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 wo
rse 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 ton. The days and evenings became an orgy of Venetian breakfasts, alfresco luncheons, afternoon teas and formal dinners, all crowned by a succession of balls, routs, drums and soirées. And beneath the frenzy ran the underlying aim of fostering suitable alliances—an aim with which Jack was, for the first time in his career, deeply involved.
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.