Stephanie Laurens Rogues' Reform Bundle (40 page)

She glanced up, expecting to see him smiling, laughing with her at the prospect of so many matrons busily scheming on her behalf. Instead, his face remained stony, devoid of expression. Jack felt her glance. His emotions straining at the leash, he looked down.

Sophie met his dark gaze, and felt a vice slowly close about her heart. Avid, eager to find the reason, for that and the force that held them in a curious hiatus, out of time, she searched his face and his deeply glowing eyes. Jack watched as her smile slowly faded, to be replaced with puzzlement—and a clear query.

“Sophie—” He drew in a deep breath and glanced ahead, just in time to avoid colliding with a natty trilby, swung through the gates far too fast.

Jack swore. In the ensuing chaos as he calmed his own horses, then received the shrill and abject apologies of the trilby's owner, a young sprig barely old enough to shave and, in Jack's pithily offered opinion, of insufficient experience to be entrusted with the reins, the purport of Lucilla's words returned to him.

As the trilby crept away, Jack turned to Sophie, his expression carefully blank. “Are you all right?”

“Yes.” Sophie smiled brightly up at him, while inwardly she wondered if that was strictly true. The instant before the trilby's advent had left her nerves stretched and quivering.

Jack forced his lips into an easy smile. “I'd better get you back to Mount Street forthwith, or your aunt will doubtless forbid me your company. It's well past our allotted hour.”

Sophie kept her own smile light. “My aunt is very understanding.”

That, Jack thought, as he eased into the traffic, was undoubtedly the greatest understatement he had ever heard. He made no effort to break the silence until they reached Mount Street. Even then, relinquishing the reins to Jigson, whom he had left awaiting his return, he eschewed comment, reaching up to lift Sophie down to the pavement in what was rapidly becoming a charged silence.

As he expected, she showed no signs of fluster. Instead, she stood before him, her face turned up to his, her query contained in the gentle lift of her delicate brows.

Despite himself, Jack smiled—his slow, sensuous smile, the one he was usually careful to hide from well-bred young ladies.

Sophie didn't disappoint him; she studied his face, openly gauging his smile, then, lifting her eyes to his, merely raised her brows higher.

Jack laughed softly but shook his head. “The time is not yet,” was all he dared say. Holding her eyes with his, he raised her gloved hand and, most reprehensibly, placed a kiss on her bare wrist. Then, placing her hand on his sleeve, he covered it with his and strolled with her up the steps. As the door opened to admit her, he bowed. “Once again, my dear—until next we meet.”

F
OR
S
OPHIE
, the rest of Tuesday and all of Wednesday passed in a rosy-hued blur. As expected, Lady Cowper called, promising vouchers for Almack's and her most earnest endeavours. Lucilla and her ladyship spent a full hour with their heads close together; Sophie stared absent-mindedly at the window, her expression distant. Recalled to the present when her ladyship rose, she flashed a bright smile and bade Lady Cowper farewell. The smile lingered, muted but nevertheless present, long after her ladyship's carriage rattled away down the street.

“Well then, my dears.” Lucilla swept back into the drawing-room. Clarissa followed with Sophie trailing in the rear. “In the light of Lady Cowper's remarks, we had best reconsider our strategy.”

Closing the door, Sophie made for the chaise, a slight blush tinting her cheeks. “How so, aunt?” She could not, in truth, recall all that much of Lady Cowper's conversation.

With a long-suffering air, Lucilla raised her brows. “Because, my dear, if the
ton
is already in town then there's no reason not to steal a march on those who have planned their entertainments to coincide with the usual start of festivities and already sent out their invitations.” Reclaiming her seat, she gestured to the pile of white cards upon the mantelshelf. “The list grows every day. I have it in mind to make our mark with a tactical manoeuvre, if I have the phrase correctly.”

Sophie tried to concentrate on her aunt's meaning. Yet at every pause, her mind slid sideways, to ponder the subtleties in a certain deep voice, and the light that had glowed in his eyes. Frowning, she struggled to banish her distracting fascination. “So you mean to bring Clarissa's come-out forward?”

Deep in thought, Lucilla nodded. “It seems strategically imperative—if she's not out, she cannot be present at the rush of balls and parties which, as dear Emily pointed out, are this year going to precede the usual commencement.” Lucilla pulled a face. “Yet it's not the sort of decision one takes lightly.” She pondered a moment, one elegant fingernail tapping on the chair arm. Then she straightened. “We have Lady Allingcott's at-home this afternoon and Lady Chessington's little party tonight, then Almack's tomorrow—even they have started early this year. I pray you both to keep your ears open. Depending on what we all hear, I think we might start with an impromptu party, just for the younger folk, next week. And plan Clarissa's ball for the week after that. My ideas are already well advanced; it will simply be a matter of bringing them forward a trifle.” Nodding to herself, Lucilla turned to Clarissa. “What say you to that, my dear?”

“It sounds
wonderful!
” Clarissa's eyes radiated excited relief. “Indeed, I wasn't looking forward to missing the balls in the next weeks.”

“And why should you?” Lucilla spread her hands wide. “This is your Season, my love; you're here to enjoy it.” She smiled her subtlest smile. “As Madame Jorge said; we will contrive.”

Sophie had nothing to say against her aunt's plans. Mr. Lester, of course, would not be present at the small, informal parties and dances held by the families with young girls making their come-out, to help the young ladies gain their social feet. Until Clarissa was officially out, the Webb ladies would be restricted to such tame affairs, which were all very well if there was nothing else on offer. But this year, this Season, was going to be different—and it wasn't only the weather that would make it so for her.

They attended Lady Allingcott's and Lady Chessington's entertainments, and on Wednesday called on Lady Hartford and the Misses Smythe, then danced at Almack's, all the while listening to what their peers had to say of projected entertainments.

Over breakfast the next morning, Lucilla called a council of war. “Now pay attention, Sophie.”

Thus adjured, Sophie blinked. And endeavored to obey the injunction.

“I've consulted with your father, Clarissa, and he's in full agreement. We will hold your come-out ball at the end of the week after next.”

Clarissa crowed. Her younger brothers pulled faces and taunted.

“In the meantime, however,” Lucilla raised her voice only slightly; as her eagle eye swept the table the din subsided. “We'll hold a dance at the end of next week—on Friday. An informal affair—but we need not restrict the guest list solely to those making their come-out. I see no reason not to invite some of those amongst the
ton
with whom you are already acquainted.”

Sophie knew her smile was almost as bright as Clarissa's. Her aunt's gaze, pausing meaningfully on her, sent her heart soaring. Ridiculous—but there was no other word for it—the exhilarating excitement that gripped her at the mere thought of seeing him again. She lived for the moment but, given he had not appeared at Almack's—faint hope though that had been—it had seemed likely they would not meet again until Clarissa was out and they could move freely in society's mainstream.

Unless, of course, he called to take her driving again.

She spent all morning with one ear tuned to the knocker. When the time for luncheon arrived and he had not called, she put her disappointment aside and, her smile still bright, descended to the dining-room. She was determined none of her cousins would guess her true state. As for her aunt, she had directed one or two pointed glances at her niece and once, she had surprised a look of soft satisfaction upon Lucilla's face. That, of course, was inevitable.

It was at Mrs. Morgan-Stanley's at-home later that day that her bubble of happiness was punctured.

On entering the Morgan-Stanleys' large drawing-room, Lucilla immediately joined the circle of fashionable matrons gathered about the fireplace. Clarissa drifted across to the windows, to where the youngest of those present had shyly retreated to trade dreams. With a confident smile, Sophie joined a small group of young ladies for whom this was not their first Season. She was taking tea with them in their corner when, in the midst of a discussion on the many notables already sighted in town, Miss Billingham, a thin young lady with severe, pinched features, cast her an arch glance.

“Indeed! Miss Winterton, I fancy, can testify to the fact. Why, we saw you in the Park just the other morning, my dear, driving with Mr. Lester.”

“Mr. Lester?” Miss Chessington, a bright, cheerful soul, short, good-natured and of an indefatigably sunny temperament, blinked in amazement. “But I thought he
never
drove mere females.”

“Not previously,” Miss Billingham conceded with the air of one who had made a thorough study of the matter and was unshakeably certain of her facts. “But it's clear he has, at last, realized he must change his ways. My mama commented on the point, even last Season.” When the others, Sophie included, looked their question, Miss Billingham consented to explain. “Well, it's common knowledge that he must marry well. More than well—real money—for there are his brothers, too, and everyone knows the Lesters have barely a penny to bless themselves with. Good breeding, good estates—it's the blunt that's wanting.”

Sophie was not the only one who blinked at the crude term and the hard gleam in Miss Billingham's eyes but, in her case, the action was purely reflex. Her mind was reeling; a horrible sinking feeling had taken up residence in the pit of her stomach. Her features froze in a polite mask, and a sudden chill swept through her.

“My mama has long maintained,” Miss Billingham declaimed, “that he'd have to come about. Too high in the instep by half, he spent all last Season searching for some goddess. Likely he's come to the understanding that he cannot look so high.”

Miss Billingham looked at Sophie. The others, following her lead, did the same. Caught on a welling tide of despair, Sophie did not notice.

“I suppose, it being so early in the Season, he thought to amuse himself—get his hand in at the practice in safety, so to speak—by squiring you about, Miss Winterton.”

It was the rustling of skirts as the others drew back, distancing themselves from the snide remark, that shook Sophie from her trance. As Miss Billingham's words registered, she felt herself pale. A cattish gleam of satisfaction flared in Miss Billingham's eyes. Pride came to Sophie's rescue, stiffening her spine. She drew in a steadying breath, then lifted her chin, looking down at Miss Billingham with chilly hauteur. “I dare say, Miss Billingham.” Her tone repressively cool, Sophie continued, “I can only assume that Mr. Lester could find no other to suit his purpose, for, as you say, I hardly qualify as a rich prize.”

At first, Miss Billingham missed the allusion; the poorly suppressed grins of the other young ladies finally brought Sophie's words home. Slowly, Miss Billingham's sallow complexion turned beet-red, an unhappy sight. She opened her mouth, casting a glance around for support. As she found none, her colour deepened. With a few muted words, she excused herself to return to the safer precincts close by her mother, a woman of battleship proportions.

“Don't pay any attention to her,” Miss Chessington advised as their little circle closed comfortably about Sophie. “She's just furious Jack Lester paid her no heed whatever last year. Set her cap at him, and fell flat on her face.”

Valiantly, Sophie struggled to return Miss Chessington's bright smile. “Indeed. But what of your hopes? Do you have anyone in your sights?”

Belle Chessington grinned hugely. “Heavens, no! I'm determined to enjoy myself. All that bother about a husband can come later.”

Reflecting that, a few months ago, she, too, would have been as carefree, Sophie dragged her thoughts away from what had focused her mind on marriage. She clung to Miss Chessington's buoyant spirits until it was time to depart.

Once enveloped in the quiet of her aunt's carriage, cool reason returned to hold back the misery that threatened to engulf her. Sophie closed her eyes and laid her head back on the squabs.

“Aren't you feeling quite the thing, my dear?”

Lucilla's calm voice interrupted Sophie's thoughts. Sophie tried to smile, but the result was more like a grimace. “Just a slight headache. I found Mrs. Morgan-Stanley's drawing-room a trifle close.” It was the best she could do. To her relief, her aunt seemed to accept the weak excuse.

Lucilla reached over and patted her hand. “Well, do take care. I hope you'll both remember that one never appears to advantage while a martyr to ill health.” After a moment, Lucilla mused, “I don't think our schedule is overly full, but if you do feel the need, you must both promise me you'll rest.”

Together with Clarissa, Sophie murmured her reassurances.

As the carriage rolled steadily onward, she kept her eyes closed, hiding her frown. Despite her often outrageous machinations, Lucilla was ever supportive, always protective. If Jack Lester was, indeed, totally ineligible as a suitor for her hand—or, more specifically, if, as a mere lady of expectations,
she
was ineligible to be his bride, then Lucilla would not have allowed him to draw so close. Her aunt was as clever as she could hold together. Surely she could trust in Lucilla's perspicacity?

Perhaps Miss Billingham had it wrong?

That possibility allowed Sophie to meet the rest of her day with equanimity, if not outright enthusiasm. Until the evening, when Lady Orville's little musical gathering brought an end to all hope.

It was, most incongruously, old Lady Matcham who squashed the bubble of her happiness flat. A tiny little woman, white-haired and silver-eyed with age, her ladyship was a kindly soul who would never, Sophie knew, intentionally cause anyone harm.

“I know you won't mind me mentioning this, Sophia, my dear. You know how very close I was to your mother—well, she was almost a daughter to me, you know. So sad, her going.” The old eyes filled with tears. Lady Matcham dabbed them away with a lace-edged handkerchief. “Silly of me, of course.” She smiled with determined brightness up at Sophie, sitting beside her on a chaise along the back wall of the music room.

Before them, the very select few whom Lady Orville had invited to air their musical abilities along with her two daughters were entertaining the gathering, seated in rows of little chairs before the pianoforte. Now, to the sound of polite applause, Miss Chessington took her seat at the instrument and laid her hands upon the keys.

Expecting a comment on the colour of her ribbons, or something in similar vein, Sophie smiled reassuringly at Lady Matcham, returning the squeeze of one birdlike claw.

“But that's why I feel I have to say something, Sophia,” Lady Matcham continued. “For I would not rest easy thinking you had got hurt when I could have prevented it.”

An icy hand closed about Sophie's heart, all expression leached from her face. Numb, paralyzed, she gazed blankly at Lady Matcham.

“I must say,” her ladyship went on, her washed-out eyes widening. “I had thought Lucilla would have warned you but, no doubt, having only just returned to the capital, she's not yet up with the latest.”

The chill creeping through Sophie had reached her mind; she couldn't think how to interrupt. She didn't want to hear any more, but her ladyship pressed on, her soft, gentle, undeniably earnest tones a death-knell to all hope.

“It's about Mr. Lester, my dear. Such a handsome man—quite the gentleman and so very well-connected. But he needs a rich wife. A very rich wife. I know, for I am acquainted with his aunt, dear soul—she's passed on now. But it was always understood the Lester boys would have to marry money, as the saying goes.” Lady Matcham's sweet face grimaced with distaste. “Such a disheartening thought.”

Sophie could only agree. Her heart was a painful lump in her breast; her features felt frozen. She couldn't speak; she could only gaze blankly as Lady Matcham lifted her wise old eyes to her face.

Lady Matcham patted her hand. “I saw you in the Park, in his curricle. And I just had to say something, my dear, for it really won't do. I dare say he's everything a gal like you might wish for. But indeed, Sophia dear, he's not for you.”