Sophie laughed, but the smile was soon wiped from her face. A succession of cloying encounters set her teeth on edge; some of the warm hints directed at Jack left her positively nauseous. Somehow, he managed to keep a polite expression on his face and, by dint of his quick wits and ever-ready tongue, extricated himself from the ladies’ clutches. She admired his address, and was more than ready to acquiesce to his unvoiced plea. She remained fixed by his side, anchored by his hand on his sleeve, and defied all attempts to remove her. That she managed to do so while restraining her comments to the realms of the acceptable was, she felt, no reflection on the provocation provided. Indeed, on more than one occasion she found herself blushing for her sex. Miss Billingham proved the last straw.
“My mama was quite bowled over to hear of your windfall, sir,” she declared, batting her sparse lashes and simpering. “In light of our time spent together at Mrs. Webb’s house party, she has charged me to ask you to call. Indeed,” she went on, dropping her coy smile long enough to shoot a venomous glance at Sophie, “Mama is very keen to speak to you immediately.” Greatly daring, Miss Billingham placed her hands about Jack’s arm and smiled acidly at Sophie. “If you’ll excuse us, Miss Winterton?”
Sophie stiffened, then smiled sweetly back. “I greatly fear, Miss Billingham,” she said, before Jack would speak, “that I cannot release Mr. Lester. There’s a waltz starting up.” With calculated charm, Sophie smiled dazzlingly up at Jack. “Our waltz, I believe, Jack.”
Jack’s slow smile was triumphant. “Our waltz, dear Sophie.”
They left Miss Billingham, open-mouthed, staring after them.
Sophie was seething as they took to the floor. “How dare she? How can they? They’re all quite shameless. I thought it was only rakes who were so.”
Jack chuckled and drew her closer. “Hush, my sweet Sophie.” When she glared in reply, her full breasts swelling with indignation, he brushed a most reprehensible kiss across her curls. “It doesn’t matter. You’re mine—and I’m yours. When your uncle returns, we can tell the world.”
Sophie to
ok comfort in the warmth of his gaze, and in the delight she saw behind it. Did he really find it so surprising that she would fly to his aid?
Whatever the case, she thought, as she felt the waltz, and him, weave their accustomed magic, Horatio had better return soon. In such difficult circumstances, there was no telling what scandalous declaration she might feel obliged to make.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
GALA NIGHT AT VAUXHALL was a treat few among the ton cared to miss. With their party, swollen by the presence of Jeremy and Gerald, who had been included by special dispensation, Sophie strolled beside Jack down the Grand Walk. She saw many familiar faces, all bright with expectation of the night’s revelries. None were as bright as hers.
She glanced up at Jack and smiled, feeling her brittle tension tighten. Horatio was due back tonight; her uncle had sent word that despite the business that had delayed him, he would return this evening to join them at the Gardens. Jack smiled back, his hand warm over hers where it rested on his sleeve. He said nothing, but the expression in his eyes left her in no doubt of his thoughts.
Determined at least to appear calm, Sophie gave her attention to their surroundings, duly exclaiming at the brightly lit colonnade, which had been added since her last visit. Jeremy and George, and, to a lesser extent, Toby, Ned and Clarissa, looked about with avid interest, speculating on the age of the elms lining the gravelled promenade and eyeing the dense shrubbery separating the walks.
“I think the booth your uncle has rented is this way.”
Jack steered her to the right of the section of promenade known as the Grove. Toby followed with Lucilla on his arm, Ned and Clarissa behind with the two boys bringing up the rear. In the centre of the Grove, a small orchestra was setting up. Arranged about the perimeter were a large number of wooden booths, many already filled with patrons come to enjoy the night’s entertainments.
Their booth proved to have an excellent view of the orchestra.
“Ah, yes.” Lucilla settled herself on a chair by the wide front window. “A most satisfactory location. From here, one can see almost everything.”
Sophie noticed her aunt’s gaze was not on the musicians. Indeed, it seemed as if all of fashionable London were a part of the passing scene. Gentlemen and ladies of all degrees strolled upon the paths; many stopped to exchange pleasantries with her aunt before moving on. Then there were the bucks and their ladybirds, the bright lights of the demi-monde. Sophie found herself fascinated by one particular redhead—or rather her gown, a wispy concoction of silk and feathers that barely concealed her charms. Until she noticed the interest the lady evinced in return, and realized it was not for her. A frown threatening, Sophie glanced at her companion—the focus of the red-head’s attention—only to find he was watching her. A slow smile lifted his lips; one dark brow rose.
Sophie blushed vividly, and pointedly transferred her gaze to the orchestra. As if sensing her need, they promptly laid bow to string, filling the night with their magic. Soon, a bevy of couples was whirling in the light of the Chinese lanterns, suspended high overhead.
Jack rose. “Come,” he said, holding out his hand, a smile and an invitation in his eyes. “No one counts the dances at Vauxhall.”
For an instant, Sophie met his gaze. Then, with a calm decisiveness that surprised even her, she lifted her chin and put her hand in his. “How accommodating.”
Her uncle had better arrive soon; she couldn’t bear to wait much longer.
Luckily, Jack proved most efficient at distracting her, until her mind was filled with nothing beyond thoughts of him, of his teasing smile and the beckoning warmth behind his blue eyes. He danced with her twice, then relinquished her to Ned, who in turn passed her to Toby before Jack once more drew her into his arms.
Sophie laughed. “I find myself quite breathless, sir.”
Jack smiled down at her, a slow crooked smile. “Jack,” he said.
Sophie looked into his eyes; her breath vanished altogether. “Jack,” she whispered, letting her lashes fall.
Jack’s arm tightened about her; he swept her into the waltz.
Supper was provided in the booth, laid out on a narrow trestle table at the rear, along with a jug of lemonade and another of the famous Vauxhall punch. When they lifted the linen cloths from the dishes, they found delicate cucumber sandwiches, a selection of pastries and a large platter of the fabled wafer-thin ham.
“Exactly as I recall,” Lucilla declared, holding up one near-transparent slice. She looked at Sophie. “When your mother and I were debs, we were always famished after a night at Vauxhall.” Nibbling the ham, she added, “I told Cook to lay out a cold collation for when we get back.”