A Lady of Expectations

by Stephanie Laurens

  The first waltz was duly announced, and Clarissa, blushing delicately, went down the floor with her father, a surprisingly graceful dancer. At the conclusion of the measure, Horatio beamed down at her. “Well, my dear. You’re officially out now. Are you pleased?”

  Clarissa smiled brilliantly. “Indeed, yes, Papa,” she said, and meant it.

  The crowd parted and she looked ahead. To see Ned leading another young lady from the floor. Clarissa’s smile faded.

  Horatio noticed. “I had better return you to your court, my dear.” Blandly, he added, “But do spare a thought for your old father. Don’t line up too many suitors for your hand.”

  Apparently unaware of Clarissa’s startled glance, Horatio guided her back to her circle, then, with a blithely paternal pat on her hand, left her to them.

  “I say, Miss Webb.” Lord Swindon was greatly smitten. “You waltz divinely. You must have been practising incessantly up in Leicestershire.”

  “May I get you a glass of lemonade, Miss Webb? Thirsty work, dancing.” This from Lord Thurstow, a genial red-haired gentleman whose girth explained his conjecture.

  But the most frightening comment came from Mr. Marley, a young sprig who considered himself a budding poet. “An ode … I feel an ode burgeoning in my brain. To your incomparable grace, and the effect it has on your poor followers who have to watch you take the floor in another’s arms. Argh!”

  Clarissa eyed the flushed young man in alarm. Gracious, were they all so unutterably silly?

  As the evening wore on, she decided that they were. This was not what she had come to London to find. Being mooned over by gentlemen she classed as barely older than Jeremy and George was hardly the stuff of her dreams. Stuck with her court, surrounded on all sides, Clarissa met their sallies with guileless smiles, while inwardly she considered her options.

  When Ned reappeared and rescued her, leading her into the set forming for a country dance, the truth dawned.

  Smiling up at him, Clarissa shyly said, “It’s such a relief to dance with someone I know.”

  Mindful of his instructions, Ned merely raised a brow. “Is it?” Then he smiled, a touch of condescension in his manner. “Don’t worry, you’ll soon get used to all the attention.”

  Stunned, Clarissa stared at him.

  “Not a bad ball, this,” Ned cheerily remarked. “Your mother must be pleased at the turnout. Don’t think I’ve seen so many young ladies all at once before.”

  It was, perhaps, as well for Ned that the dance separated them at that point. When they came together again, Clarissa, her nose in the air, treated him to a frosty glance. “As you say,” she said, “I’m sure I’ll learn how to respond suitably to all the compliments the gentlemen seem so intent on pressing on me. I must ask Mama how best to encourage them.”

  Again the dance averted catastrophe. By the time the music finally died, Ned, chilly and remote, led Clarissa, equally distant and frigid, back to her circle. After perfunctorily bowing over her hand, Ned quit the vicinity, leaving Clarissa to deal with her importunate followers, her cheeks flushed, a dangerous glint in her large eyes.

  A little distance away, Sophie had started to compile a list of potential suitors. The task was not difficult, for they promptly presented themselves before her, all but declaring their interest. The basis for their attraction had her mystified until Lord Annerby confessed, “The young misses are not really my style.” When the movements of the quadrille brought them together again, he admitted, “Been hoping a lady like you would hove on my horizon. Not just in the common way, and not likely to giggle in a man’s ear, if you take my meaning.”

  After that, Sophie paid a little more attention to her would-be swains, and discovered that many were, indeed, like his lordship: gentlemen who had been waiting for a lady such as she, not in the first flush of youth but yet young, presentable and altogether acceptable, to appear and walk up the aisle with them. With their reasons explained, she turned her attention to their attributes.

  “I understand your estates are in Northamptonshire, Mr. Somercote. I hail from that county myself.”

  “Do you?” As they glided through the steps of the cotillion, Mr. Somercote made a visible effort to produce his next statement. “Somercote Hall lies just beyond the village of Somercote in the northwesternmost corner of the county.”

  Sophie nodded and smiled encouragingly, but apparently that was the full extent of Mr. Somercot’s loquacity. As they returned through the crowd to where her admirers were waiting, she mentally crossed his name off her list.

  The Marquess of Huntly was her next partner. “Tell me, Miss Winterton, do you enjoy the amenities of London?”

  “I do indeed, my lord,” Sophie replied. The marquess was Lord Percy’s elder brother and, despite his bluff appearance and a tendency to stoutness, was unquestionably eligible.

  “I’ve heard that you ride in the Park. Mayhap we’ll meet one fine morning.”

  “Perhaps,” Sophie returned, her smile noncommittal.

  As they left the floor, Sophie decided the marquess could remain on her list for the present. Perhaps a meeting in the Park, with her younger cousins in tow, would be useful? She was pondering the point when a deep voice cut across her thoughts.

  “I believe our waltz is next, Miss Winterton.” Jack nodded to the marquess. “Huntly.”

  “Lester.” The marquess returned his nod. “Seen Percy about?”

  “He was chatting with Harrison earlier in the evening.”

  “Suppose I should go and have a word with him. M’brother, you know,” the marquess confided to Sophie. “M’father’s been at death’s door—should see how he is. If you’ll excuse me, m’dear?”

  Even as she stared at Lord Huntly’s retreating back, Sophie’s mental pencil was scrubbing out his name. Such callousness was appalling.

  Seeing her shocked expression, Jack abruptly shut his lips on the explanation he had been about to make. He did not consider Huntly a rival—but why make a whip for his own back? Appropriating Sophie’s hand, he laid it on his sleeve. “Perhaps we could stroll about the room until the waltz commences?”

  Sophie blinked, then frowned. “I really should return to my aunt.”

  His own frown hidden behind an urbane smile, Jack inclined his head and dutifully led her to where her court was waiting.

  An unwise move. He was not impressed by the small crowd of eligibles who apparently could find nothing better to do at the first major ball of the Season than congregate about his Sophie. His temper was not improved by having to listen to them vie to heap accolades upon their compliments. For their part, they ignored him, secure in the knowledge that Sophie’s expectations were insufficient to permit him to woo her. The thought made Jack smile inwardly. The smile turned to a suppressed growl when he heard Sophie say, “I do indeed enjoy the opera, Lord Annerby.”

  She then smiled serenely at his lordship.

  “I’ll be sure to let you know when the season begins, my dear Miss Winterton.” Lord Annerby all but gloated.

  Jack gritted his teeth. He had avoided the opera for years—a fact that owed nothing to the performances but rather more to those performing. To his immense relief, the strains of the waltz heralded his salvation. “Miss Winterton?”

  Surprised, Sophie blinked up at him even as she put her hand in his. His fingers closed tightly about hers. His words had sounded like a command. An inkling of a difficulty she had not previously considered awoke in Sophie’s brain.

  Without further speech, Jack led Sophie to the door, drawing her into his arms with an arrogance that bespoke his mind far too well. He knew it, but did not care. The relief as she settled into his arms was balm to his lacerated feelings.

  As they joined the swirling crowd on the floor, Jack considered closing his eyes. He would wager he could waltz round any ballroom blindfolded, so accustomed was he to the exercise. And with his eyes closed, his senses would be free to concentrate solely on Sophie—on the soft warmth of her, on how well
she fitted in his arms, on the subtle caress of her silk-encased thighs against his.

  Stifling a sigh, he kept his eyes open.

  “Are you enjoying the ball, Mr. Lester?”

  Sophie’s calm and rather distant comment drew Jack’s eyes from contemplation of her curls. He considered her question, simultaneously considering her invitingly full lips. “I’m enjoying this waltz,” he replied.

  Raising his eyes to hers, Jack watched a frown form in the sky-blue orbs. Puzzled, he continued, “But when are you going to call me Jack? I’ve been calling you Sophie for weeks.”

  He had never before seen a lady blush and frown simultaneously.

  “I know,” Sophie admitted, forcing herself to throw him a disapproving glance. “And you know you should not. It’s not at all acceptable.”

  Jack simply smiled.

  Sophie shot him an exasperated glance, then transferred her gaze to the safe space above his shoulder. As always, being in his arms had a distinctly unnerving affect on her. A fluttery, shivery awareness had her in its grip; breathless excitement threatened her wits. His strength reached out and enfolded her, seductively beckoning, enticing her mind to dwell on prospects she could not even dream of without blushing.

  She blushed now, and was thankful to hear the closing bars of the waltz.

  Jack saw her blush but was far too wise to comment. Instead, he smoothly escorted her into supper, adroitly snaffling a plate of delicacies and managing to install plate, glasses of champagne and Sophie at a small table tucked away near the conservatory.

  He had reckoned without her court. They came swarming about, sipping champagne and, to Jack’s mind, making thorough nuisances of themselves. He bore it stoically, repeatedly reminding himself that Lucilla would not consider the first major ball of the Season a suitable venue for him to declare his intentions. When the light meal was over, he insisted on escorting Sophie all the way back to her aunt’s side.

  The look he bent on Lucilla made her hide a grin.

  With Sophie and Clarissa both claimed for the next dance, Lucilla turned her large eyes on Jack. “I must say, Mr. Lester, that you’re doing a very good job on Ned.”

  Somewhat stiffly, Jack inclined his head. “I’m glad the transformation meets with your approval, ma’am.”

  “Indeed. I’m most grateful. Immensely grateful.”

  Seeing Lady Entwhistle fast approaching, clearly intent on having a word in Lucilla’s ear, Jack bowed briefly and drifted into the crowd. As he passed the dancers, he heard a silvery laugh. Glancing up, he saw Sophie, smiling brightly up at Lord Ainsley, a handsome and very rich peer.

  Muting his growl, Jack swung into an alcove. What numbskull had invented the practice of wooing? Lucilla’s comment, which he felt confident in interpreting as open encouragement, was welcome enough. However, the last thing his passions needed right now was further encouragement, particularly when the object of said passions was behaving in a manner designed to enflame them.

  Suppressing his curses, he set himself to endure. He could have left, but the night was yet young. Besides, he was not sufficiently sure of Ned to leave his protégé unsupported. At the thought, Jack drew his gaze from Sophie’s bright curls and scanned the dancers for Clarissa.

  Predictably, Sophie’s cousin was smiling up at an elegant youth as she went down the floor in the dance. Jack silently harrumphed, then switched his gaze back to Sophie. Clarissa was clearly absorbed with her partner.

  In so thinking, Jack erred.

  Although Clarissa smiled and nodded at Mr. Pommeroy’s stilted conversation, her attention was far removed from that blameless young gentleman. From the corner of her eye, she could see Ned dancing with Miss Ellis in the next set. The sight filled Clarissa with a sort of quiet fury she had never before experienced. Regardless of its import, it was quite clearly time to refocus Ned’s attention on that which had brought him to town.

  Her eyes narrowing, Clarissa herself refocused—on Mr. Pommeroy. She grimaced. Startled, Mr. Pommeroy stumbled and almost fell. Guiltily, for she had not meant to grimace openly, Clarissa applied herself to soothing her partner’s ruffled feathers while looking about her for inspiration.

  Her court, unfortunately, had little to offer. They were so young; not even in her wildest dreams could she cast them in the role she was rapidly becoming convinced she needed filled. Back amongst them, responding to their quips with but half her mind, Clarissa grimly watched as Ned joined the crowd about two sisters also making their come-out this year. Inwardly sniffing, Clarissa shifted her gaze—and saw Toby coming towards her, a positive Adonis in tow.

  “Ah, Clarissa?” Toby came to an uncertain halt before his sister. “Might I make known to you Captain Gurnard? He’s with the Guards.” Toby was unsure how his sister would react, but the captain had been keen to gain a personal introduction, something Toby could see no harm in.

  Clarissa’s wide eyes took in every detail of the tall, broad-shouldered figure bowing before her. The captain was clad in scarlet regimentals; his tightly curled hair gleamed like fool’s gold in the candlelight. As he straightened, Clarissa caught the hard gleam in his eyes and the cynical tilt of his mouth before unctuous gratification overlaid them.

  Clarissa smiled brilliantly and held out her hand. “How do you do, Captain? Have you been with the Guards long?”

  Blinking, Toby inwardly shrugged and took himself off.

  Dazzled, Captain Gurnard saw nothing beyond Clarissa’s guileless china-blue eyes and her delicately curved lips. He could only conclude that Fate had taken pity on him. With a consciously charming smile, he reluctantly released Clarissa’s hand. “I’ve been with my regiment for some years, my dear.”

  “Some years?” Clarissa’s expression was all innocent bewilderment. “But—” She broke off and shyly put one hand to her lips. “Indeed,” she whispered, half-confidingly. “I had not thought you so old as all that, Captain.”

  Gurnard laughed easily. “Indeed, Miss Webb. I greatly fear I must admit to being quite in my dotage compared with such a sweet child as yourself.” His expression sobered. “In truth,” he added, his voice low, “I fear I cannot compete with these young pups that surround you. The blithe and easy words of youth have long ago left me.”

  Ignoring the rising hackles of said pups, Clarissa smiled sweetly and leaned towards the captain to say, “Indeed, sir, I find a little of such blithe and easy words is more than a surfeit. Honest words are always more acceptable to the hearer.”

  The smile on Captain Gurnard’s face grew. “Perhaps, my dear, in order to hear such honest words, you would consent to stroll the room with me? Just until the next dance begins?”

  Plastering a suitably ingenuous smile on her lips, Clarissa nodded with apparent delight. Rising, she placed her fingertips on the captain’s scarlet sleeve.

  As he led her into the crowd, Captain Gurnard could not restrain the smugness of his smile. He would have been supremely disconcerted had he known that Clarissa’s inner smile outdid his.

  Sophie, meanwhile, had run into a problem, an obstacle to her endeavours. Large, lean and somehow oddly menacing, Jack had left his retreat, where he had been propping up the wall, to gravitate to her side, a hungry predator lured, she suspected, by the smiles she bestowed on the gentlemen about her.

  Under her subtle encouragement, her potential suitors preened.

  Jack looked supremely bored. Having by dint of superior experience won through to her side, he towered over her, his expression rigidly controlled, his eyes a chilly blue.

  Sophie felt distinctly irate. He was intimidating her suitors. She did not like her current course, but it was the only one open to her, a fact she felt Jack should acknowledge, rather than get on his high ropes because. Well, the only conclusion she could reach was that he was jealous of the attention she was paying the other men.

  But it was from among them she would have to chose a husband, and she felt increasingly annoyed when Jack continued to make her task more difficult
. When Sir Stuart Mablethorpe, a distinguished scholar, met Jack’s gaze and promptly forgot whatever lengthy peroration he had been about to utter, Sophie shot her nemesis a frosty glance.

  Jack met it with bland imperturbability.

  Thoroughly incensed, Sophie was only too ready to smile at Lord Ruthven, a gentleman she suspected had much in common with Jack Lester, in all respects bar one. Lord Ruthven did not need a wealthy bride.

  One of Lord Ruthven’s dark brows rose fractionally.

  “Perhaps, Miss Winterton,” he said as he straightened from his bow, “you might care to stroll the room?” His gaze flicked to Jack, then returned to Sophie’s face.

  Ignoring the glint in Ruthven’s eyes, Sophie replied, “Indeed, sir. I’m becoming quite fatigued standing here.”

  Ruthven’s lips twitched. “No doubt. Permit me to offer you an escape, my dear.” Thus saying, he offered her his arm.

  With determined serenity, Sophie placed her hand on his lordship’s sleeve, refusing to acknowledge the charged silence beside her. She was too wise to even glance at Jack as, with Ruthven, she left his side.

  Which was just as well. Only when he was sure his emotions were once more under control did Jack allow so much as a muscle to move. And by then, Sophie and Ruthven were halfway down the room. His expression stony, Jack considered the possibilities; only the glint in his eyes betrayed his mood. Then, with his usual languid air, he strolled into the crowd, his course set for a collision with his golden head.

  By the time she reached the end of the room, Sophie had realized that Ruthven’s green eyes saw rather more than most. All the way down the room, he had subtly twitted her on her keeper. She suspected, however, that his lordship’s indolent interest was more excited by the prospect of tweaking Jack’s nose than by her own inherent attractions. Which was both comforting and a trifle worrying.

  Together, she and Lord Ruthven paused beneath the minstrels’ gallery and turned to survey the room.

  “Ah, there you are, Ruthven.” Jack materialized out of the crowd. He smiled easily at his lordship. “I just saw Lady Orkney by the stairs. She was asking after you.”