His gaze on her face, Jack inclined his head, his expression enigmatic. “You are wise beyond your years, my dear.”
Sophie met
his gaze; she arched a sceptical brow. “And you, sir?” She let her gaze slide away. Greatly daring, she continued, “I find it hard to believe that your view of the Season agrees with mine. I have always been told that gentlemen such as yourself pursue certain interests for which the Season is indispensible.”
Jack’s lips twitched. “Indeed, my dear.” He let a moment stretch in silence before adding, “You should not, however, imagine that such interests are behind my presence here in town this early in the year.”
Resisting the urge to look up at him, Sophie kept her gaze on those surrounding them. “Indeed?” she replied coolly. “Then it was boredom that fetched you south?”
Jack glanced down at her. “No, Miss Winterton. It was not boredom.”
“Not boredom?” Determination not to allow him to triumph, Sophie swung about and, disregarding the crazed beating of her heart and the constriction which restricted her breathing, met his blue gaze. “Indeed, sir?”
He merely raised an arrogant brow at her, his expression unreadable.
She met his gaze coolly, then allowed hers to fall, boldly taking in his large, immaculately clad frame. The sapphire glinted in the white folds of his cravat; he wore no fobs or other ornament, nothing to detract from the image created by lean and powerful muscles. “Ah,” she declared, resisting the urge to clear her throat. Settling her hand once more on his sleeve, she fell in by his side. “I see it now. Confess, sir, that it is the prospect of your mounts having to wade through the mire that has driven you, in despair I make no doubt, from Leicestershire.”
Jack laughed. “Wrong again, Miss Winterton.”
“Then I greatly fear it is the lure of the gaming rooms that has brought you to town, Mr. Lester.”
“There’s a lure involved, I admit, but it’s not one of green baize.”
“What, then?” Sophie demanded, pausing to look up at him.
Jack’s gaze rose to touch her curls, then lowered to her eyes, softly blue. His lips lifted in a slow smile. “The lure is one of gold, my dear.”
Sophie blinked and frowned slightly. “You’ve come seeking your fortune?”
Jack’s gaze, darkly blue, became more intent. “Not my fortune, Miss Winterton.” He paused, his smile fading as he looked into her eyes. “My future.”
Her gaze trapped in his, Sophie could have sworn the polished parquetry on which she stood quivered beneath her feet. She was dimly aware they had halted; the crowd about them had faded, their chattering no longer reaching her. Her heart was in her throat, blocking her breath; it had to be that that was making her so lightheaded.
The midnight blue gaze did not waver; Sophie searched his eyes, but could find no hint, in them or his expression, to discount the wild possibility that had leapt into her mind.
Then he smiled, his mouth, his expression, softening, as she had seen it do before.
“I believe that’s our waltz starting, Miss Winterton.” Jack paused, then, his eyes still on hers, his voice darkly deep, he asked, “Will you partner me, my dear?”
Sophie quelled a shiver. She was not a green girl; she was twenty-two, experienced and assured. Ignoring her thudding heart, ignoring the subtle undertones in his voice, she drew dignity about her and, calmly inclining her head, put her hand in his.
His fingers closed strongly over hers; in that instant, Sophie was not at all sure just what question she had answered. Yet she followed his lead, allowing him to seep her into his arms. With a single deft turn, he merged them with the circling throng; they were just one couple among the many on the floor.
Time and again, Sophie told herself that was so, that there was nothing special in this waltz, nothing special between them. One part of her mind formed the words; the rest wasn’t listening, too absorbed in silent communion with a pair of dark blue eyes.
She only knew the dance was over when they stopped. They had spoken not a word throughout; yet, it seemed, things had been said, clearly enough for them both. She could barely breathe.
Jack’s expression was serious yet gentle as he drew her hand once more through his arm. “It’s time for supper, my dear.”
His eyes were softly smiling. Sophie basked in their glow. Shy yet elated, off balance yet strangely assured, she returned the smile. “Indeed, sir. I rely on you to guide me.”
His lips lifted lightly. “You may always do so, my dear.”
He found a table for two in the supper room and secured a supply of delicate sandwiches and two glasses of champagne. Then he settled back to recount the most interesting of the past year’s on-dits, after which they fell to hypothesizing on the likely stance of the various protagonists at the commencement of this Season.
Despite her blithe spirits, Sophie was grateful for the distraction. She felt as if she was teetering on some invisible brink; she was not at all sure it was wise to take the next step. So she laughed and chatted, ignoring the sudden moments when breathlessness attacked, when their gazes met and held for an instant too long.
Her elation persisted, that curious uplifting of her spirits, as if her heart had broken free of the earth and was now lighter than air. The sensation lingered, even when Jack, very dutifully, escorted her back to Lucilla’s side.