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 d
isapproving 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, e
ffectively 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.”
A Lady of Expectations and Other Stories Page 12