Sophie tried her best to look delighted at the prospect.
“Lady Colethorpe—my niece, Sophia Winterton.”
With a certain relief, Sophie turned to her aunt’s next guest and put Mr. Marston very firmly from her mind.
Down in the ballroom, Jack wended his way through the throng, stopping here and there to chat with old acquaintances, constantly hailed as the ton, one and all, found their way to the Webbs’ ball. Percy, of course, was there. He greeted Jack with something akin to relief.
“Held up with m’father,” Percy explained. “He was having one of his turns—convinced he was going to die. All rubbish, of course. Sound as a horse.” Smoothing down his new violet silk waistcoat, Percy cast a knowledgeable eye over Jack’s elegance, innate, as he well knew—and sighed. “But what’s been going on here, then?” he asked, raising his quizzing glass to look about him. “Seems as if every squire and his dog have already come to town.”
“That’s about the sum of it,” Jack confirmed. “I just met Carmody and Harrison. The whole boiling’s in residence already, and raring to get started. I suspect that’s what’s behind the eagerness tonight. Lucilla Webb’s gauged it to a nicety.”
“Hmm. Mentioned the Webbs to m’father. Very knowing, he is. He had a word for Mrs. Webb.”
“Oh?” Jack looked his question.
“Dangerous,” Percy offered.
Jack’s lips twitched. “That much, I know. To my cost, what’s more. Nevertheless, unless I’m greatly mistaken, the lady approves of yours truly. And, dangerous or not, I fear I’m committed to further acquaintance.”
Percy blinked owlishly. “So you’re serious, then?”
“Having found my golden head, I’m not about to let her go.”
“Ah, well.” Percy shrugged. “Leave you to it, then. Where’d you say Harrison was?”
After sending Percy on his way, Jack looked over the heads, curled and pomaded, and discovered that Sophie and her family had quit the doorway to mingle with their guests. He located Sophie on the other side of the room, surrounded by a small group of gentlemen. Eminently eligible gentlemen, he realized, as he mentally named each one. Jack felt his possessive instincts stir. Immediately, he clamped a lid on them. He had already claimed a waltz and the right to take Sophie to supper; Lucilla would frown on any attempt to claim more.
With an effort, Jack forced himself to relax his clenched jaw. To ease the strain on his temper, he shifted his gaze to Clarissa, a little way along the wall. Sophie’s cousin was glowing, radiating happiness. As well she might, Jack thought, as he viewed her not inconsiderable court. Puppies all, but Clarissa was only seventeen. She was unquestionably beautiful and, to her and her mother’s credit, blissfully free of the silly affectations that often marred others of her calibre. Whether she was as talented as her mother, Jack had no notion—he had seen no evidence of it yet.
Seeing Ned holding fast to his place by Clarissa’s side despite all attempts to dislodge him, Jack grinned. As long as Ned circulated when the dancing began, there was no harm in his present occupation. His protégé was maintaining a coolly distant expression, which had made Clarissa glance up at him, slightly puzzled, more than once. Ned was learning fast, and putting his new-found knowledge to good use.
Making a mental note to drop a word of warning in Ned’s ear, to the effect that any female descended from Lucilla Webb should be treated with due caution, Jack allowed his mind to return to its preoccupation.
Was Sophie like her aunt, capable of manipulation on a grand scale? Jack shook aside the silly notion. His Sophie was no schemer—he would stake his life on that. To him, she was open, straightforward, all but transparent. As he watched her smile brightly up at the Marquess of Huntly, Jack’s satisfied expression faded. Abruptly executing a neat about-face, he strolled deeper into the crowd.
The first waltz was duly announced, and Clarissa, blushing delicately, went down the floor with her father, a surprisingly graceful dancer. At the conclusion of the measure, Horatio beamed down at her. “Well, my dear. You’re officially out now. Are you pleased?”
Clarissa smiled brilliantly. “Indeed, yes, Papa,” she said, and meant it.
The crowd parted and she looked ahead. To see Ned leading another young lady from the floor. Clarissa’s smile faded.
Horatio noticed. “I had better return you to your court, my dear.” Blandly, he added, “But do spare a thought for your old father. Don’t line up too many suitors for your hand.”
Apparently unaware of Clarissa’s startled glance, Horatio guided her back to her circle, then, with a blithely paternal pat on her hand, left her to them.
“I say, Miss Webb.” Lord Swindon was greatly smitten. “You waltz divinely. You must have been practising incessantly up in Leicestershire.”
“May I get you a glass of lemonade, Miss Webb? Thirsty work, dancing.” This from Lord Thurstow, a genial red-haired gentleman whose girth explained his conjecture.
But the most frightening comment came from Mr. Marley, a young sprig who considered himself a budding poet. “An ode…I feel an ode burgeoning in my brain. To your incomparable grace, and the effect it has on your poor followers who have to watch you take the floor in another’s arms. Argh!”
Clarissa eyed the flushed young man in alarm. Gracious, were they all so unutterably silly?
As the evening wore on, she decided that they were. This was not what she had come to London to find. Being mooned over by gentlemen she classed as barely older than Jeremy and George was hardly the stuff of her dreams. Stuck with her court, surrounded on all sides, Clarissa met their sallies with guileless smiles, while inwardly she considered her options.
When Ned reappeared and rescued her, leading her into the set forming for a country dance, the truth dawned. Smiling up at him, Clarissa shyly said, “It’s such a relief to dance with someone I know.”
Mindful of his instructions, Ned merely raised a brow. “Is it?” Then he smiled, a touch of condescension in his manner. “Don’t worry, you’ll soon get used to all the attention.”