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CHAPTER FOUR

NOT CONTENT WITH her efforts thus far, Fate seemed intent on assisting him at every turn.

As he sat his black hunter in the shadows of a wind-break and watched the small cavalcade come thundering up Ashes’ Hill, Jack couldn’t keep the smile from his face.

Jigson, ever mindful of his place in the scheme of things, had been assiduous in his visits to the tap. Thus Jack had learned that the junior Webbs, accompanied by Miss Winterton and Miss Webb, were to be found on horseback most afternoons. Weather permitting, they would hack about the lanes and fields, but, according to one of the Webb grooms, the track over Ashes’ Hill was currently their favoured route.

As he watched them canter up onto the green swath before him, Jack’s smile broadened. His golden head was a delight in moss-green velvet, the long skirts of her habit brushing tan boots. On her guinea-gold curls perched a typically feminine contraption; he knew she’d call it a hat, but to his mind the wisp of fabric anchoring a pheasant’s feather hardly qualified for the title. Turning, he lifted a brow at Percy mounted on a bay gelding beside him. “Shall we?”

Percy started; his abstracted gaze, very likely visualizing the rival merits of herringbone and country plaid, rapidly refocused. “What? Oh, yes. ’Bout time.”

Jack smiled and led the way forward, out of the shadows of the firs.

Pulling up on the crest of the hill, then wheeling her horse to view her cousins, straggling up in her wake, Sophie did not immediately see him. Clarissa, who had reached the spot some moments ahead of her, had likewise turned to view the vista spread below them. Stone walls and still-dormant hedges divided the brown fields, their colour just tinged with the first hint of green. Jeremy and George, fourteen and twelve respectively, were but yards from the top; Amy, bouncing along on her placid cob, brought up the rear. The twins, yet to graduate from plodding ponies, were not included in these afternoon expeditions.

Reassured that all was well, Sophie relaxed her reins. Eyes bright, cheeks aglow, she drew in a deep breath, savouring the crisp freshness.

“Well met, Miss Winterton!”

The hail brought her head round; the deep voice sent the colour to her cheeks even before her eyes found him. He was mounted on a raking black hunter, sleek and powerful. As the animal walked towards her, neck proudly arched, black withers rippling, Sophie was struck by its harnessed power. Then her eyes lifted to its owner.

Broad shoulders encased in a hacking jacket of soft tweed, his powerful thighs, clad in buckskin breeches, effortlessly controlling the horse, he appeared the very epitome of a wealthy country gentleman. His face, features stamped with that coolly arrogant cast which identified his antecedents more definitively than his name. His eyes were very blue, dark, his gaze intent.

There was power there, too. As he brought his horse alongside hers, Sophie felt it reach for her.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Lester.” She forced herself to extend a gloved hand, disconcerted by the warmth that caressed her cheeks and the breathlessness that had assailed her.

He took her hand and bowed over it, a difficult feat he performed with rare grace. His eyes quizzed her. “We saw you riding up and wondered if we might join you?”

“What a splendid idea!” From beside Sophie, Clarissa beamed ingenuously.

Feeling slightly helpless, Sophie could not resist the subtle laughter lurking in the blue eyes holding hers. Very much on her dignity, she retrieved her hand and indicated the track leading on over the hill. “If it pleases you, sir.”

The smile she received in reply warmed her through and through.

Jack gestured to Percy, hanging back on his other side. “If you’ll permit me to introduce Lord Percy Almsworthy?”

“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Winterton.”

Prepared to be wary, Sophie saw at a glance that Lord Percy was sprung from a mould quite different from his companion. Reassured, she smiled and held out a hand.

As he leant from the saddle to shake it, she thought she detected a look of keen appraisal in Lord Percy’s mild gaze. “M’father’s Carlisle,” he said, giving her a peg on which to hang his hat.

Sophie dutifully introduced her cousins, in strict order of precedence. Jeremy and George barely waited for Amy’s shy “Hello,” before pouncing.

“What a bang-up set of blood and bones, sir!”

“Splendid hocks!”

“What stable does he hail from?”

“Is he a Thoroughbred?”

Jack laughed. “My brother bred him out of Jack Whistle.”

“The winner of the Derby?” Jeremy’s expression mirrored his awestruck tone.

Jack’s eyes touched Sophie’s. “The very same.”

“Is your brother staying with you?” Gerald asked breathlessly.

Jack couldn’t help his smile. “He was, but he’s gone on to Belvoir.”

“Oh.” Both boys appeared crestfallen that they had missed the opportunity to badger a breeder who could turn out such a horse as the black.

“Never mind,” Jack said. His eyes again met Sophie’s. “I’ll mention to him that you’re interested in speaking with him, it’s perfectly possible you may meet in him in Hyde Park.”

“On Rotten Row?” George’s eyes were round.

When Jack nodded, Jeremy put their seal of approval firmly on the plan. He breathed out in a great sigh, his face alight. “Capital!”

Then, with the rapid change of direction that characterised the young, Jeremy turned to George. “Race you to the oak.” They were off on the words, thundering down the slope towards the distant tree.

As by unvoiced consent they set their horses ambling after the two boys, Sophie glanced up at Jack. “You’ll have to excuse them—they’re rather single-minded when it comes to horses.”

Jack slanted her a smile. “Harry and I were the same.”

Sophie let her glance slide away. She could hear Clarissa and Lord Percy conversing; they were only a step or so behind. It was true they had no real chaperon, yet she could not imagine there was any impropriety in the situation; the presence of the children lent a certain innocence to the gathering.

Jack had only just registered the absence of a groom. He suppressed an instinctive frown. “Tell me, Miss Winterton, do you commonly ride unescorted?”

Glancing up, Sophie caught the frown in his eyes. Her brows rose. “All my cousins are expert riders; there’s little chance of calamity in a gentle ride about the lanes.”

“The lanes?”

Sophie had the grace to blush. “You can hardly expect such high spirits—” she indicated Jeremy and George “—to be content with such mild entertainment.” Somewhat defensively, she added, “Clarissa and I are experienced riders, and Amy’s cob is so ancient it rarely gets above a canter.”

That last was self-evident as Amy, not content with their ambling progress, was jigging along ahead of them as fast as the cob would go. Barely a canter, much to Amy’s disgust.

“Besides, sir,” Sophie added, slanting a glance up at him, “I cannot believe that you and your brother—Harry, was it not?—would have been content with the lanes.”

To her surprise, Jack’s lips firmed into a distinctly grim line. “Indeed, no, Miss Winterton. Which is why I feel peculiarly well-qualified to express an opinion on what disasters are possible—nay, probable—given two high-couraged youngsters on fine horses.” He turned from his contemplation of the boys, now circling the oak ahead, to look down at her. “And,” he added, “which is why I think you should most certainly have a groom with you.”

A trifle nettled, Sophie reached down to pat the proud neck of her own mount, a raw-boned grey stallion. “You need have no fear of them getting away from me. Few horses can outrun the Sheik.”

Her action drew Jack’s gaze to her horse; until then, despite his frequent preoccupation with the species, he had not really noticed it. As his gaze took in the large head, the long legs and heavy shoulders and rump, he felt the hairs on his nape rise. Despite the fact he had heard the warning note in her voice, despite knowing she would not welcome his question, he cleared his throat and asked it. “Do you normally ride that beast, Miss Winterton?”

His curiously flat tone had Sophie glancing up, searching his face. “No,” she admitted, after a moment’s hesitation. “My uncle’s stables are extensive. We all take turns helping to exercise the hunters.”

Jack’s jaw firmed. “And does your uncle know you’re riding such a dangerous creature?”

Sophie stiffened. “Mr. Lester,” she said, her accents precise, “I have grown up around horses—have been riding since my earliest days. I assure you I am perfectly capable of managing the Sheik, or any other of my uncle’s horses.”

“That horse is too strong for you.” His brows lowered, Jack stated unequivocally, “You should not be riding such an animal.”

In the sky above them, the larks swooped and carolled. Their horses, displaying a fine equine imperturbability, trotted on down the hill. Sophie, flags of colour in her cheeks, abruptly retrieved her dropped jaw. Wrenching her gaze from the deeply turbulent blue into which it had fallen, she looked ahead.

The froth of white lace covering her breast rose as she drew in a deep breath. “Mr. Lester,” she began, her tone icy, her accents clipped, “I believe we would do well to leave this topic of conversation. I am perfectly capable of managing the Sheik. Now, if you don’t mind, I think we should join my cousins.”

Resisting the impulse to toss her head, she flicked her reins and the Sheik surged forward. She thought she heard an angry snort, then the black moved up beside her, long fluid strides eating up the turf. Irritation, consternation and something even more unnerving rasped her temper; Sophie kept her gaze fixed forward, ignoring the glowering presence beside her.

Through narrowed eyes, Jack viewed her chilly dignity with very real disapproval.

The two boys and Amy were waiting by the oak. Sophie drew rein and looked back. Clarissa and Lord Percy had followed them down. As his lordship drew up, she heard him remark, “The best bonnets are to be found at Drusilla’s, in my opinion. Just off Bruton Street. All the crack at the moment.” Her cousin and Lord Percy were clearly deep in fashion. His lordship appeared perfectly content; Clarissa was hanging on his every word. With a smothered snort, Sophie turned to her younger relatives.

“We’ll walk along the hedge until we come to the ride. Then back beside the woods.”

There was a definite edge to her tone. Jeremy, George and Amy cast her swift glances; without a word, they fell in behind her. Jack remained by her side; Sophie did not waste any effort in trying to dislodge him. Clarissa and Lord Percy brought up the rear, barely glancing up from their sartorial discussion.

Sophie slanted a wary and warning glance at Jack. He met it with a coolly inscrutable expression. With determined calm, Sophie lifted her chin and set off along the hedge.

The silence that engulfed them stretched ominously. She could feel the occasional touch of his glance; she knew there was a frown in his eyes. Sophie wondered why her throat felt so tight, why simply breathing seemed so difficult. Suppressing a grimace, she racked her brains for some suitably innocuous topic of conversation.

Behind her, George was idly threshing the hedge with his whip.

Later, Sophie learned that, entirely inadvertently, George had flushed a hare from the hedge. The animal darted out, straight under the Sheik’s hooves.

The stallion reared, screaming.

Sophie fought for control. It was all she could do to keep her precarious seat.

Then the Sheik was off.

Like a steam engine, the huge stallion pounded down the line of the hedge. Sophie clung to his back. Mounted side-saddle, she could not exert sufficient strength to rein in the panicked beast. The wind of their passing whistled in her ears and whipped her breath away. Desperate, she peered ahead through the wisps of hair flattened against her face, through the rough mane that whipped her cheeks. The hedge at the end of the field loomed ahead. Whispering a fervent prayer, Sophie dropped one rein and threw all her weight onto the other. Almost sobbing, she hauled back. The manoeuvre worked. The Sheik’s head slewed, responding to the drag on the bit. But the stallion did not slow. Sophie felt herself tipping sideways. A scream stuck in her throat as she flung herself forward to cling once more to the Sheik’s glossy neck. The ride they had been making for opened out before them; a single tug of the Sheik’s powerful head pulled the rein from her grasp. Snorting, the stallion flew down the green turf.

Rattled, jolted, Sophie struggled to regain the reins. The ride eventually entered the woods, narrowing to a bridle track. She had to control the Sheik before that.

But the horse had the bit firmly between his teeth; even when she had the reins back in her hands, he refused to respond to her puny strength.

A flash of black to her left was her first intimation that help was at hand. Then Jack was beside her, the heavier black crowding the grey. He leaned across, one hand closing hard over her fingers as he added his weight to hers. Sophie felt him exert an increasing pressure, not jerking, as less experienced riders might. The Sheik felt the inexorable command.

Gradually, the grey slowed, finally stopping by the side of the ride.

Dragging in a ragged breath, Sophie sat up. Immediately the world tilted and spun. A ripe curse fell on her ears; it seemed to come from a long way away. Then strong hands fastened about her waist and weightlessness was added to the disconcerting sensations buffeting her.

Her feet touched firm earth. Shudder upon shudder racked her; she was trembling like a leaf.

The next instant she was enveloped in a warm embrace, locked against a hard frame. A large hand cradled her head, pressing her cheek against a firm male chest. The earthy scent of tweed and leather surrounded her, inexplicably comforting. With a gasp, stifled against his coat, Sophie clung to him, a solid anchor in her suddenly perilous world.

“My God! Are you all right?”

He sounded as shaken as she felt. Her throat was still closed; dumb, Sophie nodded. Dimly recalling the proprieties, she reluctantly drew away.

Hard fingers gripped her upper arms; abruptly Jack put her from him. Gasping, Sophie looked up, only to be subjected to a mercilous shake.

“I thought you said you could handle that beast!”

Numb, Sophie stared at him, at the fury that flamed in his eyes. A chill trickled through her veins, then spread; she felt the blood drain from her face. Cold blackness drew in; she blinked groggily.

Jack paled as she drooped in his hands. With a muttered curse, he gathered her to him.

Sophie didn’t resist. Supporting her against him, Jack guided her to a fallen log. “Sit down!”

The harshness in his tone brought Sophie’s head up. Simultaneously, her legs gave way and she complied with more haste than grace.

Jack stood over her, his face an icy mask. “You’re white as a sheet. Put your head down.”

Dizzy, disorientated, Sophie simply stared at him.

Jack cursed again.

The next thing Sophie knew her head was descending towards her knees, yielding to the insistent pressure of a large hand. He didn’t let up until her forehead rested on her knees. As another wave of black nothingness swept over her, Sophie jettisoned any thought of resistance. She set her mind on breathing deeply, calming the turmoil inside. The world and her senses slowly returned to her. Only then did she become aware of the long fingers that had insinuated themselves beneath the collar of her habit and blouse, pushing aside her curls to gently caress her nape. Cool, firm, they traced sorcerous patterns on her sensitive skin. Faintness threatened again; his touch drew her back, anchoring her to reality, soothing her frayed nerves, promising security and safety.

They remained thus for what seemed like an age. Eventually, Sophie drew in a deep breath and sat up. The hand at her nape fell away. She glanced up through her lashes. His expression was closed, shuttered. Dragging in another breath, she gathered her skirts.

His hand appeared before her. After a moment’s hesitation, she placed her hand in his and allowed him to assist her to her feet.

“I have to thank you, Mr. Lester, for your assistance.” She managed the words creditably but could not look at him. Instead, eyes downcast, she fussed with her skirts, smoothing down the moss velvet.

“I would infinitely prefer, Miss Winterton, if, instead of your thanks, you would give me your promise not to ride that animal, or any like him, again.”

The coolly arrogant tones left no doubt of the nature of that request. Slowly straightening, Sophie met his gaze. Inscrutable, distant, it told her little, as if he had brought a curtain down across his feelings, shutting her out. Lifting her head, she stated, “What befell, Mr. Lester, was purely an accident.”

Jack bit back a caustic response. “The fact you were riding that horse, Miss Winterton, was no accident.” His accents clipped, he viewed her through narrowed eyes. “He’s too strong for you—and you knew it.”

Sophie folded her lips, and gave him back stare for stare, her expression as remote as his.

Jack felt his temper slowly slip its leash. His expression hardened from mere flint to granite. “Before we leave here, Miss Winterton,” he said, his voice low and commendably even, “I want your promise that you will not, in future, engage in such wanton recklessness.” He saw her blink; he kept his gaze on hers. “Furthermore, I give you fair warning that should I ever find you on such a horse’s back again, you have my promise you’ll not sit a saddle for a sennight.” He watched as her eyes widened, stunned disbelief in their depths. He raised one brow. “Is that perfectly clear, my dear?”

Sophie suppressed a shiver. Unable to hold his relentless gaze, her own dropped to his lips, compressed to a mere line in his ruggedly handsome face.

There was no more than a foot between them. Luckily, the shock of her recent terror was fading; Sophie felt her strength, her normal independence, returning, flooding back, stiffening her resolve. She raised her eyes once more to his. “You have no right to make such a demand of me, Mr. Lester—nor yet threaten me.”

Her words were cool, her composure fragile but intact.

Gazing down at her, Jack made no answer, too engrossed in a ferocious inner struggle to subdue the tumultuous emotions raging through him. Every ounce of determination he possessed was required to keep his body still, his muscles locked against the impulse to sweep her into his arms, to demonstrate the validity of his claim on her.

Sophie sensed his turmoil. The odd flicker of the muscle along his jaw, his tightly clenched fists, the tension that gripped his whole frame bespoke her danger. The dark blue of his eyes had deepened, his gaze compelling, flames flickering elusively in the darkened depths. The hard line of his lips had not eased. His physical presence was overwhelming; even more than that, she sensed his strength, a tangible entity, emanating from his large, hard, masculine frame, an aura that reached out, surrounding her, threatening to engulf her, to trap her, to conquer her wilfulness and make her his.

“Sophie?” Clarissa’s voice cut across her thoughts. “Sophie? Are you all right?”

A shiver slithered down Sophie’s spine. She blinked and realized her heart was racing, her breasts rising and falling rapidly. For one last instant, she met that intense blue gaze. Then, with an effort, she looked away to where Clarissa, with the others in tow, was approaching. Struggling to reassemble her disordered wits, Sophie moved, walking the few feet to the side of her horse. “I’m all right. No harm done.”

Jack moved with her, not touching her but ready to support her if needed. Sophie was aware of his protective presence. Recalling how much she owed him, for she was too honest not to acknowledge that it had, indeed, been a very near-run thing, she glanced up through her lashes.

Jack caught her gaze. “Are you able to ride home?”

Sophie nodded. His expression was hard, shuttered, concern the only emotion visible. She drew a shaky breath and raised her head. “I do thank you for your assistance, sir.”

Her voice was low, soft, a quaver of awareness running beneath her words.

Jack acknowledged her thanks with a curt nod. Holding fast to the frayed reins of his control, he reached for her, lifting her effortlessly to the grey’s back.

Unnerved by the streak of sensation that speared through her at his touch, Sophie made a production of arranging her skirts, using the time to draw every last shred of her experience about her.

As the party reformed, she was grateful to find Clarissa, openly concerned, between herself and Mr. Lester. Lord Percy, on her left, proved an unthreatening companion, chatting on a wide variety of subjects as they wended their way homeward through the golden afternoon.

No further words passed between herself and her rescuer, yet all the way back to the gates of Webb Park, Sophie was conscious of the touch of his brooding gaze.

* * *

ONCE SHE WAS SAFELY returned to the bosom of her family, circumstance conspired to afford Sophie no peace in which to ponder. As there were no guests that evening, dinner was served at the earlier hour of five o’clock, en famille. All the Webbs barring the twins sat down about the long table in the dining room.

Naturally, her aunt and uncle were immediately regaled with the details of her thrilling rescue. It was all Sophie could do to erase the embellishments with which the younger Webbs enthusiastically embroidered the tale. From their glowing faces and excited voices it was clear that Jack Lester, modern-day hero, could have no fault in their youthful eyes.

“Dear Sophie,” Lucilla said, her customary calm intact. “You took no hurt of any kind, I hope?”

“None, aunt.” Sophie laid down her soup-spoon. “It was an unfortunate accident but I was not in any way harmed.”

“Thanks to Mr. Lester!” piped up Amy.

“You should have seen that black go, sir!” Jeremy addressed himself to his father. “A prime ’un—a real stayer.”

“Indeed?’ From the head of the table, Horatio Webb beamed his deceptively gentle smile upon them all. A shortish, distinctly rotund gentleman, with a face that somehow combined elements of both youth and wisdom, many, at first glance, relegated him to the rank of a genial country squire with few thoughts beyond his fields. Only those who looked closer, into his fine grey eyes, twinkling now as Sophie’s delicately flushed cheeks assured him she had taken no hurt but was being made more than a little uncomfortable by the continuing fuss, saw a glimmer of the quick-silver intelligence that lurked behind his outward appearance. The very intelligence that had made Horatio Webb a byword in certain rarefied financial circles and was, at some deeper level, part of the reason the beautiful and talented Lucilla Carstairs, capable of landing a dukedom with her smiles, had, instead, very happily married him. Peering at Jeremy over the top of his ever-present spectacles, Horatio replied, “I must say I would not mind getting a look at any horse that could run the Sheik down.”

“Mr. Lester is staying in the neighbourhood, I believe,” Clarissa volunteered.

Horatio nodded. “Rawling’s Cottage, I expect.” With bland calm, he picked up the carving implements and fell to carving the roast which had, that moment, been ceremonially placed before him.

To Sophie’s relief, the healthy appetites of the younger Webbs thrust her adventure temporarily from their minds.

Dinner was followed by a noisy game of Speculation, after which, feeling positively exhausted, mentally and physically, Sophie took herself off to bed. She had expected to find time, in the quiet of her chamber, to review the afternoon’s happenings—not the stirring events her cousins had described, but the far more unnerving moments she had spent alone with Jack Lester, a rescued damsel with her knight. Indeed, with her inner peace in disarray, she climbed the stairs determined to place the episode in proper perspective.

Instead, she fell deeply asleep, her dreams haunted by a pair of midnight-blue eyes.

* * *

THE FOLLOWING MORNING was filled to overflowing with the first of the tasks needed to be completed to allow them to remove to the capital at the end of the week as planned. Lucilla had the entire event organized, down to the last bottle of elderflower lotion needed to preserve their complexions against any breeze that might be encountered while being driven in gentlemen’s curricles in the Park.

Excused from the first round of packing for a light luncheon, both Sophie and Clarissa were commanded to appear before the family’s seamstress for a final fitting of the walking gowns, morning gowns, chemises and petticoats they had all agreed could be perfectly adequately supplied from home. The rest of their wardrobes, Lucilla had declared, must come from Bruton Street. As, after four years’ absence from London, none of the gowns Sophie currently possessed could be considered presentable, she was as much in need of the modistes as Clarissa. Even Lucilla had murmured her intention of taking advantage of their time in the capital to refurbish her own extensive wardrobe.

It was midafternoon before Sophie was free. She had barely had time to wander down to the front hall before the younger Webbs found her. With the single-mindedness of the young, they claimed her for their accustomed ride. With an inward sigh, Sophie surveyed the bright faces upturned to hers, eyes glowing, eager to be off. “Very well,” she said. “But I think we’ll take a groom with us today. Jeremy, please tell John he’s to accompany us. I’ll get Clarissa and meet you at the stables.”

To her relief, none of them commented on her departure from their established norm. Jeremy merely nodded, and all three departed with alacrity.

Glancing down at her morning gown, Sophie turned and started back up the stairs, refusing to dwell on what had prompted her caution, reflecting instead that, given that her aunt relied on her to ensure her cousins were exposed to no untoward occurrences, it was the least she should do.

When she appeared at the stables, Clarissa in tow, Old Arthur, the head groom, raised a questioning brow at her. Pulling on her gloves, Sophie nodded a greeting. “I’ll take Amber out today. She hasn’t had a run for some time, I believe.”

Arthur blinked. Then, with a shrug which stated louder than words that it was not his place to question the vagaries of his betters, he went to fetch the mare. To Sophie’s surprise, Clarissa, busy mounting her own high-bred chestnut, refrained from questioning her choice. Amber was as close to docile as any horse in the Webb stables. Taking her cue from her cousin, Sophie steadfastly ignored the niggling little voice which harped in her ear. Her choice of mount had nothing to do with Mr. Lester—and even less with that gentleman’s too strongly stated opinions.

The tenor of his comments, both before and after dragging her from the Sheik’s back, had stunned her. She had not before encountered such arrogantly high-handed behaviour, but she was quite certain what she thought of it. Yet her lingering reaction to the entire episode was equivocal, ambivalent, no help at all in restoring her equanimity.

Setting placid Amber to the task of catching up with the boys and Amy, already well ahead, Sophie frowned.

Until yesterday, she had been inclined to suspect Jack Lester of harbouring some romantic interest in her. Her conscience stirred, and Sophie blushed delicately. Irritated, she forced herself to face the truth: she had started to hope that he did. But his reactions yesterday afternoon had given her pause; whatever it was that had stared at her from the depths of his dark blue eyes—some deeply felt emotion that had disturbed his sophisticated veneer and wreaked havoc on her calm—it was not that gentle thing called love.

Sophie acknowledged the fact with a grimace as, with a wave and a whooping “halloo,” Clarissa shot past. Twitching the reins, Sophie urged Amber into the rolling gait which, with her, passed for a gallop. Clarissa, meanwhile, drew steadily ahead.

Trapped in her thoughts, Sophie barely noticed. Love, as she understood it, was a gentle emotion, built on kindness, consideration and affection. Soft glances and sweet smiles was her vision of love, and all she had seen, between her uncle and aunt and her mother and father, had bolstered that image. Love was calm, serene, bringing a sense of peace in its wake.

What she had seen in Jack Lester’s eyes had certainly not been peaceful.

As the moment lived again in her mind, Sophie shivered. What was it she had stirred in him? And how did he really view her?

* * *

HER FIRST QUESTION, had she but known it, was also exercising Jack’s mind, and had been ever since he had returned from Webb Park the afternoon before. As soon as his uncharacteristically violent emotions had eased their grip on his sanity, he had been aghast. Where had such intense impulses sprung from?

Now, with the afternoon bright beyond the windows, he restlessly paced the parlour of Rawling’s Cottage, inwardly still wrestling with the revelations of the previous day. He was deeply shocked, not least by the all but ungovernable strength of the emotion that had risen up when he had seen Sophie’s slender figure, fragile against the grey’s heaving back, disappear in the direction of the woods and possible death.

And he was shaken by what the rational part of his brain informed him such feelings foretold.

He had innocently supposed that courting the woman he had chosen as his wife would be a mild process in which his emotions remained firmly under his control while he endeavoured, through the skill of his address, to engage hers. A stranger, as he now realized, to love, he had imagined that, in the structured society to which they belonged, such matters would follow some neatly prescribed course, after which they could both relax, secure in the knowledge of each other’s affections.

Obviously, he had misjudged the matter.

A vague memory that his brother-in-law had not surrendered to love without a fight glimmered at the back of his mind. Given Jason’s undoubted conversion, and his equally undoubted acumen, Jack had always wondered what had made him hesitate—on the brink, as it were.

Now he knew.

Emotions such as he had felt yesterday were dangerous.

They boded fair to being strong enough to overset his reason and control his life.

Love, he was fast coming to understand, was a force to be reckoned with.

A knock on the front door interrupted his reverie. Glancing out of the window, he saw his undergroom leading a handsome bay around to the stables. The sight piqued Jack’s interest.

A scrape on the parlour door heralded his housekeeper. “Mr. Horatio Webb to see you, sir.”

Intrigued, Jack lifted a brow. “Thank you, Mrs. Mitchell. I’ll receive him here.”

A moment later, Horatio Webb was shown into the room. As his calm gaze swept the comfortable parlour, warm and inviting with its wealth of oak panelling and the numerous sporting prints gracing the walls, a smile of ineffable good humour creased Horatio’s face. Rawling’s Cottage was much as he remembered it—a sprawling conglomeration of buildings that, despite its name, constituted a good-sized hunting lodge with considerable stabling and more than enough accommodation for guests. Approaching his host, waiting by the fireplace, he was pleased to note that Jack Lester was much as he had imagined him to be.

“Mr. Webb?” Jack held out a hand as the older man drew near.

“Mr. Lester.” Horatio took the proffered hand in a strong clasp. “I’m here, sir, to extend my thanks, and that of Mrs. Webb, for the sterling service you rendered in averting misadventure yesterday afternoon.”

“It was nothing, I assure you, sir. I was there and merely did what any other gentleman, similarly circumstanced, would have done.”

Horatio’s eyes twinkled. “Oh, I make no doubt any other gentleman would have tried, Mr. Lester. But, as we both know, few would have succeeded.”

Jack felt himself falling under the spell of the peculiarly engaging light in his visitor’s eye. His lips twitched appreciatively. “A glass of Madeira, sir?” When Horatio inclined his head, Jack crossed to pour two glasses, then returned, handing one to his guest. “Phoenix is, perhaps, one of the few horses that could have caught your Sheik. I’m just dev’lish glad I was on him.”

With a wave, he invited Sophie’s uncle to a chair, waiting until the older man sat before taking a seat facing him.

With the contemplative air of a connoisseur, Horatio sipped the Madeira, savouring the fine wine. Then he brought his grey gaze to bear on Jack. “Seriously, Mr. Lester, I do, as you must understand, value your intervention of yesterday. If it weren’t for the fact we’ll be shortly removing to town, I’d insist you honour us for dinner one night.” His words came easily, his eyes, calmly perceptive, never leaving Jack’s face. “However, as such is the case, and we will depart on Friday, Mrs. Webb has charged me to convey to you her earnest entreaty that you’ll call on us once we’re established in Mount Street. Number eighteen. Naturally, I add my entreaty to hers. I take it you’ll be removing to the capital shortly?”

Jack nodded, discarding the notion of urging Sophie’s uncle to forbid her his more dangerous steeds. The shock she had so recently received should, with luck, suffice to keep her from the backs of murderous stallions, at least until the end of the week. “I intend quitting Melton any day, as it happens. However, as I must break my journey in Berkshire, I don’t expect to reach the metropolis much in advance of your party.”

Horatio nodded approvingly. “Please convey my greetings to your father. We were once, if not close friends, then certainly good acquaintances.”

Jack’s eyes widened. “You’re that Webb!” Blinking, he hastily explained, “Forgive me—I hadn’t realized. With so many Webbs in these parts, I wasn’t sure which one had been my father’s crony. I understand you and he shared many interests. He has told me of your devotion to the field.”

“Ah, yes.” Horatio smiled serenely. “My one vice, as it were. But I think you share it, too?”

Jack returned the smile. “I certainly enjoy the sport, but I feel my interest does not reach the obsessive heights of my father’s.”

“Naturally,” Horatio acceded. “You younger men have other obsessions to compete with the Quorn, the Cottesmore and the Belvoir. But the Lester stud is still one of the best in the land, is it not?”

“Under my brother Harry’s management,” Jack replied. “Our kennels still produce some of the strongest runners, too.”

While their conversation drifted into a discussion of the latest trends in breeding both hunters and hounds, Jack sized up Sophie’s uncle. Horatio Webb, while younger than his own father, had been a long-time acquaintance of the Honorable Archibald Lester. More specifically, it had been he who had dropped that quiet word in his father’s ear which had ultimately led to the resurrection of the family fortunes.

Taking advantage of a natural lull in the conversation, Jack said, “Incidentally, I must make you all our thanks for your timely advice in the matter of the Indies Corporation.”

Horatio waved a dismissive hand. “Think nothing of it. What friends are for, after all.” Before Jack could respond with a further expression of gratitude, Horatio murmured, “Besides, you’ve cleaned the slate. I assure you I would not have liked to have had to face my brother-in-law, eccentric though he is, with the news that his Sophie had broken her neck on one of my stallions. As far as I can see, the scales between the Webbs and the Lesters are entirely level.”

Just for an instant, Jack glimpsed the reality behind Horatio Webb’s mask. Understanding, then, that this visit had many purposes, perhaps even more than he had yet divined, Jack could do no more than graciously accept the older man’s edict. “I’m pleased to have been able to be of service, sir.”

Horatio smiled his deceptive smile and rose. “And now I must be off.” He waited while Jack rang and gave orders for his horse to be brought round, then shook hands with his host. His eyes roving the room once more, he added, “It’s nice to see this place kept up. It’s been in your family for some time, has it not?”

Escorting Sophie’s amazing uncle to the door, Jack nodded. “Five generations. All the Lester men have been bred to hunting.”

“As it should be,” Horatio said, and meant far more than the obvious. “Don’t forget,” he added, as he swung up to the back of his bay. “We’ll look to see you in London.”

Horatio nodded a last farewell and turned his horse’s head for home. As he urged the bay to a canter, a subtle smile curved his lips. He was well pleased with what he had found at Rawling’s Cottage. Aside from all else, the Lesters were obviously planning on remaining a part of the landscape, here as much as in Berkshire.

Lucilla would be pleased.

* * *

BY THE TIME she returned from their ride, Sophie had a headache. As she was not normally prey to even such minor ailments, she felt the constraint deeply. As she preceded Clarissa into the back parlour, she massaged her temples in an effort to ease the throbbing ache behind them.

It was, of course, all Jack Lester’s fault. If she hadn’t spent half her time worrying about how she would respond if he joined them, and the other half scanning the horizon for his broad-shouldered frame, metaphorically looking over her shoulder all the way, she would doubtless have taken her customary enjoyment in the ride. Instead, she felt dreadful.

Throwing her riding cap onto a chair, she sank gratefully into the overstuffed armchair in the shadows by the hearth.

“A pity Mr. Lester and Lord Percy didn’t join us.” Clarissa dropped onto the chaise, obviously ready to chat. “I was sure that, after yesterday, they would be waiting at Ashes’ Hill.”

“Perhaps they’ve already returned to London,” Sophie suggested. “The ground’s certainly soft enough to send the tail-chasers back to town.”

“Tail-chasers” was the family term for those gentlemen whose only purpose in coming to Melton Mowbray was to chase a fox’s tail. At the first sign of the thaw, such gentlemen invariably deserted the packs for the more refined ambience of the ton’s gaming rooms.

“Oh, but I don’t think Mr. Lester and Lord Percy are tail-chasers, exactly. Not when they both ride such superb horses.”

Sophie blinked and wondered if her headache was affecting her reason. “What have their horses to do with it?” she felt compelled to ask. “All tail-chasers, ipso facto, must have horses.”

But Clarissa’s mind was on quite a different track. “They’re both terribly elegant, aren’t they? Not just in the ballroom—well, everyone tries to be elegant there. But they both have that indefinable London polish, don’t they?”

Sophie openly studied her cousin’s lovely face. At the sight of the glowing expression inhabiting Clarissa’s clear eyes, she stifled a groan. “Clarissa—please believe me—not all London gentlemen are like Lord Percy and Mr. Lester. Some of them are no better than…than any of the young gentlemen you’ve met at the local balls. And many are a great deal worse.”

“Maybe so,” Clarissa allowed. “But it’s an indisputable fact that both Mr. Lester and Lord Percy put all the gentlemen hereabouts to shame.”

Sophie closed her eyes and wished she could argue.

Clarissa rose, eyes shining, and twirled about the room. “Oh, Sophie! I’m so looking forward to being surrounded by all the swells—the dandies, the town beaux, even the fops. It will be so thrilling to be sought after by such gentlemen, to be twitted and teased—in a perfectly acceptable way, of course.” Clarissa dipped and swirled closer. “And I know,” she continued, lowering her voice, “that one is not supposed to say so, but I can’t wait to at least try my hand at flirting, and I positively can’t wait to be ogled.”

As she squinted against the glare of the late afternoon sun, her narrowed vision filled with Clarissa’s svelte form, Sophie didn’t think her cousin would have all that long to wait. She should, she supposed, make a push to bring Clarissa back to earth, and defend the local young gentlemen, Ned in particular. If she hadn’t been feeling so ill, she would have. But with her head throbbing so, and her mind still tangled in her own confusion, she doubted she could find sufficient words to succeed.

“But what of you, Sophie?” Abruptly, Clarissa turned from rapt contemplation of her rosy future and plumped down on the chaise close by. “After his dramatically chivalrous rescue yesterday, aren’t you just a little bit taken with Mr. Lester?”

Sophie let her lids fall; Clarissa, when she put her mind to it, could be quite as perspicacious as her mother. “Indeed,” she forced herself to say. “Mr. Lester was everything that is gallant. However, that’s hardly the only criterion I have for choosing a husband.”

“So, what are your other criteria?”

Squinting through her lashes, Sophie studied Clarissa’s grin. Her cousin, she reluctantly concluded, was unlikely to be diverted by any prevarication. “A liking for children,” she stated. An obvious test; one, she suspected, Jack Lester would pass. He had handled Amy very well, and the boys, too. “And a sense of humour.” He had that, too, reprehensible though it might sometimes be.

“And I would want a man who was steady and reliable, not given to fits of temper.” Now that was a prerequisite her knight in shining armour might have trouble complying with. Rakes, she had always understood, were totally unreliable. Becoming absorbed with her catalogue, Sophie frowned. “Sufficiently handsome, although he needn’t be an Adonis. Not mean or stingy. And he’d have to be able to waltz. There,” she concluded, opening her eyes fully and fixing Clarissa with a mock glare. “Are you satisfied?”

Clarissa laughed and clapped her hands, making Sophie wince. “But that’s famous! Mr. Lester might be just the man for you.”

Abruptly, Sophie stood, disguising the sudden movement with a little laugh. “I pray you, Clarissa, don’t let your imagination fly away with you. Mr. Lester’s presence here—and our meetings—have been occasioned by nothing more than coincidence.”

Clarissa looked slightly surprised by her vehemence but, to Sophie’s intense relief, she forbore to argue. “I expect something must have detained them today.” Clarissa’s tone suggested she could see no other likelihood. As she fell to neatly folding the ribbons of her hat, she added, “I wonder when next we’ll meet?”

* * *

AS HE SAT DOWN to dinner that evening in the dining room of the cottage, Jack could have answered Clarissa’s question without further thought. He was leaving Leicestershire on the morrow. Early.

He said as much to Percy, taking his seat on his right hand.

“What brought that on? Thought you were fixed here for another few weeks?”

“So did I,” Jack returned. “But something’s come up.” Before Percy could ask what, he added, “And the weather’s turned, so I think I’ll do better to look in at Lester Hall before hying up to town.”

“There is that,” Percy agreed knowledgeably. “Ground’s softening up. Not many good runs left in the season.”

Jack nodded, unexpectedly grateful for the thaw. As he rode very heavy, the going for his mounts would become noticeably harder in the coming weeks.

“Think I’ll take a look in on the old man,” Percy mused, his expression distant. “Gets a bit obstreperous if we forget him. I’ll go and do my filial duty, then meet you in town.”

Jack nodded again, his mind busy with his plans. There was no need to hurry up to town. The Webbs would not be receiving for at least another week.

His decision to quit the field in Leicestershire was prompted by a firm conviction that such a scene as had occurred when he’d hauled Sophie from her stallion’s back could not be repeated. However, thanks to the incident, he was now on good terms with the Webbs and had been all but commanded to call, once in town. Assuming Mrs. Webb approved, there would, he felt sure, be no impediment placed in his path should he desire to further his interest with Sophie in the usual way.

It was his first, albeit small, advance.

However, given his turbulent and presently unpredictable reactions, it seemed the course of wisdom to suspend all further activity until his golden head was safe in the bosom of the ton. His home ground, as it were.

The strictures of Society reached a pinnacle of stringency in London—the strict mores and unwavering practices would undoubtedly prove sufficiently rigid to ensure his wooing followed acceptable paths.

So, for her sake, and, he reluctantly admitted, his own, he had determined to forgo the sight of Sophie’s fair face until she appeared in London.

It would be safer for everyone that way.