A Lady of Expectations and Other Stories

by Stephanie Laurens

  Mr. Somercote gazed earnestly into her face, retaining her hand in a heated clasp. He drew a portentous breath. “My dear Miss Winterton…”

  “It is Miss Winterton, is it not?”

  With abject relief, Sophie turned to the owner of the clipped, somewhat hard tones, beneath which a certain languidness rippled, and beheld a strikingly handsome man, bowing even more elegantly than Jack Lester.

  This last was instantly explained.

  “Harry Lester, Miss Winterton,” the apparition offered, along with a rakish grin. “Jack’s brother.”

  “How do you do, Mr. Lester?” As she calmly gave him her hand, Sophie reflected that in any contest of handsomeness, it would be exceedingly difficult to decide between Jack and Harry Lester, not least because they were so unalike.

  The gentleman currently shaking her hand, then appropriating it in a manner she recognized all too well, was fair where Jack was dark, with green eyes where Jack’s were blue. He was as tall as Jack, but leaner, and there hung about him an aura of dangerous elegance that was distinctly more sharp-edged than Jack’s easy assurance. This Lester possessed an elegance that was almost extreme, an aesthetic’s adherence to Brummel’s dictates, combined with a well-nigh lethal grace.

  Harry’s glance flicked to Mr. Somercote, then returned to Sophie’s face. “Perhaps you would care for a stroll about the rooms, Miss Winterton?”

  The arrogant smile that curved his fatally attractive lips assured Sophie that, despite their physical dissimilarity, the Lesters were certainly brothers beneath the skin. “Indeed, sir. That would be most pleasant.” He had already settled her hand on his sleeve. With a gentle nod for the deflated Mr. Somercote, Sophie allowed Harry to lead her along the floor.

  “You’ve come to town with your aunt and cousins, have you not?”

  Sophie glanced up to find a pair of green eyes lazily regarding her. “Yes, that’s right. The Webbs.”

  “I’m afraid I’ve not had the pleasure of making their acquaintance. Perhaps you could introduce me if we meet?”

  Sophie quickly discovered that Harry, like his brother, had a ready facility for filling in time in a most agreeable, and surprisingly unexceptionable, manner. As they chatted, threading their way through the crowd, she found herself relaxing, then laughing at a tale of a most hilarious excursion in the Park when he and Jack had first come to town. It was only the arrival of her next partner, Mr. Chartwell, that put an end to their amble.

  Jack’s brother yielded her up with a flourish and a wicked smile.

  Smiling herself as she watched him disappear into the crowd, Sophie wondered at the steely danger so apparent in him. It contrasted oddly with Jack’s strength. Not that she had felt the least threatened by Harry Lester—quite the opposite. But she did not think she would like to lose her heart to him.

  Her mind had little respite from thoughts of Lesters; Jack claimed her immediately the dance with Mr. Chartwell concluded, barely giving that gentleman time to take his leave. However, having detected an expression of chagrin in Mr. Chartwell’s mild grey eyes, Sophie was too grateful for her rescue to remonstrate.

  Her gratefulness diminished markedly when it became apparent that Jack’s difficulties in accepting their fate had not yet been resolved.

  “Sophie, I want to talk to you. Privately.” Jack had given up trying to manoeuvre such an interlude subtly. Sophie had proved the most amazingly stubborn female he had ever encountered.

  Sophie lifted her chin. “You know that would be most unwise, let alone inappropriate.”

  Jack swallowed a curse. “Sophie, I swear…” The music for the waltz started up; Jack shackled his temper long enough to sweep Sophie into his arms. Once they were whirling slowly down the room, hemmed in on all sides, he continued, “If I have to put up with much more of this, I’ll—”

  “You’ll do nothing that would force me to cut the connection, I hope?” Sophie kept her eyes wide and her expression serene; they might have been discussing the weather for all anyone could see. But her chest felt tight and her heart had sunk. She held Jack’s gaze and prayed he’d draw back.

  A savage light lit his eyes. Then, with a muttered curse, he looked away. But the tightening of his arm about her told Sophie the argument was far from over. He was holding her far too tight. Sophie made no demur. She had long ago given up hypocritically protesting his transgressions—such as his insistence of using her first name.

  She felt a quiver run through her, felt her body respond to his nearness. That, she supposed, was inevitable. He wanted her—as she wanted him. But it wasn’t to be; their world did not operate that way. They would both marry others, and Jack had to accept the fact gracefully. If he did, then perhaps they could remain friends. It was all she could hope for, and she was selfish enough to cling to his friendship. He shared so many of her interests, much more so than any of the gentlemen vying for her hand. Indeed, she was loweringly aware that not one of them measured up to Jack Lester and that whenever they gave signs of wanting to fix their interest, she felt an immediate aversion for their company. Her heart, no longer hers, was proving very difficult to reconquer.

  Sensing an easing in the tension surrounding her, Sophie slanted a glance at Jack’s face.

  He was watching her, waiting. “Sophie…I’ll accept that you need time to look about you. But I’m not an inherently patient man.” The muscle along his jaw twitched; he stilled it, his eyes never leaving hers. “If you could find some way to hurry up this phase, I’d be eternally grateful.”

  Sophie blinked, her eyes widening. “I…I’ll try.”

  “Do,” Jack replied. “But just remember, Sophie—you’re mine. Nothing, no amount of pretty phrases, will ever change that.”

  The possessiveness in his expression, intransigent, unwavering, stunned Sophie even more than the essence of his arrogant demand. A slow shudder shook her. “Please, Jack…” She looked away, her whisper dying between them.

  Jack shackled the urge to haul her into his arms, to put an end to this wooing here and now. Instead, as the music ceased, he drew her hand through his arm. “Come. I’ll escort you back to your aunt.”

  At least she had called him Jack.

  * * *

  “SOMETHING’S WRONG.”

  It was two nights after Lady Marchmain’s ball. Horatio, already propped amid the pillows, turned to study his wife as she sat at her dressing-table, brushing out her mane of silver-blond hair. “What makes you say that?” he asked, unperturbed by her intense expression.

  Lucilla frowned. “Sophie isn’t happy.”

  “Isn’t she?” Horatio blinked behind his glasses. “Why not? I would have thought, with a horde of would-be suitors, Jack Lester to the fore, she’d be as happy as a young lady could be.”

  “Well, she’s not—and I think it has something to do with Jack Lester, although I cannot, for the life of me, imagine what it could be. Why, the man’s positively eaten by jealousy every time she so much as smiles at another. Anyone with eyes can see it. I really don’t know what more Sophie wants. Jack Lester will be the catch of the Season.”

  “Hmm.” Horatio frowned. “You’re quite sure it’s Jack Lester she wants?”

  Lucilla snorted. “Believe me, my dear, there’s no man Sophie wants even a tenth as much. Indeed, if I was intent on doing my job by the book, I should have warned her long ago not to be so blatant in her preference.”

  “Ah, well.” Horatio shuffled his ever-present documents and laid them aside as Lucilla stood and came towards the bed. “I dare say it’ll work itself out. These things generally do.”

  Lucilla slipped beneath the covers and snuggled down. She waited until Horatio had blown out the candle before saying, “You don’t think I should…well, find out what the problem is?”

  “You mean meddle?” Horatio’s tone made his opinion quite clear even before he said, “No. Let the young make their own mistakes, m’dear. How else do you expect them to learn?”

  Lucilla grimaced in the
dark. “Doubtless you’re right, dear.” She reached under the covers and patted Horatio’s hand. She waited all of a minute before saying, “Actually, I was thinking of organizing a short respite from town. The circus of the Season can become a mite tedious without a break. And I wouldn’t want Sophie or Clarissa to become jaded just yet. What say you to a little house party at Aunt Evangeline’s?”

  Protected by the dark, Horatio slowly smiled. “Whatever you think best, m’dear.”

  It wouldn’t hurt for the young people to have a little time together—time enough to correct their mistakes.

  * * *

  BUT FATE HAD NOT yet consented to smile again on Jack. And as for Sophie, she was finding it hard to smile at all.

  The thought that Jack wanted her to marry as soon as possible was depressing enough. The idea of what he imagined would happen after was even more so. Her dreams were in tatters; Sophie found it increasingly hard to support her serene façade. She had made a habit of joining circles with Belle Chessington, relying on her friend’s unquenchably cheery constitution to conceal her flagging spirits. But her glow was entirely superficial. Inside was all deepening gloom.

  She had just returned to her circle on the arm of Mr. Chartwell, who was becoming more assiduous with every passing day, when a deep voice set her heart thumping.

  “I do hope, Miss Winterton, that you’ve saved me a dance.” Jack smiled into Sophie’s eyes as he took her hand and drew her away from her court. “I’ve been teaching Ned how to tie his cravat, and it took rather longer than either of us expected.”

  Sophie felt her nerves knot and pull tight. Was this, she wondered, as they strolled down the room, how it was going to be later? Would he simply arrive and appropriate her at will? Tensing, she lifted her chin. “I’m afraid my card is full, Mr. Lester.”

  Jack frowned slightly. “I had rather supposed it would be. But you have kept a dance for me, haven’t you?”

  They both nodded to Miss Berry, ensconced on a chaise, then continued onward in silence. Sophie struggled to find words for her purpose.

  Somewhat abruptly, their progress halted and her escort drew her to face him.

  “Sophie?” Jack’s frown was gathering force.

  Sophie’s eyes met his, cloudy, turbulent, intensely blue. Her heart thudding uncomfortably in her throat, she slid her gaze from his. “As it happens, I have not yet accepted anyone for the second waltz.”

  “You have now.” Smothering the dark, almost violent passion that had threatened to erupt, Jack trapped her hand on his sleeve and continued their stroll.

  He pointedly returned Sophie to her aunt, some little way from her cloying court. Surrendering her up for their delectation was presently beyond him. His expression somewhat grim, he bowed over Sophie’s hand. “Until the second waltz, Miss Winterton.”

  With that, he left her, his mood even more savage than when he had arrived.

  For Sophie, the second waltz arrived far too soon. She had not yet regained her composure, seriously strained by the events of the past weeks and now close to breaking. Jack’s arm about her whirled her effortlessly down the floor; Sophie held herself stiffly, battling the impulse to surrender to his strength.

  So absorbed was she with her struggle that the first she knew of their departure from the ballroom was the cool touch of the night air on her face.

  “Where…?” Distracted, Sophie glanced about and discovered they were on a terrace. But that, apparently, was not their destination, for Jack, his arm still hard about her waist, urged her on. “Jack!” Sophie tried to dig in her heels.

  Jack stopped and looked down at her. “You were obviously finding the waltz a trial. I thought you might need some air.”

  Sophie relaxed slightly, and found she was moving again. “Where are we going?”

  The answer was a garden room, built onto the house beyond the end of the terrace. Walls of windows let the moonlight pour in, silvering everything in sight. A few padded cane chairs and two little tables were scattered about the small room, which was, Sophie realized as she heard the door click behind them, mercifully empty.

  Which was just as well, for Jack demanded without preamble, “How much longer, Sophie?”

  Sophie swung about and found him advancing on her.

  “How much longer are you going to make me suffer?”

  Her hand rose as if to ward him off; it came to rest on his chest as he halted directly before her. Feeling the warmth of his body through his coat, Sophie shivered. She looked up into his shadowed face, the planes hard and unyielding, and a small spurt of temper flared inside. How did he think she felt, having to give up the man she loved—and having that man urge her to do it? Her chin lifted. “I’m afraid the decision is not that simple. In fact, I find the attentions of my present admirers not at all to my taste.”

  That admission went a long way towards easing the tension that held Jack in its grip. He could feel it flowing from him, the muscles of his shoulders and back relaxing.

  Still considering her suitors, Sophie frowned. “I’m afraid I would not be happy accepting any of my present suitors.”

  An icy chill stole over Jack’s heart. It beat three times before he asked, “None?”

  Sophie shook her head. “I don’t know what to do. I must accept someone by the end of the Season.”

  The chill was slowly spreading through Jack’s veins. He touched his tongue to his lips, then asked, “Why not me?”

  Startled, Sophie glanced up at him. “But…” She frowned. “I can’t marry you—you know I can’t.” She could see very little of his expression through the shadows veiling his face. And nothing at all of his eyes.

  “Why not?” Sight wouldn’t have helped her; Jack’s expression was hard, impassive, all emotion suppressed. “We both know I’ve all the attributes you seek in a husband: a country estate, a wish to reside in the country, a desire for children, to have a family about me. That’s what you want, isn’t it?”

  Sophie stared up at him.

  “And, of course,” Jack continued, his lips twisting in an uncertain smile, “we have something else between us.” Raising a hand, he delicately drew the tip of one finger from the point of Sophie’s shoulder, exposed by her wide neckline, across to the base of her throat, then down to where the deep cleft between her breasts was visible above her gown. Sophie shivered and caught her breath.

  “A…compatibility,” Jack said, “that makes all the rest fade into insignificance.” His eyes rose to trap Sophie’s stunned gaze. “Isn’t it so, Sophie?”

  Sophie swallowed. “But I have no fortune. Nothing but expectations.”

  “That doesn’t matter.” Jack’s gaze sharpened. He drew a deep breath. “Sophie—”

  In a sudden breathless rush, Sophie put her fingers over his lips. “No!” she squeaked, and cursed her quavering voice. At last she understood—and knew what she must do. Drawing in a determined breath, consciously steeling herself, she drew back, forcing herself to hold his gaze. “I’m afraid you don’t understand, Jack. I’ve never been wealthy in my life—I came to London determined to marry well.” The lie came out so easily. Her eyes falling from his, Sophie searched for more words to shore it up. “I know I didn’t say so, but I thought you understood. Nothing…” She paused to make sure her voice would not waver. “Nothing I’ve seen in London has changed my mind; I require that my preferred suitor has considerable wealth.”

  The words came out more than creditably. Sophie heard them; her heart thudded painfully in her breast but she held herself erect, head high. Far better he think her lost to all sensibility than that he offer to marry her, mortgaging his future, turning his back on those responsibilities that were so very important to him. He was just like Lucilla—ready to sacrifice all for love. She wouldn’t allow it.

  “But…” Jack couldn’t have felt more stunned had she slapped him. His brain reeled, grappling with the fact that Sophie did not know of his true circumstances. He had assumed Horatio would tell Lucilla, wh
o in turn would have told Sophie. Obviously not. The facts were on his lips. Chill reason froze them there.

  He looked down at Sophie’s face, calm and serene in the moonlight, the face of the woman he had thought he understood. But she was intent on marrying for money—so intent she would happily put aside what was between them, turn away from his love, and hers, in exchange for cold hard cash. Fate was playing games with him; his golden head had gold on her mind. Did he really want to win her by revealing his disgusting wealth? How would he feel when she smiled and came to his arms, knowing that it had taken money to get her there?

  There was a bitter taste in his mouth. Jack drew a sharp breath and looked up, over Sophie’s head. He felt cold. A steel fist had closed about his heart, squeezing unmercifully.

  He took a jerky step back. “I regret, Miss Winterton, if my…attentions have been unwelcome. I will not trouble you more. I realize my actions must have complicated your search for…a suitable suitor. You have my apologies.” With a curt bow, Jack turned to leave. And hesitated.

  His face in profile, Sophie saw his lips twist in the travesty of a smile. Then he turned his head to look down at her. “I can only hope, my dear, that when you find your pot of gold at the end of the rainbow you’re not disappointed.” With a curt nod, he strode away, opening and shutting the door carefully.

  Leaving Sophie in the centre of the empty room.

  For a long moment, she remained as she was, proudly erect, then her shoulders slumped. Sophie bowed her head, drawing in an aching breath, squeezing her eyes tight against the pain that blossomed inside.

  Ten minutes later, she returned to the ballroom, no trace of misery on her face. Coolly composed, she joined her little circle, brightly responding to Belle Chessington’s quips. A quick glance about revealed the fact that Jack’s dark head was nowhere to be seen. Sophie crumpled inside. She had done the right thing. She must remember that.

  If this was what it took to ensure he prospered and lived the life he should live, so be it.