Jack’s eyes narrowed. “It’s very easy.”
“Indeed?” Sophie’s brows flew. “How?”
Jack focused on her lips, lushly full and all but pouting. “You should marry the man who loves you the most.”
“I see,” Sophie said, her temper still in alt. “And how, pray tell, am I supposed to identify him?” Her tone stated very clearly that she expected no sensible answer.
Very slowly, Jack’s lips curved. His eyes lifted to Sophie’s. “Like this,” he said. Bending his head, he touched his lips to hers.
Sophie shivered, then went quite still. Her lids lowered, then shut as a wave of sweet longing swept through her. His lips were warm, smooth and firm against the softness of hers. His fingers found hers and laced through them; her fingers curled about his, clinging as if to a lifeline. She knew she should draw back, but made no move to do so, held, trapped, not by his desire, but her own. The realization made her tremble; his hands left hers to gently frame her face, holding her still as his lips teased and taunted, soothed and sipped.
Another wave of longing swept through her, keener, sweeter, more urgent. Sophie felt her senses start to slide into some blissful vale; she raised her hands and gripped his lapels as she leant into the kiss, offering her lips, seeking his.
Jack shuddered as his passions surged. Ruthlessly he quelled them, refusing to rupture the magic of the moment by allowing them free rein. Sophie’s lips were warm and inviting, as sweet as nectar, just as he had imagined they would be. She drew nearer, her breasts brushing his chest. Her lips softened under his, she shivered delicately—and he knew he had been right from the start. She was his.
He felt his passions swell, possessively triumphant; he stood firm against their prompting, even though his arms ached to hold her. Unable to completely resist the beguiling temptation of her lips, he allowed the kiss to deepen by imperceptible degrees, until he had to struggle to shackle the need to taste her passionate sweetness.
Reluctantly he drew back, bringing the kiss to an end, his breathing sounding harsh in his ears. He forced his hands from her face, willing them to his sides.
Slowly Sophie’s eyes opened. Her wise, starry gaze searched his face.
Bemused, bewildered, Sophie eased her grip on his lapels and lowered her hands. But she did not step back. She stared up at him and struggled to understand. She was teetering on the brink of some abyss; her senses pushed her on, urging her into his arms. Dimly she wondered what magic it was that could so overset her reason.
She wanted him to kiss her again. She needed to feel his arms close about her—even though she knew it would only further complicate an already difficult situation.
Jack read her desire in her eyes, in the parting of her full lips. He tensed against his instincts, against the building urge to sweep her into his arms.
Sophie saw the dark prowling beast that raged, caged, behind his eyes. And suddenly she understood. She caught her breath, fighting the excitement the welled within her, an unknown, never-before-experienced longing to meet his passion with her own. To fling herself into the dark depths of his gaze.
Jack saw the spark that lit her eyes, the glow that softened her face. The sight shredded his will. His control wavered.
The curtain cutting off the ballroom lifted and the noise of the ball rushed in.
As one, Sophie and Jack turned to see Phillip Marston holding the curtain back. His expression could only be described as severely disapproving.
“There you are, Miss Winterton. Permit me to escort you back to your aunt.”
Sophie did not move. She drew in a breath, then slanted a glance at Jack. He met it, his expression arrogantly distant. Sophie held her breath; she thought she saw one brow lift slightly. Then, to her relief, he offered her his arm.
“You’re mistaken, Marston; Miss Winterton needs no other escort than mine.”
A delicious little thrill coursed down Sophie’s spine; sternly, she suppressed the sensation and placed her hand on Jack’s sleeve.
“Miss Winterton was overcome by the heat in the ballroom,” Jack glibly explained. “We retired here to allow her to recover.” He glanced down at Sophie’s slightly flushed cheeks. “If you’re feeling up to it, my dear, I’ll take you back to your circle.”
But not willingly, said his eyes. Sophie ignored the message and graciously inclined her head. “Thank you, sir.” At least he wasn’t abandoning her to Mr. Marston.
Jack allowed Marston to hold back the curtain as they emerged into the cacophony of the ball, now in full swing.
Sophie held her head high as they slowly wended their way through the crowd. Phillip Marston kept close by her 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.”