Gurnard laughed easily. “Indeed, Miss Webb. I greatly fear I must admit to being quite in my dotage compared with such a sweet child as yourself.” His expression sobered. “In truth,” he added, his voice low, “I fear I cannot compete with these young pups that surround you. The blithe and easy words of youth have long ago left me.”
Ignoring the rising hackles of said pups, Clarissa smiled sweetly and leaned towards the captain to say, “Indeed, sir, I find a little of such blithe and easy words is more than a surfeit. Honest words are always more acceptable to the hearer.”
The smile on Captain Gurnard’s face grew. “Perhaps, my dear, in order to hear such honest words, you would consent to stroll the room with me? Just until the next dance begins?”
Plastering a suitably ingenuous smile on her lips, Clarissa nodded with apparent delight. Rising, she placed her fingertips on the captain’s scarlet sleeve.
As he led her into the crowd, Captain Gurnard could not restrain the smugness of his smile. He would have been supremely disconcerted had he known that Clarissa’s inner smile outdid his.
Sophie, meanwhile, had run into a problem, an obstacle to her endeavours. Large, lean and somehow oddly menacing, Jack had left his retreat, where he had been propping up the wall, to gravitate to her side, a hungry predator lured, she suspected, by the smiles she bestowed on the gentlemen about her.
Under her subtle encouragement, her potential suitors preened.
Jack looked supremely bored. Having by dint of superior experience won through to her side, he towered over her, his expression rigidly controlled, his eyes a chilly blue.
Sophie felt distinctly irate. He was intimidating her suitors. She did not like her current course, but it was the only one open to her, a fact she felt Jack should acknowledge, rather than get on his high ropes because… Well, the only conclusion she could reach was that he was jealous of the attention she was paying the other men.
But it was from among them she would have to chose a husband, and she felt increasingly annoyed when Jack continued to make her task more difficult. When Sir Stuart Mablethorpe, a distinguished scholar, met Jack’s gaze and promptly forgot whatever lengthy peroration he had been about to utter, Sophie shot her nemesis a frosty glance.
Jack met it with bland imperturbability.
Thoroughly incensed, Sophie was only too ready to smile at Lord Ruthven, a gentleman she suspected had much in common with Jack Lester, in all respects bar one. Lord Ruthven did not need a wealthy bride.
One of Lord Ruthven’s dark brows rose fractionally. “Perhaps, Miss Winterton,” he said as he straightened from his bow, “you might care to stroll the room?” His gaze flicked to Jack, then returned to Sophie’s face.
Ignoring the glint in Ruthven’s eyes, Sophie replied, “Indeed, sir. I’m becoming quite fatigued standing here.”
Ruthven’s lips twitched. “No doubt. Permit me to offer you an escape, my dear.” Thus saying, he offered her his arm.
With determined serenity, Sophie placed her hand on his lordship’s sleeve, refusing to acknowledge the charged silence beside her. She was too wise to even glance at Jack as, with Ruthven, she left his side.
Which was just as well. Only when he was sure his emotions were once more under control did Jack allow so much as a muscle to move. And by then, Sophie and Ruthven were halfway down the room. His expression stony, Jack considered the possibilities; only the glint in his eyes betrayed his mood. Then, with his usual languid air, he strolled into the crowd, his course set for a collision with his golden head.
By the time she reached the end of the room, Sophie had realized that Ruthven’s green eyes saw rather more than most. All the way down the room, he had subtly twitted her on her keeper. She suspected, however, that his lordship’s indolent interest was more excited by the prospect of tweaking Jack’s nose than by her own inherent attractions. Which was both comforting and a trifle worrying.
Together, she and Lord Ruthven paused beneath the minstrels’ gallery and turned to survey the room.
“Ah, there you are, Ruthven.” Jack materialized out of the crowd. He smiled easily at his lordship. “I just saw Lady Orkney by the stairs. She was asking after you.”
Sophie glanced round in time to see an expression compounded of chagrin and suspicion flit across his lordship’s handsome face. “Indeed?” One brow elevated, Ruthven regarded Jack sceptically.
Jack’s smile grew. “Just so. Quite insistent on speaking with you. You know how she is.”
Lord Ruthven grimaced. “As you say.” Turning to Sophie, Ruthven said, “I fear I must ask you to excuse me, Miss Winterton. My aunt can become quite hysterical if denied.” Again one of his lordship’s brows rose, this time in resignation. “I dare say Lester will be only too happy to escort you about.” With a wry smile, he bowed gracefully over her hand and departed.
Sophie eyed his retreating back through narrowed eyes. She had not seriously considered Ruthven as a suitor but she would certainly not consider a man who aggravated a lady’s position, then deserted her, leaving her to face the consequences alone.
As Jack’s fingers closed about her hand, she glanced up at his face. His impassive expression didn’t fool her for a moment. Then he looked down at her, his eyes hard and very blue.
“Come with me, Miss Winterton.” Her hand trapped on his sleeve, Jack headed towards the windows leading onto the terrace.
Sophie dug in her heels. “I have no intention of going anywhere private with you, Mr. Lester.”
“Jack.” The single syllable left Sophie in no doubt of his mood. “And if you would rather air our differences in public…” he shrugged. “…who am I to deny a lady?”
Looking up into his eyes, and seeing, as she had twice before, the dark brooding presence that lurked behind them, Sophie felt her throat constrict. But her own temper was not far behind his—he was behaving like a dog in a manger. “Very well, Mr. Lester,” she replied, holding his gaze. “But not on the terrace.” From the corner of her eye, Sophie could see the rippling curtains that sealed off the music room, built out at the end of the ballroom under the minstrels’ gallery. Half-concealed as it was by the gallery above and a row of ironwork urns, it was doubtful anyone else had thought to use the room. They could be private there while still remaining in the ballroom. Her lips firming, Sophie nodded to the curtain. “This way.”
Jack followed her into the shadows beneath the gallery, then held back the curtain as she slipped through. He followed her. The heavy curtain fell to, deadening the noise from the ballroom. Candelabra shed ample light about the room, casting a mellow glow on the polished surfaces of the pianoforte and harpsichord. It was a comfortable little nook furnished with well-stuffed chaises and two armchairs. Sophie ignored its amenities and stode to the middle of the Aubusson rug in the centre of the floor.