A Lady of Expectations Read online

  “Ah, but Lady Luck is a fickle female.” Harry turned as he opened the door. “Are you sure you want to gamble the rest of your life on her whim?”

  Jack’s expression was grim. “I’m already gambling with the rest of my life. This damned business is no different from the turn of a card or the toss of a die.”

  “Except that if you don’t like the stake, you can decline to wager.”

  “True, but finding the right stake is my problem.”

  As they emerged into the dark hall and took possession of the candles left waiting, Jack continued, “My one, particular golden head—it’s the least Lady Luck can do, to find her and send her my way.”

  Harry shot him an amused glance. “Tempting Fate, brother mine?”

  “Challenging Fate,” Jack replied.

  WITH A SATISFYING SWIRL of her silk skirts, Sophia Winterton completed the last turn of the Roger de Coverley and sank gracefully into a smiling curtsy. About her, the ballroom of Asfordby Grange was full to the seams with a rainbow-hued throng. Perfume wafted on the errant breezes admitted through the main doors propped wide in the middle of the long room. Candlelight flickered, sheening over artful curls and glittering in the jewels displayed by the dowagers lining the wall. “A positive pleasure, my dear Miss Winterton.” Puffing slightly, Mr. Bantcombe bowed over her hand. “A most invigorating measure.”

  Rising, Sophie smiled. “Indeed, sir.” A quick glance around located her young cousin, Clarissa, ingenuously thanking a youthful swain some yards away. With soft blue eyes and alabaster skin, her pale blond ringlets framing a heart-shaped face, Clarissa was a hauntingly lovely vision. Just now, all but quivering with excitement, she forcibly reminded Sophie of a highly strung filly being paraded for the very first time.

  With an inward smile, Sophie gave her hand and her attention to Mr. Bantcombe. “Lady Asfordby’s balls may not be as large as the assemblies in Melton, but to my mind, they’re infinitely superior.”

  “Naturally, naturally.” Mr. Bantcombe was still short of breath. “Her ladyship is of first consequence hereabouts—and she always takes great pains to exclude the hoi polloi. None of the park-saunterers and half-pay officers who follow the pack will be here tonight.”

  Sophie squelched a wayward thought to the effect that she would not really mind one or two half-pay officers, just to lend colour to the ranks of the gentlemen she had come to know suffocatingly well over the last six months. She pinned a bright smile to her lips. “Shall we return to my aunt, sir?”

  She had joined her aunt and uncle’s Leicestershire household last September, after waving her father, Sir Humphrey Winterton, eminent paleontologist, a fond farewell. Departing on an expedition of unknown duration, to Syria, so she believed, her father had entrusted her to the care of her late mother’s only sister, Lucilla Webb, an arrangement that met with Sophie’s unqualified approval. The large and happy household inhabiting Webb Park, a huge rambling mansion some miles from Asfordby Grange, was a far cry from the quiet, studious existence she had endured at the side of her grieving and taciturn sire ever since her mother’s death four years ago.

  Her aunt, a slender, ethereal figure draped in cerulean-blue silk, hair that still retained much of its silvery blond glory piled high on her elegant head, was gracefully adorning one of the chaises lining the wall, in earnest conversation with Mrs. Haverbuck, another of the local ladies.

  “Ah, there you are, Sophie.” Lucilla Webb turned as, with a smile and a nod for Sophie, Mrs. Haverbuck departed. “I’m positively in awe of your energy, my dear.” Pale blue eyes took in Mr. Bantcombe’s florid face. “Dear Mr. Bantcombe, perhaps you could fetch me a cool drink?”

  Mr. Bantcombe readily agreed. Bowing to Sophie, he departed.

  “Poor man,” Lucilla said as he disappeared into the crowd. “Obviously not up to your standard, Sophie dear.”

  Sophie’s lips twitched.

  “Still,” Lucilla mused in her gentle airy voice, “I’m truly glad to see you so enjoying yourself, my dear. You look very well, even if ‘tis I who say so. The ton will take to you—and you to it, I make no doubt.”

  “Indeed the ton will, if your aunt and I and all your mother’s old friends have anything to say about it!”

  Both Sophie and Lucilla turned as, with much rustling to stiff bombazine, Lady Entwhistle took Mrs. Haverbuck’s place.

  “Just stopped in to tell you, Lucilla, that Henry’s agreed—we’re to go up to town tomorrow.” Lifting a pair of lorgnettes from where they hung about her neck, Lady Entwhistle embarked on a detailed scrutiny of Sophie with all the assurance of an old family friend. Sophie knew that no facet of her appearance—the style in which her golden curls had been piled upon her head, the simple but undeniably elegant cut of her rose-magenta silk gown, her long ivory gloves, even her tiny satin dancing slippers—would escape inspection. “Humph.” Her ladyship concluded her examination. “Just as I thought. You’ll set the ton’s bachelors back on their heels, m’dear. Which,” she added, turning to Lucilla, a conspiratorial gleam in her eye, “is precisely to my point. I’m giving a ball on Monday. To introduce Henry’s cousin’s boy to our acquaintance. Can I hope you’ll be there?”

  Lucilla pursed her lips, eyes narrowing. “We’re to leave at the end of the week, so I should imagine we’ll reach London by Sunday.” Her face cleared. “I can see no reason not to accept your invitation, Mary.”

  “Good!” With her habitual bustle, Lady Entwhistle stood, improbable golden ringlets bouncing. Catching sight of Clarissa through the crowd, she added, “It’ll be an informal affair, and it’s so early in the Season I see no harm in Clarissa joining us, do you?”

  Lucilla smiled. “I know she’ll be delighted.”

  Lady Entwhistle chuckled. “All wound tight with excitement, is she? Ah, well—just remember when we were like that, Lucy—you and I and Maria.” Her ladyship’s eyes strayed to Sophie, a certain anticipation in their depths. Then, with determined briskness, she gathered her reticule. “But I must away—I’ll see you in London.”

  Sophie exchanged a quiet smile with her aunt, then, lips curving irrepressibly, looked out over the crowded room. If she were asked, she would have to admit that it was not only Clarissa, barely seventeen and keyed up to make her come-out, who was prey to a certain excitement. Beneath her composure, that of an experienced young lady of twenty-two years, Sophie was conscious of a lifting of her heart. She was looking forward to her first full Season.

  She would have to find a husband, of course. Her mother’s friends, not to speak of her aunt, would accept nothing less. Strangely, the prospect did not alarm her, as it certainly had years ago. She was more than up to snuff—she fully intended to look carefully and choose wisely.

  “Do my eyes deceive me, or has Ned finally made his move?”

  Lucilla’s question had Sophie following her aunt’s gaze to where Edward Ascombe, Ned to all, the son of a neighbour, was bowing perfunctorily over her cousin’s hand. Sophie saw Clarissa stiffen.

  A little above average height, Ned was a relatively serious young man, his father’s pride and joy, at twenty-one already absorbed in caring for the acres that would, one day, be his. He was also determined to have Clarissa Webb to wife. Unfortunately, at the present moment, with Clarissa full of nervy excitement at the prospect of meeting unknown gentlemen up from London for the hunting, Ned was severely handicapped, suffering as he did from the twin disadvantages of being a blameless and worthy suitor and having known Clarissa all her life. Worse, he had already made it plain that his heart was at Clarissa’s tiny feet.

  Her sympathy at the ready, Sophie watched as he straightened and, all unwitting, addressed Clarissa.

  “A cotillion, if you have one left, Clary.” Ned smiled confidently, no premonition of the shaky ground on which he stood showing in his open countenance.

  Eyes kindling, Clarissa hissed, “Don’t call me that!”

  Ned’s gentle smile faded. “What the d-deuce am I to call you? Miss We
bb?”

  “Exactly!” Clarissa further elevated her already alarmingly tilted chin. Another young gentleman hovered on her horizon; she promptly held out her hand, smiling prettily at the newcomer.

  Ned scowled in the same direction. Before the slightly shaken young man could assemble his wits, Ned prompted, “My dance, Miss Webb?” His voice held quite enough scorn to sting.

  “I’m afraid I’m not available for the cotillion, Mr. Ascombe.” Through the crowd, Clarissa caught her mother’s eyes. “Perhaps the next country dance?”

  For a moment, Sophie, watching, wondered if she and Lucilla would be called upon to intervene. Then Ned drew himself up stiffly. He spoke briefly, clearly accepting whatever Clarissa had offered, then bowed and abruptly turned on his heel.

  Clarissa stood, her lovely face blank, watching his back until he was swallowed up by the crowd. For an instant, her lower lip softened. Then, chin firming, she straightened and beamed a brilliant smile at the young gentleman still awaiting an audience.

  “Ah.” Lucilla smiled knowingly. “How life does go on. She’ll marry Ned in the end, of course. I’m sure the Season will be more than enough to demonstrate the wisdom of her heart.”

  Sophie could only hope so, for Clarissa’s sake as well as Ned’s.

  “Miss Winterton?”

  Sophie turned to find Mr. Marston bowing before her. A reserved but eminently eligible gentleman of independent means, he was the target of more than a few of the local matchmaking mamas. As she dipped in a smooth curtsy, Sophie inwardly cursed her guilty blush. Mr. Marston was enamoured—and she felt nothing at all in response.

  Predictably interpreting her blush as a sign of maidenly awareness, Mr. Marston’s thin smile surfaced. “Our quadrille, my dear.” With a punctilious bow to Lucilla, who regally inclined her head, he accepted the hand Sophie gave him and escorted her to the floor.

  Her smile charming, her expression serene, Sophie dipped and swayed through the complicated figures, conscious of treading a very fine line. She refused to retreat in confusion before Mr. Marston’s attentions, yet she had no wish to encourage him.

  “Indeed, sir,” she replied to one of his sallies. “I’m enjoying the ball immensely. However, I feel no qualms about meeting those gentlemen up from London—after all, my cousin and I will shortly be in London ballrooms. Acquaintances made tonight could prove most comforting.”

  From her partner’s disapproving expression, Sophie deduced that the thought of her gaining comfort from acquaintance with any other gentleman, from London or elsewhere, was less than pleasing. Inwardly, she sighed. Depressing pretensions gently was an art she had yet to master.

  About them, Lady Asfordby’s guests swirled and twirled, a colourful crowd, drawn primarily from the local families, with here and there the elegant coats of those London swells of whom her ladyship approved. This distinction did not extend to all that many of the small army of ton-ish males who, during the hunting season, descended on the nearby town of Melton Mowbray, lured by the attraction of the Quorn, the Cottesmore and the Belvoir packs.

  Jack realized as much as, with Percy hovering in his shadow, he paused on the threshold of her ladyship’s ballroom. As he waited for his hostess, whom he could see forging her way through the crowd to greet him, he was conscious of the flutter his appearance had provoked. Like a ripple, it passed down the dark line of dowagers seated around the room, then spread in ever widening circles to ruffle the feathers of their charges, presently engaged in a quadrille.

  With a cynical smile, he bowed elegantly over her ladyship’s beringed fingers.

  “So glad you decided to come, Lester.”

  Having smoothly introduced Percy, whom Lady Asfordby greeted with gratified aplomb, Jack scanned the dancers.

  And saw her.

  She was immediately in front of him, in the set nearest the door. His gaze had been drawn to her, her rich golden curls shining like a beacon. Even as realization hit, his eyes met hers. They were blue, paler than his own, the blue of cloudless summer skies. As he watched, her eyes widened, her lips parted. Then she twirled and turned away.

  Beside him, Percy was filling Lady Asfordby’s ears with an account of his father’s latest illness. Jack inhaled deeply, his eyes on the slim figure before him, the rest of the company a dull haze about her.

  Her hair was true gold, rich and bountiful, clustered atop her neat head, artfully errant curls trailing over her small ears and down the back of her slender neck. The rest of her was slender, too, yet, he was pleased to note, distinctly well-rounded. Her delectable curves were elegantly gowned in a delicate hue that was too dark for a debutante; her arms, gracefully arching in the movements of the dance, displayed an attractive roundness not in keeping with a very young girl.

  Was she married?

  Suavely, Jack turned to Lady Asfordby. “As it happens, I have not met many of my neighbours. Could I impose on your ladyship to introduce me?”

  There was, of course, nothing Lady Asfordby would have liked better. Her sharp eyes gleamed with fanatical zeal. “Such a loss, your dear aunt. How’s your father getting on?”

  While replying to these and similar queries on Lenore and his brothers, all of whom her ladyship knew of old, Jack kept his golden head in sight. Perfectly happy to disguise his intent by stopping to chat with whomever Lady Asfordby thought to introduce, he steered his hostess by inexorable degrees to the chaise beside which his goal stood.

  A small knot of gentlemen, none of them mere youths, had gathered about her to pass the time between the dances. Two other young ladies joined the circle; she welcomed them graciously, her confidence as plain as the smile on her lips.

  Twice he caught her glancing at him. On both occasions, she quickly looked away. Jack suppressed his smile and patiently endured yet another round of introductions to some local squire’s lady.

  Finally, Lady Asfordby turned towards the crucial chaise. “And, of course, you must meet Mrs. Webb. I dare say you’re acquainted with her husband, Horatio Webb of Webb Park. A financier, you know.”

  The name rang a bell in Jack’s mind—something to do with horses and hunting. But they were rapidly approaching the chaise on which an elegant matron sat, benignly watching over a very young girl, unquestionably her daughter, as well as his golden head. Mrs. Webb turned as they approached. Lady Asfordby made the introduction; Jack found himself bowing over a delicate hand, his eyes trapped in a searching, ice-blue stare.

  “Good evening, Mr. Lester. Are you here for the hunting?”

  “Indeed yes, ma’am.” Jack blinked, then smiled, careful not to overdo the gesture. To him, Mrs. Webb was instantly recognizable; his golden head was protected by a very shrewd dragon.

  A lifted finger drew the younger girl forward.

  “Allow me to present my daughter, Clarissa.” Lucilla looked on as Clarissa, blushing furiously, performed the regulation curtsy with her customary grace. Speech, however, seemed beyond her. Lifting one sceptical brow, Lucilla spared a glance for the magnificence before her, then slanted a quick look at Sophie. Her niece was studiously absorbed with her friends.

  An imperious gesture, however, succeeded in attracting her attention.

  Her smile restrained, Lucilla beckoned Sophie forward. “And, of course,” she continued, rescuing Jack from Clarissa’s tongue-tied stare, “you must let me introduce my niece, Miss Sophia Winterton.” Lucilla halted, then raised her fine brows. “But perhaps you’ve met before—in London? Sophie was presented some years ago, but her Season was cut short by the untimely death of her mother.” Switching her regal regard to Sophie, Lucilla continued, “Mr. Jack Lester, my dear.”

  Conscious of her aunt’s sharply perceptive gaze, Sophie kept her expression serene. Dipping politely, she coolly extended her fingers, carefully avoiding Mr. Lester’s eye.

  She had first seen him as he stood at the door, darkly, starkly handsome. In his midnight-blue coat, which fitted his large lean frame as if it had been moulded to him, his thick
dark hair falling in fashionable dishevelment over his broad brow, his gaze intent as he scanned the room, he had appeared as some predator—a wolf, perhaps—come to select his prey. Her feet had missed a step when his gaze had fallen on her. Quickly looking away, she had been surprised to find her heart racing, her breath tangled in her throat.

  Now, with his gaze, an unnervingly intense dark blue, full upon her, she lifted her chin, calmly stating, “Mr. Lester and I have not previously met, Aunt.”

  Jack’s gaze trapped hers as he took her hand. His lips curved. “An accident of fate which has surely been my loss.”

  Sophie sternly quelled an instinctive tremor. His voice was impossibly deep. As the undercurrent beneath his tones washed over her, tightening the vice about her chest, she watched him straighten from an ineffably elegant bow.

  He caught her glance—and smiled.

  Sophie stiffened. Tilting her chin, she met his gaze. “Have you hunted much hereabouts, sir?”

  His smile reached his eyes. A small shift in position brought him closer. “Indeed, Miss Winterton.”

  He looked down at her; Sophie froze.

  “I rode with the Quorn only yesterday.”

  Breathless, Sophie ignored the twinkle in his eye. “My uncle, Mr. Webb, is a keen adherent of the sport.” A quick glance about showed her aunt in deep conversation with Lady Asfordby; her court was hidden by Mr. Lester’s broad shoulders. He had, most effectively, cut her out from the crowd.

  “Really?” Jack lifted a polite brow. His gaze fell to her hands, clasped before her, then rose, definite warmth in the deep blue. “But your aunt mentioned you had been in London before?”

  Sophie resisted the urge to narrow her eyes. “I was presented four years ago, but my mother contracted a chill shortly thereafter.”

  “And you never returned to grace the ballrooms of the ton? Fie, my dear—how cruel.”

  The last words were uttered very softly. Any doubts Sophie had harboured that Mr. Lester was not as he appeared vanished. She shot him a very straight glance, irrelevantly noting how the hard line of his lips softened when he smiled. “My father was much cut up by my mother’s death. I remained with him, at home in Northamptonshire, helping with the household and the estate.”