Stephanie Laurens Rogues' Reform Bundle

by Stephanie Laurens

  “You will remain abed until you are well,” declared Horatio, coming through the door with a laden tray.

  Leaving her aunt to her husband’s fond care, Sophie descended to the breakfast parlour. There, her suitors lay in waiting.

  “This kedgeree is quite remarkable, m’dear,” offered the marquess. “Quite remarkable.”

  “Perhaps you would care for some bacon and an egg or two, Miss Winterton?” Mr. Chartwell lifted the lid of a silver platter and glanced at her enquiringly.

  Sophie smiled on them all, and managed to install herself between Mr. Somercote, engaged in silent communication with Belle Chessington, who was chattering enough for them both, and Mrs. Chessington, who smiled understandingly.

  Further down the board, Jack was apparently absorbed with Mrs. Ellis and her daughter. Beside him, Ned was chatting to Clarissa, Lord Swindon and Mr. Marley openly eavesdropping. Sophie hid a smile at her cousin’s rapt expression.

  She escaped the breakfast parlour unencumbered, using the pretext of having to check on her younger cousins. Jeremy and Gerald had been tired out by a day in woods and fields; they had happily eaten with Amy and the twins the night before. When she reached the nursery she was greeted by an unnatural silence, which was explained by Nurse when she hunted that worthy down. The children had been taken on a long ride by the grooms; peace, therefore, was very likely assured. Smiling with both relief and satisfaction, Sophie descended—into the arms of her suitors.

  The marquess took the lead. “My dear Miss Winterton, may I interest you in a stroll about the gardens? I believe there are some early blooms in the rose garden.”

  “Or perhaps you would rather stroll about the lake?” Mr. Chartwell directed a quelling look at the marquess.

  “There’s a very pretty folly just the other side of the birch grove,” offered Lord Ainsley. “Nice prospect and all that.”

  Mr. Marston merely frowned.

  Sophie resisted the urge to close her eyes and invoke the gods. Instead, she favoured them all with a calm smile. “Indeed, but why don’t we all go together? The gardens, after all, are not that large; doubtless we can see the rose garden, the lake and the folly before lunch.”

  They mumbled and shot frowning glances at each other but, of course, they had to agree. Satisfied she had done what she could to improve the situation, Sophie resigned herself to an hour or two’s insipid conversation. At least she would get some fresh air.

  As they wandered the lawns and vistas, they came upon little groups of their companions likewise employed. They nodded and smiled, calling out information on the various sights to be found, then continued with their ambles. In the distance, Sophie saw the unmistakable figure of Jack Lester, escorting Mrs. Ellis and Mrs. Doyle. Neither lady had her daughter with her, but Miss Billingham the elder had attached herself to the group. Viewing the gown of quite hideous puce stripes that that young lady had donned, along with a chip bonnet from under which she cast sly glances up at Jack Lester, Sophie gritted her teeth and looked elsewhere. To her mind, her own walking gown of pale green was far superior to Miss Billingham’s attire, and she would never cast sheep’s eyes at any man—particularly not Jack Lester.

  Swallowing a humph, Sophie airily remarked, “The light is quite hazy, is it not?”

  Her court immediately agreed, and spent the next five minutes telling her so.

  Nevertheless, the brightness seemed to have gone out of her day. Not even the spectacle of her suitors vying for the right to hand her up the steps could resuscitate her earlier mood. She forced herself to smile and trade quips throughout luncheon but, as soon as the meal was over and it became clear that the guests were quite content, she escaped.

  Donning a light cloak, she gathered her embroidery into a small basket and slipped out of the morning-room windows.

  IN THE SMALL summer-house at the very end of the birch grove, hidden from the house by the shrubbery, Jack paced back and forth, his expression decidedly grim. He wasn’t all that sure what he was doing at Little Bickmanstead. He had taken refuge in the summer-house—refuge from Miss Billingham, who seemed convinced he was just waiting to make her an offer.

  Not a likely prospect this side of hell freezing over—but she did not seem capable of assimilating that fact.

  It was another woman who haunted him, leaving him with a decision to make. A pressing decision. Sophie’s suitors were becoming daily more determined. While it was clear she harboured no real interest in them, she had declared her requirement for funds and they each had plenty to offer. It could only be a matter of time before she accepted one of them.

  With a frustrated sigh, Jack halted before one of the open arches of the summer-house and gripped the low sill; unseeing, he gazed out over the wilderness. He still wanted Sophie—regardless.

  A movement caught his eye. As he watched, Sophie came into view, picking her way along the meandering path that led to the summer-house.

  Slowly, Jack smiled; it seemed for the first time in days, Fate had finally remembered him, and his golden head.

  Then he saw the figure moving determinedly in Sophie’s wake. Jack cursed. His gaze shifted to the left, to the other path out, but the thought of leaving Sophie to deal with Marston alone occurred, only to be dismissed. Besides, Horatio had had to leave for Southampton on business immediately after lunch; it was, Jack decided, undoubtedly his duty to keep watch over his host’s niece.

  Glancing about, he noticed a small door in the back wall of the summer-house. Opened, it revealed a small room, dark and dim, in which were stored croquet mallets, balls and hoops. Shifting these aside, Jack found he could stand in the deep shadow thrown by the door and keep the interior of the summer-house in view. Propping one shoulder against a shelf, he settled into the dimness.

  On reaching the summer-house, Sophie climbed the stairs, listlessness dogging her steps. With a soft sigh, she placed her basket on the small table in the centre of the floor. She was turning to view the scene from the arch when footsteps clattered up the steps behind her.

  “Miss Winterton.”

  In the instant before she turned to face Phillip Marston, Sophie permitted herself an expressive grimace. Irritation of no mean order, frustration and pure chagrin all had a place in it. Then she swung about, chilly reserve in her glance. “Mr. Marston.”

  “I must protest, Miss Winterton. I really cannot condone your habit of slipping away unattended.”

  “I wasn’t aware I was a sheep, nor yet a babe, sir.”

  Phillip Marston frowned harder. “Of course not. But you’re a lady of some attraction and you would do well to bear that in mind. Particularly with the likes of Mr. Lester about.”

  Her accents frigid, Sophie stated, “We will, if you please, leave my aunt’s other guests out of this discussion, sir.”

  With his usual superior expression, Mr. Marston inclined his head. “Indeed, I’m fully in agreement with you there, my dear. In fact, it was precisely the idea of leaving your aunt’s other guests entirely that has prompted me to seek you out.”

  Sophie felt her spirits, already tending to the dismal, slump even further. She searched for some soothing comment.

  Mr. Marston fell to pacing, his hands clasped behind him, his frowning gaze fixed on the floor. “As you know, I have not been at all easy in my mind over this little party. Indeed, I did not approve of your aunt’s desire to bring you to town. It was quite unnecessary. You did not need to come to London to contract a suitable alliance.”

  Sophie cast a pleading glance heavenward. Her mind had seized up; no witty comment occurred to her.

  “But I will say no more on what I fear I must term your aunt’s lack of wisdom.” Phillip Marston pursed his lips. “Instead, I have resolved to ask you to leave your aunt and uncle’s protection and return to Leicestershire with me. We can be married there. I believe I know you too well to think you will want a large wedding. Such silly fripperies might be well enough for the ton but they are neither here nor there. My mother, of
course, fully approves—”

  “Mr. Marston!” Sophie had heard quite enough. “Sir, I do not know when I have given you cause to believe I would welcome an offer from you, but if I have, I most sincerely apologize.”

  Phillip Marston blinked. It took him a moment to work through Sophie’s words. Then he frowned and looked more severe than ever.

  “A-hem!”

  Startled, both Sophie and Marston turned as first the marquess and then Mr. Chartwell climbed the steps to the summer-house. Sophie stared. Then, resisting the urge to shake her head, she drifted to the table, leaving her three most eager suitors ranged on the other side.

  “Er, we were just strolling past. Couldn’t help overhearing, m’dear,” Huntly explained, looking most apologetic. “But felt I had to tell you—no need to marry Marston here. Only too happy to marry you myself.”

  “Actually,” cut in Mr. Chartwell, fixing the marquess with a stern eye. “I was hoping to have a word with you later, Miss Winterton. In private. However, such as it is, I pray you’ll consider my suit, too.”

  Sophie thought she heard a smothered snort, but before she could decide who was responsible, Mr. Marston had claimed the floor.

  “Miss Winterton, you will be much happier close to your family in Leicestershire.”

  “Nonsense!” Huntly exclaimed, turning to confront his rival. “No difficulty in travelling these days. Besides, why should Miss Winterton make do with some small farmhouse when she could preside over a mansion, heh?”

  “Chartwell Hall is very large, Miss Winterton. Fifty main rooms. And of course I would have no qualms in giving you a free hand redecorating—there and at my London residence.” Mr. Chartwell’s attitude was one of ineffable superiority.

  “Marston Manor,” Phillip Marston declaimed, glaring at Huntly and Chartwell, “is, as Miss Winterton knows, a sizeable establishment. She shall want for nothing. My resources are considerable and my estates stretch for miles, bordering those of her uncle.”

  “Really?” returned the marquess. “It might interest you to know, sir, that my estates are themselves considerable, and I make bold to suggest that in light of my patrimony, Miss Winterton would do very much better to marry me. Besides, there’s the title to consider. Still worth something, what?”

  “Very little if rumour is to be believed,” Mr. Chartwell cut in. “Indeed, I fear that if we are to settle this on the basis of monetary worth, then my own claims outshine you both.”

  “Is that so?” the marquess enquired, his attitude verging on the belligerent.

  “Indeed.” Mr. Chartwell held his ground against the combined glare of his rivals.

  “Enough!” Sophie’s declaration drew all three to face her. Rigid with barely suppressed fury, she raked them with a glinting, narrow-eyed gaze. “I am disgusted with all of you! How dare you presume to know my thoughts—my feelings—my requirements—and to comment on them in such a way?”

  The question was unanswerable; all three men shuffled uncomfortably. Incensed, Sophie paced slowly before them, her glittering gaze holding them silent. “I have never in my life been so insulted. Do you actually believe I would marry a man who thought I was the sort of woman who married for money?” With an angry swirl, Sophie swung about, her skirts hissing. “For wealth and establishments?” The scorn in her voice lashed at them. “I would draw your attention to my aunt, who married for love—and found happiness and success. My mother, too, married purely for love. My cousin Clarissa will unquestionably marry for love. All the women in my family marry for love—and I am no different!”

  Sophie blinked back the tears that suddenly threatened. She was not done with her suitors yet. “I will be perfectly frank with you gentlemen, as you have been so frank with me. I do not love any of you, and I will certainly not marry any of you. There is no earthly use persisting in your pursuit of me, for I will not change my mind. I trust I make myself plain?”

  She delivered her last question with a passable imitation of Lucilla at her most haughty. Head high, Sophie looked down her nose and dared them to deny her.

  Typically, Phillip Marston made the attempt. As startled as the others, he nevertheless made an effort to draw his habitual superiority about him. “You are naturally overwrought, my dear. It was unforgivable of us to subject you to such a discussion.”

  “Unforgivable, ungentlemanly and totally unacceptable.” Sophie wasn’t about to quibble. Mr. Chartwell and the marquess shuffled their feet and darted careful, placating glances at her.

  Heartened, Mr. Marston grew more confident. “Be that as it may, I strongly advise you to withdraw your hasty words. You cannot have considered. It is not for such as us to marry for love; that, I believe is more rightly the province of the hoi polloi. I cannot think—”

  “Mr. Marston.” Sophie threw an exasperated glance at the heavens. “You have not been listening, sir. I care not what anyone thinks of my predilection for love. It may not be conventional, but it is, I should point out, most fashionable these days. And I find I am greatly addicted to fashion. You may think it unacceptable, but there it is. Now,” she continued, determined to give them no further chance to remonstrate, “I fear I have had quite enough of your company for one afternoon, gentlemen. If you wish to convince me that you are, in fact, the gentlemen I have always believed you, you will withdraw and allow me some peace.”

  “Yes, of course, my dear.”

  “Pray accept our apologies, Miss Winterton.”

  Both the marquess and Mr. Chartwell were more than prepared to retreat. Phillip Marston was harder to rout.

  “Miss Winterton,” he said, his usual frown gathering, “I cannot reconcile it with my conscience to leave you thus unguarded.”

  “Unguarded?” Sophie barely restrained her temper. “Sir, you are suffering from delusions. There is no danger to me here, in my great-aunt’s summer house.” Sophie glanced briefly at Mr. Chartwell and the marquess, then returned her gaze, grimly determined, to her most unwanted suitor. “Furthermore, sir, having expressed a desire for your absence, I will feel perfectly justified in requesting these gentlemen to protect me—from you.”

  One glance was enough to show Phillip Marston that Mr. Chartwell and the marquess would be only too pleased to take out their frustrations on him. With a glance which showed how deeply against the grain retreat went with him, he bowed curtly. “As you wish, Miss Winterton. But I will speak with you later.”

  Only the fact that he was leaving allowed Sophie to suppress her scream. She was furious—with all of them. Head high, she stood by the table and watched as they clattered down the steps. They paused, exchanging potent looks of dislike, then separated, each heading towards the house by a different route.

  With a satisfied humph, Sophie watched them disappear. Slowly, her uplifting fury drained. The tense muscles in her shoulders relaxed. She drew in a soft breath.

  It tangled in her throat as she heard a deep voice say from directly behind her,

  “You’re wrong, you know.”

  With a strangled shriek, Sophie whirled round. One hand at her throat, she groped with the other for the table behind her. Eyes wide, she stared up at Jack’s face. “Wh—what do you mean, wrong?” It was an effort to calm her thudding heart enough to get out the words.

  “I mean,” Jack replied, prowling about the table to cut off her retreat, “that you overlooked one particular danger in assuring Marston of your safety.” He met Sophie’s stare and smiled. “Me.”

  Sophie took one long look into his glittering eyes and instinctively moved to keep the table between them. As the truth dawned, she lifted her chin. “How dare you eavesdrop on my conversations!”

  Jack’s predatory smile didn’t waver. “As always, your conversation was most instructive, my dear. It did, however, leave me with one burning question.”

  Sophie eyed him warily. “What?”

  “Just what game are you playing, my dear?”

  The sudden flare in his eyes startled Sophie anew. “Ah—y
ou’re a gentleman, Mr. Lester.” It seemed the time to remind him.

  “Gentleman rake,” Jack replied. “There’s a difference.”

  Sophie was suddenly very sure there was. Eyes wider than ever, she took a step back, then smothered a yelp as, with one hand and a single shove, Jack sent the table shooting over the floor.

  Sophie’s gaze followed it, until it came to a quivering halt by the wall, her basket still balanced upon it. Then she looked round—and jumped back a step when she found Jack directly in front of her. He advanced; she retreated another step. Two more steps and Sophie found the wall of the summer-house at her back. Jack’s arms, palms flat against the wall, one on either side, imprisoned her. She eyed first one arm, then the other. Then, very cautiously, she looked up into his face.

  His expression was intent. “Now, Sophie—”

  “Ah—Jack.” Any discussion was potentially dangerous; she needed time to consider just what he had heard, and what he might now think. Sophie fixed her gaze on his cravat, directly before her face. “I’m really quite overset.” That was the literal truth. “I—I’m rather overwrought. As you heard, I just turned away three suitors. Three offers. Not a small thing, after all. I fear my nerves are a trifle strained by the experience.”

  Jack shifted, leaning closer, raising one hand to catch Sophie’s chin. He tipped her face up until her wise gaze met his. “I suggest you steel yourself then, my dear. For you’re about to receive a fourth.”

  Sophie’s lips parted on a protest; it remained unuttered. Jack’s lips closed over hers, sealing them, teasing the soft contours, then ruthlessly claiming them. Head whirling, Sophie clutched at his lapels. She felt him hesitate, then his head slanted over hers. Sophie shuddered as he boldly claimed her warmth, tasting her, teasing her senses with calculated expertise. Her fingers left his lapels to steal upwards, to clutch at his shoulders. He released her chin; he shifted, straightening, pulling her against him, one large hand gripping her waist. The kiss deepened again; her senses whirling, Sophie wondered how much deeper it could go. Then his hand swept slowly upward to firm about her breast, gently caressing even as he demanded her surrender.