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.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
WITHIN 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
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
