A Lady of Expectations

CHAPTER TWELVE

SHE BARELY HAD TIME to scramble into an evening gown and brush out her curls before the dinner gong sounded, echoing hollowly through the long corridors. The meal had already been put back twice to accommodate the travellers and their recuperation.

With a last distracted glance at her mirror, Sophie hurried out. The corridor was dark and gloomy, the ubiquitous wood panelling deepening the shadows cast by the candles in the wall sconces. Feet flying over the worn carpet, Sophie turned a corner only to find a cordon, formed by two determined figures, across her path.

Jeremy frowned, threatening sulky. “We can come down to dinner, can’t we, Sophie?”

Sophie blinked.

“It’s not as if we’d cause any ruckus,” George assured her.

“It’s boring here, Sophie. Having dinner with Amy and the twins-well, it’s just not fair.” Jeremy’s jaw jutted pugnaciously.

“It’s not as if we’re children.” George fixed his blue eyes on her face and dared her to contradict him.

Sophie swallowed a groan. With all the trials of the afternoon, and those yet to come, she had precious little patience left to deal with the boys’ prickly pride. But she loved them too well to fob them off. Draping an arm about each, she gave them a quick hug. “Yes, I know, loves-but, you see, we’re a bit rushed this evening, and although the party’s informal, I don’t really think it’s quite the same as when we’re at Webb Park.”

They both turned accusing eyes on her. “I don’t see why not,” Jeremy stated.

“Ah-but if you don’t get an early night, you won’t be up in time to go shooting tomorrow.”

Sophie jumped. The deep, drawling voice brought goose-bumps to her skin. But both boys turned eagerly as Jack strolled out from the shadows.

“Shooting?”

“You mean you’ll take us?”

Jack raised a brow. “I don’t see why not. I was discussing the outing with your father earlier. If the rain eases, we should have tolerable sport.” Jack’s blue gaze flicked to Sophie, then returned to the boys’ glowing faces. “But you’d have to get an early night-and that, I fear, means dining in the nursery. Of course, if that’s beneath you…”

“Oh, no,” Jeremy assured him. “Not if we’re to go shooting tomorrow.”

George tugged his brother’s sleeve. “Come on. We’d better let Jack and Sophie get to dinner and go find ours before the twins scoff all the buns.”

Restored to good humour, the boys hurried off.

Sophie breathed a sigh of relief, then glanced up at Jack. “Thank you, Mr. Lester.”

For a moment, Jack’s gaze rested on her face, his expression impassive. Then he inclined his head. “Think nothing of it, my dear. Shall we?”

He gestured towards the stairs. With a nod, Sophie started forward. As they strolled the short distance in silence, she was excruciatingly aware of him, large and strong beside her, her skirts occasionally brushing his boots. He made no move to offer her his arm.

They descended the stairs and turned towards the drawing-room. Minton was hovering in the hall. “Could I have a word with you, miss?”

Sophie’s heart sank. “Yes, of course.” With a half smile for Jack, she glided across the tiles. “What is it?”

“It’s the footmen, miss. That’s to say-there aren’t any.” Looking supremely apologetic, Minton continued, “The old lady apparently didn’t see the need and Mrs. Webb didn’t imagine we’d need more. Even with old Smithers-that’s the old lady’s butler-there’ll only be two of us and that’ll make service very slow. Naughton-Mr. Webb’s man-said as he’d help, but still…”

Minton didn’t need to spell it out; Sophie wondered what next the evening had in store. Where on earth could she find footmen to wait at table at a minute’s notice “I don’t suppose the coachman…”

Minton looked his answer. “I’d rather have the maids. But you know how it’ll look, miss, having women wait at table.”

She did indeed. Sophie’s shoulders slumped.

“If I could make a suggestion?”

Sophie turned as Jack strolled forward. He glanced at her, his expression merely polite. “I couldn’t help overhearing. I suggest,” he said, addressing Minton. “That you ask my man, Pinkerton, to assist. Huntly’s man, too, will be well-trained, and Ainsley’s and Annerby’s. The rest I can’t vouch for, but Pinkerton will know.”

Minton’s worried expression cleared. “Just the ticket, sir. I’ll do that.” He bobbed to Sophie. “All under control, miss, never fear.” And with that, Minton hurried off.

Sophie knew a moment of blessed relief, superceded by the knowledge that more hurdles doubtless awaited her. She glanced up at Jack. “I have to thank you again, Mr. Lester. I would never have thought of such a solution; I only hope it serves.” The last was uttered softly, a slight frown playing about her brows.

Not a glimmer of expression showed on Jack’s face as, looking down, he studied hers. “Don’t worry. Such arrangements are not uncommon-no one will remark on it.”

From beneath her lashes, Sophie glanced up. “Thank you,” she murmured, a tentative smile touching her lips.

Jack’s hand closed about the knob of the drawing-room door. “After you, Miss Winterton.”

Sophie entered to find most of the company already assembled. She moved among the guests, seeing that all had everything they needed. Most had recovered from their soaking and regained their spirits. Only Mrs. Billingham and Mrs. Ellis, a delicate lady, had elected to take trays in their rooms. Clarissa was surrounded by her usual little band, Ned included. Her cousin had drawn the other younger ladies into the charmed circle; the sound of shy laughter now ran as a counterpoint to more sober conversations. Her uncle, together with the more mature gentlemen, was deep in discussion of the sport to be found in the vicinity.

Great-Aunt Evangeline provided an unexpected distraction. She had come down to examine the guests who had invaded her home. Blithely calling Sophie “Maria” and Clarissa “Lucilla,” she happily chatted with the ladies, her remarkable shawls threatening to trip her at every step.

When Minton announced dinner, the old lady squeezed Sophie’s arm. “I’ll take mine in my room, dear. Now remember, Maria-you’re in charge. Keep an eye on Lucilla, won’t you?” With a motherly pat, Great-Aunt Evangeline retired.

Dinner, as it transpired, posed no further problems. As one course was smoothly followed by the next, Sophie gradually relaxed. She had led the way into the dining-room on the Marquess of Huntly’s arm. He was now seated on her right with Lord Ainsley on her left. A hum of good-natured conversation hovered over the table; everyone was reasonably well acquainted and, so it seemed, determined to enjoy themselves. Further down the board, Belle Chessington had taken on the challenge posed by Mr. Somercote; she was bending his ear unmercifully. Sophie smiled and let her gaze travel on, to where Clarissa and Ned, together with Lord Swindon and Mr. Marley, were deep in discussion of some passingly serious subject. Beyond them, Jack Lester was devoting himself primarily to Mrs. Chessington. Sophie had seen him offer that lady his arm in the drawing-room even as she herself had placed her hand on the Marquess’s sleeve.

Rousing herself from her thoughts, Sophie conjured a smile and beamed at the marquess. “Do you intend to make one of the shooting party tomorrow, my lord?”

Once the covers were removed, Sophie led the ladies back to the drawing-room. The gentlemen were disposed to linger over their port, yet there was still an hour before the tea trolley was due when they strolled back into the room.

As ladies and gentlemen merged, then fractured into the inevitable smaller groups, Sophie wondered how to keep them amused. She hadn’t had time to organize any of the fashionable little games that were so much a part of country-house parties. She was cudgelling her brains for inspiration when Ned stopped by her chair.

“We thought we might try charades, Sophie. Jack mentioned it was all the thing for the younger crowd.”

Relieved, Sophie smiled. “By all means; that’s an excellent idea.”

She watched as Ned and Clarissa rounded up the younger members of the party and cleared an area of the large room. Many of the matrons seemed disposed to look on indulgently. Rising, Sophie glanced about-and found her uncle approaching.

Horatio beamed and took her hand. “You’re doing magnificently, my dear.” He squeezed her fingers, then released them. “Lester’s taken Huntly, Ainsley and Annerby off to try their luck at billiards. I’ll just go and have a word with Marston.” Horatio glanced about the drawing-room. “The rest I fear I’ll have to leave to you-but I’m sure you can manage.”

With Mr. Marston off her hands, Sophie was sure of it, too. Belle Chessington seemed reluctant to let Mr. Somercote escape, which left only Mr. Chartwell, Miss Billingham and a few relaxed matrons for her to take under her wing. Sophie smiled. “Indeed, Uncle, it seems we’ve contrived amazingly well.”

“Indeed.” Horatio grinned. “Your aunt will be delighted.”

TO SOPHIE’S RELIEF, the rain cleared overnight. The morning was damp and dismal, but sufficiently clement to allow the shooting party to proceed. By the time the ladies descended to the breakfast parlour, the gentlemen had taken themselves off. Even Mr. Marston had seized the opportunity to stretch his legs.

The ladies were content to stroll the gardens. Sophie went up to check on the twins and Amy. She eventually ran them to earth in the attics; their nurse, who had been with the Webbs for many years, had had the bright idea of turning them loose in such relatively safe surrounds. The trio were engaged in constructing a castle, later to be stormed. Great-Aunt Evangeline was with them. Sophie left them to it and went to look in on her aunt. She found Lucilla sleeping, which of itself spoke volumes. Mimms confirmed that her aunt’s indisposition had eased, but she was still very weak.

The gentlemen returned in time for luncheon, an informal meal at which their prowess with their guns was discussed and admired, the ladies smiling good-naturedly at claims of prizes flushed from coverts or taken on the wing.

Listening to the genial chatter, Sophie spared a thought for Lucilla’s expertise. Her aunt had selected her guests with a knowing hand; they had melded into a comfortable party despite the presence of such difficult elements as Mr. Marston and Mr. Somercote.

But by the end of the meal, the rain had returned, gusting in from the east in leaden sheets. By unvoiced consensus, the gentlemen retired to the library or billiard room, while the ladies took possession of the morning-room and parlour, to chat in little groups ensconced in the comfortable armchairs or wander in the adjoining conservatory.

With everyone settled, Sophie went to the kitchens to confer with Cook. Belowstairs, she stumbled on an army, the depleted ranks of Aunt Evangeline’s aged servitors swelled beyond imagining by the maids, coachmen and valets of the guests, as well as the doyens of the Webb household. But all seemed to be cheery, the bulk of the men gathered about the huge fire in the kitchen. Minton, beaming, assured her all was well.

Climbing back up the stairs, her chores completed, Sophie decided she could justifiably seize a moment for herself. The conservatory had proved a most amazing discovery; it was huge and packed with ferns and flowering creepers, many of kinds Sophie had not before seen. She had had time for no more than a glimpse; now, she pushed open the glass door and slipped into the first avenue, half an hour of peace before her.

As the greenery surrounded her, Sophie closed her eyes and breathed deeply. The humid scent of rich earth and green leaves, of growing things, tinged with the faint perfume of exotic flowers, filled her senses. A smile hovered on her lips.

“There you are, Miss Winterton.”

Sophie’s eyes flew open; her smile vanished. Swallowing a most unladylike curse, she swung round to see Mr. Marston advancing purposefully upon her. As usual, he was frowning.

“Really, Miss Winterton, I cannot tell you how very displeased I am to find you here.”

Sophie blinked; one of her brows rose haughtily. “Indeed, sir?”

“As you should know, Miss Winterton.” Mr. Marston came to a halt before her, giving Sophie an excellent view of his grim expression. “I do not see how your uncle can reconcile this with his conscience. I knew from the first that continuing with this affair was unwise in the extreme. Unconscionable folly.”

Sophie straightened her shoulders and looked him in the eye. “I fear, sir, that I cannot allow you to malign my uncle, who, as everyone knows, takes exceptional care of me. In truth, I cannot follow your reasoning at all.”

Mr. Marston appeared to have difficulty restraining himself. “What I mean, Miss Winterton,” he finally replied, his tones glacially condemnatory, “is that I am shocked to find you-a young lady whom I consider of sound and elevated mind and a naturally genteel manner-here.” He paused to gesture about them. “Quite alone, unattended, where any gentleman might come upon you.”

Sophie hung onto her patience. “Mr. Marston, may I point out that I am in my great-aunt’s house, within easy call not only of servants but many others whom I consider friends? Is it not all the same thing as if I had chosen to walk the pavements of Covent Garden unattended?”

Mr. Marston’s grey eyes narrowed; his lips were set in a thin line. “You are mistaken, Miss Winterton. No lady can afford to play fast and loose with her reputation by courting-”

“Really, Marston. No need to bore Miss Winterton to tears by reciting the Young Ladies’ Catechism. They all have to learn it by heart before being admitted to Almack’s, you know.” Jack strolled forward, green leaves brushing his shoulders. His expression was easy and open, but Sophie saw a glint of something harder in his eyes.

The sudden rush of mixed emotions-relief, nervousness and anticipation among them-on top of her rising temper, left her momentarily giddy. But she turned back to Mr. Marston, lifting her chin challengingly. “Mr. Lester is correct, sir. I assure you I need no lectures on such topics.”

She made the comment in an even voice, giving Mr. Marston the opportunity to retreat gracefully. He, however, seemed more intent on glowering at Jack, a futile gesture for, as she shifted her gaze to her rescuer’s face, Sophie found he was watching her.

She would have given a great deal, just then, for one of his smiles. Instead, he simply bowed, urbanely elegant, and offered her his arm. “I came to collect you, my dear. The tea trolley has just been brought in.”

Sophie tried a small smile of her own and placed her fingers on his sleeve.

Phillip Marston snorted. “Ridiculous! Taking lessons in comportment from a-” He broke off as he met Jack’s gaze.

One of Jack’s brows slowly rose. “You were saying, Marston?”

The quiet question made Phillip Marston glower even more. “Nothing, nothing. If you’ll excuse me, Miss Winterton, I find I am not in the mood for tea.” With a curt bow, he turned on his heel and disappeared into the greenery.

Sophie didn’t bother to stifle her sigh. “Thank you again, Mr. Lester. I must apologize for Mr. Marston. I fear he’s labouring under a misapprehension.”

As they strolled towards the parlour, Sophie glanced up at her knight-errant. He was looking down at her, his expression enigmatic.

“No need for apologies, my dear. Indeed, I bear Marston no ill-will. Strange to say, I know just how he feels.”

Sophie frowned, but she got no chance to pursue his meaning; the tea trolley and the bulk of her aunt’s guests were waiting.

WHEN SOPHIE AWOKE the next morning, and tentatively peeked out from under the covers, she was met by weak sunshine and a pale, blue-washed sky. She relaxed back against her pillows, feeling decidedly more confident than she had the morning before.

The previous evening had passed off smoothly, much in the manner of the first. The only exceptions had been the behaviour of her suitors, who, one and all, had recovered from the dampening effects of their arrival and were once more attempting to pay court to her. That and the behaviour of the elder Miss Billingham, who had all but thrown herself at Jack Lester.

Sophie grimaced, her eyes narrowing. After a moment, she shook herself. And rose to meet the day.

She looked in on Lucilla on her way downstairs. Her aunt was sitting up in bed sipping her morning cocoa. “Indeed, I would love to see how things are progressing, but I still feel quite weak.” Lucilla pulled a face. “Maybe this evening?”

“You will remain abed until you are well,” declared Horatio, coming through the door with a laden tray.

Leaving her aunt to her husband’s fond care, Sophie descended to the breakfast parlour. There, her suitors lay in waiting.

“This kedgeree is quite remarkable, m’dear,” offered the marquess. “Quite remarkable.”

“Perhaps you would care for some bacon and an egg or two, Miss Winterton?” Mr. Chartwell lifted the lid of a silver platter and glanced at her enquiringly.

Sophie smiled on them all, and managed to install herself between Mr. Somercote, engaged in silent communication with Belle Chessington, who was chattering enough for them both, and Mrs. Chessington, who smiled understandingly.

Further down the board, Jack was apparently absorbed with Mrs. Ellis and her daughter. Beside him, Ned was chatting to Clarissa, Lord Swindon and Mr. Marley openly eavesdropping. Sophie hid a smile at her cousin’s rapt expression.

She escaped the breakfast parlour unencumbered, using the pretext of having to check on her younger cousins. Jeremy and Gerald had been tired out by a day in woods and fields; they had happily eaten with Amy and the twins the night before. When she reached the nursery she was greeted by an unnatural silence, which was explained by Nurse when she hunted that worthy down. The children had been taken on a long ride by the grooms; peace, therefore, was very likely assured. Smiling with both relief and satisfaction, Sophie descended-into the arms of her suitors.

The marquess took the lead. “My dear Miss Winterton, may I interest you in a stroll about the gardens? I believe there are some early blooms in the rose garden.”

“Or perhaps you would rather stroll about the lake?” Mr. Chartwell directed a quelling look at the marquess.

“There’s a very pretty folly just the other side of the birch grove,” offered Lord Ainsley. “Nice prospect and all that.”

Mr. Marston merely frowned.

Sophie resisted the urge to close her eyes and invoke the gods. Instead, she favoured them all with a calm smile. “Indeed, but why don’t we all go together? The gardens, after all, are not that large; doubtless we can see the rose garden, the lake and the folly before lunch.”

They mumbled and shot frowning glances at each other but, of course, they had to agree. Satisfied she had done what she could to improve the situation, Sophie resigned herself to an hour or two’s insipid conversation. At least she would get some fresh air.

As they wandered the lawns and vistas, they came upon little groups of their companions likewise employed. They nodded and smiled, calling out information on the various sights to be found, then continued with their ambles. In the distance, Sophie saw the unmistakable figure of Jack Lester, escorting Mrs. Ellis and Mrs. Doyle. Neither lady had her daughter with her, but Miss Billingham the elder had attached herself to the group. Viewing the gown of quite hideous puce stripes that that young lady had donned, along with a chip bonnet from under which she cast sly glances up at Jack Lester, Sophie gritted her teeth and looked elsewhere. To her mind, her own walking gown of pale green was far superior to Miss Billingham’s attire, and she would never cast sheep’s eyes at any man-particularly not Jack Lester.

Swallowing a humph, Sophie airily remarked, “The light is quite hazy, is it not?”

Her court immediately agreed, and spent the next five minutes telling her so.

Nevertheless, the brightness seemed to have gone out of her day. Not even the spectacle of her suitors vying for the right to hand her up the steps could resuscitate her earlier mood. She forced herself to smile and trade quips throughout luncheon but, as soon as the meal was over and it became clear that the guests were quite content, she escaped.

Donning a light cloak, she gathered her embroidery into a small basket and slipped out of the morning-room windows.

IN THE SMALL summer-house at the very end of the birch grove, hidden from the house by the shrubbery, Jack paced back and forth, his expression decidedly grim. He wasn’t all that sure what he was doing at Little Bickmanstead. He had taken refuge in the summer-house-refuge from Miss Billingham, who seemed convinced he was just waiting to make her an offer.

Not a likely prospect this side of hell freezing over-but she did not seem capable of assimilating that fact.

It was another woman who haunted him, leaving him with a decision to make. A pressing decision. Sophie’s suitors were becoming daily more determined. While it was clear she harboured no real interest in them, she had declared her requirement for funds and they each had plenty to offer. It could only be a matter of time before she accepted one of them.

With a frustrated sigh, Jack halted before one of the open arches of the summer-house and gripped the low sill; unseeing, he gazed out over the wilderness. He still wanted Sophie-regardless.

A movement caught his eye. As he watched, Sophie came into view, picking her way along the meandering path that led to the summer-house.

Slowly, Jack smiled; it seemed for the first time in days, Fate had finally remembered him, and his golden head.

Then he saw the figure moving determinedly in Sophie’s wake. Jack cursed. His gaze shifted to the left, to the other path out, but the thought of leaving Sophie to deal with Marston alone occurred, only to be dismissed. Besides, Horatio had had to leave for Southampton on business immediately after lunch; it was, Jack decided, undoubtedly his duty to keep watch over his host’s niece.

Glancing about, he noticed a small door in the back wall of the summer-house. Opened, it revealed a small room, dark and dim, in which were stored croquet mallets, balls and hoops. Shifting these aside, Jack found he could stand in the deep shadow thrown by the door and keep the interior of the summer-house in view. Propping one shoulder against a shelf, he settled into the dimness.

On reaching the summer-house, Sophie climbed the stairs, listlessness dogging her steps. With a soft sigh, she placed her basket on the small table in the centre of the floor. She was turning to view the scene from the arch when footsteps clattered up the steps behind her.

“Miss Winterton.”

In the instant before she turned to face Phillip Marston, Sophie permitted herself an expressive grimace. Irritation of no mean order, frustration and pure chagrin all had a place in it. Then she swung about, chilly reserve in her glance. “Mr. Marston.”

“I must protest, Miss Winterton. I really cannot condone your habit of slipping away unattended.”

“I wasn’t aware I was a sheep, nor yet a babe, sir.”

Phillip Marston frowned harder. “Of course not. But you’re a lady of some attraction and you would do well to bear that in mind. Particularly with the likes of Mr. Lester about.”

Her accents frigid, Sophie stated, “We will, if you please, leave my aunt’s other guests out of this discussion, sir.”

With his usual superior expression, Mr. Marston inclined his head. “Indeed, I’m fully in agreement with you there, my dear. In fact, it was precisely the idea of leaving your aunt’s other guests entirely that has prompted me to seek you out.”

Sophie felt her spirits, already tending to the dismal, slump even further. She searched for some soothing comment.

Mr. Marston fell to pacing, his hands clasped behind him, his frowning gaze fixed on the floor. “As you know, I have not been at all easy in my mind over this little party. Indeed, I did not approve of your aunt’s desire to bring you to town. It was quite unnecessary. You did not need to come to London to contract a suitable alliance.”

Sophie cast a pleading glance heavenward. Her mind had seized up; no witty comment occurred to her.

“But I will say no more on what I fear I must term your aunt’s lack of wisdom.” Phillip Marston pursed his lips. “Instead, I have resolved to ask you to leave your aunt and uncle’s protection and return to Leicestershire with me. We can be married there. I believe I know you too well to think you will want a large wedding. Such silly fripperies might be well enough for the ton but they are neither here nor there. My mother, of course, fully approves-”

“Mr. Marston!” Sophie had heard quite enough. “Sir, I do not know when I have given you cause to believe I would welcome an offer from you, but if I have, I most sincerely apologize.”

Phillip Marston blinked. It took him a moment to work through Sophie’s words. Then he frowned and looked more severe than ever.

“A-hem!”

Startled, both Sophie and Marston turned as first the marquess and then Mr. Chartwell climbed the steps to the summer-house. Sophie stared. Then, resisting the urge to shake her head, she drifted to the table, leaving her three most eager suitors ranged on the other side.

“Er, we were just strolling past. Couldn’t help overhearing, m’dear,” Huntly explained, looking most apologetic. “But felt I had to tell you-no need to marry Marston here. Only too happy to marry you myself.”

“Actually,” cut in Mr. Chartwell, fixing the marquess with a stern eye. “I was hoping to have a word with you later, Miss Winterton. In private. However, such as it is, I pray you’ll consider my suit, too.”

Sophie thought she heard a smothered snort, but before she could decide who was responsible, Mr. Marston had claimed the floor.

“Miss Winterton, you will be much happier close to your family in Leicestershire.”

“Nonsense!” Huntly exclaimed, turning to confront his rival. “No difficulty in travelling these days. Besides, why should Miss Winterton make do with some small farmhouse when she could preside over a mansion, heh?”

“Chartwell Hall is very large, Miss Winterton. Fifty main rooms. And of course I would have no qualms in giving you a free hand redecorating-there and at my London residence.” Mr. Chartwell’s attitude was one of ineffable superiority.

“Marston Manor,” Phillip Marston declaimed, glaring at Huntly and Chartwell, “is, as Miss Winterton knows, a sizeable establishment. She shall want for nothing. My resources are considerable and my estates stretch for miles, bordering those of her uncle.”

“Really?” returned the marquess. “It might interest you to know, sir, that my estates are themselves considerable, and I make bold to suggest that in light of my patrimony, Miss Winterton would do very much better to marry me. Besides, there’s the title to consider. Still worth something, what?”

“Very little if rumour is to be believed,” Mr. Chartwell cut in. “Indeed, I fear that if we are to settle this on the basis of monetary worth, then my own claims outshine you both.”

“Is that so?” the marquess enquired, his attitude verging on the belligerent.

“Indeed.” Mr. Chartwell held his ground against the combined glare of his rivals.

“Enough!” Sophie’s declaration drew all three to face her. Rigid with barely suppressed fury, she raked them with a glinting, narrow-eyed gaze. “I am disgusted with all of you! How dare you presume to know my thoughts-my feelings-my requirements-and to comment on them in such a way?”

The question was unanswerable; all three men shuffled uncomfortably. Incensed, Sophie paced slowly before them, her glittering gaze holding them silent. “I have never in my life been so insulted. Do you actually believe I would marry a man who thought I was the sort of woman who married for money?” With an angry swirl, Sophie swung about, her skirts hissing. “For wealth and establishments?” The scorn in her voice lashed at them. “I would draw your attention to my aunt, who married for love-and found happiness and success. My mother, too, married purely for love. My cousin Clarissa will unquestionably marry for love. All the women in my family marry for love-and I am no different!”

Sophie blinked back the tears that suddenly threatened. She was not done with her suitors yet. “I will be perfectly frank with you gentlemen, as you have been so frank with me. I do not love any of you, and I will certainly not marry any of you. There is no earthly use persisting in your pursuit of me, for I will not change my mind. I trust I make myself plain?”

She delivered her last question with a passable imitation of Lucilla at her most haughty. Head high, Sophie looked down her nose and dared them to deny her.

Typically, Phillip Marston made the attempt. As startled as the others, he nevertheless made an effort to draw his habitual superiority about him. “You are naturally overwrought, my dear. It was unforgivable of us to subject you to such a discussion.”

“Unforgivable, ungentlemanly and totally unacceptable.” Sophie wasn’t about to quibble. Mr. Chartwell and the marquess shuffled their feet and darted careful, placating glances at her.

Heartened, Mr. Marston grew more confident. “Be that as it may, I strongly advise you to withdraw your hasty words. You cannot have considered. It is not for such as us to marry for love; that, I believe is more rightly the province of the hoi polloi. I cannot think-”

“Mr. Marston.” Sophie threw an exasperated glance at the heavens. “You have not been listening, sir. I care not what anyone thinks of my predilection for love. It may not be conventional, but it is, I should point out, most fashionable these days. And I find I am greatly addicted to fashion. You may think it unacceptable, but there it is. Now,” she continued, determined to give them no further chance to remonstrate, “I fear I have had quite enough of your company for one afternoon, gentlemen. If you wish to convince me that you are, in fact, the gentlemen I have always believed you, you will withdraw and allow me some peace.”

“Yes, of course, my dear.”

“Pray accept our apologies, Miss Winterton.”

Both the marquess and Mr. Chartwell were more than prepared to retreat. Phillip Marston was harder to rout.

“Miss Winterton,” he said, his usual frown gathering, “I cannot reconcile it with my conscience to leave you thus unguarded.”

“Unguarded?” Sophie barely restrained her temper. “Sir, you are suffering from delusions. There is no danger to me here, in my great-aunt’s summer house.” Sophie glanced briefly at Mr. Chartwell and the marquess, then returned her gaze, grimly determined, to her most unwanted suitor. “Furthermore, sir, having expressed a desire for your absence, I will feel perfectly justified in requesting these gentlemen to protect me-from you.”

One glance was enough to show Phillip Marston that Mr. Chartwell and the marquess would be only too pleased to take out their frustrations on him. With a glance which showed how deeply against the grain retreat went with him, he bowed curtly. “As you wish, Miss Winterton. But I will speak with you later.”

Only the fact that he was leaving allowed Sophie to suppress her scream. She was furious-with all of them. Head high, she stood by the table and watched as they clattered down the steps. They paused, exchanging potent looks of dislike, then separated, each heading towards the house by a different route.

With a satisfied humph, Sophie watched them disappear. Slowly, her uplifting fury drained. The tense muscles in her shoulders relaxed. She drew in a soft breath.

It tangled in her throat as she heard a deep voice say from directly behind her,

“You’re wrong, you know.”

With a strangled shriek, Sophie whirled round. One hand at her throat, she groped with the other for the table behind her. Eyes wide, she stared up at Jack’s face. “Wh-what do you mean, wrong?” It was an effort to calm her thudding heart enough to get out the words.

“I mean,” Jack replied, prowling about the table to cut off her retreat, “that you overlooked one particular danger in assuring Marston of your safety.” He met Sophie’s stare and smiled. “Me.”

Sophie took one long look into his glittering eyes and instinctively moved to keep the table between them. As the truth dawned, she lifted her chin. “How dare you eavesdrop on my conversations!”

Jack’s predatory smile didn’t waver. “As always, your conversation was most instructive, my dear. It did, however, leave me with one burning question.”

Sophie eyed him warily. “What?”

“Just what game are you playing, my dear?”

The sudden flare in his eyes startled Sophie anew. “Ah- you’re a gentleman, Mr. Lester.” It seemed the time to remind him.

“Gentleman rake,” Jack replied. “There’s a difference.”

Sophie was suddenly very sure there was. Eyes wider than ever, she took a step back, then smothered a yelp as, with one hand and a single shove, Jack sent the table shooting over the floor.

Sophie’s gaze followed it, until it came to a quivering halt by the wall, her basket still balanced upon it. Then she looked round-and jumped back a step when she found Jack directly in front of her. He advanced; she retreated another step. Two more steps and Sophie found the wall of the summer-house at her back. Jack’s arms, palms flat against the wall, one on either side, imprisoned her. She eyed first one arm, then the other. Then, very cautiously, she looked up into his face.

His expression was intent. “Now, Sophie-”

“Ah-Jack.” Any discussion was potentially dangerous; she needed time to consider just what he had heard, and what he might now think. Sophie fixed her gaze on his cravat, directly before her face. “I’m really quite overset.” That was the literal truth. “I-I’m rather overwrought. As you heard, I just turned away three suitors. Three offers. Not a small thing, after all. I fear my nerves are a trifle strained by the experience.”

Jack shifted, leaning closer, raising one hand to catch Sophie’s chin. He tipped her face up until her wise gaze met his. “I suggest you steel yourself then, my dear. For you’re about to receive a fourth.”

Sophie’s lips parted on a protest; it remained unuttered. Jack’s lips closed over hers, sealing them, teasing the soft contours, then ruthlessly claiming them. Head whirling, Sophie clutched at his lapels. She felt him hesitate, then his head slanted over hers. Sophie shuddered as he boldly claimed her warmth, tasting her, teasing her senses with calculated expertise. Her fingers left his lapels to steal upwards, to clutch at his shoulders. He released her chin; he shifted, straightening, pulling her against him, one large hand gripping her waist. The kiss deepened again; her senses whirling, Sophie wondered how much deeper it could go. Then his hand swept slowly upward to firm about her breast, gently caressing even as he demanded her surrender.

Sophie tried to stiffen, to pull away, to refuse as she knew she should. Instead, she felt herself sink deeper into his arms, deeper into his kiss. Her breast swelled to his touch, her body ached for more.

Jack drew her hard against him, then lifted his head to breathe against her lips, “Will you marry me, Sophie?”

Sophie’s heart screamed an assent but she held the words back, hanging on to her wits by her fingernails. Slowly, she opened her eyes, blinking up into the warm blue of his. She licked her lips, then blushed as his gaze followed the action. She tried to speak, but couldn’t find her voice. Instead, she shook her head.

Jack’s blue eyes narrowed. “No? Why not?” He gave her no chance to answer but kissed her again, just as deeply, just as imperiously.

“You said you would only marry for love,” he reminded her when he again consented to lift his head. His eyes rose to hers. satisfaction flaring at her dazed expression. “You’re in love with me, Sophie. And I’m in love with you. We both know it.”

His head lowered again; Sophie realized she was in desperate straits. Faced with another of his kisses, and their increasingly debilitating effect on her wits, she seized the first word that crossed her mind. “Money,” she gasped.

Jack stopped, his lips a mere inch from hers. Slowly, he drew back, enough to look into her eyes. He studied them for a long moment, then slowly shook his head. “Not good enough this time, Sophie. You told them-your three importunate suitors-that you would never marry for money. You said it very plainly. They had money, but not your love. I’ve got your love-why do I need money?”

His gaze did not leave hers. Sophie could barely think. Again, she shook her head. “I can’t marry you, Jack.”

“Why not?”

Sophie eyed him warily. “You wouldn’t understand if I explained.”

“Try me.”

Pressing her lips together, Sophie just shook her head. She knew she was right; she also knew he wouldn’t agree.

To her dismay, a slow, thoroughly rakish smile lit Jack’s face. He sighed. “You’ll tell me eventually, Sophie.”

His tone was light, quite unconcerned. Sophie blinked and saw him look down. She followed his gaze-and gasped.

“Jack! What on earth are you doing?” Sophie batted ineffectually at his hands, busy with the buttons of her gown. Jack laughed and drew her closer, so that she couldn’t reach his nimble fingers. Then the gown was open and his long fingers slipped inside. They closed about her breast; Sophie’s knees shook.

“Sophie-” For an instant, Jack closed his eyes, his hand firming about her soft flesh. Then he bent his head and caught her lips with his.

For a giddy moment, a tide of delight caught Sophie up and whirled her about. Then Jack drew his lips from hers and the sensation receded, leaving a warm glow in its wake. Desperate, Sophie clung to reality. “What are you doing?” she muttered, her voice barely a whisper.

“Seducing you,” came the uncompromising reply.

Sophie’s eyes flew open. She felt Jack’s lips on her throat, trailing fire over her suddenly heated skin. She shuddered, then glanced wildly about the room-what she could see of it beyond his shoulders. “Here?” Her mind refused to accept the notion. The room was bare of all furniture, no chaise or day-bed, not even an armchair. He had to be teasing.

She felt rather than heard Jack’s chuckle. “The table.”

The table? Sophie’s shocked gaze swung to the innocent wooden table, now standing by the wall. Then she looked back at Jack, into his heated gaze. “No,” she said, then blushed furiously at the question in her tone.

Jack’s gaze grew warmer. “It’s easy,” he murmured, bending his head to drop wicked little kisses behind her ear. “I’ll show you.”

“No.” This time, Sophie got the intonation right. But her eyes closed and her fingers sank into Jack’s shoulders as he continued to caress her.

“But yes, sweet Sophie,” Jack whispered in her ear. “Unless you can give me a good reason why not.”

Sophie knew there had to be hundreds of reasons-but she could think of only one. The one he wanted to hear. She opened her eyes and found his face. She tried to glare. His fingers shifted beneath her bodice; Sophie sucked in a breath. She didn’t have the courage to call his bluff. He probably wasn’t bluffing. “All right,” she said and felt his fingers still. She leaned against him, seeking his strength as she sought for her words. “I told you I’m a lady of expectations, nothing more,” she began.

“And I’ve told you that doesn’t matter.”

“But it does.” Sophie glanced up, into the warm blue eyes so close to hers. She put all the pleading sincerity she could into her eyes, her voice. “Your dreams are mine: a home, a family, estates to look after. But they’ll remain nothing but dreams if you don’t marry well. You know that.”

She saw his face still, his expression sober. Sophie clung to him and willed him to understand.

Her heart was in her eyes, there for Jack to see. He drank in the sight, then closed his eyes against the pain behind. He dropped his forehead to hers and groaned. “Sophie, you have my heartfelt apologies.”

Sophie felt like sagging-with relief or was it defeat?

“I should have told you long ago.” Jack pressed a soft kiss against her temple, hugging her to him.

Sophie frowned and pushed back to look up at him. “Told me what?”

Jack smiled crookedly. “That I’m horrendously wealthy-disgustingly rich.”

Sophie’s face crumpled; her eyes filled with tears. “Oh, Jack,” she finally got out around the constriction in her throat. “Don’t.” Abruptly, she buried her face in his shoulder.

It was Jack’s turn to frown and try to hold her away. “Don’t what?”

“Don’t lie,” Sophie mumbled against his coat.

Jack stiffened. Thunderstruck, he stared down at the woman in his arms. “Sophie, I’m not lying.”

She looked up, her eyes swimming, softly blue, her lips lifting in a heart-rending smile. She raised a hand to his face. “It’s no use, Jack. We both know the truth.”

“No, we do not.” Jack withdrew his hand from her breast and caught her hand, holding it tightly. “Sophie, I swear I’m rich.” When she simply smiled, mistily disbelieving, he swore. “Very well. We’ll go and ask your aunt.”

The look Sophie sent him made Jack grimace. “All right, not Lucilla. Horatio, then. I assume you’ll accept your uncle’s word on my finances?”

Surprised, Sophie frowned. Horatio, she well knew, was a man of his word. Not even for love would he so much as bend the truth. And Jack was suggesting Horatio would bear out his claims. “But my uncle’s just left. We don’t know when he’ll return.”

Jack swore some more, distinctly colourfully. He considered his options, but the only others who knew of his recent windfall were relatives, friends or employees, none of whom Sophie would believe. “Very well.” Grimly, he surveyed Sophie’s doubting expression. “We’ll wait until he returns.”

Her mind reeling, Sophie nodded, struggling to see her way forward. She glanced down, and blushed rosily. Tugging her fingers from Jack’s clasp, she drew back enough to do up the buttons of her gown. Whatever the truth, she would have to keep Jack at arm’s length until Horatio returned-or it wouldn’t matter what her uncle said.

“Sophie?” Jack sensed her withdrawal. He had half a mind to draw her back to him, back into his arms where she belonged.

From under her lashes, Sophie glanced up at him almost guiltily. “Ah, yes.” She tried to step back but Jack’s arm was firm about her waist. “Now, Jack,” she protested, as she felt his arm tighten. She braced her hands against his chest. “We’ve agreed, have we not?” The light in his eyes left her breathless. “We’ll wait until my uncle returns.”

Jack’s blue eyes narrowed. “Sophie…” His gaze met hers, full of breathless anticipation, yet, for all that, quite determined. Jack heaved a disgusted sigh. “Very well,” he bit out. “But only until your uncle returns-agreed?”

Sophie hesitated, then nodded.

“And you’ll marry me three weeks after that.”

It was not a question; Sophie only just stopped her nod.

“And furthermore,” Jack continued, his blue gaze holding hers, “if I’m to toe the line until your uncle gets back, then so shall you.”

“Me?”

“No more flirting with your suitors-other than me.”

“I do not flirt.” With an offended air, Sophie drew back.

“And no more waltzing with anyone but me.”

“That’s outrageous!” Sophie disengaged from Jack’s arms. “You don’t know what you’re asking.”

“I know only too well,” Jack growled, letting her go. “Fair’s fair, Sophie. No more going to supper with any gentleman but me-and certainly no driving or going apart with anyone else.”

Smoothing down her skirts, Sophie humphed.

Jack caught her chin on his hand and tipped her head up until her eyes met his. “Are we agreed, Sophie?”

Sophie could feel her pulse racing. Her eyes met his, intensely blue, and she felt like she was drowning. His face, all hard angles and planes, was very near, his lips, hard and finely chiselled, but inches away. “Yes,” she whispered and breathed again when he released her.

With his customary grace, Jack offered her his arm.

Drawing her dignity about her, Sophie picked up her basket and placed her hand on his sleeve. She allowed him to lead her down the steps and back towards the house, all the way struggling to cope with the sensation of being balanced on a knife-edge. Determined to give the reprobate by her side no inkling of her difficulty, she kept her gaze on the scenery and her head very high.

Jack viewed the sight through narrowed eyes. Then he smiled, slowly, and started to plan.