A Lady of Expectations

by Stephanie Laurens

  Sophie frowned, wondering why her senses refused to register what was surely a reasonable fear.

  “Why the frown?”

  Sophie looked up to find Jack regarding her thoughtfully.

  “Would you rather I left you to your younger friends?”

  There was just enough hesitation behind the last words to make Sophie’s heart contract. “No,” she assured him, and knew it was the truth.

  A flame flared in his eyes, so deeply blue.

  Shaken, Sophie drew her eyes from the warmth and looked ahead to where her friends waited. In her eyes, the younger gentlemen were no more than weak cyphers, cast into deep shade by his far more forceful presence.

  After a moment, Jack bent his head to murmur, “I understand there’s a waltz coming up. Will you do me the honour of waltzing with me, my dear?”

  Sophie fleetingly met his gaze, then inclined her head. Together, they rejoined her little circle, Jack withdrawing slightly to stand by her side, a little behind. He hoped, thus, to feature less in the conversation himself, commendably doing his best not to intimidate the younger sparks who, he kept telling himself, were no real threat to him.

  Twenty minutes of self-denial later, he heard the musicians again put bow to string. Sophie, who knew very well that he had not moved from his position behind her, turned to him, shyly offering her hand.

  With a smile of relief and anticipation both, Jack bowed and led her to the floor.

  His relief was short-lived. A single turn about the small floor was enough to tell him something was seriously amiss. True, there was a smile on his partner’s face; now and again, as they turned, she allowed her gaze to touch his. But she remained stiff in his arms, not softly supple, relaxed, as previously. She was tense, and her smile was strangely brittle.

  His concern grew with every step. Even the cool glance her aunt directed at him as they glided gracefully past, held no power to distract him.

  Eventually, he said, his voice gentle, “I had forgot to ask, Miss Winterton—I sincerely hope you’ve fully recovered from your indisposition?”

  Momentarily distracted from the fight to guard her senses against his nearness, Sophie blinked, then blushed. Guilt washed through her; his tone, his expression, were touchingly sincere. “Indeed,” she hastened to reassure him. “I.” She searched for words which were not an outright lie. “It was nothing serious, just a slight headache.” She found it hard to meet his eyes.

  Jack frowned, then banished the notion that once more popped into his brain. Of course she had been truly ill; his Sophie was not a schemer.

  “And indeed, sir, I fear I’ve been remiss in not thanking you before this for your kind gift.” Sophie’s words died as she stared up at his face, strangely impassive. “You did send them, did you not? The yellow roses?”

  To her relief, he nodded, his smile real but somehow distant. “I only hope they lightened your day.” His gaze focused on her face. “As you do mine.”

  His last words were whispered, yet they clanged like bells in Sophie’s head. She suddenly felt absolutely dreadful. How could she go on pretending like this, trying to hide her heart? It would never work. She was not strong enough; she would trip and he would find out.

  Her distress showed very clearly in her eyes. Jack caught his breath. He frowned. “Sophie?”

  The music came to an end. He released her only to trap her hand firmly on his sleeve. “Come. We’ll stroll a little.”

  Sophie’s eyes flared wide. “Oh, no, really. I’d better get back.”

  “Your friends will survive without you for a few minutes.” Jack’s accents were clipped, commanding. “There’s a window open at the end of the room. I think you could do with some air.”

  Sophie knew fresh air would help, yet the fact that he was sensitive enough to suggest it didn’t help at all. She murmured her acquiescence, not that he had waited for it, and told herself she should be grateful. Yet being so close to him, and cut off from ready distraction, her senses were being slowly rasped raw. His effect on them, on her, seemed to get worse with every meeting.

  “Here. Sit down.” Jack guided her to a chair set back by the wall, not far from where a set of fine draperies billowed gently in the breeze.

  Sophie sank onto the upholstered seat, feeling the cool wood of the chair back against her shoulders. The sensation helped her think. “Perhaps, Mr. Lester, if I could impose on you to get me a drink.”

  “Of course,” Jack said. He turned and snapped his fingers at a waiter. With a few terse words, he dispatched the man in search of a glass of water. Sophie hid her dismay.

  “And now, Sophie,” Jack said, turning to look down at her. “You’re going to tell me what’s wrong.”

  It was a command, no less. Sophie dragged in a deep breath and forced herself to meet his gaze calmly. “Wrong?” She opened her eyes wide. “Why, Mr. Lester, nothing’s wrong.” She spread her hands in a gesture of bewilderment. “I’m merely feeling a trifle … warm.” That, she suddenly realized, was the literal truth. He stood over her, his dark brows drawn down, and she was violently reminded of their interlude in the glade in Leicestershire. That same something she had glimpsed then, behind the intense blue of his eyes, was there again tonight. A prowling, powerful, predatory something. She blinked and realized she was breathing rapidly. She saw his lips compress.

  “Sophie …”

  His eyes locked with hers; he started to lean closer.

  “Your glass of water, miss.”

  Sophie wrenched her gaze away and turned to the waiter. She dragged in a quick breath. “Thank you, John.” She took the glass from the man’s salver and dismissed him with a weak smile.

  It took considerable concentration to keep the glass steady. With her gaze fixed, unfocused, on the couples now dancing a boulanger, Sophie carefully sipped the cool water. An awful silence enfolded them.

  After a few minutes, Sophie felt strong enough to glance up. He was watching her, his expression utterly impassive; he no longer seemed so threatening. She inclined her head. “Thank you, sir. I feel much better now.”

  Jack nodded. Before he could find words for any of his questions, his attention was diverted by a group of younger folk who descended amid gusts of laughter to cluster not ten paces away.

  Sophie looked, too, and saw her cousin surrounded by a group of young gentlemen, each vying for Clarissa’s attention. Noting the frenetic brittleness that had infused Clarissa’s otherwise bright expression, Sophie frowned. She looked up, and met an arrogantly raised brow.

  She hesitated, then leaned closer to say, “She doesn’t really like having a fuss and flap made over her.”

  Jack looked again at the fair young beauty. His lips twisted wryly as he watched her youthful swains all but cutting each other dead in an effort to gain her favour. “If that’s the case,” he murmured, “I fear she’ll have to leave town.” He turned back to Sophie. “She’s going to be a hit, you know.”

  Sophie sighed. “I know.” She continued to watch Clarissa, then frowned as a particularly petulant expression settled firmly over her cousin’s features. “What.?” Sophie followed Clarissa’s gaze. “Oh, dear.”

  Following Sophie’s gaze, Jack beheld a well-set-up young man, unquestionably recently up from the country if his coat was any guide, bearing determinedly down on the group about Sophie’s cousin. The young man ignored the attendant swains as if they didn’t exist, an action that won Jack’s instant respect. Directly and without preamble, the youngster addressed Clarissa; to Jack’s disappointment, they were too far away to hear his words. Unfortunately, the young man’s grand entrance found no favour in Clarissa’s eyes. As Jack watched, Clarissa tossed her silvery curls, an indignant flush replacing the sparkle of moments before.

  “Oh, dear. I do hope he didn’t call her ‘Clary’ again.”

  Jack glanced down. Sophie was watching the unfolding drama, small white teeth absent-mindedly chewing her lower lip. “Whatever,” he said. “It appears that his embas
sy has failed.”

  Sophie sent him a worried frown. “They’ve known each other since childhood.”

  “Ah.” Jack glanced back at the tableau being enacted but yards away. A wisp of remembered conversation floated through his mind. “Is that young sprig by any chance Ned Ascombe?”

  “Why, yes.” Sophie stared up at him. “The son of one of my uncle’s neighbours in Leicestershire.”

  Jack answered the question in her eyes. “Your aunt mentioned him.” Glancing again at the young couple, Jack felt an empathetic twinge for the earnest but callow youth who was, quite obviously, under the impression he held pride of place in the beautiful Clarissa Webb’s heart. As he watched, Ned gave up what was undeniably a losing fight and, with a galled but defiant expression, retired from the lists. Looking down at Sophie, Jack asked, “I take it he was not expected in London?”

  Sophie considered, then said, “Clarissa didn’t expect him.”

  Jack’s brows lifted cynically. “Your aunt gave me to understand that their future was all but settled.”

  Sophie sighed. “It probably is. Clarissa does not really care for racketing about and she has never been one to enjoy being the centre of attention for very long. My aunt and uncle believe that, by the end of the Season, she’ll be only too happy to return to Leicestershire.”

  “And Ned Ascombe?”

  “And Ned,” Sophie confirmed.

  Considering the colour that still rode Clarissa Webb’s cheeks, Jack allowed one brow to rise.

  Sophie finished the last of her water. It was time and more to return to the safety of her circle. “If you’ll excuse me, Mr. Lester, I should return to my friends.”

  Jack could have wished it otherwise but he was, once more, under control. Without a blink, he nodded, removing the glass from her fingers and placing it on a nearby table. Then he held out a hand.

  Steeling herself against the contact, Sophie put her hand in his. He drew her to her feet, then tucked her hand into his elbow, covering her fingers with his. Hers trembled; with an effort, she stilled them. She glanced up and saw him frown.

  Jack studied her face, still pale. “Sophie, my dear—please believe I would never knowingly do anything to cause you pain.”

  Sophie’s heart turned over. Tears pricked, but she would not let them show. She tried to speak, but her throat had seized up. With a smile she knew went awry, she inclined her head and looked away.

  He escorted her to her friends, then, very correctly, took his leave of her.

  Jack did not immediately quit the house. Something was wrong, and Sophie wouldn’t confide in him. The unpalatable fact ate at him, gnawing at his pride, preying on his protective nature, prompting all manner of acts he was far too experienced to countenance. His restless prowling, disguised beneath an air of fashionable boredom, took him by the alcove where Ned Ascombe stood, keeping a glowering watch over his prospective bride.

  His gaze on the dancers, Jack propped one broad shoulder against the other side of the alcove. “It won’t work, you know.”

  The laconic comment succeeded in diverting Ned’s attention. He turned his head, his scowl still in evidence, then abruptly straightened, his face leaching of expression. “Oh, excuse me, sir.”

  Jack sent the youngster a reassuring grin. “Boot’s on the other foot. It was I who interrupted you.” Briefly scanning Ned’s face, Jack held out his hand. “Jack Lester. An acquaintance of the Webbs. I believe I saw you at Lady Asfordby’s, as well.”

  As he had expected, the mention of two well-known and well-respected Leicestershire names was enough to ease Ned’s reticence.

  Ned grasped his hand firmly, then blushed. “I suppose you saw …” He abruptly shut his mouth and gestured vaguely, his gaze once more on the dancers. “You were with Sophie.”

  Jack smiled, more to himself than Ned. “As you say, I saw. And I can tell you without fear of contradiction that your present strategy is doomed to failure.” He felt rather than saw Ned’s curious glance. Straightening, Jack extricated a notecase from an inner pocket and withdrew a card. This he presented to Ned. “If you want to learn how to pull the thing off, how to win the blond head you’ve set your eye on, then drop by tomorrow. About eleven.” Very used to younger brothers, Jack ensured his worldly expression contained not the slightest hint of patronage.

  Taking the card, Ned read the inscription, then raised puzzled eyes to Jack’s face. “But why? You’ve never even met me before.”

  Jack’s smile turned wry. “Put it down to fellow-feeling. Believe me, you’re not the only one who’s feeling rejected tonight.”

  With a nod, very man-to-man, Jack passed on.

  Left by the alcove, Ned stared after him, his gaze abstracted, Jack’s card held tight in his fingers.

  “WELL, M’DEAR? Did Jack Lester disappoint you?” Propped against the pillows in the bed he most unfashionably shared with his wife, Horatio Webb slanted a questioning glance at his helpmate, sitting sipping her morning cocoa beside him.

  A slight frown descended upon Lucilla’s fair brow. “I don’t expect to be disappointed in Mr. Lester, dear. I really should have organized that waltz myself. However, matters do seem to be progressing along their customary course.” She considered, then banished her frown to cast a smiling glance at her spouse. “I dare say I’ve just forgotten how agonizingly painful it is to watch these things unfold.”

  Lowering the business papers he had been perusing, Horatio peered at her over the top of his gold-rimmed spectacles. “You haven’t been meddling, have you?”

  The slightest suspicion of a blush tinged Lucilla’s cheeks. “Not to say meddling.” She dismissed the notion with an airy wave. “But I really couldn’t allow Mr. Lester to sweep Sophie into matrimony before the child had even had a taste of success. Not after her last Season was so tragically curtailed.”

  “Humph!” Horatio shuffled his papers. “You know how I feel about tampering with other people’s lives, dear. Even with the best of intentions. Who knows? Sophie might actually prefer to have her Season curtailed—if it were Jack Lester doing the curtailing.”

  Head on one side, Lucilla considered the idea, then grimaced. After a moment, she sighed. “Perhaps you’re right. When did you say the horses will be here?”

  “They’re here now. Arrived yesterday.” Horatio had gone back to his papers. “I’ll take the troops to view them this morning if you like.”

  Lucilla brightened. “Yes, that would be a good idea. But we’ll have to give some consideration to escorts.” She touched her spouse’s hand. “Leave that to me. I’m sure I can find someone suitable.”

  Horatio grunted. “Wonder if Lester brought that hunter of his up to town?”

  Lucilla grinned but said nothing. Finishing her cocoa, she laid her cup and saucer on the bedside table and snuggled down beneath the covers. Smiling, she reached out to pat her husband’s hand. “I’m really quite in awe of your farsightedness, dear. So clever of you to help the Lesters to their fortune. Now there’s no impediment at all to concern you, and you may give Jack Lester your blessing with a clear conscience.” An expression of catlike satisfaction on her face, Lucilla settled to doze.

  Horatio stared down at her, a faintly astonished expression on his face. He opened his mouth, then abruptly shut it. After a long moment of staring at his wife’s exquisite features, Horatio calmly picked up his papers and, settling his spectacles firmly on the bridge of his nose, left his wife to her dreams.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  AT PRECISELY ELEVEN the next morning, the doorbell of Jack’s townhouse in Upper Brook Street jangled a summons. Jack looked up, his brows lifting. “I believe that will be a Mr. Ascombe, Pinkerton. I’ll see him here.”

  Here was the parlour; Jack sat at the head of the table, Pinkerton, his gentleman’s gentleman, had just finished clearing the remains of Jack’s breakfast and was lovingly glossing the mahogany surface.

  “Very good, sir,” Pinkerton returned in his usual sepulchral tones.
/>   Jack nodded and returned to his perusal of the latest edition of the Racing Chronicle. “Oh—and bring a fresh pot of coffee, will you?”

  “Yes, sir.” A sober individual who considered it a point of professional etiquette to carry out his duties as inconspicuously as possible, Pinkerton slipped noiselessly from the room. As the sounds of voices penetrated the oak door, Jack folded the Chronicle and laid it aside. Easing his chair back from the table, he stretched, trying to relieve the tension that seemed to have sunk into his bones.

  The door latch lifted; Pinkerton ushered Ned Ascombe in, then departed in search of more coffee.

  “Good morning, sir.” Feeling decidedly awkward, not at all sure why he had come, Ned surveyed his host. Jack Lester was clearly not one of those town beaux who considered any time before noon as dawn. He was dressed in a blue coat which made Ned’s own loosely-fitting garment look countrified in the extreme.

  Jack rose lazily and extended a hand. “Glad to see you, Ascombe—or may I call you Ned?”

  Grasping the proffered hand, Ned blinked. “If you wish.” Then, realizing that sounded rather less than gracious, he forced a smile. “Most people call me Ned.”

  Jack returned the smile easily and waved Ned to a chair.

  Dragging his eyes from contemplation of his host’s superbly fitting buckskin breeches and highly polished Hessians, Ned took the opportunity to hide his corduroy breeches and serviceable boots under the table. What had Clary called him? Provincial? His self-confidence, already shaky, took another lurch downwards.

  Jack caught the flicker of defeat in Ned’s honest brown eyes. He waited until Pinkerton, who had silently reappeared, set out a second mug and the coffee-pot, then, like a spectre, vanished, before saying, “I understand from Miss Winterton that you would wish Miss Webb to look upon you with, shall we say, a greater degree of appreciation?”

  Ned’s fingers tightened about the handle of his mug. He blushed but manfully met Jack’s gaze. “Sophie’s always been a good friend, sir.”