A Lady of Expectations

CHAPTER TEN

HER 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.

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.

The look he bent on Lucilla made her hide a grin.

With Sophie and Clarissa both claimed for the next dance, Lucilla turned her large eyes on Jack. “I must say, Mr. Lester, that you’re doing a very good job on Ned.”

Somewhat stiffly, Jack inclined his head. “I’m glad the transformation meets with your approval, ma’am.”

“Indeed. I’m most grateful. Immensely grateful.”

Seeing Lady Entwhistle fast approaching, clearly intent on having a word in Lucilla’s ear, Jack bowed briefly and drifted into the crowd. As he passed the dancers, he heard a silvery laugh. Glancing up, he saw Sophie, smiling brightly up at Lord Ainsley, a handsome and very rich peer.

Muting his growl, Jack swung into an alcove. What numbskull had invented the practice of wooing? Lucilla’s comment, which he felt confident in interpreting as open encouragement, was welcome enough. However, the last thing his passions needed right now was further encouragement, particularly when the object of said passions was behaving in a manner designed to enflame them.

Suppressing his curses, he set himself to endure. He could have left, but the night was yet young. Besides, he was not sufficiently sure of Ned to leave his protégé unsupported. At the thought, Jack drew his gaze from Sophie’s bright curls and scanned the dancers for Clarissa.

Predictably, Sophie’s cousin was smiling up at an elegant youth as she went down the floor in the dance. Jack silently harrumphed, then switched his gaze back to Sophie. Clarissa was clearly absorbed with her partner.

In so thinking, Jack erred.

Although Clarissa smiled and nodded at Mr. Pommeroy’s stilted conversation, her attention was far removed from that blameless young gentleman. From the corner of her eye, she could see Ned dancing with Miss Ellis in the next set. The sight filled Clarissa with a sort of quiet fury she had never before experienced. Regardless of its import, it was quite clearly time to refocus Ned’s attention on that which had brought him to town.

Her eyes narrowing, Clarissa herself refocused-on Mr. Pommeroy. She grimaced. Startled, Mr. Pommeroy stumbled and almost fell. Guiltily, for she had not meant to grimace openly, Clarissa applied herself to soothing her partner’s ruffled feathers while looking about her for inspiration.

Her court, unfortunately, had little to offer. They were so young; not even in her wildest dreams could she cast them in the role she was rapidly becoming convinced she needed filled. Back amongst them, responding to their quips with but half her mind, Clarissa grimly watched as Ned joined the crowd about two sisters also making their come-out this year. Inwardly sniffing, Clarissa shifted her gaze-and saw Toby coming towards her, a positive Adonis in tow.

“Ah, Clarissa?” Toby came to an uncertain halt before his sister. “Might I make known to you Captain Gurnard? He’s with the Guards.” Toby was unsure how his sister would react, but the captain had been keen to gain a personal introduction, something Toby could see no harm in.

Clarissa’s wide eyes took in every detail of the tall, broad-shouldered figure bowing before her. The captain was clad in scarlet regimentals; his tightly curled hair gleamed like fool’s gold in the candlelight. As he straightened, Clarissa caught the hard gleam in his eyes and the cynical tilt of his mouth before unctuous gratification overlaid them.

Clarissa smiled brilliantly and held out her hand. “How do you do, Captain? Have you been with the Guards long?”

Blinking, Toby inwardly shrugged and took himself off.

Dazzled, Captain Gurnard saw nothing beyond Clarissa’s guileless china-blue eyes and her delicately curved lips. He could only conclude that Fate had taken pity on him. With a consciously charming smile, he reluctantly released Clarissa’s hand. “I’ve been with my regiment for some years, my dear.”

“Some years?” Clarissa’s expression was all innocent bewilderment. “But-” She broke off and shyly put one hand to her lips. “Indeed,” she whispered, half-confidingly. “I had not thought you so old as all that, Captain.”

Gurnard laughed easily. “Indeed, Miss Webb. I greatly fear I must admit to being quite in my dotage compared with such a sweet child as yourself.” His expression sobered. “In truth,” he added, his voice low, “I fear I cannot compete with these young pups that surround you. The blithe and easy words of youth have long ago left me.”

Ignoring the rising hackles of said pups, Clarissa smiled sweetly and leaned towards the captain to say, “Indeed, sir, I find a little of such blithe and easy words is more than a surfeit. Honest words are always more acceptable to the hearer.”

The smile on Captain Gurnard’s face grew. “Perhaps, my dear, in order to hear such honest words, you would consent to stroll the room with me? Just until the next dance begins?”

Plastering a suitably ingenuous smile on her lips, Clarissa nodded with apparent delight. Rising, she placed her fingertips on the captain’s scarlet sleeve.

As he led her into the crowd, Captain Gurnard could not restrain the smugness of his smile. He would have been supremely disconcerted had he known that Clarissa’s inner smile outdid his.

Sophie, meanwhile, had run into a problem, an obstacle to her endeavours. Large, lean and somehow oddly menacing, Jack had left his retreat, where he had been propping up the wall, to gravitate to her side, a hungry predator lured, she suspected, by the smiles she bestowed on the gentlemen about her.

Under her subtle encouragement, her potential suitors preened.

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 onto 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.