Regency: Rakes & Reputations (Mills & Boon M&B) (42 page)

Bending his head over the hand that the new Viscountess was holding out to him, he murmured the accepted polite phrases, barely glancing up at her face as, thrusting out his own hand to the young man at her side, he mumbled, ‘Your servant, sir.’

‘I doubt that you will remember John, my lord,’ came Countess Whitcombe’s breathy tones at his shoulder. ‘He was probably away at school when you were last …’

‘By all that’s holy! It’s our Mr Wolfe!’

Viscount Bingham’s startled ejaculation at once shook Marcus out of his semi-torpid state as, with a perplexed frown, he forced himself to focus his attention on the young man whose hand was still grasping his own. Then, his brain suddenly clearing, realisation hit him in a blinding flash. There in front of him stood the young father-to-be from that godforsaken inn from which all his present problems had sprung! Viscount Bingham and Jack Lucan were one and the same man!
But Lucan? It was hardly possible—his family had known the Lucans for most of his life! How in God’s name could he have failed to make so obvious a connection?

His mind in a state of utter confusion, he found himself being hustled in the direction of a group of guests that had congregated nearby as the young Viscount’s voice rang out excitedly, ‘Do look, Sophie. You’ll never guess who I’ve got here!’

Sophie?

Marcus’s heart stuttered to a standstill as one of the splendidly attired young women turned a questioning face in his direction. ‘Sophie!’ he stammered in disbelief, as he reached out towards her.

‘M
y lord.’

Ignoring Helstone’s outstretched hand, Sophie lowered her eyes and dipped him a respectful curtsey. Her shock at seeing Marcus descending the stairs some minutes earlier had almost brought her to her knees, with only Egremont’s quick thinking preventing her from actually sinking to the ground. And, although her hurriedly concocted tale of having caught her heel in the train of her evening gown had seemed to satisfy her concerned escort, it had very soon come to her that it was simply a matter of time before she would be required to confront the Viscount face-to-face.

As the minutes dragged by, with her every nerve attuned to the looming threat of his approach, she had struggled to keep the rising panic at bay. Eventually, by using every tool at her disposal, she had managed to steel herself to turn and greet him in a relatively calm and dignified manner.

‘Your lordship is well, I trust?’

Utterly transfixed by the heart-wrenchingly lovely vision that stood before him, Marcus found himself lost for words. Gone were the prim hairstyle and dowdy grey dress of the one-time governess’s previous lifestyle, and in their stead a riotous tumble of shining chestnut curls and a stunning gown of oyster-coloured satin, whose clinging folds seemed to accentuate every single one of its wearer’s only too memorable curves, and whose fetchingly low-cut neckline served merely to emphasise the entrancing creamy swell of her shapely bosom.

Conscious of several pairs of eyes upon him, Marcus finally managed to marshal his stunned senses into reciprocating Sophie’s curtsey with a polite bow and the standard exchange of courtesies, before forcing himself to stand aside and allow her to return to her friends—whereupon he found himself having to drag in a hefty breath in order to quell his aching awareness of her all too captivating presence barely three feet away from him. Try as he might, he found it difficult to concentrate his attention on the conversation that was going on around him.

‘… knowing him as Mr Wolfe, and never having met his lordship before, it simply never occurred to me,’ Bingham was explaining to the group. ‘Besides which, of course,’ he added, shooting his prettily blushing wife an affectionate grin, ‘I was more immediately concerned with Elizabeth’s problems at the time! Thanks to our dear friend Sophie—or Miss Pendleton-Flint, as I should more properly refer to her—everything turned out just splendidly!’

Amidst the general murmur of laughter and approval that followed these remarks, Lady Susanna turned to her son in some confusion.

‘Did he say Pendleton-Flint?’ she asked, a bewildered frown furrowing her brow. ‘But surely that is the—’

‘Not now, Mother, if you please!’ muttered Marcus urgently, catching hold of her arm and manoeuvring her firmly out of Sophie’s earshot. ‘I would prefer that you didn’t mention that particular matter just at the moment, if you would be so good.’

‘Ah, yes, I remember now,’ returned his mother with a perceptive nod. ‘You did tell us that your plans in that direction had gone somewhat awry, as I recall.’ Her eyes travelled shrewdly towards Sophie who, having returned herself to the safety of her former companions, gave the impression of being fully engrossed in whatever the earnest-looking young man at her side was telling her. ‘Such a pity. The girl is rather lovely—as indeed are those diamonds around her neck. The family is quite well-to-do, I imagine?’

‘So I believe,’ grunted Marcus, eyeing Sophie’s eager attendant with some disfavour. His attention having been distracted by rather more emotive issues at the time, any jewellery that Sophie might have been wearing had totally escaped his notice.

‘I presume that there is no reason why you may not ask the young woman to dance?’ Lady Susanna then enquired of him. ‘Even supposing that the two of you have had some sort of a fall-out, I cannot imagine that Miss Pendleton-Flint would be so ill-mannered as to refuse such a request.’

‘If you don’t mind, I had just as soon …’ began her son, but then, after a slight pause, during which his mother seemed to discern some sort of inward tussle taking place, Marcus twisted his lips in a somewhat wry smile. ‘Why not, indeed?’ he said finally.

Thrusting his way into the circle that had again
surrounded her, Marcus manoeuvred his way to Sophie’s side and sketched a brief bow. ‘May I crave the pleasure of this next dance, Miss Pendleton-Flint?’ he asked, his fingers mentally crossing as he awaited her reply.

‘Oh, dear—I’m not certain that—I believe another gentleman …’

Having finally managed to bolster herself sufficiently to perform the customary exchange of courtesies, it had not escaped Sophie’s attention that Helstone had lost little time in distancing himself from her. She had done her best to hide the pain this obvious lack of interest on his part had caused her by endeavouring to focus her attention on the words of her nearest companion. But to suddenly discover the Viscount standing there in front of her had the effect of catching her badly off guard and barely able to muster her thoughts.

‘For old times’ sake, perhaps?’ murmured Marcus softly, willing her to meet his gaze as he held out his hand.

Unable to prevent herself, Sophie raised her eyes to his, only to catch her breath as she read the patent appeal therein. Oblivious to the muttered protests that were emanating from several of her followers, and as if in a dream, she found herself laying her hand in Helstone’s and allowing him to lead her out on to the dance floor where, as she was soon to discover, a waltz was already in progress, with several other couples energetically engaged in showing off their capabilities.

‘I appear to have cramped the style of one of your admirers,’ observed Marcus as, executing a nimble side step in order to avoid collision with an over-enthusiastic pair who were about to barge into them, he dextrously swung her into the fast moving mêlée of dancers.

‘Lord Murcheson.’ Sophie sighed, casting a distracted
look over her shoulder to register the look of simmering fury on the face of the young man from whose side Helstone had just removed her. ‘Although I feel obliged to point out that he does have the right to look somewhat disgruntled—this was to be his dance and you have stolen it.’

‘Murcheson? His Viscountcy is barely sixty years old,’ retorted Marcus with a careless shrug. ‘Mine, on the other hand, is well over two hundred—I shall claim seniority of rank.’

Since her nervous system had not entirely recovered from the shock of Helstone’s impetuous action, Sophie found herself unable to conjure up an adequately disapproving reply to this somewhat high-handed remark, added to which she could not help reflecting that, despite the apparently imperious manner that he was exhibiting, the Viscount did not seem entirely at ease with himself.

Registering her silence, Marcus, cursing himself for a fool, tried again.

‘You certainly look to be enjoying this new life of yours,’ he ventured. ‘You must be delighted to have been reunited with your father’s family.’

‘Oh, yes, I am—of course,’ she replied, in a somewhat offhand tone of voice. ‘Although I must confess that I have not, as yet, had the pleasure of meeting my great-aunt.’

‘Oh, you will like her, I am sure,’ said Marcus, guiding her adroitly across the floor as he spoke. ‘My brother was good enough to introduce the two of us when Miss Pendleton first arrived in the capital—I thought her a most charming lady.’

Feeling duty bound to thank him for the Major’s efforts on her family’s behalf, Sophie did so, wondering
all the while how she might turn the subject to one that was of far more concern to her.

‘I was wondering—’ she began nervously, as soon as a suitable bout of silence offered itself.

‘You must—’ blurted out Marcus simultaneously.

Pausing, they both laughed. Then, ‘Please go on,’ he said.

‘No, you first,’ she insisted.

Hesitating only briefly, Marcus took a deep breath. ‘I dare say you may have been wondering why I have not approached you to beg your pardon for my appalling conduct at our last meeting,’ he said.

Sophie’s eyes widened in dismay. Having spent a good many sleepless nights castigating herself for her own unseemly behaviour on that unforgettable occasion, she could not allow Helstone to shoulder the entire blame for the event.

‘Oh, no, my lord,’ she exclaimed in protest. ‘Surely it is I who should apologise to you for having vilified you so dreadfully?’

A pensive frown on his face, the Viscount shook his head but, finding himself obliged to direct his attention to the avoidance of yet another maladroit couple in his pathway, it was some few moments before he was able to consider his reply.

‘I have little doubt that I deserved every condemnation you threw at me,’ he grunted. ‘I had every intention of offering you my apologies first thing the following morning—only to discover that you had left the Crayfords.’ He paused briefly, before adding, ‘I take it that you were asked to leave?’

Sophie gave a perfunctory nod. Mrs Crayford’s harsh condemnation of her on that evening was still fresh in her mind. ‘I thought it best that I went,’ she
said diffidently. ‘It would have been difficult to remain, given the circumstances.’

Correctly reading the expression on her face, Marcus, heaping mental curses upon her erstwhile employer, tentatively tightened his hold before saying, ‘Unfortunately, I was then unable to establish your whereabouts—although my brother did gave me the impression that you had travelled to Harrogate with your family.’

‘Oh, no, it was decided that I would do better to remain with the Egremonts for the time being,’ replied Sophie, her breath catching as she felt the increased pressure of the Viscount’s hand at her waist. ‘The family has been extremely kind and generous towards me.’

‘No doubt they feel they owe you a debt of gratitude,’ acknowledged Marcus, his mouth curving in a mischievous smile. ‘It would seem that your intervention at that godforsaken tavern helped to ensure the Whitcombe succession—which must be a matter of great moment, after all!’

An unbidden chuckle escaped Sophie’s lips.

‘I have the feeling that Mother Nature would have managed very nicely without my assistance,’ she replied, her clear blue eyes filling with laughter as she smiled up at him.

His heart seeming to swell within him, Marcus pulled her more closely still. Perhaps all was not lost, after all, he told himself, as he swept her across the floor. If he could just persuade Sophie to overlook his past misdemeanours, he reasoned, perhaps he could set about wooing her in the time-honoured fashion. Given time, and a little help from Lady Luck, it might yet be possible to regain some of the ground that he’d lost.

Her former concerns now fully satisfied, Sophie allowed herself to relax in the Viscount’s hold, more than
content just to have him shepherd her around the room, their steps perfectly matched to the hypnotic rhythm of the lilting music. Any further conversation was, as far as she was concerned, entirely superfluous; simply to find herself once more in Helstone’s arms—for however fleeting an interlude—was, to her, far more than she could ever have hoped or dreamed of. Her whole being deliciously alive to the realisation that Helstone was holding her rather more closely than was generally considered proper, she closed her eyes, tipped back her head, and surrendered herself to the supreme rapture of the moment.

Inevitably, and all too soon, the captivating rhythm drew to its close and, with a sweeping flourish, the final chord rang out across the room, bringing the exhilarated dancers to a laughing, breathless standstill. Marcus, gazing down at the still rapt expression on Sophie’s beloved face, found himself wishing that he could just lift her up and spirit her away to some secret hideout, where the pair of them could cloister themselves away from prying eyes and where he would have all the time in the world to demonstrate the true extent of his feelings towards her. The horde of fawning admirers who battled so eagerly for her attention not having escaped his notice, it had very quickly come to him that there was a very real danger of one or other of those toadying dissemblers securing Sophie’s hand before he himself was able to conjure up a suitable opportunity to convince her of his sincerity. The sudden ripple of fury that coursed through his veins at the thought of Sophie being pledged in matrimony to any man other than himself was swiftly overtaken by a feeling of sick dread as he was forced to remind himself that his cause was not yet won.

Consequently, and only because there were no other options open to him at that point, it was a very reluctant Marcus who finally returned Sophie to the bosom of her waiting court. His half-hearted attempts to soothe the still somewhat aggrieved Lord Murcheson’s ruffled feathers having been grudgingly accepted, it was with a gnawing disappointment that he then discovered that Sophie’s dance card was already filled. Her satisfyingly eager suggestion that the Viscount might care to escort her into supper, however, went some way to bolstering Marcus’s spirits, but, rather than suffer the indignity of having to stand to one side while a succession of would-be suitors made increasingly outrageous attempts to capture his beloved’s attention, he quickly excused himself and went in search of what had become a much-needed drink.

Having procured himself a glass of champagne, Marcus then quit the ballroom and wandered out into the corridor in search of the card room, in the hopes of having his mind distracted from its present preoccupation by means of a few highly concentrated hands of either faro or vingt-et-un.

Even his fervent belief that most of the apparently ardent young bloods who made up Sophie’s court were rather more likely to be interested in whatever fortune she might bring with her than they were in her personal charms brought him little solace, since he was sufficiently versed in the ways of the
Ton
to realise that any similar overtures on his part would be regarded in very much the same light. Not that he had ever been particularly concerned as to what the
beau monde
thought of him, as he hastened to remind himself. Sophie’s good opinion of him, however, was an entirely different matter, and had suddenly become utterly paramount to his well-being.