With what was, she felt, commendable composure, Sophie held out her hand. “I thank you for a most enjoyable interlude, sir.” Her voice, lowered, was oddly soft and husky.
A small knot of gentlemen hovered uncertainly, awaiting her return.
Jack eyed them, less than pleased but too wise to show it. Instead, he took Sophie’s hand and bowed elegantly. Straightening, for the last time that evening he allowed his gaze to meet hers. “Until next we meet, Miss Winterton.”
His eyes said it would be soon.
* * *
TO SOPHIE’S CONSTERNATION, he called the next morning. Summoned to join her aunt in the drawing-room, she entered to find him, garbed most correctly for a morning about town in blue Bath superfine and ivory inexpressibles, rising from a chair to greet her, a faint, challenging lift to his dark brows.
“Good morning, Miss Winterton.”
Determined to hold her own, Sophie bludgeoned her wits into order and plastered a calm, unflustered expression over her surprise. “Good day, Mr. Lester.”
His smile warmed her before he released her hand to greet Clarissa, who had entered in her wake.
Aware that her aunt’s deceptively mild gaze was fixed firmly upon her, Sophie crossed to the chaise, cloaking her distraction with a nonchalant air. As she settled her skirts, she noted that susceptibility to Mr. Lester’s charms appeared strangely restricted. Despite her inexperience, Clarissa showed no sensitivity, greeting their unexpected caller with unaffected delight. Released, her cousin came to sit beside her.
Jack resumed his seat, elegantly disposing his long limbs in a fashionably fragile white-and-gilt chair. He had already excused his presence by turning Lucilla’s edict to call on them to good account. “As I was saying, Mrs. Webb, it is, indeed, pleasant to find oneself with time to spare before the Season gets fully under way.”
“Quite,” Lucilla returned, her pale gaze open and innocent. In a morning gown of wine-red cambric, she sat enthroned in an armchair close by the hearth. “However, I must confess it took the small taste of the ton that we enjoyed last night to refresh my memories. I had quite forgotten how extremely fatiguing it can be.”
From behind his urbane facade, Jack watched her carefully. “Indeed.” He gently inclined his head. “Coming direct from the country, the ton’s ballrooms can, I imagine, take on the aspect of an ordeal.”
“A very stuffy ordeal,” Lucilla agreed. Turning to the chaise, she asked, “Did you not find it so, my dears?”
Clarissa smiled brightly and opened her mouth to deny any adverse opinion of the previous evening’s entertainment.
Smoothly, Sophie cut in, “Indeed, yes. It may not have been a crush, yet the crowd was not inconsiderable. Towards the end, I found the atmosphere positively thick.”
It
was simply not done to admit to unfettered delight, nor to dismiss a kindly hostess’s entertainments as uncrowded.
Jack kept his smile restrained. “Just so. I had, in fact, wondered, Miss Winterton, if you would like to blow away any lingering aftertaste of the crowd by taking a turn in the Park? I have my curricle with me.”
“What a splendid idea.” Lucilla concurred, turning, wide-eyed, to Sophie.
But Sophie was looking at Jack.
As she watched, he inclined his head. “If you would care for it, Miss Winterton?”
Slowly, Sophie drew in a breath. And nodded. “I…” Abruptly, she looked down, to where her hands were clasped in the lap of her morning gown, a concoction of lilac mull-muslin. “I should change my gown.”
“I’m sure Mr. Lester will excuse you, my dear.”
With a nod to her aunt, Sophie withdrew, then beat a hasty retreat to her chamber. There, summoning a maid, she threw open the doors of her wardrobe and drew forth the carriage dress Jorge had sent round that morning. A golden umber, the heavy material was shot with green, so that, as she moved, it appeared to bronze, then dull. Standing before her cheval-glass, Sophie held the gown to her, noting again how its colour heightened the gold in her hair and emphasized the creaminess of her complexion. She grinned delightedly. Hugging the dress close, she whirled, waltzing a few steps, letting her heart hold sway for just a moment.
Then she caught sight of the maid staring at her from the doorway. Abruptly, Sophie steadied. “Ah, there you are, Ellen. Come along.” She waved the young girl forward. “I need to change.”
Downstairs in the drawing-room, Jack made idle conversation, something he could do with less than half his brain. Then, unexpectedly, Lucilla blandly declared, “I hope you’ll excuse Clarissa, Mr. Lester. We’re yet very busy settling in.” To Clarissa, she said, “Do look in on the twins for me, my love. You know I never feel comfortable unless I know what they’re about.”
Clarissa smiled in sunny agreement. She rose and bobbed a curtsy to Jack, then departed, leaving him wondering about the twins.
“They’re six,” Lucilla calmly stated. “A dreadfully imaginative age.”
Jack blinked, then decided to return to safer topics. “Allow me to congratulate you on your daughter, Mrs. Webb. I’ve rarely seen such beauty in conjunction with such a sweet disposition. I prophesy she’ll be an instant success.”