Free The Forbidden Lord by Sabrina Jeffries Page B

Lady Sophie after dancing with her. But not you—the lord with the granite heart.”
    “Mock me if you will, but I’m well pleased with my granite heart. It doesn’t bleed, it doesn’t fester, and it can’t be wounded.”
    “Yes, but it can break if someone hits it with a hammer. One day a woman will come along who shatters it into a million pieces. And I, for one, can’t wait to see it.”
    “You’ll be waiting a long time then,” Jordan said, growing bored with this subject. “And it won’t happen tonight. I’m dancing with Sophie merely to oblige Ian. He thinks it’ll prompt Lord Nesfield to accept his suit and thus get Sophie out of my foul clutches. Ian assured me I’d be done quickly. Good God, I hope so. These affairs are tedious.”
    “I don’t mind them. But then I can appreciate a good party. You can’t.”
    Pollock’s insistence on making him sound like a cold bastard began to irritate Jordan. “And I’m not looking for a wife to enhance my standing in society. You are.”
    Pollock glared at him. “Is that an allusion to my lack of a title or connections? To the fact that my father was in trade? My word, you’re pompous. You can have any woman you want, so you lord it over the rest of us.”
    The vehemence in Pollock’s voice startled him. “That’s not true. Any number of merchant’s daughters would happily lead you to the altar.”
    “I don’t want a merchant’s daughter. As you so crudely put it, I want someone who can increase my standing in society.”
    “Why? You already move in exalted circles.”
    “Yes, but I want a woman who can be the jewel in my crown, a woman so stunning that my position is secured forever. And preferably someone who can love me despite my faults.”
    Jordan couldn’t restrain his laughter. “You think to find it at Merrington’s? With a lot of simpering virgins and scheming mamas?”
    “Perhaps.” Pollock fingered the cravat he’d spent so much time torturing into a Mathematique. “Before St. Clair set his sights on Lady Sophie, I’d planned to try for her myself.” He scowled. “Then St. Clair came along and captured her fancy. He isn’t even in love with her. He just wants a docile wife, God knows why.”
    Yes, that was curious. Jordan himself had wondered why Ian seemed so bent on marrying these days. “I wouldn’t envy him his conquest of Sophie, if I were you. She’s tolerably pretty and good-natured, but her father’s a bastard. I fear Ian will rue the day he marries into that man’s family.”
    The carriage drew up in front of Merrington’s, and Jordan checked his watch. They’d made good time; the girl might still be here. If so, he’d give it an hour. That should be sufficient time to enrage Lord Nesfield and promote Ian’s suit. Then he could go to his club and be done with this nonsense.
    The two of them left the carriage and entered Merrington’s handsome town house in silence. The place was all got up in spring flowers and ribbons, enough of them to make a man ill. When they reached the ballroom, Jordan paused to survey the scene. As usual, Merrington’s ball resembled a ship’s hold full of doves and crows, cooing and cawing and taking wing whenever they liked. White-gowned women swirled down the lines of dancers accompanied by their black-tailed companions, whose cinched waists, tight knee-breeches, and brilliant-colored waistcoats enhanced their birdlike appearance.
    Hovering on the sidelines, he scanned the crowdfor Ian or even Lady Sophie. But despite the glow of a thousand candles and Argand lamps, he saw nothing but flashes of fans and trains and white slippers.
    Then he and Pollock were surrounded by Pollock’s friends, all of them bachelors attending the ball in search of mates. A few moments of pleasantries ensued, but they soon gave way to earnest comparisons of the young women’s attributes. Jordan wanted to laugh at the lot of them. What romantic drivel these young pups spouted! If they had to have