Stephanie Laurens Rogues' Reform Bundle (31 page)

From her partner's disapproving expression, Sophie deduced that the thought of her gaining comfort from acquaintance with any other gentleman, from London or elsewhere, was less than pleasing. Inwardly, she sighed. Depressing pretensions gently was an art she had yet to master.

About them, Lady Asfordby's guests swirled and twirled, a colourful crowd, drawn primarily from the local families, with here and there the elegant coats of those London swells of whom her ladyship approved. This distinction did not extend to all that many of the small army of
ton
-ish males who, during the hunting season, descended on the nearby town of Melton Mowbray, lured by the attraction of the Quorn, the Cottesmore and the Belvoir packs.

Jack realized as much as, with Percy hovering in his shadow, he paused on the threshold of her ladyship's ballroom. As he waited for his hostess, whom he could see forging her way through the crowd to greet him, he was conscious of the flutter his appearance had provoked. Like a ripple, it passed down the dark line of dowagers seated around the room, then spread in ever widening circles to ruffle the feathers of their charges, presently engaged in a quadrille.

With a cynical smile, he bowed elegantly over her ladyship's beringed fingers.

“So glad you decided to come, Lester.”

Having smoothly introduced Percy, whom Lady Asfordby greeted with gratified aplomb, Jack scanned the dancers.

And saw her.

She was immediately in front of him, in the set nearest the door. His gaze had been drawn to her, her rich golden curls shining like a beacon. Even as realization hit, his eyes met hers. They were blue, paler than his own, the blue of cloudless summer skies. As he watched, her eyes widened, her lips parted. Then she twirled and turned away.

Beside him, Percy was filling Lady Asfordby's ears with an account of his father's latest illness. Jack inhaled deeply, his eyes on the slim figure before him, the rest of the company a dull haze about her.

Her hair was true gold, rich and bountiful, clustered atop her neat head, artfully errant curls trailing over her small ears and down the back of her slender neck. The rest of her was slender, too, yet, he was pleased to note, distinctly well-rounded. Her delectable curves were elegantly gowned in a delicate hue that was too dark for a debutante; her arms, gracefully arching in the movements of the dance, displayed an attractive roundness not in keeping with a very young girl.

Was she married?

Suavely, Jack turned to Lady Asfordby. “As it happens, I have not met many of my neighbours. Could I impose on your ladyship to introduce me?”

There was, of course, nothing Lady Asfordby would have liked better. Her sharp eyes gleamed with fanatical zeal. “Such a loss, your dear aunt. How's your father getting on?”

While replying to these and similar queries on Lenore and his brothers, all of whom her ladyship knew of old, Jack kept his golden head in sight. Perfectly happy to disguise his intent by stopping to chat with whomever Lady Asfordby thought to introduce, he steered his hostess by inexorable degrees to the chaise beside which his goal stood.

A small knot of gentlemen, none of them mere youths, had gathered about her to pass the time between the dances. Two other young ladies joined the circle; she welcomed them graciously, her confidence as plain as the smile on her lips.

Twice he caught her glancing at him. On both occasions, she quickly looked away. Jack suppressed his smile and patiently endured yet another round of introductions to some local squire's lady.

Finally, Lady Asfordby turned towards the crucial chaise. “And, of course, you must meet Mrs. Webb. I dare say you're acquainted with her husband, Horatio Webb of Webb Park. A financier, you know.”

The name rang a bell in Jack's mind—something to do with horses and hunting. But they were rapidly approaching the chaise on which an elegant matron sat, benignly watching over a very young girl, unquestionably her daughter, as well as his golden head. Mrs. Webb turned as they approached. Lady Asfordby made the introduction; Jack found himself bowing over a delicate hand, his eyes trapped in a searching, ice-blue stare.

“Good evening, Mr. Lester. Are you here for the hunting?”

“Indeed yes, ma'am.” Jack blinked, then smiled, careful not to overdo the gesture. To him, Mrs. Webb was instantly recognizable; his golden head was protected by a very shrewd dragon.

A lifted finger drew the younger girl forward.

“Allow me to present my daughter, Clarissa.” Lucilla looked on as Clarissa, blushing furiously, performed the regulation curtsy with her customary grace. Speech, however, seemed beyond her. Lifting one sceptical brow, Lucilla spared a glance for the magnificence before her, then slanted a quick look at Sophie. Her niece was studiously absorbed with her friends.

An imperious gesture, however, succeeded in attracting her attention.

Her smile restrained, Lucilla beckoned Sophie forward. “And, of course,” she continued, rescuing Jack from Clarissa's tongue-tied stare, “you must let me introduce my niece, Miss Sophia Winterton.” Lucilla halted, then raised her fine brows. “But perhaps you've met before—in London? Sophie was presented some years ago, but her Season was cut short by the untimely death of her mother.” Switching her regal regard to Sophie, Lucilla continued, “Mr. Jack Lester, my dear.”

Conscious of her aunt's sharply perceptive gaze, Sophie kept her expression serene. Dipping politely, she coolly extended her fingers, carefully avoiding Mr. Lester's eye.

She had first seen him as he stood at the door, darkly, starkly handsome. In his midnight-blue coat, which fitted his large lean frame as if it had been moulded to him, his thick dark hair falling in fashionable dishevelment over his broad brow, his gaze intent as he scanned the room, he had appeared as some predator—a wolf, perhaps—come to select his prey. Her feet had missed a step when his gaze had fallen on her. Quickly looking away, she had been surprised to find her heart racing, her breath tangled in her throat.

Now, with his gaze, an unnervingly intense dark blue, full upon her, she lifted her chin, calmly stating, “Mr. Lester and I have not previously met, Aunt.”

Jack's gaze trapped hers as he took her hand. His lips curved. “An accident of fate which has surely been my loss.”

Sophie sternly quelled an instinctive tremor. His voice was impossibly deep. As the undercurrent beneath his tones washed over her, tightening the vice about her chest, she watched him straighten from an ineffably elegant bow.

He caught her glance—and smiled.

Sophie stiffened. Tilting her chin, she met his gaze. “Have you hunted much hereabouts, sir?”

His smile reached his eyes. A small shift in position brought him closer. “Indeed, Miss Winterton.”

He looked down at her; Sophie froze.

“I rode with the Quorn only yesterday.”

Breathless, Sophie ignored the twinkle in his eye. “My uncle, Mr. Webb, is a keen adherent of the sport.” A quick glance about showed her aunt in deep conversation with Lady Asfordby; her court was hidden by Mr. Lester's broad shoulders. He had, most effectively, cut her out from the crowd.

“Really?” Jack lifted a polite brow. His gaze fell to her hands, clasped before her, then rose, definite warmth in the deep blue. “But your aunt mentioned you had been in London before?”

Sophie resisted the urge to narrow her eyes. “I was presented four years ago, but my mother contracted a chill shortly thereafter.”

“And you never returned to grace the ballrooms of the
ton
? Fie, my dear—how cruel.”

The last words were uttered very softly. Any doubts Sophie had harboured that Mr. Lester was not as he appeared vanished. She shot him a very straight glance, irrelevantly noting how the hard line of his lips softened when he smiled. “My father was much cut up by my mother's death. I remained with him, at home in Northamptonshire, helping with the household and the estate.”

His response to that depressing statement was not what she had expected. A gleam of what could only be intrigued interest flared in his dark eyes.

“Your loyalty to your father does you credit, Miss Winterton.” Jack made the statement with flat sincerity. His companion inclined her head slightly, then glanced away. The perfect oval of her face was a delicate setting for her regular features: wide blue eyes fringed with long, thick lashes, golden brown as were her arched brows, a straight little nose and full bowed lips the colour of crushed strawberries. Her chin was definite, yet gently rounded; her complexion was like thick cream, rich and luscious, without flaw. Jack cleared his throat. “But did you not yearn to return to the
ton
's ballrooms?”

The question took Sophie by surprise. She considered, then answered, “No. Indeed, the thought never arose. I had more than enough to occupy myself. And I frequently visited with my father's sisters at Bath and Tonbridge Wells.” She glanced up—and laughed at the comical grimace that contorted her companion's face.

“Tonbridge Wells?” he uttered, dramatically faint. “My dear Miss Winterton, you would be
wasted
there, smothered beneath the weight of ageing propriety.”

Sophie sternly suppressed a giggle. “Indeed, it wasn't very lively,” she conceded. “Luckily, my mother had many friends who invited me to their house parties. However, at home, I must admit I oftimes pined for younger company. My father lived very much retired through that time.”

“And now?”

“My aunt—” she nodded at Lucilla on the chaise which by some magic was now a step away “—persuaded Papa to take an interest in an expedition. He's a paleontologist, you see.”

From beneath her lashes, she glanced up, waiting.

Jack met her innocent gaze, his own inscrutable. Despite her best efforts, Sophie's lips twitched. With a resigned air, Jack raised a languidly interrogatory brow.

This time, Sophie did giggle. “Old bones,” she informed him, her voice confidingly low. Despite the fact he had just sidestepped a trap guaranteed to depress the pretensions of any overly confident rake, Sophie could not stop her smile. As her eyes met his, warmly appreciative, the suspicion that while Mr. Lester might be demonstrably confident, he was not overly so, broke over her. Her breath became tangled again.

His gaze sharpened. Before she could react, and retreat, he lifted his head, then glanced down at her, his brows lightly lifting.

“Unless my ears are at fault, that's a waltz starting up. Will you do me the honour, Miss Winterton?”

The invitation was delivered with a calm smile, while his eyes stated, very clearly, that no feeble excuse would suffice to deflect him.

Nerves aquiver, Sophie surrendered to the inevitable with a suffocatingly gracious inclination of her head.

Her determinedly calm composure very nearly cracked when he swept her onto the floor. His arm about her felt like iron; there was such strength in him it would be frightening if it was not so deliberately contained. He whirled her down the floor; she felt like thistledown, lighter than air, anchored to reality only by his solidity and the warm clasp of his hand.

She had never waltzed like this before, precessing without conscious thought, her feet naturally following his lead, barely touching the floor. As her senses, stirred by his touch, gradually settled, she glanced up. “You dance very well, Mr. Lester.”

His eyes glinted down at her from under heavy lids. “I've had lots of practice, my dear.”

His meaning was very clear; she should have blushed and looked away. Instead, Sophie found enough courage to smile serenely before letting her gaze slide from his. Aware of the dangerous currents about her, she made no further attempt to converse.

For his part, Jack was content to remain silent; he had learned all he needed to know. Freed of the burden of polite conversation, his mind could dwell on the pleasure of having her, at long last, in his arms. She fitted perfectly, neither too tall nor, thankfully, too short. If she were closer, her curls would tickle his nose, her forehead level with his chin. She was not completely relaxed—he could not expect that—yet she was content enough in his arms. The temptation to tighten his hold, to draw her closer, was very real, yet he resisted. Too many eyes were upon them, and she did not yet know she was his.

The last chord sounded; he whirled them to a flourishing halt. He looked down, smiling as he drew her hand through his arm. “I will return you to your aunt, Miss Winterton.”

Sophie blinked up at him. Could he hear her heart thudding? “Thank you, sir.” Retreating behind a mask of cool formality, she allowed him to lead her back to the chaise. However, instead of leaving her by her aunt's side, her partner merely nodded at Lucilla, then led her to where her circle of acquaintances was once again forming. Larger than life, he stood beside her, acknowledging her introductions with a coolly superior air which, she suspected, was innate. Feeling her nerves stretch and flicker, Sophie glanced up as the musicians once more laid bow to string.

His eyes met hers. Suddenly breathless, Sophie looked away. Her gaze fell on Lady Asfordby, bustling up.

“Glad to see, Lester, that you're not one of those London dandies who think they're above dancing in country ballrooms.”

Stifling a resigned sigh, Jack turned to his hostess, an amiable smile on his lips.

Her ladyship's gimlet gaze swept the assembled company, fixing on a bright-faced young lady. “Dare say Miss Elderbridge will be pleased to do you the honour.”

Thus adjured, Jack bent a practiced smile on Miss Elderbridge, who assured him, somewhat breathlessly, that she would be delighted to partner him in the country dance about to begin. Hearing a murmur to his left, Jack glanced back to see Sophie place her hand on another gentleman's sleeve. They were both poised to move away, their partners by their sides. Jack grasped the moment, trapping Sophie's gaze in his, lowering his voice to say, “Until next we meet, Miss Winterton.”