Stephanie Laurens Rogues' Reform Bundle (30 page)

“There aren't many like Lenore.”

“Don't I know it.” Jack let his disgruntlement show. “I'm seriously wondering if what I seek exists—a gentlewoman with charm and grace, efficient and firm enough to manage the reins.”

“Blond, well-endowed and of sunny disposition?”

Jack shot his brother an irritated glance. “It certainly wouldn't hurt, given the rest of her duties.”

Harry chuckled. “No likely prospects in sight?”

“Nary a one.” Jack's disgust was back. “After a year of looking, I can truthfully inform you that not one candidate made me look twice. They're all so alike—young, sweet and innocent—and quite helpless. I need a woman with backbone and all I can find are clinging vines.”

Silence filled the room as they both considered his words.

“Sure Lenore can't help?” Harry eventually asked.

Jack shook his head. “Eversleigh, damn his hide, was emphatic. His duchess will not be gracing the
ton's
ballrooms this Season. Instead,” Jack continued, his eyes gently twinkling, “she'll be at home at Eversleigh, tending to her firstborn and his father, while increasing under Jason's watchful eye. Meanwhile, to use his words, the
ton
can go hang.”

Harry laughed. “So she's really indisposed? I thought that business about morning sickness was an excuse Jason drummed up to whisk her out of the crowd.”

Grimacing, Jack shook his head. “All too true, I fear. Which means that, having ploughed through last Season without her aid, while she was busy presenting Eversleigh with his heir, and frittered away the Little Season, too, I'm doomed to struggle on alone through the shoals of the upcoming Season, with a storm lowering on the horizon and no safe harbour in sight.”

“A grim prospect,” Harry acknowledged.

Jack grunted, his mind engrossed once more with marriage. For years, the very word had made him shudder. Now, with the ordeal before him, having spent hours contemplating the state, he was no longer so dismissive, so uninterested. It was his sister's marriage that had altered his view. Hardly the conventional image, for while Jason had married Lenore for a host of eminently conventional reasons, the depth of their love was apparent to all. The fond light that glowed in Jason's grey eyes whenever he looked at his wife had assured Jack that all was well with his sister—even more than Lenore's transparent joy. Any notion that his brother-in-law, ex-rake, for years the bane of the dragons, was anything other than besotted with his wife was simply not sustainable in the face of his rampant protectiveness.

Grimacing at the dying fire, Jack reached for the poker. He was not at all sure he wanted to be held in thrall as Jason, apparently without a qualm, was, yet he was very sure he wanted what his brother-in-law had found. A woman who loved him. And whom he loved in return.

Harry sighed, then stood and stretched. “Time to go up. You'd best come, too—no sense in not looking your best for Lady Asfordby's young ladies.”

With a look of pained resignation, Jack rose. As they crossed to the sideboard to set down their glasses, he shook his head. “I'm tempted to foist the whole business back in Lady Luck's lap. She handed us this fortune—it's only fair she provide the solution to the problem she's created.”

“Ah, but Lady Luck is a fickle female.” Harry turned as he opened the door. “Are you sure you want to gamble the rest of your life on her whim?”

Jack's expression was grim. “I'm already gambling with the rest of my life. This damned business is no different from the turn of a card or the toss of a die.”

“Except that if you don't like the stake, you can decline to wager.”

“True, but finding the right stake is my problem.”

As they emerged into the dark hall and took possession of the candles left waiting, Jack continued, “My one, particular golden head—it's the least Lady Luck can do, to find her and send her my way.”

Harry shot him an amused glance. “Tempting Fate, brother mine?”

“Challenging Fate,” Jack replied.

 

W
ITH A SATISFYING SWIRL
of her silk skirts, Sophia Winterton completed the last turn of the Roger de Coverley and sank gracefully into a smiling curtsy. About her, the ballroom of Asfordby Grange was full to the seams with a rainbow-hued throng. Perfume wafted on the errant breezes admitted through the main doors propped wide in the middle of the long room. Candlelight flickered, sheening over artful curls and glittering in the jewels displayed by the dowagers lining the wall.

“A positive pleasure, my dear Miss Winterton.” Puffing slightly, Mr. Bantcombe bowed over her hand. “A most invigorating measure.”

Rising, Sophie smiled. “Indeed, sir.” A quick glance around located her young cousin, Clarissa, ingenuously thanking a youthful swain some yards away. With soft blue eyes and alabaster skin, her pale blond ringlets framing a heart-shaped face, Clarissa was a hauntingly lovely vision. Just now, all but quivering with excitement, she forcibly reminded Sophie of a highly strung filly being paraded for the very first time.

With an inward smile, Sophie gave her hand and her attention to Mr. Bantcombe. “Lady Asfordby's balls may not be as large as the assemblies in Melton, but to my mind, they're infinitely superior.”

“Naturally, naturally.” Mr. Bantcombe was still short of breath. “Her ladyship is of first consequence hereabouts—and she always takes great pains to exclude the
hoi polloi
. None of the park-saunterers and half-pay officers who follow the pack will be here tonight.”

Sophie squelched a wayward thought to the effect that she would not really mind one or two half-pay officers, just to lend colour to the ranks of the gentlemen she had come to know suffocatingly well over the last six months. She pinned a bright smile to her lips. “Shall we return to my aunt, sir?”

She had joined her aunt and uncle's Leicestershire household last September, after waving her father, Sir Humphrey Winterton, eminent paleontologist, a fond farewell. Departing on an expedition of unknown duration, to Syria, so she believed, her father had entrusted her to the care of her late mother's only sister, Lucilla Webb, an arrangement that met with Sophie's unqualified approval. The large and happy household inhabiting Webb Park, a huge rambling mansion some miles from Asfordby Grange, was a far cry from the quiet, studious existence she had endured at the side of her grieving and taciturn sire ever since her mother's death four years ago.

Her aunt, a slender, ethereal figure draped in cerulean-blue silk, hair that still retained much of its silvery blond glory piled high on her elegant head, was gracefully adorning one of the chaises lining the wall, in earnest conversation with Mrs. Haverbuck, another of the local ladies.

“Ah, there you are, Sophie.” Lucilla Webb turned as, with a smile and a nod for Sophie, Mrs. Haverbuck departed. “I'm positively in awe of your energy, my dear.” Pale blue eyes took in Mr. Bantcombe's florid face. “Dear Mr. Bantcombe, perhaps you could fetch me a cool drink?”

Mr. Bantcombe readily agreed. Bowing to Sophie, he departed.

“Poor man,” Lucilla said as he disappeared into the crowd. “Obviously not up to your standard, Sophie dear.”

Sophie's lips twitched.

“Still,” Lucilla mused in her gentle airy voice, “I'm truly glad to see you so enjoying yourself, my dear. You look very well, even if 'tis I who say so. The
ton
will take to you—and you to it, I make no doubt.”

“Indeed the
ton
will, if your aunt and I and all your mother's old friends have anything to say about it!”

Both Sophie and Lucilla turned as, with much rustling to stiff bombazine, Lady Entwhistle took Mrs. Haverbuck's place.

“Just stopped in to tell you, Lucilla, that Henry's agreed—we're to go up to town tomorrow.” Lifting a pair of lorgnettes from where they hung about her neck, Lady Entwhistle embarked on a detailed scrutiny of Sophie with all the assurance of an old family friend. Sophie knew that no facet of her appearance—the style in which her golden curls had been piled upon her head, the simple but undeniably elegant cut of her rose-magenta silk gown, her long ivory gloves, even her tiny satin dancing slippers—would escape inspection.

“Humph.” Her ladyship concluded her examination. “Just as I thought. You'll set the
ton
's bachelors back on their heels, m'dear. Which,” she added, turning to Lucilla, a conspiratorial gleam in her eye, “is precisely to my point. I'm giving a ball on Monday. To introduce Henry's cousin's boy to our acquaintance. Can I hope you'll be there?”

Lucilla pursed her lips, eyes narrowing. “We're to leave at the end of the week, so I should imagine we'll reach London by Sunday.” Her face cleared. “I can see no reason not to accept your invitation, Mary.”

“Good!” With her habitual bustle, Lady Entwhistle stood, improbable golden ringlets bouncing. Catching sight of Clarissa through the crowd, she added, “It'll be an informal affair, and it's so early in the Season I see no harm in Clarissa joining us, do you?”

Lucilla smiled. “I know she'll be delighted.”

Lady Entwhistle chuckled. “All wound tight with excitement, is she? Ah, well—just remember when we were like that, Lucy—you and I and Maria.” Her ladyship's eyes strayed to Sophie, a certain anticipation in their depths. Then, with determined briskness, she gathered her reticule. “But I must away—I'll see you in London.”

Sophie exchanged a quiet smile with her aunt, then, lips curving irrepressibly, looked out over the crowded room. If she were asked, she would have to admit that it was not only Clarissa, barely seventeen and keyed up to make her come-out, who was prey to a certain excitement. Beneath her composure, that of an experienced young lady of twenty-two years, Sophie was conscious of a lifting of her heart. She was looking forward to her first full Season.

She would have to find a husband, of course. Her mother's friends, not to speak of her aunt, would accept nothing less. Strangely, the prospect did not alarm her, as it certainly had years ago. She was more than up to snuff—she fully intended to look carefully and choose wisely.

“Do my eyes deceive me, or has Ned finally made his move?”

Lucilla's question had Sophie following her aunt's gaze to where Edward Ascombe, Ned to all, the son of a neighbour, was bowing perfunctorily over her cousin's hand. Sophie saw Clarissa stiffen.

A little above average height, Ned was a relatively serious young man, his father's pride and joy, at twenty-one already absorbed in caring for the acres that would, one day, be his. He was also determined to have Clarissa Webb to wife. Unfortunately, at the present moment, with Clarissa full of nervy excitement at the prospect of meeting unknown gentlemen up from London for the hunting, Ned was severely handicapped, suffering as he did from the twin disadvantages of being a blameless and worthy suitor and having known Clarissa all her life. Worse, he had already made it plain that his heart was at Clarissa's tiny feet.

Her sympathy at the ready, Sophie watched as he straightened and, all unwitting, addressed Clarissa.

“A cotillion, if you have one left, Clary.” Ned smiled confidently, no premonition of the shaky ground on which he stood showing in his open countenance.

Eyes kindling, Clarissa hissed, “Don't call me that!”

Ned's gentle smile faded. “What the d-deuce
am
I to call you?
Miss Webb?
”

“Exactly!” Clarissa further elevated her already alarmingly tilted chin. Another young gentleman hovered on her horizon; she promptly held out her hand, smiling prettily at the newcomer.

Ned scowled in the same direction. Before the slightly shaken young man could assemble his wits, Ned prompted, “My dance,
Miss Webb?
” His voice held quite enough scorn to sting.

“I'm afraid I'm not available for the cotillion,
Mr. Ascombe.
” Through the crowd, Clarissa caught her mother's eyes. “Perhaps the next country dance?”

For a moment, Sophie, watching, wondered if she and Lucilla would be called upon to intervene. Then Ned drew himself up stiffly. He spoke briefly, clearly accepting whatever Clarissa had offered, then bowed and abruptly turned on his heel.

Clarissa stood, her lovely face blank, watching his back until he was swallowed up by the crowd. For an instant, her lower lip softened. Then, chin firming, she straightened and beamed a brilliant smile at the young gentleman still awaiting an audience.

“Ah.” Lucilla smiled knowingly. “How life does go on. She'll marry Ned in the end, of course. I'm sure the Season will be more than enough to demonstrate the wisdom of her heart.”

Sophie could only hope so, for Clarissa's sake as well as Ned's.

“Miss Winterton?”

Sophie turned to find Mr. Marston bowing before her. A reserved but eminently eligible gentleman of independent means, he was the target of more than a few of the local matchmaking mamas. As she dipped in a smooth curtsy, Sophie inwardly cursed her guilty blush. Mr. Marston was enamoured—and she felt nothing at all in response.

Predictably interpreting her blush as a sign of maidenly awareness, Mr. Marston's thin smile surfaced. “Our quadrille, my dear.” With a punctilious bow to Lucilla, who regally inclined her head, he accepted the hand Sophie gave him and escorted her to the floor.

Her smile charming, her expression serene, Sophie dipped and swayed through the complicated figures, conscious of treading a very fine line. She refused to retreat in confusion before Mr. Marston's attentions, yet she had no wish to encourage him.

“Indeed, sir,” she replied to one of his sallies. “I'm enjoying the ball immensely. However, I feel no qualms about meeting those gentlemen up from London—after all, my cousin and I will shortly be in London ballrooms. Acquaintances made tonight could prove most comforting.”