A Lady of Expectations and Other Stories (Regencies 6)

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.”