Stephanie Laurens Rogues' Reform Bundle (50 page)

Jack frowned slightly. “I had rather supposed it would be. But you have kept a dance for me, haven't you?”

They both nodded to Miss Berry, ensconced on a chaise, then continued onward in silence. Sophie struggled to find words for her purpose.

Somewhat abruptly, their progress halted and her escort drew her to face him.

“Sophie?” Jack's frown was gathering force.

Sophie's eyes met his, cloudy, turbulent, intensely blue. Her heart thudding uncomfortably in her throat, she slid her gaze from his. “As it happens, I have not yet accepted anyone for the second waltz.”

“You have now.” Smothering the dark, almost violent passion that had threatened to erupt, Jack trapped her hand on his sleeve and continued their stroll.

He pointedly returned Sophie to her aunt, some little way from her cloying court. Surrendering her up for their delectation was presently beyond him. His expression somewhat grim, he bowed over Sophie's hand. “Until the second waltz, Miss Winterton.”

With that, he left her, his mood even more savage than when he had arrived.

For Sophie, the second waltz arrived far too soon. She had not yet regained her composure, seriously strained by the events of the past weeks and now close to breaking. Jack's arm about her whirled her effortlessly down the floor; Sophie held herself stiffly, battling the impulse to surrender to his strength.

So absorbed was she with her struggle that the first she knew of their departure from the ballroom was the cool touch of the night air on her face.

“Where…?” Distracted, Sophie glanced about and discovered they were on a terrace. But that, apparently, was not their destination, for Jack, his arm still hard about her waist, urged her on. “Jack!” Sophie tried to dig in her heels.

Jack stopped and looked down at her. “You were obviously finding the waltz a trial. I thought you might need some air.”

Sophie relaxed slightly, and found she was moving again. “Where are we going?”

The answer was a garden room, built onto the house beyond the end of the terrace. Walls of windows let the moonlight pour in, silvering everything in sight. A few padded cane chairs and two little tables were scattered about the small room, which was, Sophie realized as she heard the door click behind them, mercifully empty.

Which was just as well, for Jack demanded without preamble, “How much longer, Sophie?”

Sophie swung about and found him advancing on her.

“How much longer are you going to make me suffer?”

Her hand rose as if to ward him off; it came to rest on his chest as he halted directly before her. Feeling the warmth of his body through his coat, Sophie shivered. She looked up into his shadowed face, the planes hard and unyielding, and a small spurt of temper flared inside. How did he think
she
felt, having to give up the man she loved—and having that man urge her to do it? Her chin lifted. “I'm afraid the decision is not that simple. In fact, I find the attentions of my present admirers not at all to my taste.”

That admission went a long way towards easing the tension that held Jack in its grip. He could feel it flowing from him, the muscles of his shoulders and back relaxing.

Still considering her suitors, Sophie frowned. “I'm afraid I would not be happy accepting any of my present suitors.”

An icy chill stole over Jack's heart. It beat three times before he asked, “None?”

Sophie shook her head. “I don't know what to do. I must accept
someone
by the end of the Season.”

The chill was slowly spreading through Jack's veins. He touched his tongue to his lips, then asked, “Why not me?”

Startled, Sophie glanced up at him. “But…” She frowned. “I can't marry you—you know I can't.” She could see very little of his expression through the shadows veiling his face. And nothing at all of his eyes.

“Why not?” Sight wouldn't have helped her; Jack's expression was hard, impassive, all emotion suppressed. “We both know I've all the attributes you seek in a husband: a country estate, a wish to reside in the country, a desire for children, to have a family about me. That's what you want, isn't it?”

Sophie stared up at him.

“And, of course,” Jack continued, his lips twisting in an uncertain smile, “we have something else between us.” Raising a hand, he delicately drew the tip of one finger from the point of Sophie's shoulder, exposed by her wide neckline, across to the base of her throat, then down to where the deep cleft between her breasts was visible above her gown. Sophie shivered and caught her breath.

“A…compatibility,” Jack said, “that makes all the rest fade into insignificance.” His eyes rose to trap Sophie's stunned gaze. “Isn't it so, Sophie?”

Sophie swallowed. “But I have no fortune. Nothing but expectations.”

“That doesn't matter.” Jack's gaze sharpened. He drew a deep breath. “Sophie—”

In a sudden breathless rush, Sophie put her fingers over his lips. “No!” she squeaked, and cursed her quavering voice. At last she understood—and knew what she must do. Drawing in a determined breath, consciously steeling herself, she drew back, forcing herself to hold his gaze. “I'm afraid you don't understand, Jack. I've never been wealthy in my life—I came to London determined to marry well.” The lie came out so easily. Her eyes falling from his, Sophie searched for more words to shore it up. “I know I didn't say so, but I thought you understood. Nothing…” She paused to make sure her voice would not waver. “Nothing I've seen in London has changed my mind; I require that my preferred suitor has considerable wealth.”

The words came out more than creditably. Sophie heard them; her heart thudded painfully in her breast but she held herself erect, head high. Far better he think her lost to all sensibility than that he offer to marry her, mortgaging his future, turning his back on those responsibilities that were so very important to him. He was just like Lucilla—ready to sacrifice all for love. She wouldn't allow it.

“But…” Jack couldn't have felt more stunned had she slapped him. His brain reeled, grappling with the fact that Sophie did not know of his true circumstances. He had assumed Horatio would tell Lucilla, who in turn would have told Sophie. Obviously not. The facts were on his lips. Chill reason froze them there.

He looked down at Sophie's face, calm and serene in the moonlight, the face of the woman he had thought he understood. But she was intent on marrying for money—so intent she would happily put aside what was between them, turn away from his love, and hers, in exchange for cold hard cash. Fate was playing games with him; his golden head had gold on her mind. Did he really want to win her by revealing his disgusting wealth? How would he feel when she smiled and came to his arms, knowing that it had taken money to get her there?

There was a bitter taste in his mouth. Jack drew a sharp breath and looked up, over Sophie's head. He felt cold. A steel fist had closed about his heart, squeezing unmercifully.

He took a jerky step back. “I regret, Miss Winterton, if my…attentions have been unwelcome. I will not trouble you more. I realize my actions must have complicated your search for…a suitable suitor. You have my apologies.” With a curt bow, Jack turned to leave. And hesitated.

His face in profile, Sophie saw his lips twist in the travesty of a smile. Then he turned his head to look down at her. “I can only hope, my dear, that when you find your pot of gold at the end of the rainbow you're not disappointed.” With a curt nod, he strode away, opening and shutting the door carefully.

Leaving Sophie in the centre of the empty room.

For a long moment, she remained as she was, proudly erect, then her shoulders slumped. Sophie bowed her head, drawing in an aching breath, squeezing her eyes tight against the pain that blossomed inside.

Ten minutes later, she returned to the ballroom, no trace of misery on her face. Coolly composed, she joined her little circle, brightly responding to Belle Chessington's quips. A quick glance about revealed the fact that Jack's dark head was nowhere to be seen. Sophie crumpled inside. She had done the right thing. She must remember that.

If this was what it took to ensure he prospered and lived the life he should live, so be it.

From an alcove by the card room, almost at the other end of the floor, Jack brooded on Sophie's ready smiles. If he had needed any further proof of the superficiality of her feelings for him, he had just received it. Raising his glass, he downed a mouthful of the golden liquor it contained.

“There you are. Been looking all over.” Ned ducked round the palm that blocked the opening of the alcove. His eyes fell on Jack's glass. “What's that?”

“Brandy,” Jack growled and took another long sip.

Ned raised his brows. “Didn't see any of that in the refreshment room.”

“No.” Jack smiled, somewhat grimly, across the room and said no more. Ned didn't need to drink himself into a stupor.

“I danced the last cotillion with Clarissa,” Ned said. “Her blasted card was virtually full and that bounder Gurnard's taking her in to supper. Should I hang around here or can we leave?”

His gaze on Sophie, Jack considered the point. “I don't advise leaving until after supper, or it'll be said you only came to dance with Clarissa.”

“I
did
only come to dance with Clarissa,” Ned groaned. “Can we just cut and run?”

Very slowly, Jack shook his head, his attention still fixed across the room. “I told you, this game's not for the fainthearted.” For a long moment, he said no more; Ned waited patiently.

Abruptly, Jack shook himself and straightened from the wall. He looked at Ned, his usual arrogant expression in place. “Go and join some other young lady's circle. But whatever you do, don't be anywhere near Clarissa at suppertime.” At Ned's disgusted look, Jack relented. “If you survive that far, I don't suppose it would hurt to talk to her afterwards—but no more than fifteen minutes.”

“Wooing a young lady in the
ton
is the very devil,” Ned declared. “Where do all these rules come from?” With a disgusted shake of his head, he took himself off.

With his protégé under control, Jack leaned back into the shadows of the alcove, and kept watch on the woman who, regardless of all else, was still his.

 

F
OUR DAYS LATER
, Sophie sat in the carriage and stared gloomily at the dull prospect beyond the window. Lucilla's little excursion, announced this morning, had taken the household by surprise. In retrospect, she should have suspected her aunt was planning something; there had been moments recently when Lucilla had been peculiarly abstracted. This three-day sojourn at Little Bickmanstead, the old manor belonging to Lucilla's ancient Aunt Evangeline, was the result.

Despondent, Sophie sighed softly, her gaze taking in the leaden skies. In perfect accord with her mood, the unseasonably fine spell had come to an abrupt end on the night she had refused to let Jack offer for her. A rainstorm had swept the capital. Ever since, the clouds had threatened, low and menacing, moving Lucilla to veto their rides.

Glumly, Sophie wondered if Jack understood—or if he thought she was avoiding him. The miserable truth was, she did not think she could cope with any meeting just now. Perhaps Fate had sent the rain to her aid?

Certainly Jack himself seemed in no hurry to speak with her again. Perhaps he never would. He had been present at the balls they had attended over the past three nights. She had seen him in the distance, but he had not approached her. Indeed, once, when they had passed close while she had been strolling the floor on one of her would-be suitors' arms, and their gazes had met, he had merely inclined his head in a distant fashion. She had replied in kind, but inside the ache had intensified.

Sophie closed her eyes and searched for peace in the repetitive rocking of the coach. She had done the right thing—she kept telling herself so. Her tears, perforce, had been shed discreetly, far from Lucilla's sharp eyes. She had stifled her grief, refusing to dwell on it; suppressed, it had swelled until it pervaded her, beating leaden in her veins, a cold misery enshrouding her soul. A misery she was determined none would ever see.

Which meant she had to face the possibility that Jack might take up the invitation Lucilla had extended to join them at Little Bickmanstead. The guest list numbered some twenty-seven souls, invited to enjoy a few days of rural peace in the rambling old house close by Epping Forest. But Jack wouldn't come, not now. Sophie sighed, feeling not relief, but an inexpressible sadness at the thought.

The well-sprung travelling carriage rolled over a rut, throwing Clarissa against her shoulder. They disentangled themselves and sat up, both checking on Lucilla, seated opposite, her dresser, Mimms, by her side. Her aunt, Sophie noted, was looking distinctly seedy. A light flush tinted Lucilla's alabaster cheeks and her eyes were overbright.

Touching a lace-edged handkerchief to her nose, Lucilla sniffed delicately. “Incidentally, Clarissa, I had meant to mention it before now—but you really don't want to encourage that guardsman, Captain Gurnard.” Lucilla wrinkled her nose. “I'm not at all sure he's quite the thing, despite all appearances to the contrary.”

“Fear not, Mama.” Clarissa smiled gaily. “I've no intention of succumbing to the captain's wiles. Indeed, I agree with you, there's definitely something ‘not quite' about him.”

Lucilla shot her daughter a narrow-eyed glance, then, apparently reassured, she blew her nose and settled back against the cushions.

Clarissa continued to smile sunnily. Her plans were proceeding, albeit not as swiftly as she would have liked. Ned was proving remarkably resistant to the idea of imitating her other swains; he showed no signs of wanting to prostrate himself at her feet. However, as she found such behaviour a mite inconvenient, Clarissa was perfectly ready to settle for a declaration of undying love and future happiness. Her current problem lay in how to obtain it.