Stephanie Laurens - A Lady of Expectations

Sophie blinked rapidly and sucked in a quick breath. Her heart was aching; all of her hurt. But she could not give way to her pain in the middle of Miss Chessington’s sonata. Sophie swallowed; with an effort, she summoned a weak smile. “Thank you for the warning, ma’am.” She couldn’t trust herself to say more.

Her ladyship patted her hand, blinking herself. “There, there. It’s not the end of the world, although I know it may feel that way. Such unfortunate happenings are best nipped in the bud-before any lasting damage can be done. I know you’re too wise, my dear, not to know that-and to know how to go on. Why, you’ve all the Season before you. Plenty of opportunity to find a gentleman who suits you.”

Sophie would have given the earth to deny it, all of it, but nothing could gainsay the sincerity in Lady Matcham’s old eyes. With a wavering smile, Sophie gave the old lady a brief hug, then, with a mute nod, rose. Dragging in a steadying breath, she drifted to a corner of the room.

By dint of sheer will-power, she did not allow herself to dwell on Lady Matcham’s revelations until, together with her aunt and Clarissa, she was enclosed in the protective shadows of the carriage and bound for home.

Then misery engulfed her, tinged with black despair.

As they alighted in Mount Street, the light from a street flare fell full on her face. Lucilla glanced around; her eyes narrowed. “Sophie, you will lie in tomorrow. I will not have you coming down with any ailment at this time of year.”

Fleetingly, Sophie met her aunt’s gaze, sharp and concerned. “Yes, Aunt,” she acquiesced, meekly looking down. Ignoring Clarissa’s concerned and questioning glance, Sophie followed her aunt up the steps.

THE NEXT DAY dawned but brought with it no relief. From behind the lace curtain at her bedchamber window, Sophie watched as Jack Lester descended the steps to the street. He climbed up into his waiting curricle and, as his groom scrambled up behind, deftly flicked his whip and drove away. Sophie watched until he disappeared around the corner, then, heaving a heavy sigh, turned back into the room.

He had called to take her for a drive, only to be met with the news of her indisposition.

Sophie sniffed. Aimless, she drifted across the room towards her bed, her sodden handkerchief wadded in her fist. As she passed her dressing-table, she caught a glimpse of her face in the mirror. Dark shadows circled her eyes; her cheeks were wan, her lips dry. Her head felt woosy and throbbed uncomfortably; her limbs seemed heavy, listless.

Lady Matcham’s warning had come too late. In the dark hours of the night, she had faced the dismal fact: the delicate bud rooted in her heart, influenced by the weather and the warmth of his smile, had already flowered. Now it lay crushed, slain by the weight of circumstance. Soon, she supposed, it would wither.

She was not a wealthy catch, a bride who would bring as her dower the ready cash necessary to rescue a gentleman’s estates. Nothing could change that cold, hard fact. She was her father’s heiress, a lady of expectations, possessed of no more than moderate fortune, and even that was prospective, not immediately accessible as capital.

Sophie sniffed again, then determinedly blew her nose. She had spent too much of the night weeping, not an occupation she had had much experience of, not since her mother’s death. Now, she felt emptied, desolate, as she had then. But she knew she would recover. She would allow herself one day in which to mope, and by tonight, she would be back on her feet, her smile bright. As the Season unfolded, she would devote herself to her search for a husband with all due diligence. And forget about a handsome rake with dark blue eyes.

That was the way things were in her world; she knew it well enough. And after all Lucilla’s and Clarissa’s kindnesses, she would not allow her unhappiness to cloud Clarissa’s Season. She would do her best to ensure it did not sink her own, either.

Feeling oddly better to have such clear goals before her, Sophie perched on the end of her bed. Her fingers pulled at her wrinkled handkerchief; her gaze grew abstracted. There was one point she had yet to consider: how best to deal with him when they met, as, inevitably, they would.

After deep and lengthy cogitation, she had absolved him of all blame. She could not believe he had sought to cause her pain. She it was who had misread his purpose; she was, in reality, no more experienced in such matters than Clarissa. It was, very likely, as Miss Billingham had said-to him, she was a safe and agreeable companion, one with whom to pass the time until the Season was fully under way and he could set about choosing his bride. Indeed, Lady Matcham’s observations left little room for any other interpretation.

There were, admittedly, his curious words when he had last left her. The time is not yet. She had thought he had meant… Abruptly, Sophie cut off the thought, setting her teeth against the pain. What he had probably meant was to propose some outing, some excursion which their present early stage of friendship would not stretch to encompass. She had read more-much more-into his innocent words than he could ever have intended.

Which meant that, given his innocence, she would have to treat him as if nothing was wrong. Pride dictated she do so. Any awkwardness she felt must be suppressed, hidden, for she couldn’t bear him to know what she had thought-hoped.

Somehow, she would cope. Like Madame Jorge, like Lucilla, she could contrive.

With a sigh, Sophie climbed onto her bed and tugged the covers over her. She snuggled down, settling her head on the pillows; calmly determined, she closed her eyes. She forced herself to relax, to allow the furrows in her forehead to ease away. If she was going to contrive, she would need some sleep.

The days ahead would not be easy.

EVEN PICCADILLY WAS CROWDED. Jack frowned as, leaving the shady avenues of the Park behind him, he was forced to rein in his horses by the press of traffic, vehicular and pedestrian, that thronged the wide street. Manoeuvring his curricle into the flow, he sat back, resigned to the crawling pace. To his right, Green Park luxuriated in the unseasonable heat, green buds unfurling as the fashionable strolled its gentle paths. Its calm beckoned, but Jack ignored it. The clamour of the traffic more suited his mood.

Grimacing at his inching progress, he kept his hands firm on his horses’ reins. Just as he did on his own. He supposed his wooing of Sophie Winterton was progressing satisfactorily, yet this snail’s pace was hardly what he had had in mind when he had exchanged the informality of the country for the ton’s structured delights. Lady Entwhistle’s small ball had raised his hopes; at its conclusion he had felt decidedly smug. Thus, he felt sure, should a lady be wooed.

That success had been followed by his admittedly precipitous invitation to go driving, prompted by the unexpectedly tempestuous feelings which lay beneath his reasoned logic. He could justify to his own and anyone else’s satisfaction just why Sophie Winterton would make him an excellent wife but, underneath it all, that peculiarly strong emotion which he hesitated to name simply insisted she was his.

Which was all very well, but Sophie’s aunt, while not disputing his claim, had made it clear she would not assist him in sweeping Sophie off her feet.

Which, given his present state, was a serious set-back.

His horses tossed their heads impatiently, tugging at the reins. Reining them in, Jack snorted, very much in sympathy.

That drive in the Park, that gentle hour of Sophie’s company, had very nearly tripped him up. If he was to obey her aunt’s clear injunction and allow her to enjoy her Season unencumbered by a possessive fiancé-he had few illusions about that-then he would have to keep a firmer grip on himself. And on his wayward impulses.

Not that that was presently proving a problem; he had not set eyes on Sophie since that morning nearly a week ago. After her aunt’s warning, he had held off as long as he could-until Friday, when he had called only to learn she was ill. That had shaken him; for an instant, he had wondered if her indisposition was real or just one of those tricks ladies sometimes played, then had dismissed the thought as unworthy-of Sophie and himself. He knew she liked him; it was there in her eyes, a warm, slightly wary but nonetheless welcoming glow that lit up her face whenever they met. Chiding himself for his ridiculous sensitivity, he had dispatched his man, Pinkerton, to scour the town for yellow roses. As always, Pinkerton, despite his perennial gloom, had triumphed. Three massive sprays of yellow blooms had duly been delivered in Mount Street with a card, unsigned, wishing Miss Winterton a speedy recovery.

He had looked for her in the Park, morning and afternoon, on both Saturday and Sunday but had failed to come up with the Webb carriage.

So, feeling distinctly edgy, all but champing on his metaphorical bit, he had called in Mount Street this morning-only to be informed that Miss Winterton had gone walking with her cousins.

Fate, it seemed, had deserted him. Despite the bright sunshine, his view of the Season was growing gloomier by the minute.

Lord Hardcastle, driving his greys, hailed him; they spent a few minutes exchanging opinions on the unusual press of traffic before said traffic condescended to amble onward, parting them. An organ-grinder, complete with monkey, was playing to an attentive crowd, blocking the pavement, much to the disgust of merchants and those less inclined to dally. Jack smiled and returned his attention to his horses. As he did so, a flash of gold caught his eye.

Turning, he searched the throng bustling along the pavement-and saw Sophie with Clarissa beside her, the two boys and Amy reluctantly following, casting longing glances back at the organ-grinder. As he watched, the little cavalcade halted before a shop door, then, leaving the maid and groom who had brought up the rear outside, Sophie led the way in.

Jack glanced up and read the sign above the shop, and smiled. He pulled his curricle over to the kerb. “Here-Jigson! Take charge of ‘em. Wait here.” Tossing the reins in Jigson’s general direction, Jack leapt down and, threading his way through the traffic, entered the door through which Sophie had passed.

The door shut behind him, abruptly cutting off the noisy bustle outside. Calm and well-ordered, the refined ambience of Hatchard’s Book Shop and Circulating Library enfolded him. No raised voices here. A severely garbed man behind a desk close to the door eyed him, disapproval withheld but imminent. Jack smiled easily and walked past. Despite its relative peace, the shop was quite crowded. He scanned the heads but could not find the one he sought. An eddy disturbed the calm; Jack spotted Jeremy, George and Amy huddling in a nook by the window, noses pressed to the pane, gazes locked on the entertainment on the pavement opposite.

Glancing around, Jack discovered that the disapproving man had been joined by an equally severely garbed woman. They were now both regarding him askance. With another urbane smile, he moved into the first aisle and pretended to scan the spines until he was out of their sight.

At the end of the third aisle, Sophie frowned up at the novel she most expressly wished to borrow. It was wedged tightly between two others on the topmost shelf, barely within reach. She thought of summoning the clerk to retrieve it for her, and grimaced; he was, she had discovered, quite cloyingly admiring. Sophie smothered a snort. She would make one last effort to prise the book loose before she surrendered to the attentions of the clerk.

Sucking in a breath, she stretched high, her fingers grappling to find purchase above the leather-covered tome.

“Allow me, my dear.”

Sophie jumped. Snatching back her hand, she whirled, her colour draining then returning with a rush. “Oh! Ah…” her eyes widened as they met his. Abruptly, she dropped her gaze and stepped back, determinedly shackling her wayward wits. “Why thank you, Mr. Lester.” With all the calm she could command, Sophie raised her head. “This is quite the last place I had thought to meet you, sir.”

Tugging the book free of its fellows, Jack presented it to her with a bow. “Indeed. Not even I would have thought to find me here. But I saw you enter and was filled with an unquenchable desire-” Jack trapped her gaze, a rakish smile dawning “-to view such apparently attractive premises. Strange, was it not?”

“Indeed.” Sophie sent him a cool glance. “Most strange.” She accepted the volume, reminding herself of her sensible conclusion, and her determination to view him as he viewed her: as a friendly acquaintance. “I do, most sincerely, thank you for your assistance, sir. But I must not keep you from your business.”