Jack hid a wince. “I fear, my dear, that my…ah, experience marks me irrevocably.” Making a mental note to be more careful in future, he took her hand and settled it in the crook of his elbow. “I feel very much like the proverbial wolf amongst the sheep.”
His glance left Sophie breathless. Coolly, she raised a brow at him, then fixed her gaze on her friends. He led her in their direction but made no haste. Nor did he make any attempt at conversation, which left her free, not to regain her composure, as she had hoped, but, instead, to acknowledge the truth of his observation.
He did stand out from the crowd. Not only because of his manner, so coolly arrogant and commanding, but by virtue of his appearance—he was precise as always in a dark blue coat over black pantaloons, with a crisp white cravat tied in an intricate knot the envy of the younger men—his undeniable elegance and his expertise. No one, seeing him, could doubt he was other than he was: a fully fledged and potentially dangerous rake.
Sophie frowned, wondering why her senses refused to register what was surely a reasonable fear.
“Why the frown?”
Sophie looked up to find Jack regarding her thoughtfully.
“Would you rather I left you to your younger friends?”
There was just enough hesitation behind the last words to make Sophie’s heart contract. “No,” she assured him, and knew it was the truth.
A flame flared in his eyes, so deeply blue.
Shaken, Sophie drew her eyes from the warmth and looked ahead to where her friends waited. In her eyes, the younger gentlemen were no more than weak cyphers, cast into deep shade by his far more forceful presence.
After a moment, Jack bent his head to murmur, “I understand there’s a waltz coming up. Will you do me the honour of waltzing with me, my dear?”
Sophie fleetingly met his gaze, then inclined her head. Together, they rejoined her little circle, Jack withdrawing slightly to stand by her side, a little behind. He hoped, thus, to feature less in the conversation himself, commendably doing his best not to intimidate the younger sparks who, he kept telling himself, were no real threat to him.
Twenty minutes of self-denial later, he heard the musicians again put bow to string. Sophie, who knew very well that he had not moved from his position behind her, turned to him, shyly offering her hand.
With a smile of relief and anticipation both, Jack bowed and led her to the floor.
His relief was short-lived. A single turn about the small floor was enough to tell him something was seriously amiss. True, there was a smile on his partner’s face; now and again, as they turned, she allowed her gaze to touch his. But she remained stiff in his arms, not softly supple, relaxed, as previously. She was tense, and her smile was strangely brittle.
His concern grew with every step. Even the cool glance her aunt directed at him as they glided gracefully past, held no power to distract him.
Eventually, he said, his voice gentle, “I had forgot to ask, Miss Winterton—I sincerely hope you’ve fully recovered from your indisposition?”
Momentarily distracted from the fight to guard her senses against his nearness, Sophie blinked, then blushed. Guilt washed through her; his tone, his expression, were touchingly sincere. “Indeed,” she hastened to reassure him. “I…” She searched for words which were not an outright lie. “It was nothing serious, just a slight headache.” She found it hard to meet his eyes.
Jack frowned, then banished the notion that once more popped into his brain. Of course she had been truly ill; his Sophie was not a schemer.
“And indeed, sir, I fear I’ve been remiss in not thanking you before this for your kind gift.” Sophie’s words died as she stared up at his face, strangely impassive. “You did send them, did you not? The yellow roses?”
To her relief, he nodded, his smile real but somehow distant. “I only hope they lightened your day.” His gaze focused on her face. “As you do mine.”
His last words were whispered, yet they clanged like bells in Sophie’s head. She suddenly felt absolutely dreadful. How could she go on pretending like this, trying to hide her heart? It would never work. She was not strong enough; she would trip and he would find out…
Her distress showed very clearly in her eyes. Jack caught his breath. He frowned. “Sophie?”
The music came to an end. He released her only to trap her hand firmly on his sleeve. “Come. We’ll stroll a little.”
Sophie’s eyes flared wide. “Oh, no, really. I’d better get back.”
“Your friends will survive without you for a few minutes.” Jack’s accents were clipped, commanding. “There’s a window open at the end of the room. I think you could do with some air.”
Sophie knew fresh air would help, yet the fact that he was sensitive enough to suggest it didn’t help at all. She murmured her acquiescence, not that he had waited for it, and told herself she should be grateful. Yet being so close to him, and cut off from ready distraction, her senses were being slowly rasped raw. His effect on them, on her, seemed to get worse with every meeting.
“Here. Sit down.” Jack guided her to a chair set back by the wall, not far from where a set of fine draperies billowed gently in the breeze.
Sophie sank onto the upholstered seat, feeling the cool wood of the chair back against her shoulders. The sensation helped her think. “Perhaps, Mr. Lester, if I could impose on you to get me a drink.”
“Of course,” Jack said. He turned and snapped his fingers at a waiter. With a few terse words, he dispatched the man in search of a glass of water. Sophie hid her dismay.