Stephanie Laurens Rogues' Reform Bundle (48 page)

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 Mable-thorpe, 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?”