Stephanie Laurens Rogues' Reform Bundle (49 page)

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.

W
ITHIN TWENTY-FOUR HOURS
, Jack had come to the conclusion that Fate had decided to live up to her reputation. He had fully intended to pursue his discussion with Sophie, rudely interrupted by Phillip Marston, the very next morning. Fickle Fate gave him no chance.

True, they went riding as usual, a mere ball being insufficient to dampen the Webbs' equestrian spirits. The children, however, prompted, Jack had no doubt, by Sophie, hung about him, bombarding him with questions about the projected balloon ascension. When Percy hove in sight, Jack ruthlessly fobbed the children off on his friend, who, by pure chance, was an amateur enthusiast. But by that time, the gentlemen who had discovered Sophie and Clarissa the night before had caught up with them.

Jack spent the rest of the ride po-faced by Sophie's side.

And there was worse to come.

As Jack had predicted, Clarissa Webb's come-out ball became the de facto beginning of the Season. It had been voted an horrendous crush by all; every hostess with any claim to fame rushed to lay her own entertainments before the
ton.
The days and evenings became an orgy of Venetian breakfasts, alfresco luncheons, afternoon teas and formal dinners, all crowned by a succession of balls, routs, drums and soirées. And beneath the frenzy ran the underlying aim of fostering suitable alliances—an aim with which Jack was, for the first time in his career, deeply involved.

Indeed, as he leaned against the wall in an alcove in Lady Marchmain's ballroom, his gaze, as always, on Sophie, presently gliding through a cotillion, the only thing on Jack's mind was a suitable alliance. He had come to town to use the Season as a backdrop for his wooing of Sophie. By his reckoning, the Season was now more than a week old. Then how much longer did he have to hold off and watch her smile at other men?

“I wonder…need I ask which one she is? Or should I make an educated guess?”

At the drawled words, Jack shifted his gaze to frown at Harry. Observing his brother's interrogative expression, Jack snorted and returned to his occupation. “Second set from the door. In amber silk. Blond.”

“Naturally.” Harry located Sophie by the simple expedient of following Jack's gaze. His brows slowly rose. “Not bad at all,” he mused. “Have I complimented you recently on your taste?”

“Not so I've noticed.”

“Ah, well.” Harry slanted Jack a rakish smile. “Perhaps I'd better converse with this paragon before I pass judgement.”

“If you can shake the dogs that yap at her heels.”

Harry shook his head languidly. “Oh, I think I'll manage. What's her name?”

“Sophie Winterton.”

With a smile which Jack alone could view with equanimity, Harry sauntered into the crowd. His lips twisting wryly, Jack settled to watch how his brother performed a feat he himself was finding increasingly difficult.

“Thank you, Mr. Somercote. An excellent measure.” Sophie smiled and gave Mr. Somercote her hand, hoping he would accept his dismissal. He was, unfortunately, becoming a trifle pointed in his interest.

Mr. Somercote gazed earnestly into her face, retaining her hand in a heated clasp. He drew a portentous breath. “My dear Miss Winterton…”

“It is Miss Winterton, is it not?”

With abject relief, Sophie turned to the owner of the clipped, somewhat hard tones, beneath which a certain languidness rippled, and beheld a strikingly handsome man, bowing even more elegantly than Jack Lester.

This last was instantly explained.

“Harry Lester, Miss Winterton,” the apparition offered, along with a rakish grin. “Jack's brother.”

“How do you do, Mr. Lester?” As she calmly gave him her hand, Sophie reflected that in any contest of handsomeness, it would be exceedingly difficult to decide between Jack and Harry Lester, not least because they were so unalike.

The gentleman currently shaking her hand, then appropriating it in a manner she recognized all too well, was fair where Jack was dark, with green eyes where Jack's were blue. He was as tall as Jack, but leaner, and there hung about him an aura of dangerous elegance that was distinctly more sharp-edged than Jack's easy assurance. This Lester possessed an elegance that was almost extreme, an aesthetic's adherence to Brummel's dictates, combined with a well-nigh lethal grace.

Harry's glance flicked to Mr. Somercote, then returned to Sophie's face. “Perhaps you would care for a stroll about the rooms, Miss Winterton?”

The arrogant smile that curved his fatally attractive lips assured Sophie that, despite their physical dissimilarity, the Lesters were certainly brothers beneath the skin. “Indeed, sir. That would be most pleasant.” He had already settled her hand on his sleeve. With a gentle nod for the deflated Mr. Somercote, Sophie allowed Harry to lead her along the floor.

“You've come to town with your aunt and cousins, have you not?”

Sophie glanced up to find a pair of green eyes lazily regarding her. “Yes, that's right. The Webbs.”

“I'm afraid I've not had the pleasure of making their acquaintance. Perhaps you could introduce me if we meet?”

Sophie quickly discovered that Harry, like his brother, had a ready facility for filling in time in a most agreeable, and surprisingly unexceptionable, manner. As they chatted, threading their way through the crowd, she found herself relaxing, then laughing at a tale of a most hilarious excursion in the Park when he and Jack had first come to town. It was only the arrival of her next partner, Mr. Chartwell, that put an end to their amble.

Jack's brother yielded her up with a flourish and a wicked smile.

Smiling herself as she watched him disappear into the crowd, Sophie wondered at the steely danger so apparent in him. It contrasted oddly with Jack's strength. Not that she had felt the least threatened by Harry Lester—quite the opposite. But she did not think she would like to lose her heart to him.

Her mind had little respite from thoughts of Lesters; Jack claimed her immediately the dance with Mr. Chartwell concluded, barely giving that gentleman time to take his leave. However, having detected an expression of chagrin in Mr. Chartwell's mild grey eyes, Sophie was too grateful for her rescue to remonstrate.

Her gratefulness diminished markedly when it became apparent that Jack's difficulties in accepting their fate had not yet been resolved.

“Sophie, I want to talk to you. Privately.” Jack had given up trying to manoeuvre such an interlude subtly. Sophie had proved the most amazingly stubborn female he had ever encountered.

Sophie lifted her chin. “You know that would be most unwise, let alone inappropriate.”

Jack swallowed a curse. “Sophie, I swear…” The music for the waltz started up; Jack shackled his temper long enough to sweep Sophie into his arms. Once they were whirling slowly down the room, hemmed in on all sides, he continued, “If I have to put up with much more of this, I'll—”

“You'll do nothing that would force me to cut the connection, I hope?” Sophie kept her eyes wide and her expression serene; they might have been discussing the weather for all anyone could see. But her chest felt tight and her heart had sunk. She held Jack's gaze and prayed he'd draw back.

A savage light lit his eyes. Then, with a muttered curse, he looked away. But the tightening of his arm about her told Sophie the argument was far from over. He was holding her far too tight. Sophie made no demur. She had long ago given up hypocritically protesting his transgressions—such as his insistence of using her first name.

She felt a quiver run through her, felt her body respond to his nearness. That, she supposed, was inevitable. He wanted her—as she wanted him. But it wasn't to be; their world did not operate that way. They would both marry others, and Jack had to accept the fact gracefully. If he did, then perhaps they could remain friends. It was all she could hope for, and she was selfish enough to cling to his friendship. He shared so many of her interests, much more so than any of the gentlemen vying for her hand. Indeed, she was loweringly aware that not one of them measured up to Jack Lester and that whenever they gave signs of wanting to fix their interest, she felt an immediate aversion for their company. Her heart, no longer hers, was proving very difficult to reconquer.

Sensing an easing in the tension surrounding her, Sophie slanted a glance at Jack's face.

He was watching her, waiting. “Sophie…I'll accept that you need time to look about you. But I'm not an inherently patient man.” The muscle along his jaw twitched; he stilled it, his eyes never leaving hers. “If you could find some way to hurry up this phase, I'd be eternally grateful.”

Sophie blinked, her eyes widening. “I…I'll try.”

“Do,” Jack replied. “But just remember, Sophie—you're mine.
Nothing,
no amount of pretty phrases, will
ever
change that.”

The possessiveness in his expression, intransigent, unwavering, stunned Sophie even more than the essence of his arrogant demand. A slow shudder shook her. “Please, Jack…” She looked away, her whisper dying between them.

Jack shackled the urge to haul her into his arms, to put an end to this wooing here and now. Instead, as the music ceased, he drew her hand through his arm. “Come. I'll escort you back to your aunt.”

At least she had called him Jack.

 

“S
OMETHING'S WRONG
.”

It was two nights after Lady Marchmain's ball. Horatio, already propped amid the pillows, turned to study his wife as she sat at her dressing-table, brushing out her mane of silver-blond hair. “What makes you say that?” he asked, unperturbed by her intense expression.

Lucilla frowned. “Sophie isn't happy.”

“Isn't she?” Horatio blinked behind his glasses. “Why not? I would have thought, with a horde of would-be suitors, Jack Lester to the fore, she'd be as happy as a young lady could be.”

“Well, she's not—and I think it has something to do with Jack Lester, although I cannot, for the life of me, imagine what it could be. Why, the man's positively eaten by jealousy every time she so much as smiles at another. Anyone with eyes can see it. I really don't know what more Sophie wants. Jack Lester will be the catch of the Season.”

“Hmm.” Horatio frowned. “You're quite sure it's Jack Lester she wants?”

Lucilla snorted. “Believe me, my dear, there's no man Sophie wants even a tenth as much. Indeed, if I was intent on doing my job by the book, I should have warned her long ago not to be so blatant in her preference.”

“Ah, well.” Horatio shuffled his ever-present documents and laid them aside as Lucilla stood and came towards the bed.

“I dare say it'll work itself out. These things generally do.”

Lucilla slipped beneath the covers and snuggled down. She waited until Horatio had blown out the candle before saying, “You don't think I should…well, find out what the problem is?”

“You mean
meddle?
” Horatio's tone made his opinion quite clear even before he said, “No. Let the young make their own mistakes, m'dear. How else do you expect them to learn?”

Lucilla grimaced in the dark. “Doubtless you're right, dear.” She reached under the covers and patted Horatio's hand. She waited all of a minute before saying, “Actually, I was thinking of organizing a short respite from town. The circus of the Season can become a mite tedious without a break. And I wouldn't want Sophie or Clarissa to become jaded just yet. What say you to a little house party at Aunt Evangeline's?”

Protected by the dark, Horatio slowly smiled. “Whatever you think best, m'dear.”

It wouldn't hurt for the young people to have a little time together—time enough to correct their mistakes.

 

B
UT
F
ATE HAD NOT
yet consented to smile again on Jack. And as for Sophie, she was finding it hard to smile at all.

The thought that Jack wanted her to marry as soon as possible was depressing enough. The idea of what he imagined would happen after was even more so. Her dreams were in tatters; Sophie found it increasingly hard to support her serene fa
de. She had made a habit of joining circles with Belle Chessington, relying on her friend's unquenchably cheery constitution to conceal her flagging spirits. But her glow was entirely superficial. Inside was all deepening gloom.

She had just returned to her circle on the arm of Mr. Chartwell, who was becoming more assiduous with every passing day, when a deep voice set her heart thumping.

“I do hope, Miss Winterton, that you've saved me a dance.” Jack smiled into Sophie's eyes as he took her hand and drew her away from her court. “I've been teaching Ned how to tie his cravat, and it took rather longer than either of us expected.”

Sophie felt her nerves knot and pull tight. Was this, she wondered, as they strolled down the room, how it was going to be later? Would he simply arrive and appropriate her at will? Tensing, she lifted her chin. “I'm afraid my card is full, Mr. Lester.”