Stephanie Laurens Rogues' Reform Bundle (46 page)

Distraction arrived in a most unexpected form. A brusque hail had them drawing rein; turning, they beheld Mr. Marston astride a showy dun trotting quickly towards them. As he approached, Sophie inwardly admitted that Phillip Marston looked his best on horseback; his best, however, had never been sufficient to raise her pulse. Now, with her expectations conditioned by the likes of Jack Lester, she knew it never would.

“Good day, Mr. Marston.” Her expression calmly regal, Sophie held out one hand, refusing to embellish the brief greeting with any hypocritical phrases.

“My very dear Miss Winterton.” Phillip Marston attempted the difficult feat of bowing over her hand, but was forced to release it quickly as his horse jibbed. Frowning, he restrained the restive animal and, with obvious reluctance, nodded at Jack. “Lester.”

Jack returned the nod with a perfectly genuine smile. “Marston.”

The dun continued to jib and prance.

Phillip Marston did his best to ignore it—and the fact the dun was no match on any level with the even-tempered black Jack Lester rode. He nodded gravely to Ned and Clarissa, then fixed his pale gaze on Sophie. “I thought I'd take the trouble to find a mount and join you, my dear. I have not, as you know, previously had much experience of town, but I felt sure you would feel more easy in the company of one with whom you share a common background.”

Inwardly bridling, Sophie refrained from glancing heavenwards and searched for some acceptable response. She was delivered from her unenviable predicament by the arrival of her younger cousins, whooping gleefully, their faces alight with exuberant joy.

Phillip Marston frowned bleakly. “Really, you young barbarians! Is this the way you behave when out from under your parents' eye?”

Their transports abruptly cut short, their joy fading, Jeremy, George and Amy instinctively looked not to Sophie, but to Jack.

He reassured them with a smile. “Nonsense, Marston,” he said, his tone equable but distant. “The Park at this hour is a perfectly acceptable venue for the young to let off steam. Later, perhaps, such behaviour would be frowned upon, but now, with mainly young people and families about, there's nothing the least untoward in such high spirits.”

The crestfallen trio were miraculously revived. They shot Jack a grateful glance and fell in beside him, as far as they could get from Mr. Marston. For a moment, Sophie allowed herself to envy them, before regretfully banishing the thought.

Phillip Marston received Jack's wisdom with a stiff little bow. His pinched lips and the slant of his brows left little doubt of his feelings. A charged moment passed in which Sophie bludgeoned her brains for some safe topic—not an easy task with Mr. Marston on one side and Jack Lester on the other—before Marston's particular devil prompted him to say: “I dare say, Lester, not being a
family
man, you don't realize the importance of discipline in handling the young.”

Jack controlled his countenance admirably, bending a look of blandly polite enquiry on Marston. As Jack had hoped, Phillip Marston continued, airily declaiming, apparently unaware of Sophie's stunned silence.

“Natural enough, of course. After all, discipline's hardly your style, is it? I mean to say,” he hurried on, “that doubtless, having little need for such in your own life, it's hard for you to understand that others live by a different code.”

“Indeed?” Jack lifted a brow, his expression remote and slightly bored. “I hadn't, I confess, thought my life so very different from that of the rest of my class.”

Phillip Marston laughed condescendingly. “Oh, but it is.” He waved airily. “Why, I dare say you'd be stunned to know that some of us spend months on our estates, grappling with such matters as tenants and bailiffs and crop rotation.” Oblivious to the flags flying in Sophie's cheeks, Marston continued, “Not all of us can spend our lives in London, frittering away our money at the tables, sipping, unrestrained, from the bowl of life's pleasures.”

That was far too much for Sophie.
“Mr. Marston!”
She regarded him with icy indignation. “I'm surprised, sir, that you even know of such things as life's pleasures.” The words—so uncharacteristically sniping—shocked her, but she had no intention of recalling them. However, it immediately became clear Mr. Marston stood in no danger of being crushed.

He inclined his head, smiling unctuously. “Quite so, my dear. Such pastimes hold no allure for me. However, I am aware that others find them much more to their taste.” He lifted his pale gaze to Jack's face. “No doubt, Lester, you find this squiring of innocents not at all to your liking. Playing nursemaid to a pack of brats is hardly your style, after all.” Marston leant forward and spoke across Sophie. “I heard Mrs. Webb trap you into this little jaunt. Dare say you'd rather be anywhere but here. However, as I've nothing better to do with my time, I'll be only too happy to take the responsibility off your hands.”

Ned and Clarissa had drawn closer; along with Toby, who had silently rejoined the company, they held their breath and looked, slightly stunned, at Jack. Indeed, every eye in the party was fixed upon him.

They all saw his slow smile.

“On the contrary, Marston,” Jack drawled. “I believe you're labouring under a misapprehension. Believe me, there's nothing I would rather be doing than squiring this particular party of innocents. In fact,” he went on, his expression growing pensive, “I believe if you consider the matter more closely, you'll see that one such as I, to whom the…ah, pleasures of life are well known, is precisely the most suitable escort.”

The relief that swept the party, all except Marston, was palpable.

Jack's smile broadened as he met the other man's gaze. “Indeed, Marston, I wouldn't have missed this morning's jaunt for the world.”

Confounded, Phillip Marston glanced at Sophie. Her glacial expression awoke the first inklings of understanding in his brain. His hand tightened on his reins.

The dun, having behaved reasonably for all of ten minutes, reacted predictably, jibbing, then twisting, prancing sideways. Marston struggled to subdue the animal, muttering perfectly audible curses beneath his breath.

Sternly quelling her laughter, Sophie grasped the opportunity. “Mr. Marston, I believe you would be wise to return that horse to the stables forthwith. I confess its antics are making me quite nervous.” She managed to imbue her tones with perfectly specious feminine fear.

Which left Phillip Marston with little choice. His expression grim, he nodded curtly. He left, heading straight for the gate.

“Phew!” Toby came up beside Sophie, a grin lighting his face. “I wouldn't want to be the stableman when he returns that horse.”

The comment drew laughter all round, banishing any lingering restraint. Restored to their usual high spirits, the youngsters were soon off again. By mutual consent, the party ambled slowly in Mr. Marston's wake.

Summoning the children, coercing them into an orderly retreat, then supervising them through the traffic kept Sophie fully occupied. But when they turned the corner into Mount Street and the youngsters drew ahead, she glanced up at her companion. His features were relaxed; he looked every bit as content as he had claimed. “I feel I must apologize for Mr. Marston's behaviour, sir.”

Jack looked down at her. “Nonsense, my dear. It was hardly something you could control. Besides,” he continued, his blue gaze holding hers, “I have yet to see you encouraging him.”

“Heaven forbid!” Sophie shuddered, then, seeing the calm satisfaction that infused Jack's expression, wished she'd been rather more circumspect. It was, after all, no business of Jack Lester's whom she encouraged. Taking refuge in the banal, she said, “So the balls are starting at last.”

With a slow smile, Jack inclined his head. “Indeed. And your cousin's come-out will be one of the first. Your aunt seems set to steal a march on her peers.”

Thinking of Lucilla and her careful scheming, Sophie smiled. “As you say. She's quite determined to make the most of this Season.”

Clarissa nudged her horse up beside Jack's. “Indeed,” she declared, unusually pert. “Mama is quite set on my come-out being an
unenviable crush.
”

Sophie exchanged a wry smile with Jack.

Turning to Clarissa, Jack raised a laconic brow. Obviously, Ned had been faithfully adhering to instructions. “Is that so?” Jack asked. “And what do you know of crushes, Miss Webb?”

Clarissa coloured, then waved a dismissive hand. “Sophie told me all about them.”

“Ah.” Lips quirking, Jack turned back to Sophie as they halted their mounts before the Webbs' steps.

The junior Webbs had already gone in, leaving the grooms with their hands full. Sophie steeled herself and managed to survive the ordeal of being lifted down to the pavement by Jack Lester with commendable composure.

She looked up—and beheld his slow smile.

“Well, my dear?” Jack lifted a brow. “Was it bearable, riding with me?”

Sophie blushed rosily but was determined to give no ground. Lifting her chin, she looked him in the eye. “Indeed, sir. It was most enjoyable.”

Jack chuckled. “Good. Because from what I understand, your cousins wish it to be a frequent event.”

With an inclination of her head, Sophie indicated her acquiescence.

Her hand in his, Jack looked down at her, his smile a trifle crooked. “Until your aunt's crush, then, Miss Winterton. Rest assured that, despite the sea of humanity that will no doubt be thrown up between us, I will endeavour to win through to your side.” With a rakish grin, he bowed over her hand.

And let her go.

With a very correct nod, Sophie escaped up the steps, refusing to give in to her heart and look back.

At the corner of the street, two horsemen sat their mounts, apparently discussing the weather. In actuality, their interest was a great deal more focused.

“Well, that's a relief! It's the older one Lester's got his eye on—fancy that.” Hubert, Lord Maltravers, blinked blearily up at his companion. “A hard night followed by an ungodly early start may have taken its toll on my wits,” his lordship mused. “But stap me if I can see why.”

Captain Terrence Gurnard's lips lifted in a sneer. “Tarnished his image, that's why. The Webbs are a deal too downy to let their chick fly too close to his snare. But obviously the cousin has enough of the ready to satisfy Lester.”

“Odd.” His lordship frowned. “Thought she had nothing more than the usual. You know what I mean—expectations but no more. Would've thought Lester needed rather more than that.”

“Obviously not. The point, thank Heaven, doesn't concern me. As long as he's
not
got his eye on that juicy little plum, he can have the rest of London for all I care. Come, let's get moving. We've seen all we need.”

Side by side, they steered their mounts through the streets in the direction of Hubert's lodgings, the slightly rumpled figure of Lord Maltravers slumped in his saddle, the handsome, broad-shouldered guardsman towering over him.

“Y'know, Gurnard, I've been thinking.”

“I thought you didn't do that until after noon.”

Hubert snorted. “No. I'm serious. This start of yours—sure there isn't a better way? I mean, you could always try the cent per cents—doesn't hurt to ask.”

“In this case, I fear it could hurt.” Gurnard winced. “A very great deal.”

Realization was slow but it eventually broke on Hubert. “Oh,” he said. “You're already on their books?”

“Let's just say that one or two moneylenders could scrape an acquaintance.”

“Hmm.” Hubert grimaced. “That does rather cut down on your options.” As they turned into Piccadilly, he ventured,

“No chance this last opponent of yours would consider holding your vowels for latter payment?”

Slowly, Terrence Gurnard turned his head and looked his friend in the eye. “My last opponent was Melcham.”

Hubert blanched. “Oh,” he said. Then, “Ah.” Switching his gaze to the traffic, he nodded. “In that case, I quite see your point. Well, then—when's the wedding?”

H
ER AUNT
, Sophie mused, was not to be trusted. At least, not when it came to Jack Lester. Although she had expected to see Mr. Lester at her cousin's come-out ball, Sophie had had no inkling that he would feature among the favoured few who had been invited to dine before the event. Not until he walked into the drawing-room, throwing all the other gentlemen into immediate shade.

From her position by the fireplace, a little removed from her aunt, Sophie watched as Jack bowed over Lucilla's hand. His coat was of midnight blue, the same shade as his eyes at night. His smallclothes were ivory, his cravat a minor work of art. His large sapphire glowed amid the folds, fracturing the light. Beyond the heavy gold signet that adorned his right hand, he wore no other ornament, nothing to distract her senses from the strength of his large frame. After exchanging a few words, Lucilla sent him her way.

Stilling an inner quiver, Sophie greeted him with a calm smile. “Good evening, Mr. Lester.”

Jack's answering smile lit his eyes. “Miss Winterton.” He bowed gracefully over her hand, then, straightening, looked down at her. “Sophie.”

Sophie's serene expression did not waver as she drew her gaze from his; she had had practice enough in the past few days in keeping her emotions in check. Seeing Ned, who had followed his mentor into the room, turn from Lucilla to make his way to Clarissa's side, Sophie glanced up at her companion. “Ned has told me how much you have done for him, even to the extent of putting him up. It's really very kind of you.”

Having drunk his fill of Sophie's elegance, Jack reluctantly looked out over the room. Tonight, his golden head appeared warm yet remote, priestess-like in a classically styled ivory sheath, draped from one shoulder to fall in long lines to the floor. Forcing himself to focus on his protégé, Jack shrugged. “It's no great thing. The house is more than large enough, and the proximity increases the time we have to…polish his address.”

Sophie arched a sceptical brow. “Is that what you term it?”

Jack smiled. “Polish is all Ned needs.”

Sophie slanted him a glance. “And that's the secret of gentlemanly success—polish?”

Jack looked down at her. “Oh no, my dear.” His gaze grew more intent. “Such as I, with more sophisticated game in sight, often need recourse to…weapons of a different calibre.”

Sophie tilted her chin. “Indeed, sir? But I was thanking you for helping Ned—and must also convey all our thanks for your assistance this morn. How we would have coped had you not removed Jeremy, George and Amy from the house, I simply do not know.”

Meeting his eyes, Sophie smiled serenely.

Jack smiled back. “As I've told you before, your cousins are the most engaging urchins; playing nursemaid, as Marston had it, is no great undertaking. I trust all came right in the end?”

With Ned in tow, Jack had arrived on the Webbs' doorstep that morning, as he had for the past two, to find the house in the grip of the usual mayhem coincident with a major ball. Knowing neither Sophie nor Clarissa would be free, he and Ned had nevertheless offered to take the youngsters to the Park—a boon to all as, with the house full of caterers, florists and the like, and the servants rushed off their feet, the youthful trio had been proving a severe trial. They had already caused havoc by pulling the bows on the sheaves of flowers the florists had prepared all undone, then been threatened with incarceration when they had discovered the pleasures of skidding across the newly polished ballroom floor.

“Yes, thank Heaven,” Sophie replied, watching further arrivals greet her aunt. “I don't know how Aunt Lucilla manages to keep it all straight in her head. But the storm and tempest did eventually abate, leaving order where before there was none.”

Jack's grin was wry. “I'm sure your aunt's order is formidable.”

Sophie smiled. “I rather suspect the ball tonight ranks as one of her more spectacular undertakings.”

“With both your cousin and yourself to launch, it's hardly surprising that she's pulled out all stops.”

Sophie blinked, her smile fading slightly. Then, with determined brightness, she inclined her head. “Indeed. And both Clarissa and I are determined she will not be disappointed.”

A subtle reminder that she, too, was expected to find a husband. Just as he would have to find a wife. Sophie was all too well aware that, through shared moments, shared laughter and some indefinable attraction, she and Jack Lester had drawn far closer than was common between gentlemen and ladies who remained merely friends. Nevertheless, that was all they could be, and the time was fast approaching when their disparate destinies would prevail. She was steeling herself to face the prospect.

“Sophia, my dear!” Lady Entwhistle bustled up, her silk skirts shushing. “You look positively radiant, my dear—doesn't she, Henry?”

“Set to take the shine out of the younger misses, what?” Lord Entwhistle winked at Sophie, then shook her hand.

“And Mr. Lester, too—how fortunate.” Her ladyship presented her hand and looked on with approval as Jack bowed over it. “A pleasure to see you again, sir. I hear Lady Asfordby's in town; have you run into her yet?”

Jack's eyes briefly touched Sophie's. “I have not yet had that pleasure, ma'am.”

“A deuced shame about the hunting, what?” Lord Entwhistle turned to Jack. “Not that you younger men care—just change venues, far as I can see.” His lordship cast a genial eye over the room.

“As you say, sir,” Jack replied. “I fear there are few foxes to be found in London, so naturally we're forced to shift our sights.”

“What's that? Forced?
Hah!
” His lordship was in fine fettle. “Why, I've always heard the tastiest game's to be found in the capital.”

Sophie struggled to keep her lips straight.

“Really, Henry!” Her ladyship unfurled her fan with an audible click.

“But it's true,” protested Lord Entwhistle, not one whit abashed. “Just ask Lester here. Few would know better than he. What say you, m'boy? Don't the streets of London offer richer rewards than the fields of Leicestershire?”

“Actually,” Jack replied, his gaze returning to Sophie, “I'm not sure I would agree with you, sir. I must confess I've recently discovered unexpected treasure in Leicestershire, after a year in the
ton
's ballrooms had yielded nothing but dross.”

For an instant, Sophie could have sworn the world had stopped turning; for a moment, she basked in the glow that lit Jack Lester's eyes. Then reality returned, and with it awareness—of the conjecture in Lord Entwhistle's eyes, the startled look on her ladyship's face, and the role she herself had to play. Smoothly, she turned to Lady Entwhistle. “I do hope Mr. Millthorpe has found his feet in London. Will he be here tonight?”

The surprise faded from her ladyship's eyes. “Yes, indeed. Lucilla was kind enough to invite him for the ball. I'm sure he'll attend. He was very much taken with Clarissa, you know.” She glanced across the room to where Clarissa was surrounded by a small coterie of young gentlemen. “Mind you, I expect he'll be in good company. As I told your aunt, fully half the young men in town will be prostrating themselves at Clarissa's feet.”

Sophie laughed and steered the conversation towards the social events thus far revealed on the
ton
's horizon. She was somewhat relieved when Jack chipped in with the news of the balloon ascension planned for May, thus distracting Lord Entwhistle, who declaimed at length on the folly of the idea.

His lordship was still declaiming when Minton entered, transcending the impression conveyed by his severe grab to announce in jovially benevolent vein that dinner was served.

Lord and Lady Entwhistle went together to join the exodus. Jack turned to Sophie. “I believe, dear Sophie, that the pleasure of escorting you in falls…to me.”

Sophie smiled up at him and calmly surrendered her hand. “That will be most pleasant, sir.”

With her hand on his arm, Jack steered her into the shuffling queue.

Laughing chatter greeted them as they strolled into the dining-room. The surface of the table, polished to a mellow glow, reflected light fractured by crystal and deflected by silver. A subtle excitement filled the air; this was, after all, the first of the large gatherings, and those present were the chosen few who would start the ball of the Season rolling. Horatio, genially rotund, took his place at the table's head; Lucilla graced the opposite end, while Clarissa, sparkling in a gown of fairy-like silvered rose silk, sat in the middle on one side. Ned beside her. Jack led Sophie to her place opposite Clarissa, then took the seat on her right.

As she glanced about, taking note of her neighbours, Sophie took comfort from Jack's presence beside her. Despite his apparently ingrained habits, he always drew back whenever she baulked—smoothly, suavely, ineffably rakish, yet a gentleman to his very bones. She now felt confident in his company, convinced he would never press her unduly nor step over that invisible line.

There was, indeed, a certain excitement to be found in his games, and a certain balm in the warmth of his deep blue gaze.

The toast to Clarissa was duly drunk; her cousin blushed prettily while Ned looked on, a slightly stunned expression on his face.

As she resumed her seat, Sophie glanced at Jack. He was watching her; he raised his glass and quietly said, “To your Season, dear Sophie. And to where it will lead.”

Inwardly Sophie shivered, but she smiled and inclined her head graciously.

On her left was Mr. Somercote, a distant Webb cousin, a gentleman of independent means whom her uncle had introduced as hailing from Northamptonshire. While obviously at home in the
ton,
Mr. Somercote was reserved almost to the point of rudeness. Sophie applied herself but could tease no more than the barest commonplaces from him.

The lady on Jack's right was a Mrs. Wolthambrook, an elderly widow, another Webb connection. Sophie wondered at the wisdom of her aunt's placement, but by the end of the first course, her confidence in Lucilla had been restored. The old lady had a wry sense of humour which Jack, in typical vein, recognized and played to. Sophie found herself drawn into a lively discussion, Mrs. Wolthambrook, Jack and herself forming a nexus of conversation which served to disguise the shortcomings of others in the vicinity.

It was almost a surprise to find the dessert course over. With a rustle of silk skirts, Lucilla rose and issued a charming directive sending them all to the ballroom.

While ascending the stairs on Jack's arm, Sophie noticed the glimmer of a frown in Lady Entwhistle's sharp eyes. It was, Sophie decided, hardly to be wondered at: installing Jack Lester as her partner at dinner had clearly declared her aunt's hand. Lucilla was playing Cupid. It was inconceivable that, after nearly three weeks in the capital, her aunt was not
au fait
concerning Jack Lester's state. But Lucilla was not one to follow the conventions in matters of the heart; she had married Horatio Webb when he was far less well-to-do than at present, apparently without a qualm. Sophie's own mother, too, had married for love. It was, in fact, something of a family trait.

Unfortunately, Sophie thought, casting a fleeting glance at Jack's darkly handsome profile, it was not one she was destined to follow. Hiding her bruised heart behind a serene smile, she crossed the threshold of the ballroom.

Under the soft flare of candlelight cast by three huge chandeliers, the efforts of the florists and decorators looked even better than by day. The tops of the smooth columns supporting the delicately domed ceiling had been garnished with sprays of white and yellow roses, long golden ribbons swirling down around the columns. The minstrels' gallery above the end of the room was similarly festooned with white, yellow and green, trimmed with gold. Tall iron pedestals supporting ironwork cones overflowing with the same flowers filled the corners of the room and stood spaced every few yards along the long mirrored wall, with chaises and chairs set between. The opposite wall contained long windows giving onto the terrace; some were ajar, letting in the evening breeze.

The guests dutifully oohed and aahed, many ladies taking special note of the unusual use of ironwork.

Jack's blue eyes glinted down at her. “As I said, my dear, your aunt's efforts are indeed formidable.”

Sophie smiled, but her heart was not in it; it felt as if her evening was ending when, with a graceful bow, Jack surrendered her to her duty on the receiving line.

He had bespoken a waltz, she reminded herself, giving her emotions a mental shake. Conjuring up a bright smile, she dutifully greeted the arrivals, taking due note of those her aunt introduced with a certain subtle emphasis. Lucilla might be encouraging Jack Lester, but it was clear she was equally intent on giving Sophie a range of suitable gentlemen from which to make her choice.

Which was just as well, Sophie decided. Tonight was the start of her Season proper; she should make a real start on her hunt for a husband. There was no sense in putting off the inevitable. And it would no doubt be wise to make it abundantly plain that she was not infected with Lucilla's ideals. She could not marry Jack Lester, for he needed more money than she would bring. Embarking on her search for a husband would clarify their relationship, making it plain to such avid watchers as Lady Entwhistle and Lady Matcham that there was nothing to fear in her friendship with Jack.

Stifling a sigh, Sophie pinned on a smile as her aunt turned to greet the latest in the long line of guests.

“Ah, Mr. Marston,” Lucilla purred. “I'm so glad you could come.”

Sophie swallowed a most unladylike curse. She waited, trapped in line, as Mr. Marston greeted Clarissa with chilly civility, his glance austerely dismissing the enchanting picture her cousin made.

Then his gaze reached her—and Sophie privately resolved to send a special thank-you to Madame Jorge. Mr. Marston's distant civility turned to frigid disapproval as he took in her bare shoulders and the expanse of ivory skin exposed by the low, slanting neckline of her gown.