Jack’s sleeve.
“Miss Winterton was overcome by the heat in the ballroom,” Jack glibly explained. “We retired here to allow her to recover.” He glanced down at Sophie’s slightly flushed cheeks. “If you’re feeling up to it, my dear, I’ll take you back to your circle.”
But not willingly, said his eyes. Sophie ignored the message and graciously inclined her head. “Thank you, sir.” At least he wasn’t abandoning her to Mr. Marston.
Jack allowed Marston to hold back the curtain as they emerged into the cacophony of the ball, now in full swing.
Sophie held her head high as they slowly wended their way through the crowd. Phillip Marston kept close by her other side.
Jack bided his time until Sophie’s little group of would-be suitors, vaguely at a loss having misplaced their focus, loomed large before them. Then he adroitly lifted Sophie’s hand from his sleeve and, stepping behind her, interposed himself between her and Phillip Marston. “We have not yet finished our discussion, Sophie.”
His words were muted as he raised her hand.
Sophie, her expression once more calm and remote, lifted her chin. “Indeed, sir, I urge you to believe that we have had all the discussion we are ever likely to have on that particular topic.”
Jack’s expression remained impassive but his eyes held hers. Very deliberately, he lifted her hand and, turning it, pressed a brief kiss to her palm. “I’ll speak with you later.”
Sophie snatched her hand back, grateful that his bulk shielded them from almost everyone. She opened her mouth to protest—only to find him bowing gracefully. The next thing she knew, she was surrounded on all sides by gentlemen trying to claim her attention. By the time she had smoothed over her absence, Jack had disappeared.
But he hadn’t left.
From an alcove by the steps, shielded by a potted palm, Jack kept a brooding watch over his golden head until the last note had sounded and the last of her would-be suitors had been dismissed.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
WITHIN TWENTY-FOUR HOURS, Jack had come to the conclusion that Fate had decided to live up to her reputation. He had fully intended to pursue his discussion with Sophie, rudely interrupted by Phillip Marston, the very next morning. Fickle Fate gave him no chance.
True, they went riding as usual, a mere ball being insufficient to dampen the Webbs’ equestrian spirits. The children, however, prompted, Jack had no doubt, by Sophie, hung about him, bombarding him with questions about the projected balloon ascension. When Percy hove in sight, Jack ruthlessly fobbed the children off on his friend, who, by pure chance, was an amateur enthusiast. But by that time, the gentlemen who had discovered Sophie and Clarissa the night before had caught up with them.
Jack spent the rest of the ride po-faced by Sophie’s side.
And there was wo
rse to come.
As Jack had predicted, Clarissa Webb’s come-out ball became the de facto beginning of the Season. It had been voted an horrendous crush by all; every hostess with any claim to fame rushed to lay her own entertainments before the ton. The days and evenings became an orgy of Venetian breakfasts, alfresco luncheons, afternoon teas and formal dinners, all crowned by a succession of balls, routs, drums and soirées. And beneath the frenzy ran the underlying aim of fostering suitable alliances—an aim with which Jack was, for the first time in his career, deeply involved.
Indeed, as he leaned against the wall in an alcove in Lady Marchmain’s ballroom, his gaze, as always, on Sophie, presently gliding through a cotillion, the only thing on Jack’s mind was a suitable alliance. He had come to town to use the Season as a backdrop for his wooing of Sophie. By his reckoning, the Season was now more than a week old. Then how much longer did he have to hold off and watch her smile at other men?
“I wonder…need I ask which one she is? Or should I make an educated guess?”
At the drawled words, Jack shifted his gaze to frown at Harry. Observing his brother’s interrogative expression, Jack snorted and returned to his occupation. “Second set from the door. In amber silk. Blond.”
“Naturally.” Harry located Sophie by the simple expedient of following Jack’s gaze. His brows slowly rose. “Not bad at all,” he mused. “Have I complimented you recently on your taste?”
“Not so I’ve noticed.”
“Ah, well.” Harry slanted Jack a rakish smile. “Perhaps I’d better converse with this paragon before I pass judgement.”
“If you can shake the dogs that yap at her heels.”
Harry shook his head languidly. “Oh, I think I’ll manage. What’s her name?”
“Sophie Winterton.”
With a smile which Jack alone could view with equanimity, Harry sauntered into the crowd. His lips twisting wryly, Jack settled to watch how his brother performed a feat he himself was finding increasingly difficult.
“Thank you, Mr. Somercote. An excellent measure.” Sophie smiled and gave Mr. Somercote her hand, hoping he would accept his dismissal. He was, unfortunately, becoming a trifle pointed in his interest.