Stephanie Laurens Rogues' Reform Bundle (53 page)

Sophie blinked back the tears that suddenly threatened. She was not done with her suitors yet. “I will be perfectly frank with you gentlemen, as you have been so frank with me. I do not love any of you, and I will certainly not marry any of you. There is no earthly use persisting in your pursuit of me, for I will not change my mind. I trust I make myself plain?”

She delivered her last question with a passable imitation of Lucilla at her most haughty. Head high, Sophie looked down her nose and dared them to deny her.

Typically, Phillip Marston made the attempt. As startled as the others, he nevertheless made an effort to draw his habitual superiority about him. “You are naturally overwrought, my dear. It was unforgivable of us to subject you to such a discussion.”

“Unforgivable, ungentlemanly and totally unacceptable.” Sophie wasn't about to quibble. Mr. Chartwell and the marquess shuffled their feet and darted careful, placating glances at her.

Heartened, Mr. Marston grew more confident. “Be that as it may, I strongly advise you to withdraw your hasty words. You cannot have considered. It is not for such as us to marry for love; that, I believe is more rightly the province of the
hoi polloi.
I cannot think—”

“
Mr.
Marston.” Sophie threw an exasperated glance at the heavens. “You have not been listening, sir. I care not what anyone thinks of my predilection for love. It may not be conventional, but it is, I should point out, most fashionable these days. And I find I am greatly addicted to fashion. You may think it unacceptable, but there it is. Now,” she continued, determined to give them no further chance to remonstrate, “I fear I have had quite enough of your company for one afternoon, gentlemen. If you wish to convince me that you are, in fact, the gentlemen I have always believed you, you will withdraw and allow me some peace.”

“Yes, of course, my dear.”

“Pray accept our apologies, Miss Winterton.”

Both the marquess and Mr. Chartwell were more than prepared to retreat. Phillip Marston was harder to rout.

“Miss Winterton,” he said, his usual frown gathering, “I cannot reconcile it with my conscience to leave you thus unguarded.”

“Unguarded?”
Sophie barely restrained her temper. “Sir, you are suffering from delusions. There is no danger to me here, in my great-aunt's summer house.” Sophie glanced briefly at Mr. Chartwell and the marquess, then returned her gaze, grimly determined, to her most unwanted suitor. “Furthermore, sir, having expressed a desire for your absence, I will feel perfectly justified in requesting these gentlemen to protect me—from you.”

One glance was enough to show Phillip Marston that Mr. Chartwell and the marquess would be only too pleased to take out their frustrations on him. With a glance which showed how deeply against the grain retreat went with him, he bowed curtly. “As you wish, Miss Winterton. But I will speak with you later.”

Only the fact that he was leaving allowed Sophie to suppress her scream. She was furious—with all of them. Head high, she stood by the table and watched as they clattered down the steps. They paused, exchanging potent looks of dislike, then separated, each heading towards the house by a different route.

With a satisfied humph, Sophie watched them disappear. Slowly, her uplifting fury drained. The tense muscles in her shoulders relaxed. She drew in a soft breath.

It tangled in her throat as she heard a deep voice say from directly behind her,

“You're wrong, you know.”

With a strangled shriek, Sophie whirled round. One hand at her throat, she groped with the other for the table behind her. Eyes wide, she stared up at Jack's face. “Wh—what do you mean, wrong?” It was an effort to calm her thudding heart enough to get out the words.

“I mean,” Jack replied, prowling about the table to cut off her retreat, “that you overlooked one particular danger in assuring Marston of your safety.” He met Sophie's stare and smiled. “Me.”

Sophie took one long look into his glittering eyes and instinctively moved to keep the table between them. As the truth dawned, she lifted her chin. “How
dare
you eavesdrop on my conversations!”

Jack's predatory smile didn't waver. “As always, your conversation was most instructive, my dear. It did, however, leave me with one burning question.”

Sophie eyed him warily. “What?”

“Just what game are you playing, my dear?”

The sudden flare in his eyes startled Sophie anew. “Ah—you're a gentleman, Mr. Lester.” It seemed the time to remind him.

“Gentleman
rake,
” Jack replied. “There's a difference.”

Sophie was suddenly very sure there was. Eyes wider than ever, she took a step back, then smothered a yelp as, with one hand and a single shove, Jack sent the table shooting over the floor.

Sophie's gaze followed it, until it came to a quivering halt by the wall, her basket still balanced upon it. Then she looked round—and jumped back a step when she found Jack directly in front of her. He advanced; she retreated another step. Two more steps and Sophie found the wall of the summer-house at her back. Jack's arms, palms flat against the wall, one on either side, imprisoned her. She eyed first one arm, then the other. Then, very cautiously, she looked up into his face.

His expression was intent. “Now, Sophie—”

“Ah—Jack.” Any discussion was potentially dangerous; she needed time to consider just what he had heard, and what he might now think. Sophie fixed her gaze on his cravat, directly before her face. “I'm really quite overset.” That was the literal truth. “I—I'm rather overwrought. As you heard, I just turned away three suitors. Three offers. Not a small thing, after all. I fear my nerves are a trifle strained by the experience.”

Jack shifted, leaning closer, raising one hand to catch Sophie's chin. He tipped her face up until her wise gaze met his. “I suggest you steel yourself then, my dear. For you're about to receive a fourth.”

Sophie's lips parted on a protest; it remained unuttered. Jack's lips closed over hers, sealing them, teasing the soft contours, then ruthlessly claiming them. Head whirling, Sophie clutched at his lapels. She felt him hesitate, then his head slanted over hers. Sophie shuddered as he boldly claimed her warmth, tasting her, teasing her senses with calculated expertise. Her fingers left his lapels to steal upwards, to clutch at his shoulders. He released her chin; he shifted, straightening, pulling her against him, one large hand gripping her waist. The kiss deepened again; her senses whirling, Sophie wondered how much deeper it could go. Then his hand swept slowly upward to firm about her breast, gently caressing even as he demanded her surrender.

Sophie tried to stiffen, to pull away, to refuse as she knew she should. Instead, she felt herself sink deeper into his arms, deeper into his kiss. Her breast swelled to his touch, her body ached for more.

Jack drew her hard against him, then lifted his head to breathe against her lips, “Will you marry me, Sophie?”

Sophie's heart screamed an assent but she held the words back, hanging on to her wits by her fingernails. Slowly, she opened her eyes, blinking up into the warm blue of his. She licked her lips, then blushed as his gaze followed the action. She tried to speak, but couldn't find her voice. Instead, she shook her head.

Jack's blue eyes narrowed. “No? Why not?” He gave her no chance to answer but kissed her again, just as deeply, just as imperiously.

“You said you would only marry for love,” he reminded her when he again consented to lift his head. His eyes rose to hers. satisfaction flaring at her dazed expression. “You're in love with me, Sophie. And I'm in love with you. We both know it.”

His head lowered again; Sophie realized she was in desperate straits. Faced with another of his kisses, and their increasingly debilitating effect on her wits, she seized the first word that crossed her mind. “Money,” she gasped.

Jack stopped, his lips a mere inch from hers. Slowly, he drew back, enough to look into her eyes. He studied them for a long moment, then slowly shook his head. “Not good enough this time, Sophie. You told them—your three importunate suitors—that you would never marry for money. You said it very plainly. They had money, but not your love. I've got your love—why do I need money?”

His gaze did not leave hers. Sophie could barely think. Again, she shook her head. “I can't marry you, Jack.”

“Why not?”

Sophie eyed him warily. “You wouldn't understand if I explained.”

“Try me.”

Pressing her lips together, Sophie just shook her head. She knew she was right; she also knew he wouldn't agree.

To her dismay, a slow, thoroughly rakish smile lit Jack's face. He sighed. “You'll tell me eventually, Sophie.”

His tone was light, quite unconcerned. Sophie blinked and saw him look down. She followed his gaze—and gasped.

“
Jack!
What on earth are you doing?” Sophie batted ineffectually at his hands, busy with the buttons of her gown. Jack laughed and drew her closer, so that she couldn't reach his nimble fingers. Then the gown was open and his long fingers slipped inside. They closed about her breast; Sophie's knees shook.

“Sophie—” For an instant, Jack closed his eyes, his hand firming about her soft flesh. Then he bent his head and caught her lips with his.

For a giddy moment, a tide of delight caught Sophie up and whirled her about. Then Jack drew his lips from hers and the sensation receded, leaving a warm glow in its wake. Desperate, Sophie clung to reality. “What are you doing?” she muttered, her voice barely a whisper.

“Seducing you,” came the uncompromising reply.

Sophie's eyes flew open. She felt Jack's lips on her throat, trailing fire over her suddenly heated skin. She shuddered, then glanced wildly about the room—what she could see of it beyond his shoulders. “Here?” Her mind refused to accept the notion. The room was bare of all furniture, no chaise or daybed, not even an armchair. He had to be teasing.

She felt rather than heard Jack's chuckle. “The table.”

The
table?
Sophie's shocked gaze swung to the innocent wooden table, now standing by the wall. Then she looked back at Jack, into his heated gaze. “No,” she said, then blushed furiously at the question in her tone.

Jack's gaze grew warmer. “It's easy,” he murmured, bending his head to drop wicked little kisses behind her ear. “I'll show you.”

“No.” This time, Sophie got the intonation right. But her eyes closed and her fingers sank into Jack's shoulders as he continued to caress her.

“But yes, sweet Sophie,” Jack whispered in her ear. “Unless you can give me a good reason why not.”

Sophie knew there had to be hundreds of reasons—but she could think of only one. The one he wanted to hear. She opened her eyes and found his face. She tried to glare. His fingers shifted beneath her bodice; Sophie sucked in a breath. She didn't have the courage to call his bluff. He probably wasn't bluffing. “All right,” she said and felt his fingers still. She leaned against him, seeking his strength as she sought for her words. “I told you I'm a lady of expectations, nothing more,” she began.

“And I've told you that doesn't matter.”

“But it does.” Sophie glanced up, into the warm blue eyes so close to hers. She put all the pleading sincerity she could into her eyes, her voice. “Your dreams are mine: a home, a family, estates to look after. But they'll remain nothing but
dreams
if you don't marry well. You know that.”

She saw his face still, his expression sober. Sophie clung to him and willed him to understand.

Her heart was in her eyes, there for Jack to see. He drank in the sight, then closed his eyes against the pain behind. He dropped his forehead to hers and groaned. “Sophie, you have my heartfelt apologies.”

Sophie felt like sagging—with relief or was it defeat?

“I should have told you long ago.” Jack pressed a soft kiss against her temple, hugging her to him.

Sophie frowned and pushed back to look up at him. “Told me what?”

Jack smiled crookedly. “That I'm horrendously wealthy—disgustingly rich.”

Sophie's face crumpled; her eyes filled with tears. “Oh, Jack,” she finally got out around the constriction in her throat. “Don't.” Abruptly, she buried her face in his shoulder.

It was Jack's turn to frown and try to hold her away. “Don't what?”

“Don't lie,” Sophie mumbled against his coat.

Jack stiffened. Thunderstruck, he stared down at the woman in his arms. “Sophie, I'm not lying.”

She looked up, her eyes swimming, softly blue, her lips lifting in a heart-rending smile. She raised a hand to his face. “It's no use, Jack. We both know the truth.”

“No, we do not.” Jack withdrew his hand from her breast and caught her hand, holding it tightly. “Sophie, I swear I'm rich.” When she simply smiled, mistily disbelieving, he swore. “Very well. We'll go and ask your aunt.”

The look Sophie sent him made Jack grimace. “All right, not Lucilla. Horatio, then. I assume you'll accept your uncle's word on my finances?”

Surprised, Sophie frowned. Horatio, she well knew, was a man of his word. Not even for love would he so much as bend the truth. And Jack was suggesting Horatio would bear out his claims. “But my uncle's just left. We don't know when he'll return.”

Jack swore some more, distinctly colourfully. He considered his options, but the only others who knew of his recent windfall were relatives, friends or employees, none of whom Sophie would believe. “Very well.” Grimly, he surveyed Sophie's doubting expression. “We'll wait until he returns.”

Her mind reeling, Sophie nodded, struggling to see her way forward. She glanced down, and blushed rosily. Tugging her fingers from Jack's clasp, she drew back enough to do up the buttons of her gown. Whatever the truth, she would have to keep Jack at arm's length until Horatio returned—or it wouldn't matter what her uncle said.