“You’ve come to town with your aunt and cousins, have you not?”
Sophie glanced up to find a pair of green eyes lazily regarding her. “Yes, that’s right. The Webbs.”
“I’m afraid I’ve not had the pleasure of making their acquaintance. Perhaps you could introduce me if we meet?”
Sophie quickly discovered that Harry, like his brother, had a ready facility for filling in time in a most agreeable, and surprisingly unexceptionable, manner. As they chatted, threading their way through the crowd, she found herself relaxing, then laughing at a tale of a most hilarious excursion in the Park when he and Jack had first come to town. It was only the arrival of her next partner, Mr. Chartwell, that put an end to their amble.
Jack’s brother yielded her up with a flourish and a wicked smile.
Smiling herself as she watched him disappear into the crowd, Sophie wondered at the steely danger so apparent in him. It contrasted oddly with Jack’s strength. Not that she had felt the least threatened by Harry Lester—quite the opposite. But she did not think she would like to lose her heart to him.
Her mind had little respite from thoughts of Lesters; Jack claimed her immediately the dance with Mr. Chartwell concluded, barely giving that gentleman time to take his leave. However, having detected an expression of chagrin in Mr. Chartwell’s mild grey eyes, Sophie was too grateful for her rescue to remonstrate.
Her gratefulness diminished markedly when it became apparent that Jack’s difficulties in accepting their fate had not yet been resolved.
“Sophie, I want to talk to you. Privately.” Jack had given up trying to manoeuvre such an interlude subtly. Sophie had proved the most amazingly stubborn female he had ever encountered.
Sophie lifted her chin. “You know that would be most unwise, let alone inappropriate.”
Jack swallowed a curse. “Sophie, I swear…” The music for the waltz started up; Jack shackled his temper long enough to sweep Sophie into his arms. Once they were whirling slowly down the room, hemmed in on all sides, he continued, “If I have to put up with much more of this, I’ll—”
“You’ll do nothing that would force me to cut the connection, I hope?” Sophie kept her eyes wide and her expression serene; they might have been discussing the weather for all anyone could see. But her chest felt tight and her heart had sunk. She held Jack’s gaze and prayed he’d draw back.
A savage light lit his eyes. Then, with a muttered curse, he looked away. But the tightening of his arm about her told Sophie the argument was far from over. He was holding her far too tight. Sophie made no demur. She had long ago given up hypocritically protesting his transgressions—such as his insistence of using her first name.
She felt a quiver run through her, felt her body respond to his nearness. That, she supposed, was inevitable. He wanted her—as she wanted him. But it wasn’t to be; their world did not operate that way. They would both marry others, and Jack had to accept the fact gracefully. If he did, then perhaps they could remain friends. It was all she could hope for, and she was selfish enough to cling to his friendship. He shared so many of her interests, much more so than any of the gentlemen vying for her hand. Indeed, she was loweringly aware that not one of them measured up to Jack Lester and that whenever they gave signs of wanting to fix their interest, she felt an immediate aversion for their company. Her heart, no longer hers, was proving very difficult to reconquer.
Sensing an easing in the tension surrounding her, Sophie slanted a glance at Jack’s face.
He was watching her, waiting. “Sophie…I’ll accept that you need time to look about you. But I’m not an inherently patient man.” The muscle along his jaw twitched; he stilled it, his eyes never leaving hers. “If you could find some way to hurry up this phase, I’d be eternally grateful.”
Sophie blinked, her eyes widening. “I…I’ll try.”
“Do,” Jack replied. “But just remember, Sophie—you’re mine. Nothing, no amount of pretty phrases, will ever change that.”
The possessiveness in his expression, intransigent, unwavering, stunned Sophie even more than the essence of his arrogant demand. A slow shudder shook her. “Please, Jack…” She looked away, her whisper dying between them.
Jack shackled the urge to haul her into his arms, to put an end to this wooing here and now. Instead, as the music ceased, he drew her hand through his arm. “Come. I’ll escort you back to your aunt.”
At least she had called him Jack.
* * *
“SOMETHING’S WRONG.”
It was two nights after Lady Marchmain’s ball. Horatio, already propped amid the pillows, turned to study his wife as she sat at her dressing-table, brushing out her mane of silver-blond hair. “What makes you say that?” he asked, unperturbed by her intense expression.
Lucilla frowned. “Sophie isn’t happy.”
“Isn’t she?” Horatio blinked behind his glasses. “Why not? I would have thought, with a horde of would-be suitors, Jack Lester to the fore, she’d be as happy as a young lady could be.”
“Well, she’s not—and I think it has something to do with Jack Lester, although I cannot, for the life of me, imagine what it could be. Why, the man’s positively eaten by jealousy every time she so much as smiles at another. Anyone with eyes can see it. I really don’t know what more Sophie wants. Jack Lester will be the catch of the Season.”
“Hmm.” Horatio frowned. “You’re quite sure it’s Jack Lester she wants?”
Lucilla snorted. “Believe me, my dear, there’s no man Sophie wants even a tenth as much. Indeed, if I was intent on doing my job by the book, I should have warned her long ago not to be so blatant in her preference.”
“Ah, well.” Horatio shuffled his ever-present documents and laid them aside as Lucilla stood and came towards the bed. “I dare say it’ll work itself out. These things generally do.”