Stephanie Laurens Rogues' Reform Bundle

by Stephanie Laurens

  “Has it been such a burden?” Harry drained his tankard.

  “Not a burden, precisely. But it hurts to watch one of us succumb so young.”

  Harry chuckled. “Well, at least neither of us fell young, and I don’t think you need worry about Gerald.”

  “Thank God. At least I have the excuse of being the head of the family—it’s expected, after all.”

  “Rationalize it any way you want, brother mine; I know the truth.”

  Jack’s blue eyes met Harry’s green ones across the width of the table. Their gazes locked, then Jack sighed. “Well, at least with Ned safely settled, I’ll be able to give my full attention to a certain golden head. And with Horatio Webb’s help, I’ll conquer her stubbornness.”

  “Let me be the first to wish you happy.”

  Jack glanced at Harry and realized his brother was serious. He smiled. “Why thank you, brother mine.”

  “And I’ll give you a warning, too.”

  “Oh?”

  “The news is out.”

  Jack grimaced. “Are you sure?”

  “Put it this way.” Harry set his tankard down. “I was at Lady Bromford’s affair last night, and lo and behold, Lady Argyle made a play for me. Not a blush in sight, what’s more. She had her daughter in tow, a chit just out of the schoolroom.” Harry wrinkled his nose. “Her ladyship was as clinging as Medusa. Totally unaccountable, unless she’d heard rather more than a whisper of our affairs.”

  “And if she’s heard, others will, too.” Jack grimaced even more.

  “Which means it won’t be long before we’re the toast of the tea parties. If I were you, I’d secure your golden head with all speed. An announcement in the Gazette should just be enough to buy your escape. As for myself, I’ve decided to run for cover.”

  Jack grinned. “I did wonder over your sudden penchant for the lush green fields.”

  “In the circumstances, Newmarket looks considerably safer than London.” Harry’s grin was crooked as he rose. “Given the danger, I feel confident I’ll find enough in the country to keep me amused for the rest of the Season.”

  Jack shook his head. “You won’t be able to run forever, you know.”

  Harry raised an arrogant brow. “Love,” he declared, “is not about to catch me.” With a last, long look, he turned to the door. His hand on the knob, he paused to look back, his grin distinctly wry. “Good luck. Just don’t get so distracted by the excitement at the gala that you forget to keep your back covered. Until your golden head says yes, you’re no safer than I.”

  Jack had raised his hand in farewell; now he groaned. “God help me! Just when I thought I was home and hosed.”

  HARRY’S DIRE PREDICTION was confirmed that evening at Lady Summerville’s ball. Jack bowed gracefully over her ladyship’s hand, disturbingly aware of the relish in her gimlet gaze. Luckily her duties prohibited her from pursuing him immediately, but her promise to look him up later left little doubt that his news was out. Fully alert, Jack artfully avoided two ostriched-plumed matrons, as imposing as battleships, waiting to ambush him just yards from the ballroom steps. He was congratulating himself on his escape when he walked straight into Lady Middleton’s clutches.

  “My dear Mr. Lester! I declare, Middleton and I have not seen much of you this year.”

  Biting back the retort that, if he had had his eyes about him, her ladyship would have seen even less of him, Jack bowed resignedly. On straightening, he was subjected to the scrutiny of her ladyship’s protuberant eyes, grotesquely magnified by lorgnettes deployed like gunsights. “Indeed, ma’am, I fear I have been greatly occupied thus far this Season.”

  “Well! I hope you’re not going to be too occupied to attend my niece’s coming-out ball. She’s a sweet thing and will make some gentleman an unexceptionable wife. Your Aunt Harriet was particularly fond of her, y’know.” This last was accompanied by a pointed glance. Jack looked politely impressed. Her ladyship nodded, apparently satisfied. “Middleton and I will expect you.”

  With a snap, she shut her lorgnettes and used them to tap him on the sleeve.

  Choosing to interpret this as a dismissal, Jack bowed and slid into the crowd. It was, indeed, as Harry had foreseen; despite his efforts to make his intentions crystal clear, he was not yet safe. Doubtless, nothing less than the announcement of his betrothal would convince the matchmaking mamas that he had passed beyond their reach. Yet another good reason to add to the increasingly impressive tally indicating that the speedy curtailment of Miss Sophia Winterton’s Season was a highly desirable goal.

  Looking about him, he spotted his quarry, elegant as ever in a gown of pale green figured silk, her curls glowing warmly in the candlelight. His height was both advantage and disadvantage, allowing him to scan the crowds but making him far too conspicuous a target. By dint of some rapid tacking by way of evasive action, he gained Sophie’s side without further difficulty.

  As always, his appearance coincided with a thinning of the ranks about her. Sophie no longer noticed. She gave him her hand and a warmly welcoming smile. “Good evening, Mr. Lester.”

  “Actually,” Jack said, straightening and scanning their surroundings. “It probably isn’t.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Sophie stared at him.

  “As an evening, I’ve probably faced better,” Jack replied, tucking her hand into his arm. “Ruthven, Hollingsworth—I’m sure you’ll excuse us.” With a nod for those two gentlemen, Jack led Sophie into the crowd.

  Hearing Lord Ruthven chuckle, Sophie glanced back to see his lordship explaining something to a puzzled Mr. Hollingsworth. “What is it?” she asked, looking up at Jack.

  “I’ve been pegged up for target practice.”

  “Whatever do you…” Sophie’s words trailed away as she noticed the simpering glances thrown Jack’s way—mostly by debutantes who, two days ago, would certainly not have dared. She shot a suspicious glance at Jack. “You’ve put the story of your fortune about?”

  Under his breath, Jack growled. “No, Sophie. I have not put the news about. It got out—doubtless from the other investors involved in the Indies Corporation.” He cast an exasperated glance down at her. His temper was not improved by the wary frown he saw in her eyes. “Devil take it, woman!” he growled. “No rake in his right mind, having declared his intention to wed, would then call the dragons down on his head by inventing a fortune.”

  Sophie swallowed her giggle. “I hadn’t thought of it in quite that way.”

  “Well, do,” Jack advised. “It’s the truth—and you’re not going to escape it. And speaking of escape, I do hope you realize that, until your uncle returns and our betrothal can be announced, I expect you to assist my cause.”

  “In what way?” Sophie asked.

  “By lending me your protection.”

  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, Mis
s 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 took 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.”

  Jack, Ned and Toby looked relieved.

  Somewhere in the gardens, a gong clanged. The music had stopped some minutes before and the heavy note vibrated through the twilight.

  “Time to view the Grand Spectacle!”

  Jeremy’s shout was echoed from all around. There was a surge of bodies as people left their booths to join the throng flocking to where a looming mountain, now brilliantly lit, rose craggily from amidst the otherwise unremarkable landscape. Fifteen minutes were spent in oohing and aahing at the various elements, some mechanical, others purely decorative, artfully placed within the alpine scene. Then the lights were doused. Chattering and exclaiming, the patrons returned to the walks, the booths and the dancing.

  The last of their company to return to their booth, Sophie and Jack strolled through the twilight, her hand on his arm. She could feel the tension that gripped him, lending steel to the muscles beneath her fingertips.

  “Sophie?”

  Wreathed in shadows, Sophie looked up.

  Jack stared at the pale oval of her face, the wide eyes and slightly parted lips. For a moment, he was still, then, concealed by the shadows, he bent his head and swiftly kissed her.

  Sophie’s lips met his, her heart leaping at the brief caress. Her hands fluttered; her arms ached to hold him.

  Jack caught her hands. “Not yet, sweetheart.” His smile was decidedly crooked. “Just pray your uncle’s carriage doesn’t break an axle.”

  Sophie sighed feelingly and allowed him to resettle her hand on his sleeve.

  Covering her hand with his, Jack gently squeezed her fingers. “We’d better get back to the booth.” As they strolled out of the shadows, he added, “The fireworks come later.”

  Puzzled, Sophie looked up. “I hadn’t imagined fireworks to be one of your abiding interests.”

  Jack glanced down at her, then his slow, rake’s smile curved his lips. “There are many kinds of fireworks, my dear.”

  For an instant, Sophie glimpsed the dark, powerful passions behind his blue eyes. A distinctly delicious sensation slithered down her spine. But further discovery was denied her; they were caught up in the dancers and dragged into the heart of the revels once more.

  The orchestra was now accompanied by a vocalist, a tenor whose pure notes drifted high over the booths to disappear into the increasing darkness. Stars speckled the sky as night slowly enfolded the scene. The Chinese lanterns came into their own,
shedding their rosy glow over dancers and musicians alike. Laughter and the mellow murmur of conversation, softer now, muted by the effects of good food and fine wines, rippled through the shadows.

  Throughout the evening, again and again, Sophie’s eyes met Jack’s. A magical web held them bound; neither was aware of those about them. And what passed between them was magical, too, carried in the weight of shared glances and the lingering touch of lovers’ hands.

  Their surroundings were part of the magic. At the conclusion of the musical interlude, the tenor embarked on a solo performance. Breathless, conversing softly, the dancers headed back to their booths. As she strolled on Jack’s arm, Sophie noticed Belle Chessington on the arm of Mr. Somercote—surely a most unlikely Vauxhall patron. Belle waved and smiled hugely, her eyes sparkling. Mr. Somercote, too, smiled broadly, clearly both pleased and proud.

  “Well, well,” Jack murmured. “You’ll have to tell your aunt she’s achieved a minor miracle. Somercote’s silence has been tripping the matchmakers up for years. It looks as if he’s finally found his tongue.”

  Sophie laughed. “Indeed, you have to admit he won’t need many words, not with Belle on his arm.”

  Jack smiled, then looked ahead.

  And tensed. Sophie felt it, and followed his gaze to see the rotund figure of her uncle clearly visible in their booth.

  “Just in time.” Jack quickened his pace.

  As they entered the booth, Lucilla beckoned to Sophie. “Mrs. Chessington just stopped by. Wonder of wonders!”

  From the corner of her eye, Sophie saw Jack greet Horatio. They exchanged a few words, Jack very serious, then both turned and left the booth.

  Subsiding onto the chair beside her aunt, Sophie forced herself to concentrate enough to follow Lucilla’s discourse. It proved a supremely difficult task. Her hands clasping and unclasping in her lap, she was acutely conscious of every little sound, every movement in the booth.