A Lady of Expectations

by Stephanie Laurens

  “Maybe so,” Clarissa allowed. “But it’s an indisputable fact that both Mr. Lester and Lord Percy put all the gentlemen hereabouts to shame.”

  Sophie closed her eyes and wished she could argue.

  Clarissa rose, eyes shining, and twirled about the room. “Oh, Sophie! I’m so looking forward to being surrounded by all the swells—the dandies, the town beaux, even the fops. It will be so thrilling to be sought after by such gentlemen, to be twitted and teased—in a perfectly acceptable way, of course.” Clarissa dipped and swirled closer. “And I know,” she continued, lowering her voice, “that one is not supposed to say so, but I can’t wait to at least try my hand at flirting, and I positively can’t wait to be ogled.”

  As she squinted against the glare of the late afternoon sun, her narrowed vision filled with Clarissa’s svelte form, Sophie didn’t think her cousin would have all that long to wait. She should, she supposed, make a push to bring Clarissa back to earth, and defend the local young gentlemen, Ned in particular. If she hadn’t been feeling so ill, she would have. But with her head throbbing so, and her mind still tangled in her own confusion, she doubted she could find sufficient words to succeed.

  “But what of you, Sophie?” Abruptly, Clarissa turned from rapt contemplation of her rosy future and plumped down on the chaise close by. “After his dramatically chivalrous rescue yesterday, aren’t you just a little bit taken with Mr. Lester?”

  Sophie let her lids fall; Clarissa, when she put her mind to it, could be quite as perspicacious as her mother. “Indeed,” she forced herself to say. “Mr. Lester was everything that is gallant. However, that’s hardly the only criterion I have for choosing a husband.”

  “So, what are your other criteria?”

  Squinting through her lashes, Sophie studied Clarissa’s grin. Her cousin, she reluctantly concluded, was unlikely to be diverted by any prevarication. “A liking for children,” she stated. An obvious test; one, she suspected, Jack Lester would pass. He had handled Amy very well, and the boys, too. “And a sense of humour.” He had that, too, reprehensible though it might sometimes be.

  “And I would want a man who was steady and reliable, not given to fits of temper.” Now that was a prerequisite her knight in shining armour might have trouble complying with. Rakes, she had always understood, were totally unreliable. Becoming absorbed with her catalogue, Sophie frowned. “Sufficiently handsome, although he needn’t be an Adonis. Not mean or stingy. And he’d have to be able to waltz. There,” she concluded, opening her eyes fully and fixing Clarissa with a mock glare. “Are you satisfied?”

  Clarissa laughed and clapped her hands, making Sophie wince. “But that’s famous! Mr. Lester might be just the man for you.”

  Abruptly, Sophie stood, disguising the sudden movement with a little laugh. “I pray you, Clarissa, don’t let your imagination fly away with you. Mr. Lester’s presence here—and our meetings—have been occasioned by nothing more than coincidence.”

  Clarissa looked slightly surprised by her vehemence but, to Sophie’s intense relief, she forbore to argue. “I expect something must have detained them today.” Clarissa’s tone suggested she could see no other likelihood. As she fell to neatly folding the ribbons of her hat, she added, “I wonder when next we’ll meet?”

  AS HE SAT DOWN to dinner that evening in the dining room of the cottage, Jack could have answered Clarissa’s question without further thought. He was leaving Leicestershire on the morrow. Early.

  He said as much to Percy, taking his seat on his right hand.

  “What brought that on? Thought you were fixed here for another few weeks?”

  “So did I,” Jack returned. “But something’s come up.” Before Percy could ask what, he added, “And the weather’s turned, so I think I’ll do better to look in at Lester Hall before hying up to town.”

  “There is that,” Percy agreed knowledgeably. “Ground’s softening up. Not many good runs left in the season.”

  Jack nodded, unexpectedly grateful for the thaw. As he rode very heavy, the going for his mounts would become noticeably harder in the coming weeks.

  “Think I’ll take a look in on the old man,” Percy mused, his expression distant. “Gets a bit obstreperous if we forget him. I’ll go and do my filial duty, then meet you in town.”

  Jack nodded again, his mind busy with his plans. There was no need to hurry up to town. The Webbs would not be receiving for at least another week.

  His decision to quit the field in Leicestershire was prompted by a firm conviction that such a scene as had occurred when he’d hauled Sophie from her stallion’s back could not be repeated. However, thanks to the incident, he was now on good terms with the Webbs and had been all but commanded to call, once in town. Assuming Mrs. Webb approved, there would, he felt sure, be no impediment placed in his path should he desire to further his interest with Sophie in the usual way.

  It was his first, albeit small, advance.

  However, given his turbulent and presently unpredictable reactions, it seemed the course of wisdom to suspend all further activity until his golden head was safe in the bosom of the ton. His home ground, as it were.

  The strictures of Society reached a pinnacle of stringency in London—the strict mores and unwavering practices would undoubtedly prove sufficiently rigid to ensure his wooing followed acceptable paths.

  So, for her sake, and, he reluctantly admitted, his own, he had determined to forgo the sight of Sophie’s fair face until she appeared in London.

  It would be safer for everyone that way.

  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.