Читать книгу A Lady of Expectations and Other Stories: A Lady Of Expectations / The Secrets of a Courtesan / How to Woo a Spinster - Nicola Cornick, Stephanie Laurens, Nicola Cornick - Страница 13

CHAPTER FIVE

CLIMBING THE STAIRS of Entwhistle House, Sophie looked about her, at the silks and satins, the jewels and curls, and knew she was back in the ton. About her, the refined accents and dramatic tones of the elite of society, engaged in their favourite pastime, drowned out the plaintive strains of a violin, struggling through from the ballroom ahead. Immediately in front of her, Lucilla, clad in an exquisite gown of deep blue silk overlaid with figured lace, forged steadily onward, stopping only to exchange greetings with the acquaintances, both close and distant, who constantly hailed her.

Close beside Sophie, Clarissa frankly stared. “Isn’t it wonderful?” she breathed. “So many beautiful gowns. And the men look just as I imagined—precise to a pin. Some are very handsome, are they not?”

As she whispered the words, Clarissa caught the eye of an elegant buck, who, noticing her wide-eyed stare, ogled her shamelessly. Clarissa blushed and retreated behind her fan.

Following her gaze, Sophie caught the gentleman’s eye, and raised a coolly superior brow. The man smiled and bowed slightly, then turned back to his companions. Sophie slipped an arm through Clarissa’s. “Indeed, and you look very handsome, too, so you must expect to be ogled, you know. The best way to deal with such attentions is to ignore them.”

“Is it?” Clarissa sent a cautious glance back at the gentleman, now fully engaged with his friends. Relieved, she relaxed and looked down at her gown, a delicate affair in palest aquamarine muslin, a demure trim of white lace about the neckline and tiny puffed sleeves. “I must admit, I did wonder at Madame Jorge’s choice, but it really does suit me, doesn’t it?”

“As that gentleman has just confirmed,” Sophie replied. “I told you you should never argue with Madam Jorge. Aside from anything else, it’s wasted breath.”

Clarissa giggled. “I never imagined she would be like that.”

Looking ahead, Sophie smiled. They had quit Leicestershire on Friday, spending two nights on the road in a stately progress that had delivered them up in Mount Street on Sunday afternoon. The rest of that day had gone in the predictable chaos of unpacking and installing the family in their home for the Season. Lucilla had shooed them all off to bed early, warning both Sophie and Clarissa, “We’ll be out first thing, off to Madame Jorge. I refuse to permit either of you to step into a ton ballroom unsuitably gowned. We shall have to hope Jorge can come to our aid, for we’re promised to Lady Entwhistle tomorrow night if you recall.”

And so, that morning, immediately after breakfast at the unheard-of hour of ten, they had arrived before the small door on Bruton Street that gave on to Madame Jorge’s salon.

“I only hope she can help us at such short notice,” Lucilla had said as she led the way up the stairs.

Her aunt needn’t have worried; Madame Jorge had fallen on her neck with unfeigned delight.

Madame Jorge was the modiste who for years had been her mother’s and aunt’s favourite; her own wardrobe for her ill-fated first Season had come from Madame Jorge’s salon. But Madame Jorge was definitely not what one expected of a modiste who made for a very select clientele amongst the ton.

For a start, she was huge, a massive bosom balanced by immense hip and brawny arms. But her small hands and thick, short fingers were remarkably nimble. She had almost no neck that one could see; her neat grey hair was perennially coiled in a tight bun upon her round head. Small blue eyes twinkled in a rosy-cheeked face. Only the shrewd gaze and the determined set of Madame Jorge’s mouth gave her away.

“And Miss Sophie, too!” she had exclaimed, once she had finished greeting Lucilla. “Ma pauvre little one, how good it is to see you again.”

Jorge had hugged her to her massive bosom, neatly covered in black bombazine, and then held her at arm’s length, the better to survey her. “But, yes! This is wonderful—wunderbar!” Jorge had never settled entirely into any one language. She was a polyglot and spoke at least three, often all at once. She took a step back, eyes narrowing, then whipped the tape measure which always hung about her neck into her hands. “For you, my liebschen, we will have to retake the measurements.” Jorge’s eyes had gleamed. “You will turn the gentlemen on their heads, no?”

She had murmured that she hoped not, but was not sure Jorge heard. The modiste had spied Clarissa, hanging back, a little overwhelmed. Her cousin had promptly been even more overwhelmed by Jorge’s bear-like embrace.

“Oh—the petit chou! You are your mother’s daughter, but yes! Very young—but the bloom is worth something, hein?”

Utterly bewildered, Clarissa had glanced at her mother. Lucilla had taken Jorge in hand, rapidly explaining their requirements and the need for haste.

Jorge had understood immediately. “Quelle horreur! To go to the ball without a gown—it is not to be thought of! No, no, somehow we will contrive.”

Contrive she certainly had.

Glancing down at her own silk skirts, in a delicate pale-green hue that was the perfect foil for her colouring, making the blue of her eyes more intense and setting off the true gold of her curls, Sophie felt more than content. The long lines of the skirts, falling from the high waist beneath an unusual square-cut neckline, displayed her slender figure to perfection. Jorge, as always, had come to the rescue; she was a wizard and had waved her magic wand. Their new ball gowns had been delivered at six that evening, the first of their day gowns would be on the doorstep by nine the next morn.

“Sophie! Look!”

Following Clarissa’s gaze, Sophie beheld another young girl, weighed down by a gown in frothy pink muslin, a heavy flounce about the neckline repeated twice about the hem making her appear wider than she was tall. The gown was precisely what Clarissa had gone to Madame Jorge’s salon determined to have for her first ball.

“Oh, dear.” Clarissa viewed the apparition with empathetic dismay. “Would I have looked like that?”

“Very likely,” Sophie replied. “Which all goes to show that one should never, ever, argue with Madam Jorge.”

Clarissa nodded, carefully averting her gaze from the unfortunate young lady to study, somewhat nervously, the crowd still separating them from their hostess. “I’d never imagined to see so many elegant people in one place at one time.”

Sophie felt her lips twitch. “I hesitate to mention it, but this is only a small gathering by ton standards, and an informal one at that. There could only be a hundred or so present.”

The look Clarissa sent her did not exactly glow with anticipation. They had gained the top of the stairs and were now slowly shuffling across the upper foyer. Then the curtain of bodies before them parted and they found themselves facing Lady Entwhistle.

“Lucilla dear, so glad you could come.” Her ladyship and Lucilla touched scented cheeks. Casting a knowledgeable eye over Lucilla’s gown, Lady Entwhistle raised a brow. “Dashed if you aren’t capable of giving these young misses a run for their money.”

Lucilla’s eyes flew wide. “Run, Mary? Gracious heavens, my dear—so enervating!” With a smile that was almost mischievous, Lucilla passed on to greet the young gentleman next in line—Lord Entwhistle’s cousin’s boy, Mr. Millthorpe—leaving both Sophie and Clarissa to make their curtsies to her ladyship.

Rising, Sophie once more found herself subjected to her ladyship’s lorgnette. As before, no item of her appearance escaped Lady Entwhistle’s scrutiny, from the green ribbon in her curls to her beaded satin dancing slippers.

“Hmm, yes,” Lady Entwhistle mused, her expression brightening. “Excellent, my dear. No doubt but that you’ll have a truly wonderful Season this time.”

Her ladyship’s tone left little doubt as to what, in her mind, constituted a “wonderful” Season. Having known what to expect from her mother’s old friends, Sophie smiled serenely. Together with Clarissa, she moved on to Mr. Millthorpe.

A young gentleman of neat and pleasant aspect, Mr. Millthorpe was clearly overawed at finding himself thus thrust upon the notice of the ton. He replied to Sophie’s calm greeting with a nervously mumbled word; she saw him fight to keep his hand from tugging his cravat. Then he turned to Clarissa, who was close on her heels. Mr. Millthorpe’s colour promptly fled, then returned in full measure.

“Indeed,” he said, his bow rendered awkward by his determination to keep Clarissa’s face in view. “I’m very glad to meet you Miss…Miss....” Mr. Millthorpe’s eyes glazed. “Miss Webb!” Triumph glowed in his smile. “I hope you won’t mind…that is, that you might have a few minutes to spare later, Miss Webb. Once I get free of this.” His expression earnest, he gestured ingenuously at his aunt.

A little taken aback, Clarissa sent him a shy smile.

That was more than enough encouragement for Mr. Millthorpe. He beamed, then was somewhat peremptorily recalled to his duties.

Bemused, Clarissa joined Sophie where she waited at the top of the shallow flight of steps leading down into the ballroom.

Poised above the room, Sophie resisted the impulse to send a questing glance out over the sea of heads. Looking down, she raised her skirts and commenced the descent in her aunt’s wake. Beside her, Clarissa was tensing with excitement, her eyes, bright and wide, drinking in every sight. The sensation of tightness about her own lungs informed Sophie that she, too, was not immune to expectation. The realization brought a slight frown to her eyes.

The odds were that Mr. Lester would not be present. Even if he was, there was no reason to imagine he would seek her out.

With an inward snort, Sophie banished the thought. Jack Lester was a rake. And rakes did not dance attendance on young ladies—not, that is, without reason. She, however, was in town to look for a husband, the perfect husband for her. She should devote her thoughts to that goal, and forget all about engaging rakes with dark blue eyes and unnerving tempers.

Determination glimmered in her eyes as she lifted her head—only to have her gaze fall headlong into one of midnight blue.

Sophie’s heart lurched; an odd tremor shook her. He filled her vision, her senses, tall and strong, supremely elegant in black coat and pantaloons, his dark locks in fashionable disarray, the white of his cravat a stark bed on which a large sapphire lay, winking wickedly.

Jack watched as, her surprise at seeing him plainly writ in her large eyes, Sophie halted on the second-last stair, her lips parting slightly, the gentle swell of her breasts, exposed by her gown, rising on a sharp intake of breath.

His eyes on hers, he slowly raised a brow. “Good evening, Miss Winterton.”

Sophie’s heart stuttered back to life. Large, dark and handsome, he bowed gracefully, his gaze quizzing her as he straightened. Giving her wits a mental shake, she descended the last step, dipping a curtsy, then extending her hand. “Good evening, Mr. Lester. I had not expected to see you here, sir.”

His brow lifted again; to her relief, he made no direct reply. “Might I request the pleasure of a waltz, my dear? The third, if you have it to spare.”

She had not even had time to look at her dance card. Shooting him a cool glance, Sophie opened it, then, meeting his eyes briefly, she lifted the tiny pencil and marked his name in the appropriate spot.

The answer to the question in her mind came with his smooth, “And, perhaps, if you’re not already bespoken, I might escort you to supper at the conclusion of the dance?”

Blinking, Sophie found she had unthinkingly surrendered her hand to his. Her gaze flew to his as he drew her gently to his side. Her heart leapt to her throat and started beating erratically there. “That will be most pleasant, Mr. Lester,” she murmured, looking away.

“It will, you know.”

His tone was gently teasing, on more levels than one. Elevating her chin, Sophie drew her composure more firmly about her. Ahead of them, her aunt was strolling through the crowd, Clarissa by her side.

To Sophie’s surprise, having escorted her as far as the chaise where her aunt finally deigned to rest, Mr. Lester exchanged a few pleasantries with Lucilla, then, with an elegant bow, excused himself, leaving her to weather a spate of introductions as a small host of gentlemen gravitated to her side.

Despite the nature of Lady Entwhistle’s little ball, despite the fact that the ton was only just beginning to desert its winter playgrounds to return to the capital, there were sufficient eligible bachelors present to fill her card long before the first dance began.

Clarissa, by her side, proved a potent attraction for the younger gentlemen. She was soon casting anxious glances at Sophie.

Keeping her voice firm and clear, Sophie calmly apologized to Mr. Harcourt. “Indeed, sir, I’m most sorry to disappoint you but I fear my card is full.”

Minutes later, she heard Clarissa copy her words, prettily turning Lord Swindon away.

As her equilibrium, momentarily undermined, returned, Sophie became conscious of a niggling disquiet, a sense that something was not entirely right. Only when, for the third time, she found her gaze scanning the room, searching automatically, did she realize just what it was she felt.

Feeling very like muttering a curse, she instead pinned a bright smile on her lips and, with renewed determination, gave her attention to her court. “Will your sister be coming up to London, Lord Argyle? I should be delighted to meet her again.”

She was here to find a husband, not to fall victim to a rake’s blue eyes.

By dint of sheer determination, Jack managed to keep himself occupied until the country dance preceding the supper waltz was in progress. He was, he kept reminding himself, far too experienced to cram his leaders. Instead, he had forced himself to circulate, artfully sidestepping subtle invitations to lead other young ladies onto the floor. Now, as the last strains of the music died, he threaded his way through the crowd to come up by Sophie’s side. Fate was smiling on him again; she had just finished thanking her partner, Lord Enderby.

“Miss Winterton.” With a slight bow, Jack reached for Sophie’s hand. “Evening, Enderby.” A nod was enough to distract her recent partner.

“Eh?” Squinting slightly, Lord Enderby switched his near-sighted stare from Sophie to Jack. “Oh, it’s you, Lester. Surprised to see you here. Thought you’d be at Newmarket.”

Jack smiled—into Sophie’s eyes. “I discovered that, this Season, there was to be an unlooked-for distraction in London.”

“Really?” Lord Enderby’s eyes were too weak to appreciate the action taking place before them. “What’s that?”

Feeling the warmth rise to her cheeks, Sophie held her breath, her gaze daring her next partner to say anything untoward.

Jack’s gaze grew more intent. “Far be it from me to reveal any secrets,” he said. “You’ll learn the truth soon enough.” His gaze remained on Sophie’s face. “But I’m come to steal Miss Winterton from you, Enderby. My dance is next, I believe, my dear?” With a calmly proprietorial air, Jack tucked Sophie’s hand into the crook of his elbow and, with the barest of nods for Lord Enderby, now thoroughly bemused, turned her down the room.

Sophie blinked and grabbed her wandering wits. “I believe you’re right, Mr. Lester. But shouldn’t we return to my aunt?”

“Why?”

She glanced up to find an improbably mild expression inhabiting her companion’s patrician features as, undeterred by her remonstrance, he led her further and further from her aunt. “Because it’s expected,” she replied.

He smiled then, a slow, devilish smile, and looked down, meeting her gaze. “You’re not a deb, my dear.” His voice had deepened; she felt as well as heard it. Then his intent look softened and he looked ahead. “And, despite the throng, the room is not so crowded your aunt cannot keep you in view, if she’s so inclined.”

That, Sophie realized as she calmed her leaping heart, was true. A quick glance over her shoulder revealed Lucilla, with Clarissa beside her, almost at the other end of the room. There were many bodies between, but the crowd was not so thick it blocked them off.

“I don’t intend to kidnap you, you know.”

The soft statement pulled her gaze back to his face.

Jack smiled and tried his best to make the gesture reassuring. “I merely thought you might like to see who else is here tonight.”

Her “Oh,” was there in her eyes. Then, with a last, still-suspicious glance, she gave up her resistance, her hand settling on his arm.

He did as he had indicated, embarking on a gentle perambulation of the room. “Lady Entwhistle’s lucky to see so many here so early in the Season. Lord Abercrombie,” Jack indicated that well-known huntsman. “Have you met him before?” Sophie nodded. “He, for one, rarely leaves Northamptonshire until late April. The thaw must be extensive to have driven him south this early.”

Sophie had, indeed, been surprised to find so many of the ton’s more mature yet eligible bachelors present. “I hadn’t realized that the weather was to blame.”

Again, she was aware of his gaze. “For some,” he said, his voice low. Sternly quelling a shiver, Sophie pretended to look about.

“So, how do you find Society after four years away? Does it still hold some allure?”

Sophie glanced up at the question; a cynical ripple in his smooth tones gave her pause. “Allure?” she repeated, putting her head on one side. “I do not know that that is the right term, Mr. Lester.” She frowned slightly. “There’s glamour, perhaps.” With one hand, she gestured about them. “But any with eyes must see it is transitory, an illusion with no real substance.” They strolled on and Sophie smiled wryly. “I have long thought the Season society’s stage, where we all come together to impress each other with our standing before summer draws us back to our true professions, to the management of our estates.”

His gaze on her face, Jack inclined his head, his expression enigmatic. “You are wise beyond your years, my dear.”

Sophie met his gaze; she arched a sceptical brow. “And you, sir?” She let her gaze slide away. Greatly daring, she continued, “I find it hard to believe that your view of the Season agrees with mine. I have always been told that gentlemen such as yourself pursue certain interests for which the Season is indispensible.”

Jack’s lips twitched. “Indeed, my dear.” He let a moment stretch in silence before adding, “You should not, however, imagine that such interests are behind my presence here in town this early in the year.”

Resisting the urge to look up at him, Sophie kept her gaze on those surrounding them. “Indeed?” she replied coolly. “Then it was boredom that fetched you south?”

Jack glanced down at her. “No, Miss Winterton. It was not boredom.”

“Not boredom?” Determination not to allow him to triumph, Sophie swung about and, disregarding the crazed beating of her heart and the constriction which restricted her breathing, met his blue gaze. “Indeed, sir?”

He merely raised an arrogant brow at her, his expression unreadable.

She met his gaze coolly, then allowed hers to fall, boldly taking in his large, immaculately clad frame. The sapphire glinted in the white folds of his cravat; he wore no fobs or other ornament, nothing to detract from the image created by lean and powerful muscles. “Ah,” she declared, resisting the urge to clear her throat. Settling her hand once more on his sleeve, she fell in by his side. “I see it now. Confess, sir, that it is the prospect of your mounts having to wade through the mire that has driven you, in despair I make no doubt, from Leicestershire.”

Jack laughed. “Wrong again, Miss Winterton.”

“Then I greatly fear it is the lure of the gaming rooms that has brought you to town, Mr. Lester.”

“There’s a lure involved, I admit, but it’s not one of green baize.”

“What, then?” Sophie demanded, pausing to look up at him.

Jack’s gaze rose to touch her curls, then lowered to her eyes, softly blue. His lips lifted in a slow smile. “The lure is one of gold, my dear.”

Sophie blinked and frowned slightly. “You’ve come seeking your fortune?”

Jack’s gaze, darkly blue, became more intent. “Not my fortune, Miss Winterton.” He paused, his smile fading as he looked into her eyes. “My future.”

Her gaze trapped in his, Sophie could have sworn the polished parquetry on which she stood quivered beneath her feet. She was dimly aware they had halted; the crowd about them had faded, their chattering no longer reaching her. Her heart was in her throat, blocking her breath; it had to be that that was making her so lightheaded.

The midnight blue gaze did not waver; Sophie searched his eyes, but could find no hint, in them or his expression, to discount the wild possibility that had leapt into her mind.

Then he smiled, his mouth, his expression, softening, as she had seen it do before.

“I believe that’s our waltz starting, Miss Winterton.” Jack paused, then, his eyes still on hers, his voice darkly deep, he asked, “Will you partner me, my dear?”

Sophie quelled a shiver. She was not a green girl; she was twenty-two, experienced and assured. Ignoring her thudding heart, ignoring the subtle undertones in his voice, she drew dignity about her and, calmly inclining her head, put her hand in his.

His fingers closed strongly over hers; in that instant, Sophie was not at all sure just what question she had answered. Yet she followed his lead, allowing him to seep her into his arms. With a single deft turn, he merged them with the circling throng; they were just one couple among the many on the floor.

Time and again, Sophie told herself that was so, that there was nothing special in this waltz, nothing special between them. One part of her mind formed the words; the rest wasn’t listening, too absorbed in silent communion with a pair of dark blue eyes.

She only knew the dance was over when they stopped. They had spoken not a word throughout; yet, it seemed, things had been said, clearly enough for them both. She could barely breathe.

Jack’s expression was serious yet gentle as he drew her hand once more through his arm. “It’s time for supper, my dear.”

His eyes were softly smiling. Sophie basked in their glow. Shy yet elated, off balance yet strangely assured, she returned the smile. “Indeed, sir. I rely on you to guide me.”

His lips lifted lightly. “You may always do so, my dear.”

He found a table for two in the supper room and secured a supply of delicate sandwiches and two glasses of champagne. Then he settled back to recount the most interesting of the past year’s on-dits, after which they fell to hypothesizing on the likely stance of the various protagonists at the commencement of this Season.

Despite her blithe spirits, Sophie was grateful for the distraction. She felt as if she was teetering on some invisible brink; she was not at all sure it was wise to take the next step. So she laughed and chatted, ignoring the sudden moments when breathlessness attacked, when their gazes met and held for an instant too long.

Her elation persisted, that curious uplifting of her spirits, as if her heart had broken free of the earth and was now lighter than air. The sensation lingered, even when Jack, very dutifully, escorted her back to Lucilla’s side.

With what was, she felt, commendable composure, Sophie held out her hand. “I thank you for a most enjoyable interlude, sir.” Her voice, lowered, was oddly soft and husky.

A small knot of gentlemen hovered uncertainly, awaiting her return.

Jack eyed them, less than pleased but too wise to show it. Instead, he took Sophie’s hand and bowed elegantly. Straightening, for the last time that evening he allowed his gaze to meet hers. “Until next we meet, Miss Winterton.”

His eyes said it would be soon.

* * *

TO SOPHIE’S CONSTERNATION, he called the next morning. Summoned to join her aunt in the drawing-room, she entered to find him, garbed most correctly for a morning about town in blue Bath superfine and ivory inexpressibles, rising from a chair to greet her, a faint, challenging lift to his dark brows.

“Good morning, Miss Winterton.”

Determined to hold her own, Sophie bludgeoned her wits into order and plastered a calm, unflustered expression over her surprise. “Good day, Mr. Lester.”

His smile warmed her before he released her hand to greet Clarissa, who had entered in her wake.

Aware that her aunt’s deceptively mild gaze was fixed firmly upon her, Sophie crossed to the chaise, cloaking her distraction with a nonchalant air. As she settled her skirts, she noted that susceptibility to Mr. Lester’s charms appeared strangely restricted. Despite her inexperience, Clarissa showed no sensitivity, greeting their unexpected caller with unaffected delight. Released, her cousin came to sit beside her.

Jack resumed his seat, elegantly disposing his long limbs in a fashionably fragile white-and-gilt chair. He had already excused his presence by turning Lucilla’s edict to call on them to good account. “As I was saying, Mrs. Webb, it is, indeed, pleasant to find oneself with time to spare before the Season gets fully under way.”

“Quite,” Lucilla returned, her pale gaze open and innocent. In a morning gown of wine-red cambric, she sat enthroned in an armchair close by the hearth. “However, I must confess it took the small taste of the ton that we enjoyed last night to refresh my memories. I had quite forgotten how extremely fatiguing it can be.”

From behind his urbane facade, Jack watched her carefully. “Indeed.” He gently inclined his head. “Coming direct from the country, the ton’s ballrooms can, I imagine, take on the aspect of an ordeal.”

“A very stuffy ordeal,” Lucilla agreed. Turning to the chaise, she asked, “Did you not find it so, my dears?”

Clarissa smiled brightly and opened her mouth to deny any adverse opinion of the previous evening’s entertainment.

Smoothly, Sophie cut in, “Indeed, yes. It may not have been a crush, yet the crowd was not inconsiderable. Towards the end, I found the atmosphere positively thick.”

It was simply not done to admit to unfettered delight, nor to dismiss a kindly hostess’s entertainments as uncrowded.

Jack kept his smile restrained. “Just so. I had, in fact, wondered, Miss Winterton, if you would like to blow away any lingering aftertaste of the crowd by taking a turn in the Park? I have my curricle with me.”

“What a splendid idea.” Lucilla concurred, turning, wide-eyed, to Sophie.

But Sophie was looking at Jack.

As she watched, he inclined his head. “If you would care for it, Miss Winterton?”

Slowly, Sophie drew in a breath. And nodded. “I…” Abruptly, she looked down, to where her hands were clasped in the lap of her morning gown, a concoction of lilac mull-muslin. “I should change my gown.”

“I’m sure Mr. Lester will excuse you, my dear.”

With a nod to her aunt, Sophie withdrew, then beat a hasty retreat to her chamber. There, summoning a maid, she threw open the doors of her wardrobe and drew forth the carriage dress Jorge had sent round that morning. A golden umber, the heavy material was shot with green, so that, as she moved, it appeared to bronze, then dull. Standing before her cheval-glass, Sophie held the gown to her, noting again how its colour heightened the gold in her hair and emphasized the creaminess of her complexion. She grinned delightedly. Hugging the dress close, she whirled, waltzing a few steps, letting her heart hold sway for just a moment.

Then she caught sight of the maid staring at her from the doorway. Abruptly, Sophie steadied. “Ah, there you are, Ellen. Come along.” She waved the young girl forward. “I need to change.”

Downstairs in the drawing-room, Jack made idle conversation, something he could do with less than half his brain. Then, unexpectedly, Lucilla blandly declared, “I hope you’ll excuse Clarissa, Mr. Lester. We’re yet very busy settling in.” To Clarissa, she said, “Do look in on the twins for me, my love. You know I never feel comfortable unless I know what they’re about.”

Clarissa smiled in sunny agreement. She rose and bobbed a curtsy to Jack, then departed, leaving him wondering about the twins.

“They’re six,” Lucilla calmly stated. “A dreadfully imaginative age.”

Jack blinked, then decided to return to safer topics. “Allow me to congratulate you on your daughter, Mrs. Webb. I’ve rarely seen such beauty in conjunction with such a sweet disposition. I prophesy she’ll be an instant success.”

Lucilla glowed with maternal satisfaction. “Indeed, it seems likely. Fortunately for myself and Mr. Webb, and I dare say Clarissa, too, her Season is intended purely to—” Lucilla gestured airily “—broaden her horizons. Her future is already all but settled. A young gentleman from Leicestershire—one of our neighbours—Ned Ascombe.”

“Indeed?” Jack politely raised his brows.

“Oh, yes,” his redoubtable hostess continued in a comfortably confiding vein. “But both my husband and I are firmly of the opinion that it does no good for a young girl to make her choice before…surveying the field, as it were.” With every appearance of ingenuousness, Lucilla explained, “The chosen suitor may be the same as before she looked but she, certainly, will feel much more assured that her choice is the right one if she’s given the opportunity to convince herself it is so.” Lucilla’s pale eyes swung to Jack’s face. “That’s why we’re so keen to give Clarissa a full Season—so that she’ll know her own mind.”

Jack met her level gaze. “And your niece?”

Lucilla frowned delicately but approval glimmered in her eyes. “Indeed. Sophie’s first Season was cut so very short it hardly signified. She was presented, and had her come-out and even braved the trial of Almack’s, but it was barely three weeks in all before my sister succumbed to a chill. So very tragic.”

Her sigh was sorrowful; Jack inclined his head and waited.

“So, you see, Mr. Lester,” Lucilla continued, raising her head to look him in the eye. “Both Mr. Webb and I hope very much that any gentleman who truly appreciates dear Sophie will allow her to have her Season this time.”

Jack held her coolly challenging gaze for what seemed like an age. Then, reluctantly, he inclined his head. “Indeed, ma’am,” he replied, his tone even. “Your arguments are hard to deny.” When it became clear his hostess was waiting for more, he added, his expression impassive, “Any gentleman who valued your niece would, I feel sure, abide by such wisdom.”

Gracious as ever, Lucilla smiled her approbation, then turned as the latch lifted. “Ah, there you are, Sophie.”

Smoothly, Jack rose and went forward, his eyes feasting on the vision hovering on the threshold. She had donned a forest green half-cape over her carriage dress, which was of a strange bronzy-gold shade with piping of the same dark green at collar and cuffs. Green gloves and green half-boots completed her outfit. Jack felt his lips soften in a smile; his Sophie was fashionable elegance incarnate.

Reassured by his smile, and the appreciative light in his eyes, Sophie smiled back and gave him her hand. Together, they turned to Lucilla.

“I will engage to take all care of your niece, Mrs. Webb.” Jack sent an arrogantly questioning glance across the room.

Lucilla studied the picture they made, and smiled. “I trust you will, Mr. Lester. But do not be too long; Lady Cowper is to call this afternoon, and we must later attend Lady Allingcott’s at-home.” With a graciously benevolent nod, she dismissed them.

It was not until they reached the Park and Jack let his horses stretch their legs that Sophie allowed herself to believe it was real. That she was, in truth, bowling along the well-tended carriageway with Jack Lester beside her. The brisk breeze, cool and playful, twined in her curls and tugged little wisps free to wreath about her ears. Above and about them, arched branches were swelling in bud; the sky, a clear, crisp blue, formed a backdrop for their nakedness. Slanting a glance at her companion, she wondered, not for the first time, just what he intended.

He had, most correctly, escorted her down the steps of her aunt’s house, then blotted his copybook by ignoring her hand and lifting her instead to his curricle’s seat. On taking his own seat beside her and being assured she was comfortable, he had smiled, a slow, proudly satisfied smile, and clicked the reins. The bustle in the streets had made conversation unwise; she had held her peace while they travelled the short distance to the gates of the Park.

Now, with the first fashionable carriages looming ahead, she said, her tone merely matter-of-fact, “I had not looked to see you so soon, sir.”

Jack glanced down at her. “I couldn’t keep away.” It was, he somewhat ruefully reflected, the literal truth. He had fully intended to allow the Webbs reasonable time to settle in the capital; instead, he had not been able to resist the compulsion to take Sophie for a drive, to show her the ton, and display her to them, safely anchored by his side. Staking his claim—and in such uncharacteristically blunt fashion that Sophie’s aunt had seen fit to metaphorically wag her finger at him. Even the weather was conspiring to make him rush on with his wooing, the bright sunshine more redolent of April and May than chilly March.

He had expected some confusion in response to his forthright answer. Instead, to his delight, Sophie raised her chin and calmly stated, “In that case, you may make yourself useful and tell me who all these people are. My aunt has had little time to fill me in, and there are many I don’t recognize.”

Jack grinned. It was close on noon, a most fashionable time to be seen driving in the Park. “The Misses Berry you must recall,” he said as they swept down on an ancient landau drawn up by the verge. “They’re always to be found at precisely that spot, morning and afternoon throughout the Season.”

“Of course I remember them.” With a gay smile, Sophie nodded to the two old dames, bundled up in scarves and shawls on the seat of the landau. They nodded back. As the curricle swept past, Sophie saw the gleam in their bright eyes.

“Next we have Lady Staunton and her daughters. You don’t need to know them, although doubtless your cousin will make the younger girls’ acquaintance.”

Sophie bestowed a distant smile on the bevy of girlish faces turned to stare in open envy as she went by. Despite Jorge’s undoubted expertise, she doubted it was her new carriage dress that had excited their interest.

As she looked ahead once more, she saw a tall woman, modishly gowned in bright cherry-red, strolling the lawns just ahead. Her hand rested on the arm of a rakishly handsome buck. Both looked up as the carriage neared. The woman’s face lit up; she raised her hand in what appeared, to Sophie, a distinctly imperious summons.

The reaction on her right was immediate; Jack stiffened. As it became clear the carriage was not about to stop, nor even slow, Sophie glanced up. Chilly reserve had laid hold of Jack’s features; as Sophie watched, he inclined his head in the most remote of greetings.

The carriage swept on, leaving the couple behind. Relaxing against the padded seat, Sophie forced her lips to behave. “And that was?” she prompted.

The glance she received was dark with warning. She met it with a lifted brow—and waited.