Stephanie Laurens Rogues' Reform Bundle (47 page)

Sophie smiled sunnily. “Good evening, sir. I trust you are well.”

Mr. Marston bowed. “I…” He drew himself up, his lips pinched. “I will look to have a few words with you later, Miss Winterton.”

Sophie tried her best to look delighted at the prospect.

“Lady Colethorpe—my niece, Sophia Winterton.”

With a certain relief, Sophie turned to her aunt's next guest and put Mr. Marston very firmly from her mind.

Down in the ballroom, Jack wended his way through the throng, stopping here and there to chat with old acquaintances, constantly hailed as the
ton,
one and all, found their way to the Webbs' ball. Percy, of course, was there. He greeted Jack with something akin to relief.

“Held up with m'father,” Percy explained. “He was having one of his turns—convinced he was going to die. All rubbish, of course. Sound as a horse.” Smoothing down his new violet silk waistcoat, Percy cast a knowledgeable eye over Jack's elegance, innate, as he well knew—and sighed. “But what's been going on here, then?” he asked, raising his quizzing glass to look about him. “Seems as if every squire and his dog have already come to town.”

“That's about the sum of it,” Jack confirmed. “I just met Carmody and Harrison. The whole boiling's in residence already, and raring to get started. I suspect that's what's behind the eagerness tonight. Lucilla Webb's gauged it to a nicety.”

“Hmm. Mentioned the Webbs to m'father. Very knowing, he is. He had a word for Mrs. Webb.”

“Oh?” Jack looked his question.

“Dangerous,” Percy offered.

Jack's lips twitched. “That much, I know. To my cost, what's more. Nevertheless, unless I'm greatly mistaken, the lady approves of yours truly. And, dangerous or not, I fear I'm committed to further acquaintance.”

Percy blinked owlishly. “So you're serious, then?”

“Having found my golden head, I'm not about to let her go.”

“Ah, well.” Percy shrugged. “Leave you to it, then. Where'd you say Harrison was?”

After sending Percy on his way, Jack looked over the heads, curled and pomaded, and discovered that Sophie and her family had quit the doorway to mingle with their guests. He located Sophie on the other side of the room, surrounded by a small group of gentlemen. Eminently eligible gentlemen, he realized, as he mentally named each one. Jack felt his possessive instincts stir. Immediately, he clamped a lid on them. He had already claimed a waltz and the right to take Sophie to supper; Lucilla would frown on any attempt to claim more.

With an effort, Jack forced himself to relax his clenched jaw. To ease the strain on his temper, he shifted his gaze to Clarissa, a little way along the wall. Sophie's cousin was glowing, radiating happiness. As well she might, Jack thought, as he viewed her not inconsiderable court. Puppies all, but Clarissa was only seventeen. She was unquestionably beautiful and, to her and her mother's credit, blissfully free of the silly affectations that often marred others of her calibre. Whether she was as talented as her mother, Jack had no notion—he had seen no evidence of it yet.

Seeing Ned holding fast to his place by Clarissa's side despite all attempts to dislodge him, Jack grinned. As long as Ned circulated when the dancing began, there was no harm in his present occupation. His protégé was maintaining a coolly distant expression, which had made Clarissa glance up at him, slightly puzzled, more than once. Ned was learning fast, and putting his new-found knowledge to good use.

Making a mental note to drop a word of warning in Ned's ear, to the effect that any female descended from Lucilla Webb should be treated with due caution, Jack allowed his mind to return to its preoccupation.

Was Sophie like her aunt, capable of manipulation on a grand scale? Jack shook aside the silly notion. His Sophie was no schemer—he would stake his life on that. To him, she was open, straightforward, all but transparent. As he watched her smile brightly up at the Marquess of Huntly, Jack's satisfied expression faded. Abruptly executing a neat about-face, he strolled deeper into the crowd.

The first waltz was duly announced, and Clarissa, blushing delicately, went down the floor with her father, a surprisingly graceful dancer. At the conclusion of the measure, Horatio beamed down at her. “Well, my dear. You're officially out now. Are you pleased?”

Clarissa smiled brilliantly. “Indeed, yes, Papa,” she said, and meant it.

The crowd parted and she looked ahead. To see Ned leading another young lady from the floor. Clarissa's smile faded.

Horatio noticed. “I had better return you to your court, my dear.” Blandly, he added, “But do spare a thought for your old father. Don't line up too many suitors for your hand.”

Apparently unaware of Clarissa's startled glance, Horatio guided her back to her circle, then, with a blithely paternal pat on her hand, left her to them.

“I say, Miss Webb.” Lord Swindon was greatly smitten. “You waltz divinely. You must have been practising incessantly up in Leicestershire.”

“May I get you a glass of lemonade, Miss Webb? Thirsty work, dancing.” This from Lord Thurstow, a genial red-haired gentleman whose girth explained his conjecture.

But the most frightening comment came from Mr. Marley, a young sprig who considered himself a budding poet. “An ode…I feel an ode burgeoning in my brain. To your incomparable grace, and the effect it has on your poor followers who have to watch you take the floor in another's arms.
Argh!
”

Clarissa eyed the flushed young man in alarm. Gracious, were they all so unutterably silly?

As the evening wore on, she decided that they were. This was not what she had come to London to find. Being mooned over by gentlemen she classed as barely older than Jeremy and George was hardly the stuff of her dreams. Stuck with her court, surrounded on all sides, Clarissa met their sallies with guileless smiles, while inwardly she considered her options.

When Ned reappeared and rescued her, leading her into the set forming for a country dance, the truth dawned. Smiling up at him, Clarissa shyly said, “It's such a relief to dance with someone I know.”

Mindful of his instructions, Ned merely raised a brow. “Is it?” Then he smiled, a touch of condescension in his manner. “Don't worry, you'll soon get used to all the attention.”

Stunned, Clarissa stared at him.

“Not a bad ball, this,” Ned cheerily remarked. “Your mother must be pleased at the turnout. Don't think I've seen so many young ladies all at once before.”

It was, perhaps, as well for Ned that the dance separated them at that point. When they came together again, Clarissa, her nose in the air, treated him to a frosty glance. “As you say,” she said, “I'm sure I'll learn how to respond suitably to all the compliments the gentlemen seem so intent on pressing on me. I must ask Mama how best to encourage them.”

Again the dance averted catastrophe. By the time the music finally died, Ned, chilly and remote, led Clarissa, equally distant and frigid, back to her circle. After perfunctorily bowing over her hand, Ned quit the vicinity, leaving Clarissa to deal with her importunate followers, her cheeks flushed, a dangerous glint in her large eyes.

A little distance away, Sophie had started to compile a list of potential suitors. The task was not difficult, for they promptly presented themselves before her, all but declaring their interest. The basis for their attraction had her mystified until Lord Annerby confessed, “The young misses are not really my style.” When the movements of the quadrille brought them together again, he admitted, “Been hoping a lady like you would hove on my horizon. Not just in the common way, and not likely to giggle in a man's ear, if you take my meaning.”

After that, Sophie paid a little more attention to her would-be swains, and discovered that many were, indeed, like his lordship: gentlemen who had been waiting for a lady such as she, not in the first flush of youth but yet young, presentable and altogether acceptable, to appear and walk up the aisle with them. With their reasons explained, she turned her attention to their attributes.

“I understand your estates are in Northamptonshire, Mr. Somercote. I hail from that county myself.”

“Do you?” As they glided through the steps of the cotillion, Mr. Somercote made a visible effort to produce his next statement. “Somercote Hall lies just beyond the village of Somercote in the northwesternmost corner of the county.”

Sophie nodded and smiled encouragingly, but apparently that was the full extent of Mr. Somercot's loquacity. As they returned through the crowd to where her admirers were waiting, she mentally crossed his name off her list.

The Marquess of Huntly was her next partner. “Tell me, Miss Winterton, do you enjoy the amenities of London?”

“I do indeed, my lord,” Sophie replied. The marquess was Lord Percy's elder brother and, despite his bluff appearance and a tendency to stoutness, was unquestionably eligible.

“I've heard that you ride in the Park. Mayhap we'll meet one fine morning.”

“Perhaps,” Sophie returned, her smile noncommittal.

As they left the floor, Sophie decided the marquess could remain on her list for the present. Perhaps a meeting in the Park, with her younger cousins in tow, would be useful? She was pondering the point when a deep voice cut across her thoughts.

“I believe our waltz is next, Miss Winterton.” Jack nodded to the marquess. “Huntly.”

“Lester.” The marquess returned his nod. “Seen Percy about?”

“He was chatting with Harrison earlier in the evening.”

“Suppose I should go and have a word with him. M'brother, you know,” the marquess confided to Sophie. “M'father's been at death's door—should see how he is. If you'll excuse me, m'dear?”

Even as she stared at Lord Huntly's retreating back, Sophie's mental pencil was scrubbing out his name. Such callousness was appalling.

Seeing her shocked expression, Jack abruptly shut his lips on the explanation he had been about to make. He did not consider Huntly a rival—but why make a whip for his own back? Appropriating Sophie's hand, he laid it on his sleeve. “Perhaps we could stroll about the room until the waltz commences?”

Sophie blinked, then frowned. “I really should return to my aunt.”

His own frown hidden behind an urbane smile, Jack inclined his head and dutifully led her to where her court was waiting.

An unwise move. He was not impressed by the small crowd of eligibles who apparently could find nothing better to do at the first major ball of the Season than congregate about his Sophie. His temper was not improved by having to listen to them vie to heap accolades upon their compliments. For their part, they ignored him, secure in the knowledge that Sophie's expectations were insufficient to permit him to woo her. The thought made Jack smile inwardly. The smile turned to a suppressed growl when he heard Sophie say, “I do indeed enjoy the opera, Lord Annerby.”

She then smiled serenely at his lordship.

“I'll be sure to let you know when the season begins, my dear Miss Winterton.” Lord Annerby all but gloated.

Jack gritted his teeth. He had avoided the opera for years—a fact that owed nothing to the performances but rather more to those performing. To his immense relief, the strains of the waltz heralded his salvation. “Miss Winterton?”

Surprised, Sophie blinked up at him even as she put her hand in his. His fingers closed tightly about hers. His words had sounded like a command. An inkling of a difficulty she had not previously considered awoke in Sophie's brain.

Without further speech, Jack led Sophie to the door, drawing her into his arms with an arrogance that bespoke his mind far too well. He knew it, but did not care. The relief as she settled into his arms was balm to his lacerated feelings.

As they joined the swirling crowd on the floor, Jack considered closing his eyes. He would wager he could waltz round any ballroom blindfolded, so accustomed was he to the exercise. And with his eyes closed, his senses would be free to concentrate solely on Sophie—on the soft warmth of her, on how well she fitted in his arms, on the subtle caress of her silk-encased thighs against his.

Stifling a sigh, he kept his eyes open.

“Are you enjoying the ball, Mr. Lester?”

Sophie's calm and rather distant comment drew Jack's eyes from contemplation of her curls. He considered her question, simultaneously considering her invitingly full lips. “I'm enjoying this waltz,” he replied.

Raising his eyes to hers, Jack watched a frown form in the sky-blue orbs. Puzzled, he continued, “But when are you going to call me Jack? I've been calling you Sophie for weeks.”

He had never before seen a lady blush and frown simultaneously.

“I know,” Sophie admitted, forcing herself to throw him a disapproving glance. “And you know you should not. It's not at all acceptable.”

Jack simply smiled.

Sophie shot him an exasperated glance, then transferred her gaze to the safe space above his shoulder. As always, being in his arms had a distinctly unnerving affect on her. A fluttery, shivery awareness had her in its grip; breathless excitement threatened her wits. His strength reached out and enfolded her, seductively beckoning, enticing her mind to dwell on prospects she could not even dream of without blushing.

She blushed now, and was thankful to hear the closing bars of the waltz.

Jack saw her blush but was far too wise to comment. Instead, he smoothly escorted her into supper, adroitly snaffling a plate of delicacies and managing to install plate, glasses of champagne and Sophie at a small table tucked away near the conservatory.

He had reckoned without her court. They came swarming about, sipping champagne and, to Jack's mind, making thorough nuisances of themselves. He bore it stoically, repeatedly reminding himself that Lucilla would not consider the first major ball of the Season a suitable venue for him to declare his intentions. When the light meal was over, he insisted on escorting Sophie all the way back to her aunt's side.