Set against a Regency backdrop, in A Lady of Expectations, Stephanie Laurens introduces the Lester family. The Lesters were the first family Stephanie created where different books dealt with the romances of siblings, and as such were the precursors of many of Stephanie’s subsequent books.

In A Lady of Expectations, Lenore’s oldest brother Jack discovers that wooing the lady of his choice requires far more effort than he’s imagined!

Stephanie lives in a suburb of Melbourne, Australia, with her husband and two daughters. To learn more about Stephanie’s books visit her website at www.stephanielaurens.com.

Also by Stephanie Laurens

THE REASONS FOR MARRIAGE

AN UNWILLING CONQUEST

A COMFORTABLE WIFE

A Lady of Expectations

Stephanie Laurens

www.mirabooks.co.uk

CHAPTER ONE

“LADY ASFORDBY, OF ASFORDBY GRANGE, requests the pleasure of the company of Mr. Jack Lester, of Rawling’s Cottage, and guests, at a ball.”

Ensconced in an armchair by the fireplace, a glass of brandy in one long-fingered hand, the white card of Lady Asfordby’s invitation in the other, Jack Lester made the pronouncement with ill-disguised gloom.

“She’s the grand dame of these parts, ain’t she?” Lord Percy Almsworthy was the second of the three gentlemen taking their ease in the parlour of Jack’s hunting box. Outside, the wind howled about the eaves and tugged at the shutters. All three had ridden to hounds that day, taking the field with the Quorn. But while both Jack and his brother Harry, presently sprawled on the chaise, were clipping riders, up with the best of them, Percy had long ago taken Brummel’s lead, indefatigable in turning out precise to a pin but rarely venturing beyond the first field. Which explained why he was now idly pacing the room, restless, while the brothers lounged, pleasantly exhausted, with the look about them of men not willing to stir. Pausing by the fireplace, Percy looked down on his host. “Lend a bit of colour to your stay, what? Besides,” he added, turning to amble once more, “You never know—might see a golden head that takes your eye.”

“In this backwater?” Jack snorted. “If I couldn’t find any golden head worth the attention last Season—nor during the Little Season—I don’t give much for my chances here.”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Unconsciously elegant, Harry Lester lounged on the chaise, one broad shoulder propped against a cushion, his thick golden locks rakishly dishevelled. His sharply intelligent green eyes wickedly quizzed his elder brother. “You seem remarkably set on this start of yours. As finding a wife has become so important to you, I should think it behoves you to turn every stone. Who knows which one hides a gem?”

Blue eyes met green. Jack grunted and looked down. Absent-mindedly, he studied the gilt-edged card. Firelight glinted over the smooth waves of his dark hair and shadowed his lean cheeks. His brow furrowed.

He had to marry. He had inwardly acknowledged that fact more than twenty months ago, even before his sister, Lenore, had married the Duke of Eversleigh, leaving the burden of the family squarely on his shoulders.

“Perseverance—that’s what you need.” Percy nodded to no one in particular. “Can’t let another Season go by without making your choice—waste your life away if you’re too finicky.”

“I hate to say it, old son,” Harry said. “But Percy’s right. You can’t seriously go for years looking over the field, turning your nose up at all the offerings.” Taking a sip of his brandy, he eyed his brother over the rim of his glass. His green eyes lit with an unholy gleam. “Not,” he added, his voice soft, “unless you allow your good fortune to become known.”

“Heaven forbid!” Eyes narrowing, Jack turned to Harry. “And just in case you have any ideas along that track, perhaps I should remind you that it’s our good fortune—yours and mine and Gerald’s, too?” Features relaxing, Jack sank back in his chair, a smile erasing the severe line of his lips. “Indeed, the chance of seeing you playing catch-me-who-can with all the enamoured damsels is sorely tempting, brother mine.”

Harry grinned and raised his glass. “Fear not—that thought has already occurred. If the ton stumbles onto our secret, it won’t be through me. And I’ll make a point of dropping a quiet word in our baby brother’s ear, what’s more. Neither you nor I need him queering our pitch.”

“Too true.” Jack shuddered artistically. “The prospect does not bear thinking of.”

Percy was frowning. “I can’t see it. Why not let it out that you’re all as rich as bedammed? God knows, you Lesters have been regarded as nothing more than barely well-to-do for generations. Now that’s changed, why not reap the rewards?” His guileless expression was matched by his next words. “The debs would be yours for the asking—you could take your pick.”

Both Lester men bent looks of transparent sympathy upon their hapless friend.

Bewildered, Percy blinked and patiently waited to be set aright.

Unable to hold a candle to his long-time companions in the matter of manly attributes, he had long since become reconciled to his much slighter figure, his sloping shoulders and spindly shanks. More than reconciled—he had found his vocation as a Pink of the Ton. Dressing to disguise his shortcomings and polishing his address to overcome his innate shyness had led to yet another discovery; his newfound status spared him from the trial of chasing women. Both Jack and Harry thrived on the sport, but Percy’s inclinations were of a less robust nature. He adored the ladies—from a distance. In his estimation, his present style of life was infinitely preferable to the racy existence enjoyed by his companions.

However, as both Jack and Harry were well aware, his present lifestyle left him woefully adrift when it came to matters of strategy in handling the female of the species, particularly those dragons who menaced all rakes—the matrons of the ton.

And, naturally, with his mild manners and retiring ways, he was hardly the sort of gentleman who inhabited the debutantes’ dreams. All the Lester men—Jack, at thirty-six, with his dark good looks and powerful athlete’s physique, and Harry, younger by two years, his lithe figure forever graceful and ineffably elegant—and even twenty-four-yearold Gerald, with his boyish charm—were definitely the stuff of which females’ dreams were made.

“Actually, Percy, old man,” Harry said. “I rather suspect Jack thinks he can have his pick regardless.”

Jack shot a supercilious glance at his sibling. “As a matter of fact, I’ve not previously considered the point.”

Harry’s lips lifted; gracefully, he inclined his head. “I have infinite confidence, oh brother mine, that if and when you find your particular golden head, you won’t need the aid of our disgusting wealth in persuading her to your cause.”

“Yes—but why the secrecy?” Percy demanded.

“Because,” Jack explained, “while the matrons have considered my fortune, as you so succinctly put it, as barely well-to-do, they’ve been content to let me stroll among their gilded flowers, letting me look my fill without undue interference.”

With three profligate sons in the family and an income little more than a competence, it was commonly understood that the scions of Lester Hall would require wealthy brides. However, given the family connections and the fact that Jack, as eldest, would inherit the Hall and principal estates, no one had been surprised when, once he had let it be known he was seriously contemplating matrimony, the invitations had rolled in.

“Naturally,” Harry suavely put in. “With all Jack’s years of … worldly experience, no one expects him to fall victim to any simple snares and, given the lack of a Lester fortune, there’s insufficient incentive for the dragons to waste effort mounting any of their more convoluted schemes.”

“So I’ve been free to view the field.” Jack took back the conversational reins. “However, should any whiff of our changed circumstances begin circulating through the ton, my life of unfettered ease will be over. The harpies will descend with a vengeance.”

“Nothing they like better than the fall of a rake,” Harry confided to Percy. “Brings out their best efforts—never more hellishly inventive than when they’ve a rich rake with a declared interest in matrimony firmly in their sights. They relish the prospect of the hunter being the hunted.”

Jack threw him a quelling glance. “Sufficient to say that my life will no longer be at all comfortable. I won’t be able to set foot outside my door without guarding against the unimaginable. Debs at every turn, hanging on a fellow’s arm, forever batting their silly lashes. It’s easy to put one off women for life.”

Harry shut his eyes and shuddered.

The light of understanding dawned on Percy’s cherubic countenance. “Oh,” he said. Then, “In that case, you’d better accept Lady Asfordby’s invitation.”

Jack waved a languid hand. “I’ve all the Season to go yet. No need to get in a pother.”

“Ah, yes. But will you? Have all the Season, I mean?” When both Jack and Harry looked lost, Percy explained, “This fortune of yours was made on ‘Change, wasn’t it?”

Jack nodded. “Lenore took the advice of one of the pater’s acquaintances and staked a fleet of merchantmen to the Indies. The company was formed through the usual channels and is listed in London.”

“Precisely!” Percy came to a flourishing halt by the fireplace. “So any number of men with an interest at the Exchange know the company was wildly successful. And lots of them must know that the Lesters were one of the major backers. That sort of thing’s not secret, y’know. M’father, for one, would be sure to know.”

Jack and Harry exchanged looks of dawning dismay.

“There’s no way to silence all those who know,” Percy continued. “So you’ve only got until one of those men happens to mention to his wife that the Lesters’ fortunes have changed and the whole world will know.”

A groan escaped Harry.

“No—wait.” Jack straightened. “It’s not that simple, thank God.” The last was said with all due reverence. “Lenore organized it, but naturally she could hardly act for herself in the matter. She used our broker, old Charters, a terribly stuffy old soul. He has never approved of females being involved in business—the old man had to lean on him to accept instructions from Lenore years ago. Charters only agreed on the understanding of secrecy all round—he didn’t want it known that he took orders from a woman. Which probably means he won’t admit it was us he was working for, as it’s fairly well known Lenore was in charge of our finances. If Charters doesn’t talk, there’s no reason to imagine our windfall will become common knowledge overnight.”

Percy frowned and pursed his lips. “Not overnight, maybe. But dashed if I think it’ll be all that long. These things filter through the cracks in the mortar, so my old man says.”

A sober silence descended on the room as the occupants weighed the situation.

“Percy’s right.” Harry’s expression was grim.

Glumly resigned, Jack held up Lady Asfordby’s invitation. “In more ways than one. I’ll send round to Lady Asfordby to expect us.”

“Not me.” Harry shook his head decisively.

Jack’s brows rose. “You’ll get caught in the storm, too.”

Stubbornly, Harry shook his head again. He drained his glass and placed it on a nearby table. “I haven’t let it be known I’m in the market for a wife, for the simple reason that I’m not.” He stood, stretching his long, lean frame. Then he grinned. “Besides, I like living dangerously.”

Jack returned the grin with a smile.

“Anyway, I’m promised at Belvoir tomorrow. Gerald’s there—I’ll tip him the wink over our desire for silence on the subject of our communal fortune. So you can proffer my regrets to her ladyship with a clear conscience.” Harry’s grin broadened. “Don’t forget to do so, incidentally. You might recall she was an old friend of our late lamented aunt and can be a positive dragon—she’ll doubtless be in town for the Season, and I’d rather not find myself facing her fire.”

With a nod to Percy, Harry made for the door, dropping a hand on Jack’s shoulder in passing. “I should inspect Prince’s fetlock—see if that poultice has done any good. I’ll be off early tomorrow, so I’ll wish you good hunting.” With a commiserating grin, he left.

As the door closed behind his brother, Jack’s gaze returned to Lady Asfordby’s invitation. With a sigh, he put it in his pocket, then took a long sip of his brandy.

“So, are we going?” Percy asked around a yawn.

Grimly, Jack nodded. “We’re going.”

While Percy went up to bed and the house settled to slumber around him, Jack remained in his chair by the fire, blue eyes intent on the flames. He was still there when, an hour later, Harry re-entered the room.

“What? Still here?”

Jack sipped his brandy. “As you see.”

Harry hesitated for a moment, then crossed to the sideboard. “Musing on the delights of matrimony?”

Head back, Jack let his eyes track his brother’s movements. “On the inevitability of matrimony, if you really want to know.”

Sinking onto the chaise, Harry lifted a brow. “Doesn’t have to be you, you know.”

Jack’s eyes opened wide. “Is that an offer—the ultimate sacrifice?”

Harry grinned. “I was thinking of Gerald.”

“Ah.” Jack let his head fall back and stared at the ceiling. “I have to admit I’ve thought of him, too. But it won’t do.”

“Why not?”

“He’ll never marry in time for the pater.”

Harry grimaced but made no answer. Like Jack, he was aware of their sire’s wish to see his line continue unbroken, as it had for generations past. It was the one last nagging worry clouding a mind otherwise prepared for death.

“But it’s not only that,” Jack admitted, his gaze distant. “If I’m to manage the Hall as it should be managed, I’ll need a chatelaine—someone to take on the role Lenore filled. Not the business side, but all the rest of it. All the duties of a well-bred wife.” His lips twisted wryly. “Since Lenore left, I’ve learned to appreciate her talents as never before. But the reins are in my hands now, and I’ll be damned if I don’t get my team running in good order.”

Harry grinned. “Your fervour has raised a good few brows. I don’t think anyone expected such a transformation—profligate rakehell to responsible landowner in a matter of months.”

Jack grunted. “You’d have changed, too, if the responsibility had fallen to you. But there’s no question about it, I need a wife. One like Lenore.”

“There aren’t many like Lenore.”

“Don’t I know it.” Jack let his disgruntlement show. “I’m seriously wondering if what I seek exists—a gentlewoman with charm and grace, efficient and firm enough to manage the reins.”

“Blond, well-endowed and of sunny disposition?”

Jack shot his brother an irritated glance. “It certainly wouldn’t hurt, given the rest of her duties.”

Harry chuckled. “No likely prospects in sight?”

“Nary a one.” Jack’s disgust was back. “After a year of looking, I can truthfully inform you that not one candidate made me look twice. They’re all so alike—young, sweet and innocent—and quite helpless. I need a woman with backbone and all I can find are clinging vines.”

Silence filled the room as they both considered his words.

“Sure Lenore can’t help?” Harry eventually asked.

Jack shook his head. “Eversleigh, damn his hide, was emphatic. His duchess will not be gracing the ton’s ballrooms this Season. Instead,” Jack continued, his eyes gently twinkling, “she’ll be at home at Eversleigh, tending to her firstborn and his father, while increasing under Jason’s watchful eye. Meanwhile, to use his words, the ton can go hang.”

Harry laughed. “So she’s really indisposed? I thought that business about morning sickness was an excuse Jason drummed up to whisk her out of the crowd.”

Grimacing, Jack shook his head. “All too true, I fear. Which means that, having ploughed through last Season without her aid, while she was busy presenting Eversleigh with his heir, and frittered away the Little Season, too, I’m doomed to struggle on alone through the shoals of the upcoming Season, with a storm lowering on the horizon and no safe harbour in sight.”

“A grim prospect,” Harry acknowledged.

Jack grunted, his mind engrossed once more with marriage. For years, the very word had made him shudder. Now, with the ordeal before him, having spent hours contemplating the state, he was no longer so dismissive, so uninterested. It was his sister’s marriage that had altered his view. Hardly the conventional image, for while Jason had married Lenore for a host of eminently conventional reasons, the depth of their love was apparent to all. The fond light that glowed in Jason’s grey eyes whenever he looked at his wife had assured Jack that all was well with his sister—even more than Lenore’s transparent joy. Any notion that his brother-in-law, ex-rake, for years the bane of the dragons, was anything other than besotted with his wife was simply not sustainable in the face of his rampant protectiveness.

Grimacing at the dying fire, Jack reached for the poker. He was not at all sure he wanted to be held in thrall as Jason, apparently without a qualm, was, yet he was very sure he wanted what his brother-in-law had found. A woman who loved him. And whom he loved in return.

Harry sighed, then stood and stretched. “Time to go up. You’d best come, too—no sense in not looking your best for Lady Asfordby’s young ladies.”

With a look of pained resignation, Jack rose. As they crossed to the sideboard to set down their glasses, he shook his head. “I’m tempted to foist the whole business back in Lady Luck’s lap. She handed us this fortune—it’s only fair she provide the solution to the problem she’s created.”

“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 Webb?”

“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.”

His response to that depressing statement was not what she had expected. A gleam of what could only be intrigued interest flared in his dark eyes.

“Your loyalty to your father does you credit, Miss Winterton.” Jack made the statement with flat sincerity. His companion inclined her head slightly, then glanced away. The perfect oval of her face was a delicate setting for her regular features: wide blue eyes fringed with long, thick lashes, golden brown as were her arched brows, a straight little nose and full bowed lips the colour of crushed strawberries. Her chin was definite, yet gently rounded; her complexion was like thick cream, rich and luscious, without flaw. Jack cleared his throat. “But did you not yearn to return to the ton’s ballrooms?”

The question took Sophie by surprise. She considered, then answered, “No. Indeed, the thought never arose. I had more than enough to occupy myself. And I frequently visited with my father’s sisters at Bath and Tonbridge Wells.” She glanced up—and laughed at the comical grimace that contorted her companion’s face.

“Tonbridge Wells?” he uttered, dramatically faint. “My dear Miss Winterton, you would be wasted there, smothered beneath the weight of ageing propriety.”

Sophie sternly suppressed a giggle. “Indeed, it wasn’t very lively,” she conceded. “Luckily, my mother had many friends who invited me to their house parties. However, at home, I must admit I oftimes pined for younger company. My father lived very much retired through that time.”

“And now?”

“My aunt—” she nodded at Lucilla on the chaise which by some magic was now a step away “—persuaded Papa to take an interest in an expedition. He’s a paleontologist, you see.”

From beneath her lashes, she glanced up, waiting.

Jack met her innocent gaze, his own inscrutable. Despite her best efforts, Sophie’s lips twitched. With a resigned air, Jack raised a languidly interrogatory brow.

This time, Sophie did giggle. “Old bones,” she informed him, her voice confidingly low. Despite the fact he had just sidestepped a trap guaranteed to depress the pretensions of any overly confident rake, Sophie could not stop her smile. As her eyes met his, warmly appreciative, the suspicion that while Mr. Lester might be demonstrably confident, he was not overly so, broke over her. Her breath became tangled again.

His gaze sharpened. Before she could react, and retreat, he lifted his head, then glanced down at her, his brows lightly lifting.

“Unless my ears are at fault, that’s a waltz starting up. Will you do me the honour, Miss Winterton?”

The invitation was delivered with a calm smile, while his eyes stated, very clearly, that no feeble excuse would suffice to deflect him.

Nerves aquiver, Sophie surrendered to the inevitable with a suffocatingly gracious inclination of her head.

Her determinedly calm composure very nearly cracked when he swept her onto the floor. His arm about her felt like iron; there was such strength in him it would be frightening if it was not so deliberately contained. He whirled her down the floor; she felt like thistledown, lighter than air, anchored to reality only by his solidity and the warm clasp of his hand.

She had never waltzed like this before, precessing without conscious thought, her feet naturally following his lead, barely touching the floor. As her senses, stirred by his touch, gradually settled, she glanced up. “You dance very well, Mr. Lester.”

His eyes glinted down at her from under heavy lids. “I’ve had lots of practice, my dear.”

His meaning was very clear; she should have blushed and looked away. Instead, Sophie found enough courage to smile serenely before letting her gaze slide from his. Aware of the dangerous currents about her, she made no further attempt to converse.

For his part, Jack was content to remain silent; he had learned all he needed to know. Freed of the burden of polite conversation, his mind could dwell on the pleasure of having her, at long last, in his arms. She fitted perfectly, neither too tall nor, thankfully, too short. If she were closer, her curls would tickle his nose, her forehead level with his chin. She was not completely relaxed—he could not expect that—yet she was content enough in his arms. The temptation to tighten his hold, to draw her closer, was very real, yet he resisted. Too many eyes were upon them, and she did not yet know she was his.

The last chord sounded; he whirled them to a flourishing halt. He looked down, smiling as he drew her hand through his arm. “I will return you to your aunt, Miss Winterton.”

Sophie blinked up at him. Could he hear her heart thudding? “Thank you, sir.” Retreating behind a mask of cool formality, she allowed him to lead her back to the chaise. However, instead of leaving her by her aunt’s side, her partner merely nodded at Lucilla, then led her to where her circle of acquaintances was once again forming. Larger than life, he stood beside her, acknowledging her introductions with a coolly superior air which, she suspected, was innate. Feeling her nerves stretch and flicker, Sophie glanced up as the musicians once more laid bow to string.

His eyes met hers. Suddenly breathless, Sophie looked away. Her gaze fell on Lady Asfordby, bustling up.

“Glad to see, Lester, that you’re not one of those London dandies who think they’re above dancing in country ballrooms.”

Stifling a resigned sigh, Jack turned to his hostess, an amiable smile on his lips.

Her ladyship’s gimlet gaze swept the assembled company, fixing on a bright-faced young lady. “Dare say Miss Elderbridge will be pleased to do you the honour.”

Thus adjured, Jack bent a practiced smile on Miss Elderbridge, who assured him, somewhat breathlessly, that she would be delighted to partner him in the country dance about to begin. Hearing a murmur to his left, Jack glanced back to see Sophie place her hand on another gentleman’s sleeve. They were both poised to move away, their partners by their sides. Jack grasped the moment, trapping Sophie’s gaze in his, lowering his voice to say, “Until next we meet, Miss Winterton.”

Sophie felt her eyes widen. Lowering her lashes, she inclined her head. As she moved to her place in the set, she felt his words reverberate deep within her. Her heart thudded; it was an effort to concentrate on Mr. Simpkins’s conversation.

There had been a wealth of meaning hidden in Jack Lester’s subtle farewell—and she had no idea whether he meant it or not.

CHAPTER TWO

HE DID MEAN IT.

That was the only logical conclusion left to Sophie when, poised to alight from the Webb family carriage in the shadow of the lych-gate the next morning, she caught sight of a pair of powerful shoulders, stylishly encased in the best Bath superfine, and then their owner, wending his way aimlessly through the gravestones. As if sensing her regard, he looked around and saw her. White teeth flashed as he smiled. Recalled to her surroundings by Clarissa’s finger in her ribs, Sophie abruptly gathered her wits and descended.

In the protective confines of the lych-gate, she fussed with her reticule and the skirts of her cherry-red pelisse while her cousins, Jeremy, George and Amy, as well as Clarissa—at just six years old, the twins, Henry and Hermione, were too young to be trusted in church—descended and straightened their attire under their mother’s eagle eye. Finally satisfied, Lucilla nodded and they fell into line, Amy beside her mother in the lead, Sophie and Clarissa immediately behind, followed by the two boys, their boots on the paving stones.

As they ascended the steps leading up from the gate, Sophie carefully avoided glancing at the graveyard to their left, looking up, instead, at the sharp spire that rose into the wintry sky. March had arrived, unexpectedly mild. The chill blue of the heavens was dotted with puffs of white cloud, scudding along before the brisk breeze.

“Good morning, Mrs. Webb.”

The cavalcade stopped. Although she could only see her aunt’s back, Sophie had the distinct impression that even that redoubtable matron was taken aback by the sight of Jack Lester bowing elegantly before her just yards from the church door. His ambling peregrination had, most conveniently, converged with their route at that spot.

Regardless of her surprise, there was no doubt of her aunt’s pleasure. Her “Mr. Lester, how fortunate. We had not looked to see you thus soon” positively purred with satisfaction. “Would you care to join us in our pew, sir?”

“I’d be delighted, ma’am.” Until then, Jack had not looked Sophie’s way. Now, smiling, he turned to her. “Good morning, Miss Winterton.” He briefly nodded at Clarissa. “Miss Webb.”

Sophie dipped and gave him her hand.

“Sophie dear, perhaps you would show Mr. Lester the way while I take care of this brood.” Her aunt waved an airy hand at her offspring, who, of course, could very well have found their way unaided to the pew they occupied every Sunday.

“Of course, Aunt.” Sophie knew better than to argue.

As Lucilla swept her children into the church, Sophie risked a glance upwards, only to meet a pair of dark blue eyes that held a very large measure of amused understanding. Her own eyes narrowed.

“Miss Winterton?” With a gallant gesture, Jack offered his arm. When she hesitated, his brows rose slightly.

Head high, Sophie placed her fingers on his sleeve and allowed him to lead her to the door. As they entered the dim nave, she noted the smothered stir as their neighbours noticed her escort. It was close to eleven and the church was full. Hiding her consciousness behind a calm mask, she indicated the pair of pews, close to the front on the left, where her cousins were already settling. Glancing down as they passed the pew two rows behind, she encountered a malevolent stare from Mrs. Marston and a sternly disapproving one from her son, seated supportively beside her.

Suppressing a sudden grin, Sophie reflected that, as this was God’s house, perhaps Mr. Lester was the Almighty’s way of assisting her in the difficult task of rejecting Mr. Marston. She had no time to dwell on that unlikely prospect, however, for, gaining the second of the Webb pews, she found herself seated between Lucilla and Mr. Lester. Luckily, the vicar, Mr. Snodgrass, entered almost immediately.

To her relief, Mr. Lester behaved impeccably, as if going to church on Sunday were his normal habit.

Beside her, Jack bided his time.

When the congregation rose for the first hymn, he reached out and touched Sophie’s gloved wrist. Leaning closer, he whispered, “I’m afraid, Miss Winterton, that I did not anticipate attending church during my stay in Leicestershire.”

She blinked up at him, then glanced down at the slim volume covered in tooled blue leather that she had extracted from her reticule.

“Oh.” With an effort, Sophie dragged her mind from the disturbing thought of what, exactly, had brought him to the tiny church of Allingham Downs. Her fingers busy flicking through the pages, she glanced up at him and hoped her distrust was evident. “Perhaps, sir, if I hold it between us, we could share my book?”

He smiled, so very sweetly that, if she had not known better, she would have thought his predicament an innocent oversight. Raising her chin, she held her hymnal between them, up and slightly to her right.

The organ swelled into the introduction. Even as she drew breath for the first note of the first verse, Sophie experienced an inner quake. He had moved closer, an action excused by the fine print of the hymnal. His shoulder was behind her, her shoulder close to his chest. She could sense the warmth of his large body, now so near—and feel the dagger glances of the Marstons, mother and son, on her back.

Her hand shook; his came up to steady the hymnal. She quelled the impulse to glance sideways—he was so close, his head bent, his eyes would be very near, his lips a potent distraction. With an effort, she concentrated on the music, only to be thoroughly distracted by the sound of his warm baritone, rich and strong, effortlessly supporting her soprano.

The hymn was one of praise—and an unexpected joy.

At its conclusion, Sophie felt slightly dizzy. She forced herself to breathe deeply.

Her companion hesitated; she knew his gaze was on her. Then he lifted the hymnal from her hand, gently closed it and presented it to her.

“Thank you, Miss Winterton.”

It was impossible; she had to glance up. His eyes, darkly blue, warm and gently smiling, were every bit as close as she had imagined; his lips, softened by his smile, drew her gaze.

For a moment, time stood still.

With an enormous effort, Sophie dragged in a breath and inclined her head.

They were the last to sit down.

The sermon brought her no peace; indeed, Mr. Snodgrass would have needed to be inspired to compete with her thoughts, and the subtle tug of the presence beside her. She survived the second hymn only because she now understood the danger; she kept her mind totally focused on the lyrics and melody, ignoring her companion’s harmony as best she could. Ignoring him proved even more difficult.

It was something of a relief to stroll slowly up the aisle, her hand on his sleeve. They were among the last to quit the church. Lucilla and her children preceded them; her aunt stopped on the porch steps to exchange her usual few words with the vicar.

“Sophia you know, of course.” Lucilla paused as the vicar nodded, beamed and shook Sophie’s hand. “But I’m not sure if you’ve met Mr. Lester. From Rawling’s Cottage.” Lucilla gestured at Jack, immediately behind Sophie.

“Indeed?” Mr. Snodgrass was an absent-minded old soul. “I don’t recall ever having met anyone from there.” He blinked owlishly up at Jack.

Sophie looked up in time to catch the reproachful glance that Jack bent on her aunt, before, with ready courtesy, he greeted the vicar.

“I’m rarely to be found in these parts, I’m afraid.”

“Ah.” The vicar nodded his head in complete understanding. “Up for the hunting.”

Jack caught Sophie’s eye. “Just so.”

Sternly quelling a shiver, Sophie turned away. Her aunt had stopped to chat with Mrs. Marston farther along the path. Clarissa stood slightly to one side, cloaked in fashionable boredom. This last was attributable to Ned Ascombe, standing some yards away, his expression similarly abstracted. Noting the quick, surreptitious glances each threw the other, Sophie struggled not to smile. Feeling immeasurably older than the youthful pair, she stepped off the church steps and strolled slowly in her aunt’s wake.

Jack made to follow but was detained by the vicar.

“I often used to ride with the Cottesmore, you know. Excellent pack, excellent. Major Coffin was the Master, then.” Launched on reminiscence, the old man rambled on.

From the corner of his eye, Jack watched Sophie join her aunt, who was deep in discussion with a country matron, a large figure, swathed in knitted scarves.

“And then there was Mr. Dunbar, of course …”

Jack stiffened as a dark-coated gentleman stepped around the country dame to accost Sophie. Abruptly, he turned to the vicar, smoothly breaking into his monologue. “Indeed, sir. The Cottesmore has always been a most highly qualified pack. I do hope you’ll excuse me—I believe Miss Winterton has need of me.”

With a nod, Jack turned and strode briskly down the path. He reached Sophie’s side just in time to hear the unknown gentleman remark, in a tone that, to Jack, sounded a great deal too familiar, “Your aunt mentioned that she expected to remove to London at the end of the week. Dare I hope I may call on you before you depart?”

Inwardly, Sophie grimaced. “I’m sure, Mr. Marston, that my aunt will be delighted, as always, to entertain Mrs. Marston and yourself. However, I’m not certain of her plans for this week. It’s so very complicated, transferring the whole family up to town.”

Sensing a presence by her side, she turned and, with inexplicable relief, beheld her late companion. He was not looking at her, however, but at Mr. Marston, with a frown in his eyes if not on his face.

“I believe I introduced you to Mr. Marston last evening, Mr. Lester.”

The dark blue gaze momentarily flicked her way. “Indeed, Miss Winterton.” Apparently a distant nod was all the recognition Mr. Marston rated.

For his part, Phillip Marston had drawn himself up, his thin lips pinched, his long nose elevated, nostrils slightly flaring. He returned Jack’s nod with one equally curt. “Lester.” He then pointedly turned back to Sophie. “I have to say, Miss Winterton, that I cannot help but feel that Mrs. Webb is being far too soft-hearted in allowing the younger children to accompany the party.” His gaze grew stern as it rested on Jeremy and George, engaged in an impromptu game of tag about the gravestones. “They would be better employed at their lessons.”

“Oh, no, Mr. Marston—just think how educational the trip will be.” Sophie did not add that ‘soft-hearted’ was a singularly inappropriate adjective when used in conjunction with her aunt. Lucilla might appear as fragile as glass, but her backbone was pure steel. Sophie knew the combination well; her own mother had been just the same. “The children have been so looking forward to it.”

“I should think, Marston, that Mr. and Mrs. Webb are well able to decide the right of such matters.”

Sophie blinked. The coldly superior edge of Mr. Lester’s deep voice was distinctly dismissive. She turned, only to find an elegant sleeve cloaking an arm she already knew to be steel before her.

“If I may, I’ll escort you to your carriage, Miss Winterton. Your aunt has moved on.”

Sophie looked up; his expression was not what she had expected. Superficially assured, fashionably urbane, there was an underlying tension, a hint of hardness in the patriarchal features; she was at a loss to account for it. However, she was not about to decline an opportunity to escape Mr. Marston, particularly in his present, officiously disapproving mood. Nevertheless, she kept her answering smile restrained. Mr. Lester, regardless of his mood, needed no encouragement. “Thank you, sir.” Placing her hand on his sleeve, she looked back—and surprised a look of distinct chagrin on Phillip Marston’s face. “Good day, Mr. Marston.”

With a nod, she turned away, and found herself very close to Jack Lester at the top of the steps above the lych-gate. Sophie’s heart hiccoughed. She glanced up.

His dark eyes met hers, his expression mellow. “Helping you down the steps is the least I can do to repay you for your … company this morning, my dear.”

Sophie did not need to look to know Phillip Marston and his mother were close behind; all the confirmation she needed was contained in Jack Lester’s smooth, deep and thoroughly reprehensible tone. Incensed, unable to contradict his subtle suggestion, she glared at him. “Indeed, Mr. Lester, you are certainly in my debt.”

His slow smile softened his lips. “I’ll look forward to repaying your kindness, Miss Winterton—when I see you in London.”

He made it sound like a promise—one her aunt made certain of as he handed her into the carriage.

“I would invite you to call, Mr. Lester,” Lucilla declared. “Yet with our departure imminent, I fear it would be unwise. Perhaps you might call on us when you return to the capital?”

“Indeed, Mrs. Webb, nothing would give me greater pleasure.” The carriage door was shut; he bowed, a gesture compounded of strength and grace. “I shall look forward to seeing you in London, Mrs. Webb. Miss Webb.” His blue eyes caught Sophie’s. “Miss Winterton.”

Outwardly calm, Sophie nodded in farewell. The carriage jolted forward, then the horses found their stride. The last view she had was of an elegant figure in pale grey morning coat, tightly fitting inexpressibles and highly polished Hessians, his dark hair slightly ruffled by the breeze. He dominated her vision; in contrast, in his severe, if correct, garb, Mr. Marston seemed to fade into the shadows of the lych-gate. Sophie laid her head back against the squabs, her thoughts in an unaccustomed whirl.

Her aunt, she noticed, smiled all the way home.

SUNDAY AFTERNOON was a quiet time in the Webb household. Sophie habitually spent it in the back parlour. In a household that included five boisterous children, there was always a pile of garments awaiting mending and darning. Although the worst was done by her aunt’s seamstress, Lucilla had always encouraged both Clarissa and herself to help with the more delicate work.

Her needle flashing in the weak sunshine slanting through the large mullioned windows, Sophie sat curled in one corner of the comfortable old chaise. While a small part of her mind concentrated on the work in her hands, her thoughts were far away.

The click of the latch brought her head up.

“Melly’s here.” Clarissa came through the door, followed by her bosom bow, Mellicent Hawthorne, commonly known as Melly.

Sophie smiled a ready welcome at Melly, a short, plump figure, still slightly roly-poly in the manner of a young puppy, an impression enhanced by her long, floppy, brown ringlets and huge, spaniel-like eyes. These were presently twinkling.

“Mama’s talking to Mrs. Webb, so I’m here for at least an hour. Plenty of time for a comfortable cose.” Melly curled up in the armchair while Clarissa settled on the other end of the chaise. Seeing Clarissa reach for a needle and thread, Melly offered, “Would you like me to help?”

Sophie exchanged a quick glance with Clarissa. “No need,” she assured Melly. “There’s really not that much to do.” She blithely ignored the huge pile in the basket.

“Good.” Melly heaved a sigh of relief. “I really don’t think I’m much good at it.”

Sophie bit her lip. Clarissa, she saw, was bent over her stitching. The last time Melly had “helped” with the mending, at least half the garments had had to be rewashed to removed the bloodstains. And if there was one task worse than darning, it was unpicking a tangled darn.

“Still, I don’t suppose Mrs. Webb will have you darning in London. Oooh!” Melly hugged herself. “How I envy you, Clarissa! Just imagine being in the capital, surrounded by beaux and London swells—just like Mr. Lester.”

Clarissa lifted her head, blue eyes alight. “Indeed, I really can’t wait! It will be beyond anything great—to find oneself in such company, solicited by elegant gentlemen. I’m sure they’ll eclipse the country gentlemen—well—” she shrugged “—how could they not? It will be unutterably thrilling.”

The fervour behind the comment made Sophie glance up. Clarissa’s eyes shone with innocent anticipation. Looking down at the tiny stitches she was inserting in a tear in one of Jeremy’s cuffs, Sophie frowned. After a moment, she ventured, “You really should not judge all London gentlemen by Mr. Lester, Clarissa.”

Unfortunately, her cousin mistook her meaning.

“But there can’t be many more elegant, Sophie. Why, that coat he wore to the ball was top of the trees. And he did look so dashing this morning. And you have to admit he has a certain air.” Clarissa paused for breath, then continued, “His bow is very graceful—have you noticed? It makes one wonder at the clumsiness of others. And his speech is very refined, is it not?”

“His voice, too,” put in Melly. She shivered artistically. “So deep it reaches inside you and sort of rumbles there.”

Sophie pricked her finger. Frowning, she put it in her mouth.

“And his waltzing must just be divine—so … so powerful, if you take my meaning.” Clarissa frowned as she considered the point.

“We didn’t hear much of his conversation, though,” Melly cautioned.

Clarissa waved a dismissive hand. “Oh, that’ll be elegant, too, I make no doubt. Why, Mr. Lester clearly moves in the best circles—good conversation would be essential. Don’t you think so, Sophie?”

“Very likely.” Sophie picked up her needle. “But you should remember that one often needs to be wary of gentlemen of manifold graces, like Mr. Lester.”

But Clarissa, starry-eyed and rosy-cheeked, refused to accept the warning. “Oh, no,” she said, shaking her head. “I’m sure you’re wrong, Sophie. Why, with all his obvious experience, I’m sure one could trust Mr. Lester, or any gentleman like him. I’m sure they’d know just how things should be done.”

Mentally Sophie goggled. She was quite sure Jack Lester, for one, would know just how “things” were done—but they certainly weren’t the “things” Clarissa imagined. “Truly, Clarissa, trust me when I say that you would be very much safer with a gentleman without Mr. Lester’s experience.”

“Oh, come now, Sophie.” Puzzled, Clarissa eyed her curiously. “Have you taken him in aversion? How could you? Why, you’ll have to admit he’s most terribly handsome.”

When it became clear neither Clarissa nor Melly was going to be satisfied with anything short of an answer, Sophie sighed. “Very well. I’ll concede he’s handsome.”

“And elegant?”

“And elegant. But—”

“And he’s terribly …” Melly’s imagination failed. “Graceful,” she finally said.

Sophie frowned at them both. “And graceful. Yet—”

“And his conversation is elegant, too, is it not?”

Sophie tried a scowl. “Clarissa …”

“Is it not?” Clarissa was almost laughing, her natural exuberance bubbling through her recently acquired veneer of sophistication.

In spite of herself, Sophie could not restrain her smile. “Very well,” she capitulated, holding up one hand. “I will admit that Mr. Lester is a paragon of manly graces. There—are you satisfied?”

“And you did enjoy your waltz with him, didn’t you? Susan Elderbridge was in transports, and she had only a country dance.”

Sophie didn’t really want to remember that waltz, or any other of her interactions with Jack Lester. Unfortunately, the memories glowed bright in her mind, crystal clear, and refused to wane. As for his eyes, she had come to the conclusion that their image had, somehow, impinged on her brain, like sunspots. Whenever she closed her eyes, she could see them, that certain light which she trusted not at all in their deep blue depths.

She blinked and refocused on Clarissa’s face, suffused with ingenuous curiosity. “Mr. Lester is very … skilled in such matters.”

With that global statement, Sophie took up her needle, hoping her cousin would take the hint.

But Clarissa was not finished. Her arms sweeping wide to encompass all they had discussed, she concluded, her voice dramatic, her expression that of one convinced beyond doubt, “So we are agreed: Mr. Lester is a paragon, a maiden’s dream. How then, Sophie can you not yearn to find happiness in his arms?”

“Well—his, or someone like him,” Melly added, forever prosaic.

Sophie did not immediately raise her head. Her cousin’s question was, indeed, very like the one she had been asking herself before Clarissa and Melly had entered. Was what she felt simply the inevitable response to such as Jack Lester? Or was it—Abruptly, she cut off the thought. “Indeed, Clarissa,” she replied, shaking out Jeremy’s shirt and folding it up, “Mr. Lester is the sort of gentleman of whom it’s most unwise to have such thoughts.”

“But why?”

Sophie looked up and saw genuine bewilderment in Clarissa’s lovely face. She grimaced. “Because he’s a rake.”

There. It was said. Time and more that she brought these two down to earth.

Their reaction was immediate. Two pairs of eyes went round, two mouths dropped open.

Clarissa was the first to recover. “Really?” Her tone was one of scandalized discovery.

“No!” came from Melly. Then, “How can you tell?”

Clarissa’s expression stated that was her question, too.

Sophie stifled her groan. How could she explain? A subtle something in his eyes? An undertone in his deep voice? Something in his suave manner? Then she recalled she had known instantly, in the moment she had seen him framed in Lady Asfordby’s doorway. “His arrogant air. He carried himself as if the world were his oyster, the women in it his pearls.”

His to enjoy at his whim. Sophie had surprised even herself with her words.

Both Clarissa and Melly fell silent. Then, frowning slightly, Clarissa glanced up. “I don’t mean to doubt you, Sophie, but, you know, I don’t think you can be right—at least, not in this instance.”

Resigned to resistance, Sophie merely raised her brows.

Encouraged, Clarissa ventured, “If Mr. Lester were a rake, then surely Mama would not be encouraging him. And she is, you know. Why, she was perfectly thrilled to see him this morning—you know she was. And it was her suggestion he sit with us, beside you.”

That, of course, had been the other niggling concern that had been inhabiting Sophie’s mind. All Clarissa said was true; the only point Sophie was yet unsure of was what, exactly, her aunt was about. And that, as she well knew, could be just about anything. Given that Mr. Lester was a rake, one of the more dangerous of the species if her instincts were any guide, then Lucilla might just be grasping the opportunity to have her, Sophie, brush up on the social skills she would doubtless need once they were established in London. In the present circumstances, safe in the bosom of her family in their quiet country backwater, there was no real danger involved.

“Anyway,” Clarissa said, drawing Sophie from her thoughts, “what I said at first is still undeniably true. Experienced London gentlemen are much more interesting than country gentlemen.”

Knowing there was one particular country gentleman Clarissa had in mind, Sophie felt compelled to point out, “But young country gentlemen do grow older, and gain experience in so doing. Even experienced gentlemen must once have been young.”

The comment drew a spurt of laughter from Melly. “Can you imagine Mr. Marston young?”

Clarissa giggled. Sophie knew she should chide them but did not; she agreed far too well to make a rebuke sound sincere. As Clarissa and Melly fell to chattering, comparing various older men of their acquaintance and speculating on their younger incarnations, Sophie tried to visualize a younger Jack Lester. It was, she found, a very difficult task. She couldn’t imagine his eyes without that certain gleam. With an inward snort, she banished such foolish thoughts and reached for the next garment to be mended.

Doubtless, Jack Lester had been born a rake.

CHAPTER THREE

FATE WAS DEFINITELY smiling upon him.

Tooling his curricle along the lane to the village, Jack squinted against the glare of the brittlely bright morning sunshine, his gaze locked on the group slowly making its way down the lane on the other side of the narrow valley, also bound for the village. A female figure in a familiar cherry-red pelisse was walking a horse of advanced years, hitched to the poles of a gig. A young girl skipped about, now beside the woman, now on the other side of the horse.

“Looks like a problem, Jigson.” Jack threw the comment over his shoulder to his groom, perched on the box behind him.

“Aye,” Jigson replied. “Likely a stone from the way he’s favouring that hoof.”

A tiny track joining the two main lanes across the narrow valley came into sight just ahead. Jack smiled and checked his team.

“Be we a-going that way, guv’nor? I thought we was for the village?”

“Where’s your sense of chivalry, Jigson?” Jack grinned as he steered his highly strung pair onto the hedged track, then steadied them down a steep incline. “We can’t leave a lady in distress.”

Especially not that lady.

He should, of course, have left for London by now—or, at the very least, quit the scene. His experienced brother-in-law, for one, would certainly have recommended such a strategic retreat. “Women should never be crammed, any more than one’s fences” had been a favourite saying of Jason’s. He had, of course, been speaking of seduction, a fact that had given Jack pause. Given that he was, to all intents and purposes, wooing his golden head, he had elected to ignore the voice of experience, choosing instead to take heed of a new and unexpectedly strong inner prompting, which categorically stated that leaving the field free to Phillip Marston was not a good idea.

As he feathered his leader around a tight curve, Jack felt his expression harden.

According to Hodgeley, his head groom at the cottage, Marston was a gentleman farmer, a neighbour of the Webbs. He was commonly held to be a warm man, comfortably circumstanced. Village gossip also had it that he was on the lookout for a wife, and had cast his eye in Miss Winterton’s direction.

Jack gritted his teeth. He took the tiny bridge at a smart clip, surprising a startled expletive from Jigson, but not so much as scratching the curricle’s paintwork. Frowning, he shook aside the odd urge that had gripped him. For some reason, his mind seemed intent on creating monsters where doubtless none lurked. Fate wouldn’t be so cruel as to parade his golden head before him, only to hand her to another. Besides, Jigson, who frequented the local tap, had heard no whispers of Mr. Marston heading south for the Season.

Deftly negotiating the tight turn into the lane, Jack relaxed. He came upon them around the next bend.

Sophie glanced up and beheld a team of matchless bays bearing down upon them. She grabbed Amy, then blinked as the team swung neatly aside, pulling up close by the ditch. Only then did she see the driver.

As he tossed the reins to his groom and swung down from the elegant equipage, she had ample time to admire the sleek lines of both carriage and horses. He strode across the narrow lane, his many-caped greatcoat flapping about the tops of his glossy Hessians, the cravat at his throat as neat and precise as if he were in Bond Street. His smile, unabashed, stated very clearly how pleased he was to see her. “Good day, Miss Winterton.”

Stifling her response was impossible. Her lips curving warmly, Sophie countered, “Good morning, Mr. Lester. Dobbin has loosed a shoe.”

He put a hand on the old horse’s neck and, after casting an improbably apologetic glance her way, verified that fact. Releasing the horse’s leg, he asked, “I can’t remember—is the blacksmith in the village?”

“Yes, I was taking him there.”

Jack nodded. “Jigson, walk Miss Winterton’s horse to the blacksmith’s and have him fix this shoe immediately. You can return the gig to Webb Park and wait for me there.”

Sophie blinked. “But I was on my way to see my mother’s old nurse. She lives on the other side of the village. I visit her every Monday.”

A flourishing bow was Jack’s reply. “Consider me in the light of a coachman, Miss Winterton. And Miss Webb,” he added, his gaze dropping to Amy, who was staring, open-mouthed, at his curricle.

“Oh, but we couldn’t impose….” Sophie’s protest died away as Jack lifted his head. The glance he slanted her brimmed with arrogant confidence.

Jack looked down at Amy. “What say you, Miss Webb? Would you like to complete your morning’s excursion atop the latest from Long Acre?”

Amy drew in a deep breath. “Oooh, just wait till I tell Jeremy and George!” She looked up at Jack’s face—a long way up from her diminutive height—and smiled brilliantly. She reached out and put her small hand in his. “My name is Amy, sir.”

Jack’s smile was equally brilliant. “Miss Amy.” He swept her an elegant bow, and Amy’s expression suggested he had made a friend for life. As he straightened, Jack shot Sophie a victorious grin.

She returned it with as much indignation as she could muster, which, unfortunately, was not much. The prospect of being driven in his curricle was infinitely more attractive than walking. And, after his conquest of Amy, nothing would suffice but that they should travel thus. The decision was taken out of her hands, though Sophie wasn’t sure she approved.

His groom had already taken charge of old Dobbin. The man nodded respectfully. “I’ll see the blacksmith takes good care of him, miss.”

There was nothing to do but incline her head. “Thank you.” Sophie turned and followed as Jack led Amy, skipping beside him, to the curricle. Abruptly, Sophie quickened her stride. “If you’ll hand me up first, Mr. Lester, Amy can sit between us.”

Jack turned, one brow slowly lifting. The quizzical laughter in his eyes brought a blush to Sophie’s cheeks. “Indeed, Miss Winterton. A capital notion.”

Relieved but determined not to show it, Sophie held out her hand. He looked at it. An instant later, she was lifted, as if she weighed no more than a feather, and deposited on the curricle’s padded seat. Sophie sucked in a quick breath. He held her firmly, his fingers spread about her waist, long and strong. In the instant before his hands left her, his eyes locked with hers. Sophie gazed into the deep blue and trembled. Then blushed rosy red. She looked down, fussing with her skirts, shuffling along to make room for Amy.

He had taken up the reins and half turned the curricle before she recalled the purpose of her trip.

“The basket.” Sophie looked back at the gig. “For Mildred. It’s under the seat.”

Jack smiled reassuringly. In a trice, Jigson had the basket out and transferred to the curricle’s boot. “Now,” Jack said, “whither away?”

Sophie bestowed a smile of thanks on Jigson. “The other side of the village and out along the road to Asfordby, a mile or so. Mildred lives very quietly; she’s quite old.”

Jack gave his horses the office. “Your mother’s nurse, you said. Did your mother’s family come from hereabouts?”

“No, from Sussex. Mildred came to Webb Park with Aunt Lucilla on her marriage. My aunt was the younger, so Mildred stayed with her.”

Jack slanted a glance at the pure profile beside him—Amy’s head was too low to interfere with his view. “Do you often do the duty visits for your aunt?”

Sophie considered the question. “I’ve often done so whenever I’ve stayed.” She shrugged. “Aunt Lucilla is frequently very busy. She has twins younger than Amy—they’re just six.”

Jack grinned. “And quite a handful?”

“That,” declared Sophie, “is a description insufficient to adequately convey the full glory of the twins.”

Jack chuckled. “So you help out by taking on the role of the lady of the manor?”

“It’s hardly an arduous task,” Sophie disclaimed. “I’ve been doing much the same on my father’s estate ever since my mother died.”

“Ah, yes. I recall you mentioned helping your father.”

Sophie threw him a quick frown. “That’s not what I meant. Performing one’s duty is hardly doing anything out of the ordinary.” There had been something in his tone, a note of dismissal, which compelled her to explain. “I acted as his amanuensis in all matters concerning the estate and also for his studies. And, of course, since my mother’s death, I’ve had charge of the house.” It sounded like a catalogue of her talents, yet she couldn’t help adding, “House parties, naturally, were impossible, but even living retired as we did, my father could not escape some degree of local entertaining. And the house, being so old and rambling, was a nightmare to run with the small staff we kept on.” Sophie frowned at the memory.

Jack hid his keen interest behind an easy expression. “Who’s running the house now?”

“It’s closed up,” Sophie informed him, her tone indicating her satisfaction. As the curricle rounded a corner, she swayed closer. “My father would have left it open—but for what? I finally managed to persuade him to leave just a caretaker and his agent and let the others go on leave. He may be away for years—who can tell?”

Jack slanted a curious glance at her. “If you’ll forgive the impertinence, you don’t seem overly troubled by the prospect.”

Sophie grinned. “I’m not. Indeed, I’m truly glad Papa has gone back to his ‘old bones.’ He was so abjectly unhappy after my mother’s death that I’d be a truly ungrateful wretch were I to begrudge him his only chance at contentment. I think his work carries him away from his memories, both physically and mentally.” Her lips curved wryly; her gaze swung to meet Jack’s. “Besides, even though I managed affairs for his own good, he could be a crusty old devil at times.”

Jack’s answering smile was broad. “I know exactly what you mean. My own father’s in much the same case.”

Sophie grasped the opportunity to turn the conversation from herself. “Are you his only son?”

“Oh, no.” Jack turned his head to glance at her. “There are three of us.” He was forced to look to his horses but continued, “I’m the eldest, then Harry. My sister, Lenore, came next; she’s now married to Eversleigh. And the baby of the family is Gerald. Our mother died years ago but m’father’s held on pretty well. Our Aunt Harriet used to watch over us, but Lenore did most of the work.” He threw another glance at Sophie. “My sister is one of those women who shuns the bright lights of the ton; she was perfectly content to remain at home in Berkshire and keep the Hall going and the estates functioning. I’m ashamed to confess that, when she married two years ago, I was totally unprepared to take on the burden.”

Noting the wry grimace that twisted his lips, Sophie ventured, “But you’ve managed, have you not?”

Jack’s lips lifted. “I learn quickly.” After a moment, he went on, his gaze still on the road, “Unfortunately, Aunt Harriet died last year. The estate I can manage—the house … that’s something else altogether. Like your father’s, it’s a rambling old mansion—heaps of rooms, corridors everywhere.”

To Jack’s surprise, he heard a soft sigh.

“They’re terribly inconvenient, but they feel like home, don’t they?”

Jack turned his head to look at Sophie. “Exactly.”

For a long moment, Sophie held his gaze, then, suddenly breathless, looked ahead. The first houses of the village appeared on their right. “The fork to the left just ahead leads to Asfordby.”

Their passage through the small hamlet demanded Jack’s full attention, his bays taking well-bred exception to the flock of geese flapping on the green, the alehouse’s dray drawn up by the side of the road and the creak of the tavern’s weatherbeaten sign.

By the time they were passing the last straggling cottages, Sophie had herself in hand. “Mildred’s cottage is just beyond the next corner on the right.”

Jack reined in the bays by the neat hedge, behind which a small garden lay slumbering in the sunshine. A gate gave on to a narrow path. He turned to smile ruefully at Sophie. “I’d come and lift you down, but these brutes are presently too nervy to be trusted on loose reins. Can you manage?”

Sophie favoured him with a superior look. “Of course.” Gathering her skirts, she jumped down to the lane. Collecting her basket from the boot, she turned to Amy.

“I’ll stay here with Mr. Lester,” her cousin promptly said. “Old Mildred always wants to tidy my hair.” Her face contorted in a dreadful grimace.

Sophie struggled to keep her lips straight. She glanced up at Jack, a questioning look in her eyes.

He answered with a smile. “I can manage, too.”

“Very well. But don’t be a nuisance,” she said to Amy, then, unconsciously smoothed her curls, Sophie went to the gate.

The door opened hard on her knock; Mildred had obviously been waiting. The old dame peered at the curricle and all but dragged Sophie over the threshold. Mildred barely waited for Sophie to shut the door before embarking on a catechism. In the end, Sophie spent more time reassuring Mildred that Mr. Lester was perfectly trustworthy than in asking after Mildred herself, the actual purpose of her visit.

Finally taking her leave, Sophie reached the curricle to find Jack busy teaching Amy how to hold the reins. Depositing the empty basket in the boot, she climbed aboard.

Jack reached across Amy to help her up, then lifted a brow at her. “Webb Park?”

Sophie smiled and nodded. Amy relinquished the reins with sunny good humour, prattling on happily as the horses lengthened their stride.

About them, the March morning sang with the trills and warbles of blackbirds and thrush. The hedges had yet to unfurl their buds, but here and there bright flocks of daffodils nodded their golden heads, trumpeting in the spring.

“So tell me, Miss Winterton, what expectations have you of your stay in the capital?” Jack broke the companionable silence that had enveloped them once Amy had run her course. He flicked a quizzical glance at Sophie. “Is it to be dissipation until dawn, dancing until you drop, Covent Garden and the Opera, Drury Lane and the Haymarket, with Almack’s every Wednesday night?”

Sophie laughed, and ducked the subtle query in his last words. “Indeed, sir. That and more.”

“More?” Jack’s brows rose. “Ah, then it’ll be three balls every night, the Park and two teas every afternoon and more gossip than even Silence knows.”

“You’ve forgotten the modistes.”

“And the milliners. And we shouldn’t forget the boot-makers, glovers and assorted emporia, the ribbon-makers and mantua-makers.”

“Then there are the intellectual pursuits.”

At that Jack turned to gaze at her, his expression one of stunned dismay. “Good heavens, Miss Winterton. You’ll show us all up for the fribbles we are. No, no, my dear—not museums.”

“Indeed,” Sophie insisted, tossing her head, “I fully intend to view Lord Elgin’s marbles.”

“Oh, those. They don’t count.” When Sophie stared at him, Jack explained, “They’re fashionable.”

Sophie laughed again, a silvery sound. Jack smiled. He waited for a moment, then asked, “Will you be riding in the Park?”

“I should think nothing’s more likely.” Sophie glanced at him over Amy’s head. “My cousins all rode before they could walk—literally. My uncle is a very keen horseman and I’m sure he’ll be sending mounts down for us.”

“So you won’t be cutting a dash in a high-perch phaeton?”

“Alas,” Sophie sighed. “Although I have always yearned to handle the ribbons, I’ve never had the opportunity to learn.” Immediately, the curricle slowed. As it came to a halt, she turned to look at Jack.

His slow smile greeted her. “That sounded like a cry from the heart. Never let it be said that a Lester failed to respond to a damsel’s plight.”

Sophie blinked.

Jack’s smile broadened. “I’ll teach you.”

“Here?”

“Now.” He leaned across Amy. “Here, hold the reins like this.”

Bemused, Sophie did as he said, taking the leather ribbons in her gloved fingers, looping them in accordance with his directions. It was a fiddle, with Amy between them.

“This will never work,” Jack said, echoing Sophie’s sentiments. Leaving the reins in her hands, he sat back, his gaze considering. “Just hold them a moment. They won’t bolt as long as they sense some weight on the reins.” He swung down from the carriage as he spoke. “They’re not particularly frisky now; they’ve been out for over an hour.”

Sophie just hoped he knew what he was talking about. Her heart was in her mouth as the leader tossed his head.

Jack rounded the horses and came up beside her. “Shuffle up, Miss Amy, so I can give your cousin her first lesson.”

Startled, Sophie glanced down at him. The leader immediately tugged on the loosened reins.

“Hoa, there.”

One strong hand closed about her fingers, tightening the rein, steadying the restive horse.

Sophie knew she was blushing. With no alternative offering, she shuffled over, followed a delighted Amy across the seat, allowing her rakish mentor to sit beside her. Her first lesson—in what?

She risked a glance up from beneath her lashes; his eyes held a mocking gleam.

“Fie, Miss Winterton.” His voice was low. One dark brow rose. “If I offered a guinea for your thoughts, would you take it?”

Sophie blushed even more. She abruptly transferred her gaze to the horses, thus missing Jack’s smile.

“Now, the first thing to remember …”

To Sophie’s surprise, despite the distraction of his nearness, she quickly mastered the reins, keeping the thoroughbreds well up to their bits. Even more amazingly, he kept strictly to his role of tutor; doubtless, she rationalized, he was sufficiently concerned over the welfare of his horses—and their sensitive mouths—to keep his mind on their safety. Whatever, her suspicions proved unfounded; caution evaporating, she quickly dropped her guard, absorbed in practising the skills he imparted.

Webb Park appeared far too soon.

Exhilarated, Sophie tooled the curricle up the drive, slowing to effect a sedate halt in the gravel forecourt. Her eyes were bright, her cheeks pink as she turned to her companion and, with real reluctance, handed back the reins.

“A most commendable first outing, my dear.” Jack met her shy smile with a smile of his own, his eyes searching hers.

A groom came running to hold the horses. Recalled to his surroundings, Jack tied off the reins and leapt down.

Amy scrambled from her perch on the other side and went to natter to the groom.

Sophie slid to the side of the carriage. She made no demur when Jack reached for her and lifted her down. Her feet touched solid earth; she glanced up, and was overcome by flustered shyness. Sternly subduing the sensation, she accepted her empty basket and held out one gloved hand. “Thank you, Mr. Lester. You have indeed proved yourself a knight errant this day. Not only must I thank you for your timely rescue, but also for your excellent tuition.”

Smiling down at her, Jack took her hand. “On the contrary, Miss Winterton, the gain was mine. I’ve rarely had the pleasure of an outing with a lady of such manifold talents.”

Squelching the inner glow that rose in response to that compliment, Sophie shot him a sceptical glance. “Indeed, sir, I fear I’m no different from many another.”

Jack’s slow smile softened his features. “Now, there you are wrong, my dear.” He trapped her gaze with his. “You are quite unique.” Sophie’s eyes widened; he felt her quiver.

Letting his lids veil his eyes, Jack lifted her hand, studying the slender palm, the long, slim fingers. Then his lids rose, his dark gaze again holding hers. Smoothly, he raised her hand and placed a kiss on her inner wrist, exposed above the edge of her glove. “You take the shine out of all the London belles, my dear.”

Sophie’s skin burned where his lips had touched. Her breathing suspended; light-headedness threatened. It took all the experience she possessed to summon an unaffected smile. “Why, thank you, sir. Will you come in and meet my aunt? I know she’ll want to thank you for your help.”

He accepted the dismissal without a blink, although the expression in his eyes was amused. “No, I thank you. I know your aunt will be busy; I will not press my presence on her at this time.”

Holding hard to her composure, Sophie inclined her head. “Then I’ll bid you a very good day, Mr. Lester.”

He smiled then, his slow, teasing smile. “Au revoir, Miss Winterton.”

Sophie turned and climbed the steps. On the threshold, she paused and looked back. He had climbed to the curricle’s seat; as she watched, he flicked the reins. With a last wave, he was away, the carriage sweeping down the drive.

She watched until his dark head was no longer in sight. Then, lowering the hand she had automatically raised in farewell, Sophie frowned and turned indoors. She eventually located Amy in the kitchens, munching on a fresh-baked bun.

“Come, Amy. You should change.”

Bustling the exuberant child, full of prattle, up the back stairs, Sophie was jolted from her thoughts by her cousin’s bright voice, raised in innocent query.

“Is Mr. Lester courting you, Sophie?”

The breath caught in Sophie’s throat. For an instant, she felt as if the world had lurched. She coughed. “Good heavens, Amy!” The dimness of the stairs hid her furious blush. “Of course not—he was just funning.” She sought for more words—more convincing words—to deny the possibility; none were forthcoming. In desperation, she flapped her hands at Amy. “Come on now, up you go.”

As she followed the little girl up the stairs, Sophie frowned. From the mouth of an innocent babe..?

CHAPTER FOUR

NOT CONTENT with her efforts thus far, Fate seemed intent on assisting him at every turn.

As he sat his black hunter in the shadows of a wind-break and watched the small cavalcade come thundering up Ashes’ Hill, Jack couldn’t keep the smile from his face.

Jigson, ever mindful of his place in the scheme of things, had been assiduous in his visits to the tap. Thus Jack had learned that the junior Webbs, accompanied by Miss Winterton and Miss Webb, were to be found on horseback most afternoons. Weather permitting, they would hack about the lanes and fields, but, according to one of the Webb grooms, the track over Ashes’ Hill was currently their favoured route.

As he watched them canter up onto the green swath before him, Jack’s smile broadened. His golden head was a delight in moss-green velvet, the long skirts of her habit brushing tan boots. On her guinea-gold curls perched a typically feminine contraption; he knew she’d call it a hat, but to his mind the wisp of fabric anchoring a pheasant’s feather hardly qualified for the title. Turning, he lifted a brow at Percy mounted on a bay gelding beside him. “Shall we?”

Percy started; his abstracted gaze, very likely visualizing the rival merits of herringbone and country plaid, rapidly refocused. “What? Oh, yes. ‘Bout time.”

Jack smiled and led the way forward, out of the shadows of the firs.

Pulling up on the crest of the hill, then wheeling her horse to view her cousins, straggling up in her wake, Sophie did not immediately see him. Clarissa, who had reached the spot some moments ahead of her, had likewise turned to view the vista spread below them. Stone walls and still-dormant hedges divided the brown fields, their colour just tinged with the first hint of green. Jeremy and George, fourteen and twelve respectively, were but yards from the top; Amy, bouncing along on her placid cob, brought up the rear. The twins, yet to graduate from plodding ponies, were not included in these afternoon expeditions.

Reassured that all was well, Sophie relaxed her reins. Eyes bright, cheeks aglow, she drew in a deep breath, savouring the crisp freshness.

“Well met, Miss Winterton!”

The hail brought her head round; the deep voice sent the colour to her cheeks even before her eyes found him. He was mounted on a raking black hunter, sleek and powerful. As the animal walked towards her, neck proudly arched, black withers rippling, Sophie was struck by its harnessed power. Then her eyes lifted to its owner.

Broad shoulders encased in a hacking jacket of soft tweed, his powerful thighs, clad in buckskin breeches, effortlessly controlling the horse, he appeared the very epitome of a wealthy country gentleman. His face, features stamped with that coolly arrogant cast which identified his antecedents more definitively than his name. His eyes were very blue, dark, his gaze intent.

There was power there, too. As he brought his horse alongside hers, Sophie felt it reach for her.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Lester.” She forced herself to extend a gloved hand, disconcerted by the warmth that caressed her cheeks and the breathlessness that had assailed her.

He took her hand and bowed over it, a difficult feat he performed with rare grace. His eyes quizzed her. “We saw you riding up and wondered if we might join you?”

“What a splendid idea!” From beside Sophie, Clarissa beamed ingenuously.

Feeling slightly helpless, Sophie could not resist the subtle laughter lurking in the blue eyes holding hers. Very much on her dignity, she retrieved her hand and indicated the track leading on over the hill. “If it pleases you, sir.”

The smile she received in reply warmed her through and through.

Jack gestured to Percy, hanging back on his other side. “If you’ll permit me to introduce Lord Percy Almsworthy?”

“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Winterton.”

Prepared to be wary, Sophie saw at a glance that Lord Percy was sprung from a mould quite different from his companion. Reassured, she smiled and held out a hand.

As he leant from the saddle to shake it, she thought she detected a look of keen appraisal in Lord Percy’s mild gaze. “M’father’s Carlisle,” he said, giving her a peg on which to hang his hat.

Sophie dutifully introduced her cousins, in strict order of precedence. Jeremy and George barely waited for Amy’s shy “Hello,” before pouncing.

“What a bang-up set of blood and bones, sir!”

“Splendid hocks!”

“What stable does he hail from?”

“Is he a Thoroughbred?”

Jack laughed. “My brother bred him out of Jack Whistle.”

“The winner of the Derby?” Jeremy’s expression mirrored his awestruck tone.

Jack’s eyes touched Sophie’s. “The very same.”

“Is your brother staying with you?” Gerald asked breathlessly.

Jack couldn’t help his smile. “He was, but he’s gone on to Belvoir.”

“Oh.” Both boys appeared crestfallen that they had missed the opportunity to badger a breeder who could turn out such a horse as the black.

“Never mind,” Jack said. His eyes again met Sophie’s. “I’ll mention to him that you’re interested in speaking with him, it’s perfectly possible you may meet in him in Hyde Park.”

“On Rotten Row?” George’s eyes were round.

When Jack nodded, Jeremy put their seal of approval firmly on the plan. He breathed out in a great sigh, his face alight. “Capital!”

Then, with the rapid change of direction that characterised the young, Jeremy turned to George. “Race you to the oak.” They were off on the words, thundering down the slope towards the distant tree.

As by unvoiced consent they set their horses ambling after the two boys, Sophie glanced up at Jack. “You’ll have to excuse them—they’re rather single-minded when it comes to horses.”

Jack slanted her a smile. “Harry and I were the same.”

Sophie let her glance slide away. She could hear Clarissa and Lord Percy conversing; they were only a step or so behind. It was true they had no real chaperon, yet she could not imagine there was any impropriety in the situation; the presence of the children lent a certain innocence to the gathering.

Jack had only just registered the absence of a groom. He suppressed an instinctive frown. “Tell me, Miss Winterton, do you commonly ride unescorted?”

Glancing up, Sophie caught the frown in his eyes. Her brows rose. “All my cousins are expert riders; there’s little chance of calamity in a gentle ride about the lanes.”

“The lanes?”

Sophie had the grace to blush. “You can hardly expect such high spirits—” she indicated Jeremy and George “—to be content with such mild entertainment.” Somewhat defensively, she added, “Clarissa and I are experienced riders, and Amy’s cob is so ancient it rarely gets above a canter.”

That last was self-evident as Amy, not content with their ambling progress, was jigging along ahead of them as fast as the cob would go. Barely a canter, much to Amy’s disgust.

“Besides, sir,” Sophie added, slanting a glance up at him, “I cannot believe that you and your brother—Harry, was it not?—would have been content with the lanes.”

To her surprise, Jack’s lips firmed into a distinctly grim line. “Indeed, no, Miss Winterton. Which is why I feel peculiarly well-qualified to express an opinion on what disasters are possible—nay, probable—given two high-couraged youngsters on fine horses.” He turned from his contemplation of the boys, now circling the oak ahead, to look down at her. “And,” he added, “which is why I think you should most certainly have a groom with you.”

A trifle nettled, Sophie reached down to pat the proud neck of her own mount, a raw-boned grey stallion. “You need have no fear of them getting away from me. Few horses can outrun the Sheik.”

Her action drew Jack’s gaze to her horse; until then, despite his frequent preoccupation with the species, he had not really noticed it. As his gaze took in the large head, the long legs and heavy shoulders and rump, he felt the hairs on his nape rise. Despite the fact he had heard the warning note in her voice, despite knowing she would not welcome his question, he cleared his throat and asked it. “Do you normally ride that beast, Miss Winterton?”

His curiously flat tone had Sophie glancing up, searching his face. “No,” she admitted, after a moment’s hesitation. “My uncle’s stables are extensive. We all take turns helping to exercise the hunters.”

Jack’s jaw firmed. “And does your uncle know you’re riding such a dangerous creature?”

Sophie stiffened. “Mr. Lester,” she said, her accents precise, “I have grown up around horses—have been riding since my earliest days. I assure you I am perfectly capable of managing the Sheik, or any other of my uncle’s horses.”

“That horse is too strong for you.” His brows lowered, Jack stated unequivocally, “You should not be riding such an animal.”

In the sky above them, the larks swooped and carolled. Their horses, displaying a fine equine imperturbability, trotted on down the hill. Sophie, flags of colour in her cheeks, abruptly retrieved her dropped jaw. Wrenching her gaze from the deeply turbulent blue into which it had fallen, she looked ahead.

The froth of white lace covering her breast rose as she drew in a deep breath. “Mr. Lester,” she began, her tone icy, her accents clipped, “I believe we would do well to leave this topic of conversation. I am perfectly capable of managing the Sheik. Now, if you don’t mind, I think we should join my cousins.”

Resisting the impulse to toss her head, she flicked her reins and the Sheik surged forward. She thought she heard an angry snort, then the black moved up beside her, long fluid strides eating up the turf. Irritation, consternation and something even more unnerving rasped her temper; Sophie kept her gaze fixed forward, ignoring the glowering presence beside her.

Through narrowed eyes, Jack viewed her chilly dignity with very real disapproval.

The two boys and Amy were waiting by the oak. Sophie drew rein and looked back. Clarissa and Lord Percy had followed them down. As his lordship drew up, she heard him remark, “The best bonnets are to be found at Drusilla’s, in my opinion. Just off Bruton Street. All the crack at the moment.” Her cousin and Lord Percy were clearly deep in fashion. His lordship appeared perfectly content; Clarissa was hanging on his every word. With a smothered snort, Sophie turned to her younger relatives.

“We’ll walk along the hedge until we come to the ride. Then back beside the woods.”

There was a definite edge to her tone. Jeremy, George and Amy cast her swift glances; without a word, they fell in behind her. Jack remained by her side; Sophie did not waste any effort in trying to dislodge him. Clarissa and Lord Percy brought up the rear, barely glancing up from their sartorial discussion.

Sophie slanted a wary and warning glance at Jack. He met it with a coolly inscrutable expression. With determined calm, Sophie lifted her chin and set off along the hedge.

The silence that engulfed them stretched ominously. She could feel the occasional touch of his glance; she knew there was a frown in his eyes. Sophie wondered why her throat felt so tight, why simply breathing seemed so difficult. Suppressing a grimace, she racked her brains for some suitably innocuous topic of conversation.

Behind her, George was idly threshing the hedge with his whip.

Later, Sophie learned that, entirely inadvertently, George had flushed a hare from the hedge. The animal darted out, straight under the Sheik’s hooves.

The stallion reared, screaming.

Sophie fought for control. It was all she could do to keep her precarious seat.

Then the Sheik was off.

Like a steam engine, the huge stallion pounded down the line of the hedge. Sophie clung to his back. Mounted sidesaddle, she could not exert sufficient strength to rein in the panicked beast. The wind of their passing whistled in her ears and whipped her breath away. Desperate, she peered ahead through the wisps of hair flattened against her face, through the rough mane that whipped her cheeks. The hedge at the end of the field loomed ahead. Whispering a fervent prayer, Sophie dropped one rein and threw all her weight onto the other. Almost sobbing, she hauled back. The manoeuvre worked. The Sheik’s head slewed, responding to the drag on the bit. But the stallion did not slow. Sophie felt herself tipping sideways. A scream stuck in her throat as she flung herself forward to cling once more to the Sheik’s glossy neck. The ride they had been making for opened out before them; a single tug of the Sheik’s powerful head pulled the rein from her grasp. Snorting, the stallion flew down the green turf.

Rattled, jolted, Sophie struggled to regain the reins. The ride eventually entered the woods, narrowing to a bridle track. She had to control the Sheik before that.

But the horse had the bit firmly between his teeth; even when she had the reins back in her hands, he refused to respond to her puny strength.

A flash of black to her left was her first intimation that help was at hand. Then Jack was beside her, the heavier black crowding the grey. He leaned across, one hand closing hard over her fingers as he added his weight to hers. Sophie felt him exert an increasing pressure, not jerking, as less experienced riders might. The Sheik felt the inexorable command.

Gradually, the grey slowed, finally stopping by the side of the ride.

Dragging in a ragged breath, Sophie sat up. Immediately the world tilted and spun. A ripe curse fell on her ears; it seemed to come from a long way away. Then strong hands fastened about her waist and weightlessness was added to the disconcerting sensations buffeting her.

Her feet touched firm earth. Shudder upon shudder racked her; she was trembling like a leaf.

The next instant she was enveloped in a warm embrace, locked against a hard frame. A large hand cradled her head, pressing her cheek against a firm male chest. The earthy scent of tweed and leather surrounded her, inexplicably comforting. With a gasp, stifled against his coat, Sophie clung to him, a solid anchor in her suddenly perilous world.

“My God! Are you all right?”

He sounded as shaken as she felt. Her throat was still closed; dumb, Sophie nodded. Dimly recalling the proprieties, she reluctantly drew away.

Hard fingers gripped her upper arms; abruptly Jack put her from him. Gasping, Sophie looked up, only to be subjected to a mercilous shake.

“I thought you said you could handle that beast!”

Numb, Sophie stared at him, at the fury that flamed in his eyes. A chill trickled through her veins, then spread; she felt the blood drain from her face. Cold blackness drew in; she blinked groggily.

Jack paled as she drooped in his hands. With a muttered curse, he gathered her to him.

Sophie didn’t resist. Supporting her against him, Jack guided her to a fallen log. “Sit down!”

The harshness in his tone brought Sophie’s head up. Simultaneously, her legs gave way and she complied with more haste than grace.

Jack stood over her, his face an icy mask. “You’re white as a sheet. Put your head down.”

Dizzy, disorientated, Sophie simply stared at him.

Jack cursed again.

The next thing Sophie knew her head was descending towards her knees, yielding to the insistent pressure of a large hand. He didn’t let up until her forehead rested on her knees. As another wave of black nothingness swept over her, Sophie jettisoned any thought of resistance. She set her mind on breathing deeply, calming the turmoil inside. The world and her senses slowly returned to her. Only then did she become aware of the long fingers that had insinuated themselves beneath the collar of her habit and blouse, pushing aside her curls to gently caress her nape. Cool, firm, they traced sorcerous patterns on her sensitive skin. Faintness threatened again; his touch drew her back, anchoring her to reality, soothing her frayed nerves, promising security and safety.

They remained thus for what seemed like an age. Eventually, Sophie drew in a deep breath and sat up. The hand at her nape fell away. She glanced up through her lashes. His expression was closed, shuttered. Dragging in another breath, she gathered her skirts.

His hand appeared before her. After a moment’s hesitation, she placed her hand in his and allowed him to assist her to her feet.

“I have to thank you, Mr. Lester, for your assistance.” She managed the words creditably but could not look at him. Instead, eyes downcast, she fussed with her skirts, smoothing down the moss velvet.

“I would infinitely prefer, Miss Winterton, if, instead of your thanks, you would give me your promise not to ride that animal, or any like him, again.”

The coolly arrogant tones left no doubt of the nature of that request. Slowly straightening, Sophie met his gaze. Inscrutable, distant, it told her little, as if he had brought a curtain down across his feelings, shutting her out. Lifting her head, she stated, “What befell, Mr. Lester, was purely an accident.”

Jack bit back a caustic response. “The fact you were riding that horse, Miss Winterton, was no accident.” His accents clipped, he viewed her through narrowed eyes. “He’s too strong for you—and you knew it.”

Sophie folded her lips, and gave him back stare for stare, her expression as remote as his.

Jack felt his temper slowly slip its leash. His expression hardened from mere flint to granite. “Before we leave here, Miss Winterton,” he said, his voice low and commendably even, “I want your promise that you will not, in future, engage in such wanton recklessness.” He saw her blink; he kept his gaze on hers. “Furthermore, I give you fair warning that should I ever find you on such a horse’s back again, you have my promise you’ll not sit a saddle for a sennight.” He watched as her eyes widened, stunned disbelief in their depths. He raised one brow. “Is that perfectly clear, my dear?”

Sophie suppressed a shiver. Unable to hold his relentless gaze, her own dropped to his lips, compressed to a mere line in his ruggedly handsome face.

There was no more than a foot between them. Luckily, the shock of her recent terror was fading; Sophie felt her strength, her normal independence, returning, flooding back, stiffening her resolve. She raised her eyes once more to his. “You have no right to make such a demand of me, Mr. Lester—nor yet threaten me.”

Her words were cool, her composure fragile but intact.

Gazing down at her, Jack made no answer, too engrossed in a ferocious inner struggle to subdue the tumultuous emotions raging through him. Every ounce of determination he possessed was required to keep his body still, his muscles locked against the impulse to sweep her into his arms, to demonstrate the validity of his claim on her.

Sophie sensed his turmoil. The odd flicker of the muscle along his jaw, his tightly clenched fists, the tension that gripped his whole frame bespoke her danger. The dark blue of his eyes had deepened, his gaze compelling, flames flickering elusively in the darkened depths. The hard line of his lips had not eased. His physical presence was overwhelming; even more than that, she sensed his strength, a tangible entity, emanating from his large, hard, masculine frame, an aura that reached out, surrounding her, threatening to engulf her, to trap her, to conquer her wilfulness and make her his.

“Sophie?” Clarissa’s voice cut across her thoughts. “Sophie? Are you all right?”

A shiver slithered down Sophie’s spine. She blinked and realized her heart was racing, her breasts rising and falling rapidly. For one last instant, she met that intense blue gaze. Then, with an effort, she looked away to where Clarissa, with the others in tow, was approaching. Struggling to reassemble her disordered wits, Sophie moved, walking the few feet to the side of her horse. “I’m all right. No harm done.”

Jack moved with her, not touching her but ready to support her if needed. Sophie was aware of his protective presence. Recalling how much she owed him, for she was too honest not to acknowledge that it had, indeed, been a very near-run thing, she glanced up through her lashes.

Jack caught her gaze. “Are you able to ride home?”

Sophie nodded. His expression was hard, shuttered, concern the only emotion visible. She drew a shaky breath and raised her head. “I do thank you for your assistance, sir.”

Her voice was low, soft, a quaver of awareness running beneath her words.

Jack acknowledged her thanks with a curt nod. Holding fast to the frayed reins of his control, he reached for her, lifting her effortlessly to the grey’s back.

Unnerved by the streak of sensation that speared through her at his touch, Sophie made a production of arranging her skirts, using the time to draw every last shred of her experience about her.

As the party reformed, she was grateful to find Clarissa, openly concerned, between herself and Mr. Lester. Lord Percy, on her left, proved an unthreatening companion, chatting on a wide variety of subjects as they wended their way homeward through the golden afternoon.

No further words passed between herself and her rescuer, yet all the way back to the gates of Webb Park, Sophie was conscious of the touch of his brooding gaze.

ONCE SHE WAS SAFELY returned to the bosom of her family, circumstance conspired to afford Sophie no peace in which to ponder. As there were no guests that evening, dinner was served at the earlier hour of five o’clock, en famille. All the Webbs barring the twins sat down about the long table in the dining room.

Naturally, her aunt and uncle were immediately regaled with the details of her thrilling rescue. It was all Sophie could do to erase the embellishments with which the younger Webbs enthusiastically embroidered the tale. From their glowing faces and excited voices it was clear that Jack Lester, modern-day hero, could have no fault in their youthful eyes.

“Dear Sophie,” Lucilla said, her customary calm intact. “You took no hurt of any kind, I hope?”

“None, aunt.” Sophie laid down her soup-spoon. “It was an unfortunate accident but I was not in any way harmed.”

“Thanks to Mr. Lester!” piped up Amy.

“You should have seen that black go, sir!” Jeremy addressed himself to his father. “A prime ‘un—a real stayer.”

“Indeed?’ From the head of the table, Horatio Webb beamed his deceptively gentle smile upon them all. A shortish, distinctly rotund gentleman, with a face that somehow combined elements of both youth and wisdom, many, at first glance, relegated him to the rank of a genial country squire with few thoughts beyond his fields. Only those who looked closer, into his fine grey eyes, twinkling now as Sophie’s delicately flushed cheeks assured him she had taken no hurt but was being made more than a little uncomfortable by the continuing fuss, saw a glimmer of the quick silver intelligence that lurked behind his outward appearance. The very intelligence that had made Horatio Webb a byword in certain rarefied financial circles and was, at some deeper level, part of the reason the beautiful and talented Lucilla Carstairs, capable of landing a dukedom with her smiles, had, instead, very happily married him. Peering at Jeremy over the top of his ever-present spectacles, Horatio replied, “I must say I would not mind getting a look at any horse that could run the Sheik down.”

“Mr. Lester is staying in the neighbourhood, I believe,” Clarissa volunteered.

Horatio nodded. “Rawling’s Cottage, I expect.” With bland calm, he picked up the carving implements and fell to carving the roast which had, that moment, been ceremonially placed before him.

To Sophie’s relief, the healthy appetites of the younger Webbs thrust her adventure temporarily from their minds.

Dinner was followed by a noisy game of Speculation, after which, feeling positively exhausted, mentally and physically, Sophie took herself off to bed. She had expected to find time, in the quiet of her chamber, to review the afternoon’s happenings—not the stirring events her cousins had described, but the far more unnerving moments she had spent alone with Jack Lester, a rescued damsel with her knight. Indeed, with her inner peace in disarray, she climbed the stairs determined to place the episode in proper perspective.

Instead, she fell deeply asleep, her dreams haunted by a pair of midnight-blue eyes.

THE FOLLOWING MORNING was filled to overflowing with the first of the tasks needed to be completed to allow them to remove to the capital at the end of the week as planned. Lucilla had the entire event organized, down to the last bottle of elderflower lotion needed to preserve their complexions against any breeze that might be encountered while being driven in gentlemen’s curricles in the Park.

Excused from the first round of packing for a light luncheon, both Sophie and Clarissa were commanded to appear before the family’s seamstress for a final fitting of the walking gowns, morning gowns, chemises and petticoats they had all agreed could be perfectly adequately supplied from home. The rest of their wardrobes, Lucilla had declared, must come from Bruton Street. As, after four years’ absence from London, none of the gowns Sophie currently possessed could be considered presentable, she was as much in need of the modistes as Clarissa. Even Lucilla had murmured her intention of taking advantage of their time in the capital to refurbish her own extensive wardrobe.

It was midafternoon before Sophie was free. She had barely had time to wander down to the front hall before the younger Webbs found her. With the single-mindedness of the young, they claimed her for their accustomed ride. With an inward sigh, Sophie surveyed the bright faces upturned to hers, eyes glowing, eager to be off. “Very well,” she said. “But I think we’ll take a groom with us today. Jeremy, please tell John he’s to accompany us. I’ll get Clarissa and meet you at the stables.”

To her relief, none of them commented on her departure from their established norm. Jeremy merely nodded, and all three departed with alacrity.

Glancing down at her morning gown, Sophie turned and started back up the stairs, refusing to dwell on what had prompted her caution, reflecting instead that, given that her aunt relied on her to ensure her cousins were exposed to no untoward occurrences, it was the least she should do.

When she appeared at the stables, Clarissa in tow, Old Arthur, the head groom, raised a questioning brow at her. Pulling on her gloves, Sophie nodded a greeting. “I’ll take Amber out today. She hasn’t had a run for some time, I believe.”

Arthur blinked. Then, with a shrug which stated louder than words that it was not his place to question the vagaries of his betters, he went to fetch the mare. To Sophie’s surprise, Clarissa, busy mounting her own high-bred chestnut, refrained from questioning her choice. Amber was as close to docile as any horse in the Webb stables. Taking her cue from her cousin, Sophie steadfastly ignored the niggling little voice which harped in her ear. Her choice of mount had nothing to do with Mr. Lester—and even less with that gentleman’s too strongly stated opinions.

The tenor of his comments, both before and after dragging her from the Sheik’s back, had stunned her. She had not before encountered such arrogantly high-handed behaviour, but she was quite certain what she thought of it. Yet her lingering reaction to the entire episode was equivocal, ambivalent, no help at all in restoring her equanimity.

Setting placid Amber to the task of catching up with the boys and Amy, already well ahead, Sophie frowned.

Until yesterday, she had been inclined to suspect Jack Lester of harbouring some romantic interest in her. Her conscience stirred, and Sophie blushed delicately. Irritated, she forced herself to face the truth: she had started to hope that he did. But his reactions yesterday afternoon had given her pause; whatever it was that had stared at her from the depths of his dark blue eyes—some deeply felt emotion that had disturbed his sophisticated veneer and wreaked havoc on her calm—it was not that gentle thing called love.

Sophie acknowledged the fact with a grimace as, with a wave and a whooping “halloo,” Clarissa shot past. Twitching the reins, Sophie urged Amber into the rolling gait which, with her, passed for a gallop. Clarissa, meanwhile, drew steadily ahead.

Trapped in her thoughts, Sophie barely noticed. Love, as she understood it, was a gentle emotion, built on kindness, consideration and affection. Soft glances and sweet smiles was her vision of love, and all she had seen, between her uncle and aunt and her mother and father, had bolstered that image. Love was calm, serene, bringing a sense of peace in its wake.

What she had seen in Jack Lester’s eyes had certainly not been peaceful.

As the moment lived again in her mind, Sophie shivered. What was it she had stirred in him? And how did he really view her?

HER FIRST QUESTION, had she but known it, was also exercising Jack’s mind, and had been ever since he had returned from Webb Park the afternoon before. As soon as his uncharacteristically violent emotions had eased their grip on his sanity, he had been aghast. Where had such intense impulses sprung from?

Now, with the afternoon bright beyond the windows, he restlessly paced the parlour of Rawling’s Cottage, inwardly still wrestling with the revelations of the previous day. He was deeply shocked, not least by the all but ungovernable strength of the emotion that had risen up when he had seen Sophie’s slender figure, fragile against the grey’s heaving back, disappear in the direction of the woods and possible death.

And he was shaken by what the rational part of his brain informed him such feelings foretold.

He had innocently supposed that courting the woman he had chosen as his wife would be a mild process in which his emotions remained firmly under his control while he endeavoured, through the skill of his address, to engage hers. A stranger, as he now realized, to love, he had imagined that, in the structured society to which they belonged, such matters would follow some neatly prescribed course, after which they could both relax, secure in the knowledge of each other’s affections.

Obviously, he had misjudged the matter.

A vague memory that his brother-in-law had not surrendered to love without a fight glimmered at the back of his mind. Given Jason’s undoubted conversion, and his equally undoubted acumen, Jack had always wondered what had made him hesitate—on the brink, as it were.

Now he knew.

Emotions such as he had felt yesterday were dangerous.

They boded fair to being strong enough to overset his reason and control his life.

Love, he was fast coming to understand, was a force to be reckoned with.

A knock on the front door interrupted his reverie. Glancing out of the window, he saw his undergroom leading a handsome bay around to the stables. The sight piqued Jack’s interest.

A scrape on the parlour door heralded his housekeeper. “Mr. Horatio Webb to see you, sir.”

Intrigued, Jack lifted a brow. “Thank you, Mrs. Mitchell. I’ll receive him here.”

A moment later, Horatio Webb was shown into the room. As his calm gaze swept the comfortable parlour, warm and inviting with its wealth of oak panelling and the numerous sporting prints gracing the walls, a smile of ineffable good humour creased Horatio’s face. Rawling’s Cottage was much as he remembered it—a sprawling conglomeration of buildings that, despite its name, constituted a good-sized hunting lodge with considerable stabling and more than enough accommodation for guests. Approaching his host, waiting by the fireplace, he was pleased to note that Jack Lester was much as he had imagined him to be.

“Mr. Webb?” Jack held out a hand as the older man drew near.

“Mr. Lester.” Horatio took the proffered hand in a strong clasp. “I’m here, sir, to extend my thanks, and that of Mrs. Webb, for the sterling service you rendered in averting misadventure yesterday afternoon.”

“It was nothing, I assure you, sir. I was there and merely did what any other gentleman, similarly circumstanced, would have done.”

Horatio’s eyes twinkled. “Oh, I make no doubt any other gentleman would have tried, Mr. Lester. But, as we both know, few would have succeeded.”

Jack felt himself falling under the spell of the peculiarly engaging light in his visitor’s eye. His lips twitched appreciatively. “A glass of Madeira, sir?” When Horatio inclined his head, Jack crossed to pour two glasses, then returned, handing one to his guest. “Phoenix is, perhaps, one of the few horses that could have caught your Sheik. I’m just dev’lish glad I was on him.”

With a wave, he invited Sophie’s uncle to a chair, waiting until the older man sat before taking a seat facing him.

With the contemplative air of a connoisseur, Horatio sipped the Madeira, savouring the fine wine. Then he brought his grey gaze to bear on Jack. “Seriously, Mr. Lester, I do, as you must understand, value your intervention of yesterday. If it weren’t for the fact we’ll be shortly removing to town, I’d insist you honour us for dinner one night.” His words came easily, his eyes, calmly perceptive, never leaving Jack’s face. “However, as such is the case, and we will depart on Friday, Mrs. Webb has charged me to convey to you her earnest entreaty that you’ll call on us once we’re established in Mount Street. Number eighteen. Naturally, I add my entreaty to hers. I take it you’ll be removing to the capital shortly?”

Jack nodded, discarding the notion of urging Sophie’s uncle to forbid her his more dangerous steeds. The shock she had so recently received should, with luck, suffice to keep her from the backs of murderous stallions, at least until the end of the week. “I intend quitting Melton any day, as it happens. However, as I must break my journey in Berkshire, I don’t expect to reach the metropolis much in advance of your party.”

Horatio nodded approvingly. “Please convey my greetings to your father. We were once, if not close friends, then certainly good acquaintances.”

Jack’s eyes widened. “You’re that Webb!” Blinking, he hastily explained, “Forgive me—I hadn’t realized. With so many Webbs in these parts, I wasn’t sure which one had been my father’s crony. I understand you and he shared many interests. He has told me of your devotion to the field.”

“Ah, yes.” Horatio smiled serenely. “My one vice, as it were. But I think you share it, too?”

Jack returned the smile. “I certainly enjoy the sport, but I feel my interest does not reach the obsessive heights of my father’s.”