A Lady of Expectations

by Stephanie Laurens

  He then turned to study Sophie, one brow rising. “Well, my dear?” With a graceful gesture, he indicated the boat and the curtain cutting off the bow. His slow, slightly crooked smile twisted his lips. “Will you trust yourself to me tonight?”

  For an instant, Sophie stared down at him, oblivious of those about them, of the sly yet careful glances cast her by the boatmen. All she could see was Jack, waiting for her, a very definite glint in his eyes. For an instant, she closed her own. What he was suggesting was perfectly scandalous. Drawing in a deep breath, she opened her eyes and, with a soft smile, stepped to the edge of the jetty.

  The familiar feel of Jack’s hands about her waist was reassuring, soothing the peculiar jitteriness that, all of a sudden, had afflicted her. He set her down beside him, one arm slipping about her to steady her as he helped her across the rowing benches. Parting the heavy damask curtain that screened the bow, he ushered her through.

  Sophie entered a private and very luxurious world of moonlight glinting on water. The curtain fell closed behind them, sealing them in. With a slight lurch, the boat got under way. Jack’s arm came to urge her to a seat as the boat nosed out onto the river. Once clear of the craft by the jetty, the boat pulled smoothly, powerfully, upstream.

  As her eyes adjusted to the deep shadows beneath the canopy, Sophie, fascinated, gazed about. She was seated amid a pile of huge silk cushions spread over a satin-draped platform, heavily padded, that was constructed to fit snugly across the bow. The platform all but filled the area behind the curtain, leaving barely enough room for a wine cooler, which, she noticed, contained a bottle, already open and chilling, and a small fixed buffet holding glasses and small dishes of unidentifiable delicacies. Jack turned from examining the buffet’s offerings to look down at her.

  “I think we’ll leave the caviar for second course.”

  Sophie’s eyes widened. She didn’t need to ask what he fancied for the first. His eyes, even in the shadows, gleamed as they rested on her. Clearing her throat, suddenly dry, she asked, a trifle unsteadily, “You planned this?”

  His smile was smugly triumphant. “To the last detail,” Jack averred, coming to lounge on the cushions beside her. “It’s customary, you know.”

  “Is it?” Sophie stared at him.

  “Mmm-hmm.” Jack leaned back, gazing upward to where the canopy overhead was drawn partially back, revealing the black velvet of the sky sprinkled with jewelled stars. “Seductions are never so satisfying as when they’re well-planned.”

  Sophie bit her lip and eyed him warily.

  His gaze on her face, Jack laughed and, reaching up, drew her down to lie among the cushions beside him. Sophie hesitated, then yielded to his gentle strength. Propped on one elbow, Jack smiled down into her wide eyes. Then he bent his head and kissed her, long and lingeringly, before whispering against her lips, “I’m not teasing, Sophie.”

  A thrill of desire raced through Sophie, all the way down to her toes. She opened her lips on a feeble protest—and Jack kissed her again. And kept kissing her until she had no breath left to speak.

  “No, Sophie.” Jack dropped soft kisses on her eyelids as his fingers deftly unbuttoned her gown. “I’ve had more than enough of wooing you, my love. You’re mine, and I’m yours. And nothing else matters.” His voice deepened at the last as he looked down at her breast, the firm ivory flesh filling his palm.

  Sophie arched lightly as his thumb circled the rosy peak. Unable to speak, barely able to breathe, she watched him from beneath heavy lids as he caressed her. Then he lowered his head and she stopped breathing altogether, her fingers sinking into his shoulders as his tongue lightly teased, knowingly tantalized.

  “Besides,” Jack murmured against her soft skin. “We’ve only one thing left to discuss.”

  “Discuss?” The word came out weakly on a slow exhalation, the best Sophie could manage, her mind struggling against the drugging haze of his caresses.

  “Hmm. We have to discuss what I’ll accept as suitable recompense for my torture.”

  “Torture?” Sophie knew about torture. She was being tortured now, his hands touching her so skilfully she was gripped by an urgent longing. “What torture?”

  “The torture of having to woo you, sweet Sophie.”

  Sophie stirred, consumed by the sweetest ache. “Was it torture?”

  “Torture and worse,” Jack vowed, his voice deep and raspy.

  Sophie sighed. “What do you consider suitable recompense?” She just managed to get the words out before he stole her breath again with a caress so artful she thought she could faint. She didn’t, but the sensations didn’t stop, darting through her like lightning, spreading like warm fire beneath her skin.

  Aeons filled with pleasure seemed to have passed before she heard his soft murmur.

  “I know what I want as my reward for wooing you. Will you give it me?”

  “Yes.” Her voice was a soft whisper on the breeze.

  Jack raised his head, a smile twisting his lips. “I haven’t yet told you what I want.”

  Sophie returned his smile with one of her own. “It had better be me—for that’s all I have to give you.”

  For the first time in his rakish career, Jack was lost for words. He looked down into her eyes, passion-filled and mysterious. “Sophie.” His voice was hoarse, dark with his turbulent passions. “You’re all I’ll ever want.”

  “Then take me,” Sophie murmured, wondering, very distantly, how she dared. She reached up and drew his lips to hers before her sane self could resurface and disturb the glorious moment.

  Thereafter, her sanity or otherwise was not in question; desire caught her and held her until she glowed with its flame. Jack fed her fires, never letting her cool, until she ached for him to join her. When he did, it was as if the sun shone brightly out of the night-dark sky. Sophie surrendered to joy and delight and rapturous, delirious pleasure. For one timeless moment, she felt that she had flown so high she could touch the stars gleaming in the firmament. Then she softly drifted back to earth, safe, forever, in Jack’s strong arms.

  The gentle rocking of the boat, and Jack’s heavy weight, drew her slowly back to reality.

  Surprisingly, Sophie found her mind oddly clear, as if the sensations that had held her body in thrall had proved so overpowering that her wits had disengaged and retreated to a safe distance. She could feel the cool caress of the river breeze on her naked skin and her lover’s touch as, propped now beside her, he gently stroked her hair from her face. She opened her eyes and looked up. He was a dark shadow as he hung over her, solid and comforting in the moonlight. Sophie listened for the shush of the water under the hull—and made a discovery. “We’re not moving.”

  Jack’s smile gleamed in the moonlight. “We’re moored. Off a private park. The men left us nearly an hour ago.” He reached up to spread out her curling hair, released from its moorings. “They’ll come back later and take us home. My carriage will be waiting at the steps.”

  Sophie blinked. “You really did think of everything.”

  His smile grew broader. “I always aim to please.” He shifted slightly, drawing her more comfortably into his arms and tucking a silk shawl tenderly about her. “And now that I’ve pleased you, how soon can we be wed?”

  Still slightly dazed, Sophie stared up at him, marshalling her wandering wits.

  “Not that I’m trying to rush you, my love, but there are any number of reasons why an early, if not immediate, wedding would suit us best.”

  As he turned her hand over to press a kiss into her palm, and the touch of his lips stirred the embers that were only now dying within her, Sophie abruptly nodded. “I see your point.” She stopped to clear her throat, amazed she could think at all. “My father’s due back for a quick visit next month—can we wait until then?”

  Jack raised his head to look down at her. “It might be hard.” He smiled, his usual crooked smile. “But I suspect we can wait until then.”

  Sophie sighed, deeply conten
t. She put up a hand to brush back the dark locks from his forehead. “You’ll have to marry me; you’ve thoroughly compromised me. We’ve been away for far too long.”

  “I always intended to marry you. From the moment I first saw you in Lady Asfordby’s ballroom.”

  Sophie studied his face in the moonlight. “Did you really?”

  “From the moment I saw you dancing with that upstart Marston,” Jack admitted. “I was smitten then and there.”

  “Oh, Jack!”

  After the necessary exchange of affection brought on by that revelation, Sophie was the first to return to reality. “Dear Heaven,” she exclaimed weakly. “We’ve been gone for hours.”

  Jack caught the hint of concern dawning in her voice. “Don’t worry. Horatio knows you’re with me.”

  Fascinated, Sophie stared at him. “Did you tell my aunt, too?”

  “Good God.” Jack shuddered. “What a horrible thought. If I had, I’d lay odds she’d have given me instructions. I don’t think my pride could have stood it.” Jack dropped a soft kiss on one delectable rosy peak. “Your aunt, my love, is just plain dangerous.”

  Privately, Sophie agreed but was far too distracted to find words to say so. Sometime later, her mind drifting in dazed consideration of the future he had spread before her, the home, the family—everything she had ever wanted—with him by her side, she returned to his point. “Speaking of marriage, sir, you have not yet asked me to marry you.”

  “I have—you quibbled and refused.”

  Sophie smiled into the night. “But you’re supposed to ask me again, now that my uncle has given me permission to receive your addresses.”

  Jack sighed lustily, then shifted to move over her, one elbow planted on either side, his expression arrogantly commanding. His eyes, deep dark pools within which passion still smouldered, transfixed her.

  “Very well, Miss Winterton. For the very last time—will you marry me? I realize, of course, that you are only a lady of expectations and not an heiress. However, as it transpires, I neither need nor want a wealthy bride. You, my beautiful, desirable Sophie—” Jack bent his head to do homage to her lips “—will do just wonderfully. You, my love, fulfil all my expectations.” Another kiss stole her breath. “Every last one.”

  A soft smile curving her lips, her gaze misty with happiness, Sophie reached up to slide her arms about his neck. Her acceptance was delivered, not in words but in those actions which, to her mind, and Jack’s spoke best.

  AS THE WEBB CARRIAGE rocked into motion, leaving the shadows of Vauxhall behind, Lucilla sank back against the squabs. On the opposite seat, Jeremy and George yawned and closed their eyes, their faces wreathed in seraphic smiles. Behind, in the smaller carriage, Toby, Ned and Clarissa were doubtless still exclaiming over their exciting evening. Lucilla, however, was not impressed.

  She had just been informed that Jack would be returning Sophie to Mount Street by a different route.

  It was several long moments before she trusted herself to speak.

  “And you told me not to meddle.” With an audible humph, she cast a disgusted glance at her spouse.

  Horatio was too wise to answer. He smiled serenely, glancing upriver as the carriage rattled over the bridge.

  Find out what happens next with

  the Lester family and turn the page to read an excerpt

  from An Unwilling Conquest.

  CHAPTER ONE

  “IS IT THE DEVIL we’re running from, then?”

  The question, uttered in the mildest of tones, made Harry Lester wince. “Worse,” he threw over his shoulder at his groom and general henchman, Dawlish. “The matchmaking mamas—in league with the dragons of the ton.” Harry edged back on the reins, feathering a curve at speed. He saw no reason to ease the wicked pace. His match greys, sleek and powerful, were quite content to keep the bits between their teeth. His curricle rushed along in their wake; Newmarket lay ahead. “And we’re not running—it’s called a strategic retreat.”

  “Is that so? Well, can’t say I blame you,” came in Dawlish’s dour accents. “Who’d ever have thought to see Master Jack landed—and without much of a fight, if Pinkerton’s on the up. Right taken aback, is Pinkerton.” When this information elicited no response, Dawlish added, “Considering his position, he is.”

  Harry snorted. “Nothing will part Pinkerton from Jack—not even a wife. He’ll swallow the pill when the time comes.” “Aye—p’raps. Still, can’t say I’d relish the prospect of answering to a missus—not after all these years.”

  Harry’s lips quirked. Realising that Dawlish, riding on the box behind him, couldn’t see it, he gave into the urge to smile. Dawlish had been with him forever, having, as a fifteen-yearold groom, attached himself to the second son of the Lester household the instant said son had been put atop a pony. Their old cook had maintained it was a clear case of like to like; Dawlish’s life was horses—he had recognised a master in the making and had followed doggedly in his wake. “You needn’t worry, you old curmudgeon. I can assure you I’ve no intention, willingly or otherwise, of succumbing to any siren’s lures.”

  “All very well to say so,” Dawlish grumbled. “But when these things happen, seems like there’s no gainsaying them. Just look at Master Jack.”

  “I’d rather not,” Harry curtly replied. Dwelling on his elder brother’s rapid descent into matrimony was an exercise guaranteed to shake his confidence. With only two years separating them, he and Jack had led much the same lives. They’d come on the town together more than ten years ago. Admittedly, Jack had less reason than he to question love’s worth, nevertheless, his brother had been, as Dawlish had observed, a most willing conquest. The fact made him edgy.

  “You planning on keeping from London for the rest of yore life?”

  “I sincerely hope it won’t come to that.” Harry checked the greys for a slight descent. The heath lay before them, a haven free of matchmakers and dragons alike. “Doubtless my uninterest will be duly noted. With any luck, if I lay low, they’ll have forgotten me by next Season.”

  “Wouldn’t have thought, with all the energy you’ve put into raising a reputation like you have, that they’d be so keen.” Harry’s lip curled. “Money, Dawlish, will serve to excuse any number of sins.”

  He waited, expecting Dawlish to cap the comment with some gloomy pronouncement to the effect that if the madams of society could overlook his transgressions then no one was safe. But no comment came; his gaze fixed unseeing on his leader’s ears, Harry grudgingly reflected that the wealth with which he and his brothers, Gerald as well as Jack, had recently been blessed, was indeed sufficient to excuse a lifetime of social sins.

  His illusions were few—he knew who and what he was—a rake, one of the wolves of the ton, a hellion, a Corinthian, a superlative rider and exceptional breeder of quality horseflesh, an amateur boxer of note, an excellent shot, a keen and successful huntsman on the field and off. For the past ten and more years, Society had been his playing field. Capitalising on natural talents, and the position his birth had bestowed, he had spent the years in hedonistic pleasure, sampling women much as he had the wines. There’d been none to gainsay him, none to stand in his path and challenge his profligate ways.

  Now, of course, with a positively disgusting fortune at his back, they’d be lining up to do so. Harry snorted and refocused on the road. The sweet damsels of the ton could offer until they were blue in the face—he wasn’t about to buy.

  The junction with the road to Cambridge loomed ahead. Harry checked his team, still sprightly despite their dash from London. He’d nursed them along the main road, only letting them have their heads once they’d passed Great Chesterford and picked up the less-frequented Newmarket road. They’d passed a few slower-moving carriages; most of the gentlemen intent on the week’s racing would already be in Newmarket.

  About them, the heath lay flat and largely featureless, with only a few stands of trees, windbreaks and the odd coppice to lend relief. There were no c
arriages approaching on the Cambridge road; Harry swung his team onto the hard surface and flicked the leader’s ear. Newmarket—and the comfort of his regular rooms at the Barbican Arms—lay but a few miles on.

  “To y’r left.”

  Dawlish’s warning growl came over his shoulder in the same instant Harry glimpsed movement in the stand of trees bordering the road ahead. He flicked both horses’ withers; as the lash softly swooshed back up the whip-handle, he slackened the reins, transferring them to his left hand. With his right, he reached for the loaded pistol he kept under the seat, just behind his right boot.

  As his fingers closed about the chased butt, he registered the incongruity of the scene.

  Dawlish put it into words, a heavy horse pistol in his hands. “On the king’s highway in broad daylight—never-you-mind! What’s the world a-coming to, I asks you?”

  The curricle sped on.

  Harry wasn’t entirely surprised when the men milling in the trees made no attempt to halt them. They were mounted but, even so, would have had the devil of a time hauling in the flying greys. He counted at least five as they flashed past, all in frieze and heavily muffled. The sound of stifled cursing dwindled behind them.

  Dawlish muttered darkly, rummaging about re-stowing his pistols. “Stap me, but they even had a wagon backed up in them trees. Right confident of their haul the must be.” Harry frowned.

  The road curved ahead; he regathered the slack reins and checked the greys fractionally.

  They rounded the curve—Harry’s eyes flew wide.

  He hauled back on the reins with all his strength, slewing the greys across the road. They came to a snorting, stamping halt, their noses all but in the low hedge. The curricle rocked perilously, then settled back on its springs.

  Curses turned the air about his ears blue.

  Harry paid no attention; Dawlish was still up behind him, not in the ditch. Before him, on the other hand, was a scene of disaster.