Stunned, Clarissa stared at him.
“Not a bad ball, this,” Ned cheerily remarked. “Your mother must be pleased at the turnout. Don’t think I’ve seen so many young ladies all at once before.”
It was, perhaps, as well for Ned that the dance separated them at that point. When they came together again, Clarissa, her nose in the air, treated him to a frosty glance. “As you say,” she said, “I’m sure I’ll learn how to respond suitably to all the compliments the gentlemen seem so intent on pressing on me. I must ask Mama how best to encourage them.”
Again the dance averted catastrophe. By the time the music finally died, Ned, chilly and remote, led Clarissa, equally distant and frigid, back to her circle. After perfunctorily bowing over her hand, Ned quit the vicinity, leaving Clarissa to deal with her importunate followers, her cheeks flushed, a dangerous glint in her large eyes.
A little distance away, Sophie had started to compile a list of potential suitors. The task was not difficult, for they promptly presented themselves before her, all but declaring their interest. The basis for their attraction had her mystified until Lord Annerby confessed, “The young misses are not really my style.” When the movements of the quadrille brought them together again, he admitted, “Been hoping a lady like you would hove on my horizon. Not just in the common way, and not likely to giggle in a man’s ear, if you take my meaning.”
After that, Sophie paid a little more attention to her would-be swains, and discovered that many were, indeed, like his lordship: gentlemen who had been waiting for a lady such as she, not in the first flush of youth but yet young, presentable and altogether acceptable, to appear and walk up the aisle with them. With their reasons explained, she turned her attention to their attributes.
“I understand your estates are in Northamptonshire, Mr. Somercote. I hail from that county myself.”
“Do you?” As they glided through the steps of the cotillion, Mr. Somercote made a visible effort to produce his next statement. “Somercote Hall lies just beyond the village of Somercote in the northwesternmost corner of the county.”
Sophie nodded and smiled encouragingly, but apparently that was the full extent of Mr. Somercot’s loquacity. As they returned through the crowd to where her admirers were waiting, she mentally crossed his name off her list.
The Marquess of Huntly was her next partner. “Tell me, Miss Winterton, do you enjoy the amenities of London?”
“I do indeed, my lord,” Sophie replied. The marquess was Lord Percy’s elder brother and, despite his bluff appearance and a tendency to stoutness, was unquestionably eligible.
“I’ve heard that you ride in the Park. Mayhap we’ll meet one fine morning.”
“Perhaps,” Sophie returned, her smile noncommittal.
As they left the floor, Sophie decided the marquess could remain on her list for the present. Perhaps a meeting in the Park, with her younger cousins in tow, would be useful? She was pondering the point when a deep voice cut across her thoughts.
“I believe our waltz is next, Miss Winterton.” Jack nodded to the marquess. “Huntly.”
“Lester.”
The marquess returned his nod. “Seen Percy about?”
“He was chatting with Harrison earlier in the evening.”
“Suppose I should go and have a word with him. M’brother, you know,” the marquess confided to Sophie. “M’father’s been at death’s door—should see how he is. If you’ll excuse me, m’dear?”
Even as she stared at Lord Huntly’s retreating back, Sophie’s mental pencil was scrubbing out his name. Such callousness was appalling.
Seeing her shocked expression, Jack abruptly shut his lips on the explanation he had been about to make. He did not consider Huntly a rival—but why make a whip for his own back? Appropriating Sophie’s hand, he laid it on his sleeve. “Perhaps we could stroll about the room until the waltz commences?”
Sophie blinked, then frowned. “I really should return to my aunt.”
His own frown hidden behind an urbane smile, Jack inclined his head and dutifully led her to where her court was waiting.
An unwise move. He was not impressed by the small crowd of eligibles who apparently could find nothing better to do at the first major ball of the Season than congregate about his Sophie. His temper was not improved by having to listen to them vie to heap accolades upon their compliments. For their part, they ignored him, secure in the knowledge that Sophie’s expectations were insufficient to permit him to woo her. The thought made Jack smile inwardly. The smile turned to a suppressed growl when he heard Sophie say, “I do indeed enjoy the opera, Lord Annerby.”
She then smiled serenely at his lordship.
“I’ll be sure to let you know when the season begins, my dear Miss Winterton.” Lord Annerby all but gloated.
Jack gritted his teeth. He had avoided the opera for years—a fact that owed nothing to the performances but rather more to those performing. To his immense relief, the strains of the waltz heralded his salvation. “Miss Winterton?”
Surprised, Sophie blinked up at him even as she put her hand in his. His fingers closed tightly about hers. His words had sounded like a command. An inkling of a difficulty she had not previously considered awoke in Sophie’s brain.
Without further speech, Jack led Sophie to the door, drawing her into his arms with an arrogance that bespoke his mind far too well. He knew it, but did not care. The relief as she settled into his arms was balm to his lacerated feelings.
As they joined the swirling crowd on the floor, Jack considered closing his eyes. He would wager he could waltz round any ballroom blindfolded, so accustomed was he to the exercise. And with his eyes closed, his senses would be free to concentrate solely on Sophie—on the soft warmth of her, on how well she fitted in his arms, on the subtle caress of her silk-encased thighs against his.