Stephanie Laurens Rogues' Reform Bundle (42 page)

“Good evening, Mr. Lester.” Lucilla smiled benevolently. She watched approvingly as he bowed over her hand.

“Mrs. Webb.” Jack straightened. “May I say how honoured I was to receive your invitation?”

Lucilla airily waved her fan. “Not at all, Mr. Lester. It is I who am very glad to see you. I've been a trifle concerned that dear Sophie might be finding our present round of engagements somewhat stale. Dare I hope you might feel inclined to relieve her boredom?”

Jack forced his lips to behave. “Indeed, ma'am, I would be happy to do whatever I may in that endeavour.”

Lucilla smiled. “I knew I could rely on you, Mr. Lester.” With an imperious gesture, she claimed his arm. “Now you must come and speak with Mr. Webb.”

As she led him into the crowd, Jack suppressed the thought that he had been conscripted.

On the other side of the room, Sophie chatted with a small group of not-so-young ladies. Some, like Miss Chessington, her aunt had invited specifically to keep her company, while others, like Miss Billingham, had younger sisters making their come-out this year. Gradually, they had attracted a smattering of the gentlemen present. Most of these were either carefully vetted Webb connections or unexceptionable young men who were the sons of Lucilla's closest cronies. There was no danger lurking among them.

Stifling an inward sigh, Sophie applied herself to keeping the conversation rolling; not a difficult task, supported as she was by the ebullient Miss Chessington.

“I had heard,” that ever-bright damsel declared, “that there's to be a duel fought on Paddington Green, between Lord Malmsey and Viscount Holthorpe!”

“Over what?” Miss Billingham asked, her long nose quivering.

Belle Chessington looked round at the gentlemen who had joined them. “Well, sirs? Can no one clear up this little mystery?”

“Dare say it's the usual thing.” Mr. Allingcott waved a dismissive hand, his expression supercilious. “Not the sort of thing you ladies want to hear about.”

“If
that's
what you think,” Miss Allingcott informed her elder brother, “then you know
nothing
about ladies, Harold. The reason for a duel is positively
thrilling
information.”

Discomfited, Mr. Allingcott frowned.

“Has anyone heard any further details of the balloon ascension from Green Park?” Sophie asked. In less than a minute, her companions were well launched, effectively diverted. Satisfied, Sophie glanced up—and wished she could tie a bell about Jack Lester's neck. A bell, a rattle, anything that would give her warning so that her heart would not lurch and turn over as it did every time her gaze fell into his.

He smiled, and for an instant she forgot where she was, that there were others standing only feet away, listening and observing intently. An odd ripple shook her, stemming from where his fingers had closed over hers. She must, she realized, have surrendered her hand, for now he was bowing over it, making every other gentleman look awkward.

“Good evening, Mr. Lester,” she heard herself say, as if from a distance. She sincerely hoped her smile was not as revealing as her thoughts.

“Miss Winterton.”

His smile and gentle nod warmed her—and made her suspect she had been far too transparent. Taking herself firmly in hand, Sophie turned and surprised an avid gleam in Miss Billingham's eyes. “Have you made the acquaintance of Miss Billingham, sir?”

“Oh, yes!” Augusta Billingham gushed. “Indeed,” she said, her expression turning coy. “Mr. Lester and I are
old
acquaintances.” She held out her hand, her smile sickly sweet, her eyes half-veiled.

Jack hesitated, then took the proffered hand and curtly bowed over it. “Miss Billingham.”

“And Miss Chessington.”

Belle's bright smile had nothing in common with Augusta Billingham's. “Sir,” she acknowledged, bobbing a curtsy.

Jack smiled more naturally and allowed Sophie to introduce him to the rest of the company. By the time she had finished, he was feeling a trifle conspicuous. Nevertheless, he stuck it out, loath to leave Sophie's side.

When the musicians struck up, he bent to whisper, “I do hope, Miss Winterton, that you'll return. I would be quite overcome—utterly at a loss in such company as this—if it weren't for the reassurance of your presence.”

Sophie lifted her head and looked him in the eye. “Gammon,” she whispered back. But her lips quirked upward; Jack let her go with a smile.

While she danced the cotillion and then a country reel, he endeavoured to chat to some of the younger gentlemen. They were slightly overawed. His reputation as a devotee of Jackson's and one of Manton's star pupils, let alone his memberships in the Four-in-Hand and Jockey Clubs were well-known; their conversation was consequently stilted. It made Jack feel every one of his thirty-six years—and made him even more determined to bring his dazzling career as a bachelor of the
ton
to a close as soon as might be.

The prospect was still too far distant for his liking. A quadrille had followed hard on the heels of the reel; Sophie had been claimed for it before she had left the floor. With a brief word, Jack excused himself and wandered over to the musicians. The violinist was the leader; a few quick words were all that was needed, and a guinea sealed their bargain.

When the music stopped, Jack was passing the point where Sophie came to rest. She turned towards the end of the room, where her small group was once again gathering, her youthful partner at her side; she was laughing, her expression open and carefree. Her eyes met his—and a subtle change came over her.

Sophie forced a laugh to her lips, denying the sudden tightening about her lungs, the sudden constriction in her throat. She shot Jack a quizzical glance. “Have you survived thus far, sir?”

With a single, fractionally raised brow, Jack dispensed with her companion. Flustered, the young man bowed and murmured something before taking himself off.

Turning from thanking him, Sophie frowned a warning at her nemesis. “That was most unfair, taking advantage of your seniority.”

Jack hid a wince. “I fear, my dear, that my…ah, experience marks me irrevocably.” Making a mental note to be more careful in future, he took her hand and settled it in the crook of his elbow. “I feel very much like the proverbial wolf amongst the sheep.”

His glance left Sophie breathless. Coolly, she raised a brow at him, then fixed her gaze on her friends. He led her in their direction but made no haste. Nor did he make any attempt at conversation, which left her free, not to regain her composure, as she had hoped, but, instead, to acknowledge the truth of his observation.

He did stand out from the crowd. Not only because of his manner, so coolly arrogant and commanding, but by virtue of his appearance—he was precise as always in a dark blue coat over black pantaloons, with a crisp white cravat tied in an intricate knot the envy of the younger men—his undeniable elegance and his expertise. No one, seeing him, could doubt he was other than he was: a fully fledged and potentially dangerous rake.

Sophie frowned, wondering why her senses refused to register what was surely a reasonable fear.

“Why the frown?”

Sophie looked up to find Jack regarding her thoughtfully.

“Would you rather I left you to your younger friends?”

There was just enough hesitation behind the last words to make Sophie's heart contract. “No,” she assured him, and knew it was the truth.

A flame flared in his eyes, so deeply blue.

Shaken, Sophie drew her eyes from the warmth and looked ahead to where her friends waited. In her eyes, the younger gentlemen were no more than weak cyphers, cast into deep shade by his far more forceful presence.

After a moment, Jack bent his head to murmur, “I understand there's a waltz coming up. Will you do me the honour of waltzing with me, my dear?”

Sophie fleetingly met his gaze, then inclined her head. Together, they rejoined her little circle, Jack withdrawing slightly to stand by her side, a little behind. He hoped, thus, to feature less in the conversation himself, commendably doing his best not to intimidate the younger sparks who, he kept telling himself, were no real threat to him.

Twenty minutes of self-denial later, he heard the musicians again put bow to string. Sophie, who knew very well that he had not moved from his position behind her, turned to him, shyly offering her hand.

With a smile of relief and anticipation both, Jack bowed and led her to the floor.

His relief was short-lived. A single turn about the small floor was enough to tell him something was seriously amiss. True, there was a smile on his partner's face; now and again, as they turned, she allowed her gaze to touch his. But she remained stiff in his arms, not softly supple, relaxed, as previously. She was tense, and her smile was strangely brittle.

His concern grew with every step. Even the cool glance her aunt directed at him as they glided gracefully past, held no power to distract him.

Eventually, he said, his voice gentle, “I had forgot to ask, Miss Winterton—I sincerely hope you've fully recovered from your indisposition?”

Momentarily distracted from the fight to guard her senses against his nearness, Sophie blinked, then blushed. Guilt washed through her; his tone, his expression, were touchingly sincere. “Indeed,” she hastened to reassure him. “I…” She searched for words which were not an outright lie. “It was nothing serious, just a slight headache.” She found it hard to meet his eyes.

Jack frowned, then banished the notion that once more popped into his brain. Of course she had been truly ill; his Sophie was not a schemer.

“And indeed, sir, I fear I've been remiss in not thanking you before this for your kind gift.” Sophie's words died as she stared up at his face, strangely impassive. “You did send them, did you not? The yellow roses?”

To her relief, he nodded, his smile real but somehow distant. “I only hope they lightened your day.” His gaze focused on her face. “As you do mine.”

His last words were whispered, yet they clanged like bells in Sophie's head. She suddenly felt absolutely dreadful. How could she go on pretending like this, trying to hide her heart? It would never work. She was not strong enough; she would trip and he would find out…

Her distress showed very clearly in her eyes. Jack caught his breath. He frowned. “Sophie?”

The music came to an end. He released her only to trap her hand firmly on his sleeve. “Come. We'll stroll a little.”

Sophie's eyes flared wide. “Oh, no, really. I'd better get back.”

“Your friends will survive without you for a few minutes.” Jack's accents were clipped, commanding. “There's a window open at the end of the room. I think you could do with some air.”

Sophie knew fresh air would help, yet the fact that he was sensitive enough to suggest it didn't help at all. She murmured her acquiescence, not that he had waited for it, and told herself she should be grateful. Yet being so close to him, and cut off from ready distraction, her senses were being slowly rasped raw. His effect on them, on her, seemed to get worse with every meeting.

“Here. Sit down.” Jack guided her to a chair set back by the wall, not far from where a set of fine draperies billowed gently in the breeze.

Sophie sank onto the upholstered seat, feeling the cool wood of the chair back against her shoulders. The sensation helped her think. “Perhaps, Mr. Lester, if I could impose on you to get me a drink.”

“Of course,” Jack said. He turned and snapped his fingers at a waiter. With a few terse words, he dispatched the man in search of a glass of water. Sophie hid her dismay.

“And now, Sophie,” Jack said, turning to look down at her. “You're going to tell me what's wrong.”

It was a command, no less. Sophie dragged in a deep breath and forced herself to meet his gaze calmly. “Wrong?” She opened her eyes wide. “Why, Mr. Lester, nothing's wrong.” She spread her hands in a gesture of bewilderment. “I'm merely feeling a trifle…warm.” That, she suddenly realized, was the literal truth. He stood over her, his dark brows drawn down, and she was violently reminded of their interlude in the glade in Leicestershire. That same something she had glimpsed then, behind the intense blue of his eyes, was there again tonight. A prowling, powerful, predatory something. She blinked and realized she was breathing rapidly. She saw his lips compress.

“Sophie…”

His eyes locked with hers; he started to lean closer.

“Your glass of water, miss.”

Sophie wrenched her gaze away and turned to the waiter. She dragged in a quick breath. “Thank you, John.” She took the glass from the man's salver and dismissed him with a weak smile.

It took considerable concentration to keep the glass steady. With her gaze fixed, unfocused, on the couples now dancing a boulanger, Sophie carefully sipped the cool water. An awful silence enfolded them.

After a few minutes, Sophie felt strong enough to glance up. He was watching her, his expression utterly impassive; he no longer seemed so threatening. She inclined her head. “Thank you, sir. I feel much better now.”

Jack nodded. Before he could find words for any of his questions, his attention was diverted by a group of younger folk who descended amid gusts of laughter to cluster not ten paces away.

Sophie looked, too, and saw her cousin surrounded by a group of young gentlemen, each vying for Clarissa's attention. Noting the frenetic brittleness that had infused Clarissa's otherwise bright expression, Sophie frowned. She looked up, and met an arrogantly raised brow.

She hesitated, then leaned closer to say, “She doesn't really like having a fuss and flap made over her.”

Jack looked again at the fair young beauty. His lips twisted wryly as he watched her youthful swains all but cutting each other dead in an effort to gain her favour. “If that's the case,” he murmured, “I fear she'll have to leave town.” He turned back to Sophie. “She's going to be a hit, you know.”