A Lady of Expectations

CHAPTER SEVEN

EVEN PICCADILLY WAS CROWDED. Jack frowned as, leaving the shady avenues of the Park behind him, he was forced to rein in his horses by the press of traffic, vehicular and pedestrian, that thronged the wide street. Manoeuvring his curricle into the flow, he sat back, resigned to the crawling pace. To his right, Green Park luxuriated in the unseasonable heat, green buds unfurling as the fashionable strolled its gentle paths. Its calm beckoned, but Jack ignored it. The clamour of the traffic more suited his mood.

Grimacing at his inching progress, he kept his hands firm on his horses’ reins. Just as he did on his own. He supposed his wooing of Sophie Winterton was progressing satisfactorily, yet this snail’s pace was hardly what he had had in mind when he had exchanged the informality of the country for the ton’s structured delights. Lady Entwhistle’s small ball had raised his hopes; at its conclusion he had felt decidedly smug. Thus, he felt sure, should a lady be wooed.

That success had been followed by his admittedly precipitous invitation to go driving, prompted by the unexpectedly tempestuous feelings which lay beneath his reasoned logic. He could justify to his own and anyone else’s satisfaction just why Sophie Winterton would make him an excellent wife but, underneath it all, that peculiarly strong emotion which he hesitated to name simply insisted she was his.

Which was all very well, but Sophie’s aunt, while not disputing his claim, had made it clear she would not assist him in sweeping Sophie off her feet.

Which, given his present state, was a serious set-back.

His horses tossed their heads impatiently, tugging at the reins. Reining them in, Jack snorted, very much in sympathy.

That drive in the Park, that gentle hour of Sophie’s company, had very nearly tripped him up. If he was to obey her aunt’s clear injunction and allow her to enjoy her Season unencumbered by a possessive fiancé-he had few illusions about that-then he would have to keep a firmer grip on himself. And on his wayward impulses.

Not that that was presently proving a problem; he had not set eyes on Sophie since that morning nearly a week ago. After her aunt’s warning, he had held off as long as he could-until Friday, when he had called only to learn she was ill. That had shaken him; for an instant, he had wondered if her indisposition was real or just one of those tricks ladies sometimes played, then had dismissed the thought as unworthy-of Sophie and himself. He knew she liked him; it was there in her eyes, a warm, slightly wary but nonetheless welcoming glow that lit up her face whenever they met. Chiding himself for his ridiculous sensitivity, he had dispatched his man, Pinkerton, to scour the town for yellow roses. As always, Pinkerton, despite his perennial gloom, had triumphed. Three massive sprays of yellow blooms had duly been delivered in Mount Street with a card, unsigned, wishing Miss Winterton a speedy recovery.

He had looked for her in the Park, morning and afternoon, on both Saturday and Sunday but had failed to come up with the Webb carriage.

So, feeling distinctly edgy, all but champing on his metaphorical bit, he had called in Mount Street this morning-only to be informed that Miss Winterton had gone walking with her cousins.

Fate, it seemed, had deserted him. Despite the bright sunshine, his view of the Season was growing gloomier by the minute.

Lord Hardcastle, driving his greys, hailed him; they spent a few minutes exchanging opinions on the unusual press of traffic before said traffic condescended to amble onward, parting them. An organ-grinder, complete with monkey, was playing to an attentive crowd, blocking the pavement, much to the disgust of merchants and those less inclined to dally. Jack smiled and returned his attention to his horses. As he did so, a flash of gold caught his eye.

Turning, he searched the throng bustling along the pavement-and saw Sophie with Clarissa beside her, the two boys and Amy reluctantly following, casting longing glances back at the organ-grinder. As he watched, the little cavalcade halted before a shop door, then, leaving the maid and groom who had brought up the rear outside, Sophie led the way in.

Jack glanced up and read the sign above the shop, and smiled. He pulled his curricle over to the kerb. “Here-Jigson! Take charge of ‘em. Wait here.” Tossing the reins in Jigson’s general direction, Jack leapt down and, threading his way through the traffic, entered the door through which Sophie had passed.

The door shut behind him, abruptly cutting off the noisy bustle outside. Calm and well-ordered, the refined ambience of Hatchard’s Book Shop and Circulating Library enfolded him. No raised voices here. A severely garbed man behind a desk close to the door eyed him, disapproval withheld but imminent. Jack smiled easily and walked past. Despite its relative peace, the shop was quite crowded. He scanned the heads but could not find the one he sought. An eddy disturbed the calm; Jack spotted Jeremy, George and Amy huddling in a nook by the window, noses pressed to the pane, gazes locked on the entertainment on the pavement opposite.

Glancing around, Jack discovered that the disapproving man had been joined by an equally severely garbed woman. They were now both regarding him askance. With another urbane smile, he moved into the first aisle and pretended to scan the spines until he was out of their sight.

At the end of the third aisle, Sophie frowned up at the novel she most expressly wished to borrow. It was wedged tightly between two others on the topmost shelf, barely within reach. She thought of summoning the clerk to retrieve it for her, and grimaced; he was, she had discovered, quite cloyingly admiring. Sophie smothered a snort. She would make one last effort to prise the book loose before she surrendered to the attentions of the clerk.

Sucking in a breath, she stretched high, her fingers grappling to find purchase above the leather-covered tome.

“Allow me, my dear.”

Sophie jumped. Snatching back her hand, she whirled, her colour draining then returning with a rush. “Oh! Ah…” her eyes widened as they met his. Abruptly, she dropped her gaze and stepped back, determinedly shackling her wayward wits. “Why thank you, Mr. Lester.” With all the calm she could command, Sophie raised her head. “This is quite the last place I had thought to meet you, sir.”

Tugging the book free of its fellows, Jack presented it to her with a bow. “Indeed. Not even I would have thought to find me here. But I saw you enter and was filled with an unquenchable desire-” Jack trapped her gaze, a rakish smile dawning “-to view such apparently attractive premises. Strange, was it not?”

“Indeed.” Sophie sent him a cool glance. “Most strange.” She accepted the volume, reminding herself of her sensible conclusion, and her determination to view him as he viewed her: as a friendly acquaintance. “I do, most sincerely, thank you for your assistance, sir. But I must not keep you from your business.”

“Rest assured you are not doing so, my dear.” As he fell in beside her, Jack slanted her a glance. “I have what I came in to find.”

The tenor of his deep voice tightened the vice about Sophie’s heart. She glanced up, meeting his blue gaze, and abruptly realized that her vision of a “proper distance” might differ considerably from his. A sudden revelation of what that might mean-the effect his warm regard and teasing ways would inevitably have on her-set her chin rising. With commendable hauteur, she bestowed a repressively chilly glance on him. “Indeed? I take it you are not particularly fond of reading?”

Jack grinned. “I confess, my dear, that I’m a man of action rather than introspection. A man of the sword rather than the word.”

Sophie ignored his subtle tone. “Perhaps that’s just as well,” she opined. “Given you have large estates to manage.”

“Very likely,” Jack conceded, his lips twitching.

“There you are, Sophie. Oh, hello, Mr. Lester.” Clarissa appeared around the corner of the aisle. She smiled blithely up at Jack and dropped a slight curtsy.

Jack shook her hand. “Have you found sufficient novels to keep you entertained, Miss Webb?” He eyed the pile of books Clarissa carried in her arms.

“Oh, yes,” Clarissa replied ingenuously. “Are you ready, Sophie?”

Sophie considered replying in the negative, but was convinced that, rather than leave, Jack Lester would insist on strolling with her up and down the aisles, distracting her from making any sensible selection. She glanced about; her gaze fell on her younger cousins, glued to the prospect outside. “I suspect we had better leave before Jeremy falls through the window.”

While Sophie and Clarissa went through the process of borrowing their chosen novels, Jack smiled smugly at the disapproving assistant.

To her relief, Sophie found the assistant disinclined to conversation, a fact for which she gave mute thanks. Clarissa summoned her brothers and sister and they all started for the door. As she stepped over the threshold and paused to get her bearings, Sophie felt her packaged novel lifted from her hands.

“Allow me, my dear.” Jack smiled as Sophie glanced up, consternation in her wide, slightly startled gaze. Puzzled, Jack inwardly frowned. “If you have no objection, I’ll escort you to Mount Street.”

Sophie hesitated, then, her lids veiling her gaze, inclined her head. “Thank you. That would be most kind.” With a determinedly light air, she surrendered her hand into his warm clasp and allowed him to settle it on his sleeve. While she waited beside him as he dismissed his groom and, with a simple admonition, succeeded in convincing Jeremy, George and Amy to leave the crowd about the organ-grinder, Sophie prayed that her momentary dismay had not shown; she did not wish to hurt him any more than she wished him to guess how much her heart had been bruised. As their little party got under way, she flashed Jack a bright smile. “Did you see Lady Hemminghurst’s new carriage?”

To her relief, his rakish smile appeared. “And those nags she insists are high-steppers?”

With Clarissa beside them, they chatted easily, more easily than she had hoped, all the way back to Mount Street. Indeed, the steps leading up to her uncle’s door appeared before them far sooner than she had expected. Jeremy and George bounded up the steps to ring the bell, Amy close behind. With a cheery smile, Clarissa bade their escort farewell and followed her siblings as they tumbled through the door.

Acutely conscious of the gentleman before her, of Ellen and the groom, still standing decorously a few steps behind, and of Minton, the butler, holding open the door, Sophie held firm to her composure and, receiving her book, presented with a flourish, calmly said, “Thank you for your escort, Mr. Lester. No doubt we’ll run into each other at the balls once they start.”

Jack’s slow smile twisted his lips. “I fear, my dear, that I’m not endowed with as much patience as you credit me.” He hesitated, his eyes narrowing as he searched her face. “Would you be agreeable if I called to take you driving again?”

Sophie held her breath and wished she could lie. When one dark brow rose, a gentle prompt, his gaze steady on hers, she heard herself say, “That would be most pleasant, sir.” His smile was triumphant. “But,” she hurried on. “My time is not always my own. My aunt has decided to start entertaining and I must assist her if required.”

Jack’s smile did not fade. “Indeed, my dear. But I’m sure she’ll not wish you to hide yourself away.” With smooth authority, he captured her hand. His eyes met hers; he raised her fingers, then turned them.

“No!” As surprised as he by her breathless denial, Sophie stared up at him, her heart thudding wildly. Abruptly, she dropped her gaze, quite unable to meet the startled question in his. Head bowed, she withdrew her hand from his and dropped a slight curtsy. “Good day, Mr. Lester.”

The words were barely audible.

Jack felt as if he’d taken a blow to the head. He forced himself to execute a neat bow. Sophie turned and quickly climbed the steps, disappearing inside without a backward glance.

Finding himself standing stock-still, alone in the middle of the pavement, Jack drew in a ragged breath. Then, his expression stony, he turned and strode briskly away.

WHAT IN THE NAME of all creation had gone wrong?

The question haunted Jack through the next three days and was still revolving incessantly in his brain as, the evening chill about him, he climbed the steps to knock on the Webbs’ oak-panelled door. Despite his initial intentions, it was the first time he had called in Mount Street since his unexpected expedition to Hatchard’s. He had returned home in a most peculiar mood, a mood that had been only slightly alleviated by the white and gold invitation he had discovered awaiting him.

“Mrs. Horatio Webb takes great pleasure in inviting Mr. Jack Lester to an impromptu dance to be held on Thursday evening.”

The words had not dissipated the cloud that had settled over him, but had, at least, given him pause. Thus, he had not pressed the, albeit minor, intimacy of a drive on Sophie but had waited instead to come up with her in her aunt’s ballroom, where, surely, she would feel more confident, less likely to take fright at his advances.

Quite clearly he had been too precipitate. He had put a foot wrong somewhere, although he wasn’t entirely sure where.

From now on, he would woo her according to the book, without any subtle deviations. He would simply have to conceal his feelings; he would not risk panicking her by heeding them.

Admitted by the butler, who recognized him well enough to greet him by name, Jack climbed the stairs, slightly mollified by the man’s cheery demeanour. Not what one was accustomed to in a butler but probably inevitable, given the junior Webbs. They would undoubtedly give any overly stuffed shirt short shrift.

Entering the salon on the first floor, Jack paused on the threshold and glanced around. A warm, welcoming atmosphere blanketed the room; it was not overly crowded, leaving adequate space for dancing, yet his hostess was clearly not going to be disappointed by the response to her summons. He discovered Sophie immediately, talking with some others. To his eyes, there was none to match her, her slim form sheathed in silk the colour of warm honey. With an effort, he forced his gaze to travel on, searching out his hostess. As he sighted her, Lucilla excused herself from a small knot of guests. She glided forward to greet him, regally gowned in satin and lace.

“Good evening, Mr. Lester.” Lucilla smiled benevolently. She watched approvingly as he bowed over her hand.

“Mrs. Webb.” Jack straightened. “May I say how honoured I was to receive your invitation?”

Lucilla airily waved her fan. “Not at all, Mr. Lester. It is I who am very glad to see you. I’ve been a trifle concerned that dear Sophie might be finding our present round of engagements somewhat stale. Dare I hope you might feel inclined to relieve her boredom?”

Jack forced his lips to behave. “Indeed, ma’am, I would be happy to do whatever I may in that endeavour.”

Lucilla smiled. “I knew I could rely on you, Mr. Lester.” With an imperious gesture, she claimed his arm. “Now you must come and speak with Mr. Webb.”

As she led him into the crowd, Jack suppressed the thought that he had been conscripted.

On the other side of the room, Sophie chatted with a small group of not-so-young ladies. Some, like Miss Chessington, her aunt had invited specifically to keep her company, while others, like Miss Billingham, had younger sisters making their come-out this year. Gradually, they had attracted a smattering of the gentlemen present. Most of these were either carefully vetted Webb connections or unexceptionable young men who were the sons of Lucilla’s closest cronies. There was no danger lurking among them.

Stifling an inward sigh, Sophie applied herself to keeping the conversation rolling; not a difficult task, supported as she was by the ebullient Miss Chessington.

“I had heard,” that ever-bright damsel declared, “that there’s to be a duel fought on Paddington Green, between Lord Malmsey and Viscount Holthorpe!”

“Over what?” Miss Billingham asked, her long nose quivering.

Belle Chessington looked round at the gentlemen who had joined them. “Well, sirs? Can no one clear up this little mystery?”

“Dare say it’s the usual thing.” Mr. Allingcott waved a dismissive hand, his expression supercilious. “Not the sort of thing you ladies want to hear about.”

“If that’s what you think,” Miss Allingcott informed her elder brother, “then you know nothing about ladies, Harold. The reason for a duel is positively thrilling information.”

Discomfited, Mr. Allingcott frowned.

“Has anyone heard any further details of the balloon ascension from Green Park?” Sophie asked. In less than a minute, her companions were well launched, effectively diverted. Satisfied, Sophie glanced up-and wished she could tie a bell about Jack Lester’s neck. A bell, a rattle, anything that would give her warning so that her heart would not lurch and turn over as it did every time her gaze fell into his.

He smiled, and for an instant she forgot where she was, that there were others standing only feet away, listening and observing intently. An odd ripple shook her, stemming from where his fingers had closed over hers. She must, she realized, have surrendered her hand, for now he was bowing over it, making every other gentleman look awkward.

“Good evening, Mr. Lester,” she heard herself say, as if from a distance. She sincerely hoped her smile was not as revealing as her thoughts.

“Miss Winterton.”

His smile and gentle nod warmed her-and made her suspect she had been far too transparent. Taking herself firmly in hand, Sophie turned and surprised an avid gleam in Miss Billingham’s eyes. “Have you made the acquaintance of Miss Billingham, sir?”

“Oh, yes!” Augusta Billingham gushed. “Indeed,” she said, her expression turning coy. “Mr. Lester and I are old acquaintances.” She held out her hand, her smile sickly sweet, her eyes half-veiled.

Jack hesitated, then took the proffered hand and curtly bowed over it. “Miss Billingham.”

“And Miss Chessington.”

Belle’s bright smile had nothing in common with Augusta Billingham’s. “Sir,” she acknowledged, bobbing a curtsy.

Jack smiled more naturally and allowed Sophie to introduce him to the rest of the company. By the time she had finished, he was feeling a trifle conspicuous. Nevertheless, he stuck it out, loath to leave Sophie’s side.

When the musicians struck up, he bent to whisper, “I do hope, Miss Winterton, that you’ll return. I would be quite overcome-utterly at a loss in such company as this-if it weren’t for the reassurance of your presence.”

Sophie lifted her head and looked him in the eye. “Gammon,” she whispered back. But her lips quirked upward; Jack let her go with a smile.

While she danced the cotillion and then a country reel, he endeavoured to chat to some of the younger gentlemen. They were slightly overawed. His reputation as a devotee of Jackson’s and one of Manton’s star pupils, let alone his memberships in the Four-in-Hand and Jockey Clubs were well-known; their conversation was consequently stilted. It made Jack feel every one of his thirty-six years-and made him even more determined to bring his dazzling career as a bachelor of the ton to a close as soon as might be.

The prospect was still too far distant for his liking. A quadrille had followed hard on the heels of the reel; Sophie had been claimed for it before she had left the floor. With a brief word, Jack excused himself and wandered over to the musicians. The violinist was the leader; a few quick words were all that was needed, and a guinea sealed their bargain.

When the music stopped, Jack was passing the point where Sophie came to rest. She turned towards the end of the room, where her small group was once again gathering, her youthful partner at her side; she was laughing, her expression open and carefree. Her eyes met his-and a subtle change came over her.

Sophie forced a laugh to her lips, denying the sudden tightening about her lungs, the sudden constriction in her throat. She shot Jack a quizzical glance. “Have you survived thus far, sir?”

With a single, fractionally raised brow, Jack dispensed with her companion. Flustered, the young man bowed and murmured something before taking himself off.

Turning from thanking him, Sophie frowned a warning at her nemesis. “That was most unfair, taking advantage of your seniority.”

Jack hid a wince. “I fear, my dear, that my… ah, experience marks me irrevocably.” Making a mental note to be more careful in future, he took her hand and settled it in the crook of his elbow. “I feel very much like the proverbial wolf amongst the sheep.”

His glance left Sophie breathless. Coolly, she raised a brow at him, then fixed her gaze on her friends. He led her in their direction but made no haste. Nor did he make any attempt at conversation, which left her free, not to regain her composure, as she had hoped, but, instead, to acknowledge the truth of his observation.

He did stand out from the crowd. Not only because of his manner, so coolly arrogant and commanding, but by virtue of his appearance-he was precise as always in a dark blue coat over black pantaloons, with a crisp white cravat tied in an intricate knot the envy of the younger men-his undeniable elegance and his expertise. No one, seeing him, could doubt he was other than he was: a fully fledged and potentially dangerous rake.

Sophie frowned, wondering why her senses refused to register what was surely a reasonable fear.

“Why the frown?”

Sophie looked up to find Jack regarding her thoughtfully.

“Would you rather I left you to your younger friends?”

There was just enough hesitation behind the last words to make Sophie’s heart contract. “No,” she assured him, and knew it was the truth.

A flame flared in his eyes, so deeply blue.

Shaken, Sophie drew her eyes from the warmth and looked ahead to where her friends waited. In her eyes, the younger gentlemen were no more than weak cyphers, cast into deep shade by his far more forceful presence.

After a moment, Jack bent his head to murmur, “I understand there’s a waltz coming up. Will you do me the honour of waltzing with me, my dear?”

Sophie fleetingly met his gaze, then inclined her head. Together, they rejoined her little circle, Jack withdrawing slightly to stand by her side, a little behind. He hoped, thus, to feature less in the conversation himself, commendably doing his best not to intimidate the younger sparks who, he kept telling himself, were no real threat to him.

Twenty minutes of self-denial later, he heard the musicians again put bow to string. Sophie, who knew very well that he had not moved from his position behind her, turned to him, shyly offering her hand.

With a smile of relief and anticipation both, Jack bowed and led her to the floor.

His relief was short-lived. A single turn about the small floor was enough to tell him something was seriously amiss. True, there was a smile on his partner’s face; now and again, as they turned, she allowed her gaze to touch his. But she remained stiff in his arms, not softly supple, relaxed, as previously. She was tense, and her smile was strangely brittle.

His concern grew with every step. Even the cool glance her aunt directed at him as they glided gracefully past, held no power to distract him.

Eventually, he said, his voice gentle, “I had forgot to ask, Miss Winterton-I sincerely hope you’ve fully recovered from your indisposition?”

Momentarily distracted from the fight to guard her senses against his nearness, Sophie blinked, then blushed. Guilt washed through her; his tone, his expression, were touchingly sincere. “Indeed,” she hastened to reassure him. “I.” She searched for words which were not an outright lie. “It was nothing serious, just a slight headache.” She found it hard to meet his eyes.

Jack frowned, then banished the notion that once more popped into his brain. Of course she had been truly ill; his Sophie was not a schemer.

“And indeed, sir, I fear I’ve been remiss in not thanking you before this for your kind gift.” Sophie’s words died as she stared up at his face, strangely impassive. “You did send them, did you not? The yellow roses?”

To her relief, he nodded, his smile real but somehow distant. “I only hope they lightened your day.” His gaze focused on her face. “As you do mine.”

His last words were whispered, yet they clanged like bells in Sophie’s head. She suddenly felt absolutely dreadful. How could she go on pretending like this, trying to hide her heart? It would never work. She was not strong enough; she would trip and he would find out.

Her distress showed very clearly in her eyes. Jack caught his breath. He frowned. “Sophie?”

The music came to an end. He released her only to trap her hand firmly on his sleeve. “Come. We’ll stroll a little.”

Sophie’s eyes flared wide. “Oh, no, really. I’d better get back.”

“Your friends will survive without you for a few minutes.” Jack’s accents were clipped, commanding. “There’s a window open at the end of the room. I think you could do with some air.”

Sophie knew fresh air would help, yet the fact that he was sensitive enough to suggest it didn’t help at all. She murmured her acquiescence, not that he had waited for it, and told herself she should be grateful. Yet being so close to him, and cut off from ready distraction, her senses were being slowly rasped raw. His effect on them, on her, seemed to get worse with every meeting.

“Here. Sit down.” Jack guided her to a chair set back by the wall, not far from where a set of fine draperies billowed gently in the breeze.

Sophie sank onto the upholstered seat, feeling the cool wood of the chair back against her shoulders. The sensation helped her think. “Perhaps, Mr. Lester, if I could impose on you to get me a drink.”

“Of course,” Jack said. He turned and snapped his fingers at a waiter. With a few terse words, he dispatched the man in search of a glass of water. Sophie hid her dismay.

“And now, Sophie,” Jack said, turning to look down at her. “You’re going to tell me what’s wrong.”

It was a command, no less. Sophie dragged in a deep breath and forced herself to meet his gaze calmly. “Wrong?” She opened her eyes wide. “Why, Mr. Lester, nothing’s wrong.” She spread her hands in a gesture of bewilderment. “I’m merely feeling a trifle… warm.” That, she suddenly realized, was the literal truth. He stood over her, his dark brows drawn down, and she was violently reminded of their interlude in the glade in Leicestershire. That same something she had glimpsed then, behind the intense blue of his eyes, was there again tonight. A prowling, powerful, predatory something. She blinked and realized she was breathing rapidly. She saw his lips compress.

“Sophie…”

His eyes locked with hers; he started to lean closer.

“Your glass of water, miss.”

Sophie wrenched her gaze away and turned to the waiter. She dragged in a quick breath. “Thank you, John.” She took the glass from the man’s salver and dismissed him with a weak smile.

It took considerable concentration to keep the glass steady. With her gaze fixed, unfocused, on the couples now dancing a boulanger, Sophie carefully sipped the cool water. An awful silence enfolded them.

After a few minutes, Sophie felt strong enough to glance up. He was watching her, his expression utterly impassive; he no longer seemed so threatening. She inclined her head. “Thank you, sir. I feel much better now.”

Jack nodded. Before he could find words for any of his questions, his attention was diverted by a group of younger folk who descended amid gusts of laughter to cluster not ten paces away.

Sophie looked, too, and saw her cousin surrounded by a group of young gentlemen, each vying for Clarissa’s attention. Noting the frenetic brittleness that had infused Clarissa’s otherwise bright expression, Sophie frowned. She looked up, and met an arrogantly raised brow.

She hesitated, then leaned closer to say, “She doesn’t really like having a fuss and flap made over her.”

Jack looked again at the fair young beauty. His lips twisted wryly as he watched her youthful swains all but cutting each other dead in an effort to gain her favour. “If that’s the case,” he murmured, “I fear she’ll have to leave town.” He turned back to Sophie. “She’s going to be a hit, you know.”

Sophie sighed. “I know.” She continued to watch Clarissa, then frowned as a particularly petulant expression settled firmly over her cousin’s features. “What.?” Sophie followed Clarissa’s gaze. “Oh, dear.”

Following Sophie’s gaze, Jack beheld a well-set-up young man, unquestionably recently up from the country if his coat was any guide, bearing determinedly down on the group about Sophie’s cousin. The young man ignored the attendant swains as if they didn’t exist, an action that won Jack’s instant respect. Directly and without preamble, the youngster addressed Clarissa; to Jack’s disappointment, they were too far away to hear his words. Unfortunately, the young man’s grand entrance found no favour in Clarissa’s eyes. As Jack watched, Clarissa tossed her silvery curls, an indignant flush replacing the sparkle of moments before.

“Oh, dear. I do hope he didn’t call her ‘Clary’ again.”

Jack glanced down. Sophie was watching the unfolding drama, small white teeth absent-mindedly chewing her lower lip. “Whatever,” he said. “It appears that his embassy has failed.”

Sophie sent him a worried frown. “They’ve known each other since childhood.”

“Ah.” Jack glanced back at the tableau being enacted but yards away. A wisp of remembered conversation floated through his mind. “Is that young sprig by any chance Ned Ascombe?”

“Why, yes.” Sophie stared up at him. “The son of one of my uncle’s neighbours in Leicestershire.”

Jack answered the question in her eyes. “Your aunt mentioned him.” Glancing again at the young couple, Jack felt an empathetic twinge for the earnest but callow youth who was, quite obviously, under the impression he held pride of place in the beautiful Clarissa Webb’s heart. As he watched, Ned gave up what was undeniably a losing fight and, with a galled but defiant expression, retired from the lists. Looking down at Sophie, Jack asked, “I take it he was not expected in London?”

Sophie considered, then said, “Clarissa didn’t expect him.”

Jack’s brows lifted cynically. “Your aunt gave me to understand that their future was all but settled.”

Sophie sighed. “It probably is. Clarissa does not really care for racketing about and she has never been one to enjoy being the centre of attention for very long. My aunt and uncle believe that, by the end of the Season, she’ll be only too happy to return to Leicestershire.”

“And Ned Ascombe?”

“And Ned,” Sophie confirmed.

Considering the colour that still rode Clarissa Webb’s cheeks, Jack allowed one brow to rise.

Sophie finished the last of her water. It was time and more to return to the safety of her circle. “If you’ll excuse me, Mr. Lester, I should return to my friends.”

Jack could have wished it otherwise but he was, once more, under control. Without a blink, he nodded, removing the glass from her fingers and placing it on a nearby table. Then he held out a hand.

Steeling herself against the contact, Sophie put her hand in his. He drew her to her feet, then tucked her hand into his elbow, covering her fingers with his. Hers trembled; with an effort, she stilled them. She glanced up and saw him frown.

Jack studied her face, still pale. “Sophie, my dear-please believe I would never knowingly do anything to cause you pain.”

Sophie’s heart turned over. Tears pricked, but she would not let them show. She tried to speak, but her throat had seized up. With a smile she knew went awry, she inclined her head and looked away.

He escorted her to her friends, then, very correctly, took his leave of her.

Jack did not immediately quit the house. Something was wrong, and Sophie wouldn’t confide in him. The unpalatable fact ate at him, gnawing at his pride, preying on his protective nature, prompting all manner of acts he was far too experienced to countenance. His restless prowling, disguised beneath an air of fashionable boredom, took him by the alcove where Ned Ascombe stood, keeping a glowering watch over his prospective bride.

His gaze on the dancers, Jack propped one broad shoulder against the other side of the alcove. “It won’t work, you know.”

The laconic comment succeeded in diverting Ned’s attention. He turned his head, his scowl still in evidence, then abruptly straightened, his face leaching of expression. “Oh, excuse me, sir.”

Jack sent the youngster a reassuring grin. “Boot’s on the other foot. It was I who interrupted you.” Briefly scanning Ned’s face, Jack held out his hand. “Jack Lester. An acquaintance of the Webbs. I believe I saw you at Lady Asfordby’s, as well.”

As he had expected, the mention of two well-known and well-respected Leicestershire names was enough to ease Ned’s reticence.

Ned grasped his hand firmly, then blushed. “I suppose you saw…” He abruptly shut his mouth and gestured vaguely, his gaze once more on the dancers. “You were with Sophie.”

Jack smiled, more to himself than Ned. “As you say, I saw. And I can tell you without fear of contradiction that your present strategy is doomed to failure.” He felt rather than saw Ned’s curious glance. Straightening, Jack extricated a notecase from an inner pocket and withdrew a card. This he presented to Ned. “If you want to learn how to pull the thing off, how to win the blond head you’ve set your eye on, then drop by tomorrow. About eleven.” Very used to younger brothers, Jack ensured his worldly expression contained not the slightest hint of patronage.

Taking the card, Ned read the inscription, then raised puzzled eyes to Jack’s face. “But why? You’ve never even met me before.”

Jack’s smile turned wry. “Put it down to fellow-feeling. Believe me, you’re not the only one who’s feeling rejected tonight.”

With a nod, very man-to-man, Jack passed on.

Left by the alcove, Ned stared after him, his gaze abstracted, Jack’s card held tight in his fingers.

“WELL, M’DEAR? Did Jack Lester disappoint you?” Propped against the pillows in the bed he most unfashionably shared with his wife, Horatio Webb slanted a questioning glance at his helpmate, sitting sipping her morning cocoa beside him.

A slight frown descended upon Lucilla’s fair brow. “I don’t expect to be disappointed in Mr. Lester, dear. I really should have organized that waltz myself. However, matters do seem to be progressing along their customary course.” She considered, then banished her frown to cast a smiling glance at her spouse. “I dare say I’ve just forgotten how agonizingly painful it is to watch these things unfold.”

Lowering the business papers he had been perusing, Horatio peered at her over the top of his gold-rimmed spectacles. “You haven’t been meddling, have you?”

The slightest suspicion of a blush tinged Lucilla’s cheeks. “Not to say meddling.” She dismissed the notion with an airy wave. “But I really couldn’t allow Mr. Lester to sweep Sophie into matrimony before the child had even had a taste of success. Not after her last Season was so tragically curtailed.”

“Humph!” Horatio shuffled his papers. “You know how I feel about tampering with other people’s lives, dear. Even with the best of intentions. Who knows? Sophie might actually prefer to have her Season curtailed-if it were Jack Lester doing the curtailing.”

Head on one side, Lucilla considered the idea, then grimaced. After a moment, she sighed. “Perhaps you’re right. When did you say the horses will be here?”

“They’re here now. Arrived yesterday.” Horatio had gone back to his papers. “I’ll take the troops to view them this morning if you like.”

Lucilla brightened. “Yes, that would be a good idea. But we’ll have to give some consideration to escorts.” She touched her spouse’s hand. “Leave that to me. I’m sure I can find someone suitable.”

Horatio grunted. “Wonder if Lester brought that hunter of his up to town?”

Lucilla grinned but said nothing. Finishing her cocoa, she laid her cup and saucer on the bedside table and snuggled down beneath the covers. Smiling, she reached out to pat her husband’s hand. “I’m really quite in awe of your farsightedness, dear. So clever of you to help the Lesters to their fortune. Now there’s no impediment at all to concern you, and you may give Jack Lester your blessing with a clear conscience.” An expression of catlike satisfaction on her face, Lucilla settled to doze.

Horatio stared down at her, a faintly astonished expression on his face. He opened his mouth, then abruptly shut it. After a long moment of staring at his wife’s exquisite features, Horatio calmly picked up his papers and, settling his spectacles firmly on the bridge of his nose, left his wife to her dreams.