A Lady of Expectations

CHAPTER ELEVEN

WITHIN TWENTY-FOUR HOURS, Jack had come to the conclusion that Fate had decided to live up to her reputation. He had fully intended to pursue his discussion with Sophie, rudely interrupted by Phillip Marston, the very next morning. Fickle Fate gave him no chance.

True, they went riding as usual, a mere ball being insufficient to dampen the Webbs’ equestrian spirits. The children, however, prompted, Jack had no doubt, by Sophie, hung about him, bombarding him with questions about the projected balloon ascension. When Percy hove in sight, Jack ruthlessly fobbed the children off on his friend, who, by pure chance, was an amateur enthusiast. But by that time, the gentlemen who had discovered Sophie and Clarissa the night before had caught up with them.

Jack spent the rest of the ride po-faced by Sophie’s side.

And there was worse to come.

As Jack had predicted, Clarissa Webb’s come-out ball became the de facto beginning of the Season. It had been voted an horrendous crush by all; every hostess with any claim to fame rushed to lay her own entertainments before the ton. The days and evenings became an orgy of Venetian breakfasts, alfresco luncheons, afternoon teas and formal dinners, all crowned by a succession of balls, routs, drums and soirées. And beneath the frenzy ran the underlying aim of fostering suitable alliances-an aim with which Jack was, for the first time in his career, deeply involved.

Indeed, as he leaned against the wall in an alcove in Lady Marchmain’s ballroom, his gaze, as always, on Sophie, presently gliding through a cotillion, the only thing on Jack’s mind was a suitable alliance. He had come to town to use the Season as a backdrop for his wooing of Sophie. By his reckoning, the Season was now more than a week old. Then how much longer did he have to hold off and watch her smile at other men?

“I wonder… need I ask which one she is? Or should I make an educated guess?”

At the drawled words, Jack shifted his gaze to frown at Harry. Observing his brother’s interrogative expression, Jack snorted and returned to his occupation. “Second set from the door. In amber silk. Blond.”

“Naturally.” Harry located Sophie by the simple expedient of following Jack’s gaze. His brows slowly rose. “Not bad at all,” he mused. “Have I complimented you recently on your taste?”

“Not so I’ve noticed.”

“Ah, well.” Harry slanted Jack a rakish smile. “Perhaps I’d better converse with this paragon before I pass judgement.”

“If you can shake the dogs that yap at her heels.”

Harry shook his head languidly. “Oh, I think I’ll manage. What’s her name?”

“Sophie Winterton.”

With a smile which Jack alone could view with equanimity, Harry sauntered into the crowd. His lips twisting wryly, Jack settled to watch how his brother performed a feat he himself was finding increasingly difficult.

“Thank you, Mr. Somercote. An excellent measure.” Sophie smiled and gave Mr. Somercote her hand, hoping he would accept his dismissal. He was, unfortunately, becoming a trifle pointed in his interest.

Mr. Somercote gazed earnestly into her face, retaining her hand in a heated clasp. He drew a portentous breath. “My dear Miss Winterton…”

“It is Miss Winterton, is it not?”

With abject relief, Sophie turned to the owner of the clipped, somewhat hard tones, beneath which a certain languidness rippled, and beheld a strikingly handsome man, bowing even more elegantly than Jack Lester.

This last was instantly explained.

“Harry Lester, Miss Winterton,” the apparition offered, along with a rakish grin. “Jack’s brother.”

“How do you do, Mr. Lester?” As she calmly gave him her hand, Sophie reflected that in any contest of handsomeness, it would be exceedingly difficult to decide between Jack and Harry Lester, not least because they were so unalike.

The gentleman currently shaking her hand, then appropriating it in a manner she recognized all too well, was fair where Jack was dark, with green eyes where Jack’s were blue. He was as tall as Jack, but leaner, and there hung about him an aura of dangerous elegance that was distinctly more sharp-edged than Jack’s easy assurance. This Lester possessed an elegance that was almost extreme, an aesthetic’s adherence to Brummel’s dictates, combined with a well-nigh lethal grace.

Harry’s glance flicked to Mr. Somercote, then returned to Sophie’s face. “Perhaps you would care for a stroll about the rooms, Miss Winterton?”

The arrogant smile that curved his fatally attractive lips assured Sophie that, despite their physical dissimilarity, the Lesters were certainly brothers beneath the skin. “Indeed, sir. That would be most pleasant.” He had already settled her hand on his sleeve. With a gentle nod for the deflated Mr. Somercote, Sophie allowed Harry to lead her along the floor.

“You’ve come to town with your aunt and cousins, have you not?”

Sophie glanced up to find a pair of green eyes lazily regarding her. “Yes, that’s right. The Webbs.”

“I’m afraid I’ve not had the pleasure of making their acquaintance. Perhaps you could introduce me if we meet?”

Sophie quickly discovered that Harry, like his brother, had a ready facility for filling in time in a most agreeable, and surprisingly unexceptionable, manner. As they chatted, threading their way through the crowd, she found herself relaxing, then laughing at a tale of a most hilarious excursion in the Park when he and Jack had first come to town. It was only the arrival of her next partner, Mr. Chartwell, that put an end to their amble.

Jack’s brother yielded her up with a flourish and a wicked smile.

Smiling herself as she watched him disappear into the crowd, Sophie wondered at the steely danger so apparent in him. It contrasted oddly with Jack’s strength. Not that she had felt the least threatened by Harry Lester-quite the opposite. But she did not think she would like to lose her heart to him.

Her mind had little respite from thoughts of Lesters; Jack claimed her immediately the dance with Mr. Chartwell concluded, barely giving that gentleman time to take his leave. However, having detected an expression of chagrin in Mr. Chartwell’s mild grey eyes, Sophie was too grateful for her rescue to remonstrate.

Her gratefulness diminished markedly when it became apparent that Jack’s difficulties in accepting their fate had not yet been resolved.

“Sophie, I want to talk to you. Privately.” Jack had given up trying to manoeuvre such an interlude subtly. Sophie had proved the most amazingly stubborn female he had ever encountered.

Sophie lifted her chin. “You know that would be most unwise, let alone inappropriate.”

Jack swallowed a curse. “Sophie, I swear.” The music for the waltz started up; Jack shackled his temper long enough to sweep Sophie into his arms. Once they were whirling slowly down the room, hemmed in on all sides, he continued, “If I have to put up with much more of this, I’ll-”

“You’ll do nothing that would force me to cut the connection, I hope?” Sophie kept her eyes wide and her expression serene; they might have been discussing the weather for all anyone could see. But her chest felt tight and her heart had sunk. She held Jack’s gaze and prayed he’d draw back.

A savage light lit his eyes. Then, with a muttered curse, he looked away. But the tightening of his arm about her told Sophie the argument was far from over. He was holding her far too tight. Sophie made no demur. She had long ago given up hypocritically protesting his transgressions-such as his insistence of using her first name.

She felt a quiver run through her, felt her body respond to his nearness. That, she supposed, was inevitable. He wanted her-as she wanted him. But it wasn’t to be; their world did not operate that way. They would both marry others, and Jack had to accept the fact gracefully. If he did, then perhaps they could remain friends. It was all she could hope for, and she was selfish enough to cling to his friendship. He shared so many of her interests, much more so than any of the gentlemen vying for her hand. Indeed, she was loweringly aware that not one of them measured up to Jack Lester and that whenever they gave signs of wanting to fix their interest, she felt an immediate aversion for their company. Her heart, no longer hers, was proving very difficult to reconquer.

Sensing an easing in the tension surrounding her, Sophie slanted a glance at Jack’s face.

He was watching her, waiting. “Sophie… I’ll accept that you need time to look about you. But I’m not an inherently patient man.” The muscle along his jaw twitched; he stilled it, his eyes never leaving hers. “If you could find some way to hurry up this phase, I’d be eternally grateful.”

Sophie blinked, her eyes widening. “I… I’ll try.”

“Do,” Jack replied. “But just remember, Sophie-you’re mine. Nothing, no amount of pretty phrases, will ever change that.”

The possessiveness in his expression, intransigent, unwavering, stunned Sophie even more than the essence of his arrogant demand. A slow shudder shook her. “Please, Jack…” She looked away, her whisper dying between them.

Jack shackled the urge to haul her into his arms, to put an end to this wooing here and now. Instead, as the music ceased, he drew her hand through his arm. “Come. I’ll escort you back to your aunt.”

At least she had called him Jack.

“SOMETHING’S WRONG.”

It was two nights after Lady Marchmain’s ball. Horatio, already propped amid the pillows, turned to study his wife as she sat at her dressing-table, brushing out her mane of silver-blond hair. “What makes you say that?” he asked, unperturbed by her intense expression.

Lucilla frowned. “Sophie isn’t happy.”

“Isn’t she?” Horatio blinked behind his glasses. “Why not? I would have thought, with a horde of would-be suitors, Jack Lester to the fore, she’d be as happy as a young lady could be.”

“Well, she’s not-and I think it has something to do with Jack Lester, although I cannot, for the life of me, imagine what it could be. Why, the man’s positively eaten by jealousy every time she so much as smiles at another. Anyone with eyes can see it. I really don’t know what more Sophie wants. Jack Lester will be the catch of the Season.”

“Hmm.” Horatio frowned. “You’re quite sure it’s Jack Lester she wants?”

Lucilla snorted. “Believe me, my dear, there’s no man Sophie wants even a tenth as much. Indeed, if I was intent on doing my job by the book, I should have warned her long ago not to be so blatant in her preference.”

“Ah, well.” Horatio shuffled his ever-present documents and laid them aside as Lucilla stood and came towards the bed. “I dare say it’ll work itself out. These things generally do.”

Lucilla slipped beneath the covers and snuggled down. She waited until Horatio had blown out the candle before saying, “You don’t think I should… well, find out what the problem is?”

“You mean meddle?” Horatio’s tone made his opinion quite clear even before he said, “No. Let the young make their own mistakes, m’dear. How else do you expect them to learn?”

Lucilla grimaced in the dark. “Doubtless you’re right, dear.” She reached under the covers and patted Horatio’s hand. She waited all of a minute before saying, “Actually, I was thinking of organizing a short respite from town. The circus of the Season can become a mite tedious without a break. And I wouldn’t want Sophie or Clarissa to become jaded just yet. What say you to a little house party at Aunt Evangeline’s?”

Protected by the dark, Horatio slowly smiled. “Whatever you think best, m’dear.”

It wouldn’t hurt for the young people to have a little time together-time enough to correct their mistakes.

BUT FATE HAD NOT yet consented to smile again on Jack. And as for Sophie, she was finding it hard to smile at all.

The thought that Jack wanted her to marry as soon as possible was depressing enough. The idea of what he imagined would happen after was even more so. Her dreams were in tatters; Sophie found it increasingly hard to support her serene façade. She had made a habit of joining circles with Belle Chessington, relying on her friend’s unquenchably cheery constitution to conceal her flagging spirits. But her glow was entirely superficial. Inside was all deepening gloom.

She had just returned to her circle on the arm of Mr. Chartwell, who was becoming more assiduous with every passing day, when a deep voice set her heart thumping.

“I do hope, Miss Winterton, that you’ve saved me a dance.” Jack smiled into Sophie’s eyes as he took her hand and drew her away from her court. “I’ve been teaching Ned how to tie his cravat, and it took rather longer than either of us expected.”

Sophie felt her nerves knot and pull tight. Was this, she wondered, as they strolled down the room, how it was going to be later? Would he simply arrive and appropriate her at will? Tensing, she lifted her chin. “I’m afraid my card is full, Mr. Lester.”

Jack frowned slightly. “I had rather supposed it would be. But you have kept a dance for me, haven’t you?”

They both nodded to Miss Berry, ensconced on a chaise, then continued onward in silence. Sophie struggled to find words for her purpose.

Somewhat abruptly, their progress halted and her escort drew her to face him.

“Sophie?” Jack’s frown was gathering force.

Sophie’s eyes met his, cloudy, turbulent, intensely blue. Her heart thudding uncomfortably in her throat, she slid her gaze from his. “As it happens, I have not yet accepted anyone for the second waltz.”

“You have now.” Smothering the dark, almost violent passion that had threatened to erupt, Jack trapped her hand on his sleeve and continued their stroll.

He pointedly returned Sophie to her aunt, some little way from her cloying court. Surrendering her up for their delectation was presently beyond him. His expression somewhat grim, he bowed over Sophie’s hand. “Until the second waltz, Miss Winterton.”

With that, he left her, his mood even more savage than when he had arrived.

For Sophie, the second waltz arrived far too soon. She had not yet regained her composure, seriously strained by the events of the past weeks and now close to breaking. Jack’s arm about her whirled her effortlessly down the floor; Sophie held herself stiffly, battling the impulse to surrender to his strength.

So absorbed was she with her struggle that the first she knew of their departure from the ballroom was the cool touch of the night air on her face.

“Where…?” Distracted, Sophie glanced about and discovered they were on a terrace. But that, apparently, was not their destination, for Jack, his arm still hard about her waist, urged her on. “Jack!” Sophie tried to dig in her heels.

Jack stopped and looked down at her. “You were obviously finding the waltz a trial. I thought you might need some air.”

Sophie relaxed slightly, and found she was moving again. “Where are we going?”

The answer was a garden room, built onto the house beyond the end of the terrace. Walls of windows let the moonlight pour in, silvering everything in sight. A few padded cane chairs and two little tables were scattered about the small room, which was, Sophie realized as she heard the door click behind them, mercifully empty.

Which was just as well, for Jack demanded without preamble, “How much longer, Sophie?”

Sophie swung about and found him advancing on her.

“How much longer are you going to make me suffer?”

Her hand rose as if to ward him off; it came to rest on his chest as he halted directly before her. Feeling the warmth of his body through his coat, Sophie shivered. She looked up into his shadowed face, the planes hard and unyielding, and a small spurt of temper flared inside. How did he think she felt, having to give up the man she loved-and having that man urge her to do it? Her chin lifted. “I’m afraid the decision is not that simple. In fact, I find the attentions of my present admirers not at all to my taste.”

That admission went a long way towards easing the tension that held Jack in its grip. He could feel it flowing from him, the muscles of his shoulders and back relaxing.

Still considering her suitors, Sophie frowned. “I’m afraid I would not be happy accepting any of my present suitors.”

An icy chill stole over Jack’s heart. It beat three times before he asked, “None?”

Sophie shook her head. “I don’t know what to do. I must accept someone by the end of the Season.”

The chill was slowly spreading through Jack’s veins. He touched his tongue to his lips, then asked, “Why not me?”

Startled, Sophie glanced up at him. “But…” She frowned. “I can’t marry you-you know I can’t.” She could see very little of his expression through the shadows veiling his face. And nothing at all of his eyes.

“Why not?” Sight wouldn’t have helped her; Jack’s expression was hard, impassive, all emotion suppressed. “We both know I’ve all the attributes you seek in a husband: a country estate, a wish to reside in the country, a desire for children, to have a family about me. That’s what you want, isn’t it?”

Sophie stared up at him.

“And, of course,” Jack continued, his lips twisting in an uncertain smile, “we have something else between us.” Raising a hand, he delicately drew the tip of one finger from the point of Sophie’s shoulder, exposed by her wide neckline, across to the base of her throat, then down to where the deep cleft between her breasts was visible above her gown. Sophie shivered and caught her breath.

“A… compatibility,” Jack said, “that makes all the rest fade into insignificance.” His eyes rose to trap Sophie’s stunned gaze. “Isn’t it so, Sophie?”

Sophie swallowed. “But I have no fortune. Nothing but expectations.”

“That doesn’t matter.” Jack’s gaze sharpened. He drew a deep breath. “Sophie-”

In a sudden breathless rush, Sophie put her fingers over his lips. “No!” she squeaked, and cursed her quavering voice. At last she understood-and knew what she must do. Drawing in a determined breath, consciously steeling herself, she drew back, forcing herself to hold his gaze. “I’m afraid you don’t understand, Jack. I’ve never been wealthy in my life-I came to London determined to marry well.” The lie came out so easily. Her eyes falling from his, Sophie searched for more words to shore it up. “I know I didn’t say so, but I thought you understood. Nothing.” She paused to make sure her voice would not waver. “Nothing I’ve seen in London has changed my mind; I require that my preferred suitor has considerable wealth.”

The words came out more than creditably. Sophie heard them; her heart thudded painfully in her breast but she held herself erect, head high. Far better he think her lost to all sensibility than that he offer to marry her, mortgaging his future, turning his back on those responsibilities that were so very important to him. He was just like Lucilla-ready to sacrifice all for love. She wouldn’t allow it.

“But…” Jack couldn’t have felt more stunned had she slapped him. His brain reeled, grappling with the fact that Sophie did not know of his true circumstances. He had assumed Horatio would tell Lucilla, who in turn would have told Sophie. Obviously not. The facts were on his lips. Chill reason froze them there.

He looked down at Sophie’s face, calm and serene in the moonlight, the face of the woman he had thought he understood. But she was intent on marrying for money-so intent she would happily put aside what was between them, turn away from his love, and hers, in exchange for cold hard cash. Fate was playing games with him; his golden head had gold on her mind. Did he really want to win her by revealing his disgusting wealth? How would he feel when she smiled and came to his arms, knowing that it had taken money to get her there?

There was a bitter taste in his mouth. Jack drew a sharp breath and looked up, over Sophie’s head. He felt cold. A steel fist had closed about his heart, squeezing unmercifully.

He took a jerky step back. “I regret, Miss Winterton, if my… attentions have been unwelcome. I will not trouble you more. I realize my actions must have complicated your search for… a suitable suitor. You have my apologies.” With a curt bow, Jack turned to leave. And hesitated.

His face in profile, Sophie saw his lips twist in the travesty of a smile. Then he turned his head to look down at her. “I can only hope, my dear, that when you find your pot of gold at the end of the rainbow you’re not disappointed.” With a curt nod, he strode away, opening and shutting the door carefully.

Leaving Sophie in the centre of the empty room.

For a long moment, she remained as she was, proudly erect, then her shoulders slumped. Sophie bowed her head, drawing in an aching breath, squeezing her eyes tight against the pain that blossomed inside.

Ten minutes later, she returned to the ballroom, no trace of misery on her face. Coolly composed, she joined her little circle, brightly responding to Belle Chessington’s quips. A quick glance about revealed the fact that Jack’s dark head was nowhere to be seen. Sophie crumpled inside. She had done the right thing. She must remember that.

If this was what it took to ensure he prospered and lived the life he should live, so be it.

From an alcove by the card room, almost at the other end of the floor, Jack brooded on Sophie’s ready smiles. If he had needed any further proof of the superficiality of her feelings for him, he had just received it. Raising his glass, he downed a mouthful of the golden liquor it contained.

“There you are. Been looking all over.” Ned ducked round the palm that blocked the opening of the alcove. His eyes fell on Jack’s glass. “What’s that?”

“Brandy,” Jack growled and took another long sip.

Ned raised his brows. “Didn’t see any of that in the refreshment room.”

“No.” Jack smiled, somewhat grimly, across the room and said no more. Ned didn’t need to drink himself into a stupor.

“I danced the last cotillion with Clarissa,” Ned said. “Her blasted card was virtually full and that bounder Gurnard’s taking her in to supper. Should I hang around here or can we leave?”

His gaze on Sophie, Jack considered the point. “I don’t advise leaving until after supper, or it’ll be said you only came to dance with Clarissa.”

“I did only come to dance with Clarissa,” Ned groaned. “Can we just cut and run?”

Very slowly, Jack shook his head, his attention still fixed across the room. “I told you, this game’s not for the faint-hearted.” For a long moment, he said no more; Ned waited patiently.

Abruptly, Jack shook himself and straightened from the wall. He looked at Ned, his usual arrogant expression in place. “Go and join some other young lady’s circle. But whatever you do, don’t be anywhere near Clarissa at suppertime.” At Ned’s disgusted look, Jack relented. “If you survive that far, I don’t suppose it would hurt to talk to her afterwards-but no more than fifteen minutes.”

“Wooing a young lady in the ton is the very devil,” Ned declared. “Where do all these rules come from?” With a disgusted shake of his head, he took himself off.

With his protégé under control, Jack leaned back into the shadows of the alcove, and kept watch on the woman who, regardless of all else, was still his.

FOUR DAYS LATER, Sophie sat in the carriage and stared gloomily at the dull prospect beyond the window. Lucilla’s little excursion, announced this morning, had taken the household by surprise. In retrospect, she should have suspected her aunt was planning something; there had been moments recently when Lucilla had been peculiarly abstracted. This three-day sojourn at Little Bickmanstead, the old manor belonging to Lucilla’s ancient Aunt Evangeline, was the result.

Despondent, Sophie sighed softly, her gaze taking in the leaden skies. In perfect accord with her mood, the unseasonably fine spell had come to an abrupt end on the night she had refused to let Jack offer for her. A rainstorm had swept the capital. Ever since, the clouds had threatened, low and menacing, moving Lucilla to veto their rides.

Glumly, Sophie wondered if Jack understood-or if he thought she was avoiding him. The miserable truth was, she did not think she could cope with any meeting just now. Perhaps Fate had sent the rain to her aid?

Certainly Jack himself seemed in no hurry to speak with her again. Perhaps he never would. He had been present at the balls they had attended over the past three nights. She had seen him in the distance, but he had not approached her. Indeed, once, when they had passed close while she had been strolling the floor on one of her would-be suitors’ arms, and their gazes had met, he had merely inclined his head in a distant fashion. She had replied in kind, but inside the ache had intensified.

Sophie closed her eyes and searched for peace in the repetitive rocking of the coach. She had done the right thing-she kept telling herself so. Her tears, perforce, had been shed discreetly, far from Lucilla’s sharp eyes. She had stifled her grief, refusing to dwell on it; suppressed, it had swelled until it pervaded her, beating leaden in her veins, a cold misery enshrouding her soul. A misery she was determined none would ever see.

Which meant she had to face the possibility that Jack might take up the invitation Lucilla had extended to join them at Little Bickmanstead. The guest list numbered some twenty-seven souls, invited to enjoy a few days of rural peace in the rambling old house close by Epping Forest. But Jack wouldn’t come, not now. Sophie sighed, feeling not relief, but an inexpressible sadness at the thought.

The well-sprung travelling carriage rolled over a rut, throwing Clarissa against her shoulder. They disentangled themselves and sat up, both checking on Lucilla, seated opposite, her dresser, Mimms, by her side. Her aunt, Sophie noted, was looking distinctly seedy. A light flush tinted Lucilla’s alabaster cheeks and her eyes were overbright.

Touching a lace-edged handkerchief to her nose, Lucilla sniffed delicately. “Incidentally, Clarissa, I had meant to mention it before now-but you really don’t want to encourage that guardsman, Captain Gurnard.” Lucilla wrinkled her nose. “I’m not at all sure he’s quite the thing, despite all appearances to the contrary.”

“Fear not, Mama.” Clarissa smiled gaily. “I’ve no intention of succumbing to the captain’s wiles. Indeed, I agree with you, there’s definitely something ‘not quite’ about him.”

Lucilla shot her daughter a narrow-eyed glance, then, apparently reassured, she blew her nose and settled back against the cushions.

Clarissa continued to smile sunnily. Her plans were proceeding, albeit not as swiftly as she would have liked. Ned was proving remarkably resistant to the idea of imitating her other swains; he showed no signs of wanting to prostrate himself at her feet. However, as she found such behaviour a mite inconvenient, Clarissa was perfectly ready to settle for a declaration of undying love and future happiness. Her current problem lay in how to obtain it.

Hopefully, a few days in quieter, more familiar surroundings, even without the helpful presence of the captain to spur Ned on, would advance her cause.

The carriage checked and turned. Sophie looked out and saw two imposing gateposts just ahead. Then the scrunch of gravel announced they had entered the drive. The house lay ahead, screened by ancient beeches. When they emerged in the forecourt, Sophie saw a long, two-storey building in a hotchpotch of styles sprawling before them. One thing was instantly apparent: housing a party of forty would not stretch the accommodations of Little Bickmanstead. Indeed, losing a party of forty in the rambling old mansion looked a very likely possibility.

Drops of rain began spotting the grey stone slabs of the porch as they hurried inside. A fleeting glance over her shoulder revealed a bank of black clouds racing in from the east. The other members of the family had elected to ride from town, Horatio keeping a watchful eye on his brood. Minton and the other higher servants had followed close behind, the luggage with them. The forecourt became a scene of frenzied activity as they all hurried to dismount and stable the horses and unpack the baggage before the storm hit.

The family gathered in the hall, looking about with interest. The rectangular hall was dark, wood panelling and old tapestries combining to bolster the gloom. An ancient butler had admitted them; an even more ancient housekeeper came forward, a lamp in her hand.

As the woman bobbed a curtsy before her, Lucilla put out a hand to the table in the centre of the room. “Oh, dear.”

One glance at her deathly pale face was enough to send them all into a panic.

“My dear?” Horatio hurried to her side.

“Mama?” came from a number of throats.

“Mummy, you look sick,” came from Hermione, gazing upwards as she held her mother’s hand.

Lucilla closed her eyes. “I’m dreadfully afraid,” she began, her words very faint.

“Don’t say anything,” Horatio advised. “Here, lean on me-we’ll have you to bed in a trice.”

The old housekeeper, eyes wide, beckoned them up the stairs. “I’ve readied all the rooms as instructed.”

Minton was already sorting through the bags. Sending Clarissa ahead with Mimms and the housekeeper, Sophie came to her aunt’s other side. Together, she and Horatio supported a rapidly wilting Lucilla up the stairs and along a dim and drafty corridor to a large chamber. Mimms was in charge there; the bed was turned down, the housekeeper dispatched for a warming pan. A fire was cracking into life in the grate.

They quickly helped Lucilla to bed, laying her back on the soft pillows and tucking the covers about her. Once installed, she regained a little colour. She opened her eyes and regarded them ruefully. And sniffed. “This is terrible. I’ve organized it all-there are twenty-seven people on their way here. They’ll all arrive before dinner. And if the rain persists, they’ll need to be entertained for the next two days.”

“Don’t worry about anything,” Horatio said, patting her hand. But even he was frowning as the ordeal before them became clear.

“But you haven’t a hostess.” Lucilla put her handkerchief to her nose, cutting off what sounded like a tearful wail. She blinked rapidly.

Sophie straightened her shoulders. “I’m sure I can manage, with Uncle Horatio and Great Aunt Evangeline behind me. It’s not as if you were not in the house-I can check any details with you. And it’s not as if there were no chaperons. You told me yourself you’ve invited a number of matrons.”

Lucilla’s woeful expression lightened. Her frown turned pensive. “I suppose.” For a moment, all was silent. Then, “Yes,” she finally announced, and nodded. “It just might work. But,” she said, raising rueful eyes to Sophie’s face, “I’m awfully afraid, my dear, that it will be no simple matter.”

Relieved to have averted immediate catastrophe, for if Lucilla broke down, that would certainly follow, Sophie smiled with totally false confidence. “You’ll see, we’ll contrive.”

Those words seemed to have become a catchphrase of her Season, Sophie mused as, an hour later, she sat in the front parlour, off the entrance hall, the guest list in her hand.

After assuring themselves that Lucilla was settled and resigned to her bed, she and Clarissa and Horatio had gone to pay their respects to Aunt Evangeline. It had been years since Sophie had met her ageing relative; the years had not been kind to Aunt Evangeline. She was still ambulatory, but her wits were slowly deserting her. Still, she recognized Horatio, even though she was apparently ineradicably convinced that Clarissa was Lucilla and Sophie her dead mother, Maria. They had given up trying to correct the misapprehension, concentrating instead on explaining their current predicament. Whether or not they had succeeded was moot, but at least Aunt Evangeline had given them a free hand to order things as they wished.

Nevertheless, the prospect of having to keep a weather eye out for an old dear who, so the housekeeper had gently informed them, was full of curiosity and prone to wandering the corridors at all hours draped in shawls that dragged their fringes on the floor, was hardly comforting.

A sound came from outside. Sophie lifted her head, listening intently. The wind was rising, whistling about the eaves. Rain fell steadily, driving in gusts against the windows, masking other sounds. Then came the unmistakable jingle of harness. Sophie rose. The first of her aunt’s guests had arrived. Girding her loins, she tugged the bell-pull and went out into the hall.

From the very first, it was bedlam. The Billinghams-Mrs. Billingham and both of her daughters-were the first to arrive. By the time they had descended from their carriage and negotiated the steps, their carriage dresses were soaked to the knees.

“Oh, how dreadful! Mama, I’m dripping!” The younger Miss Billingham looked positively shocked.

Mrs. Billingham, if anything even damper than her daughters, was not disposed to give comfort. “Indeed, Lucy, I don’t know what you’re complaining about. We’re all wet-and now here’s a to-do with Mrs. Webb ill. I’m not at all sure we shouldn’t turn round and return to town.”

“Oh no, Mama-you couldn’t be so cruel!” The plaintive wail emanated from the elder Miss Billingham.

“Indeed, Mrs. Billingham, there’s really no need.” Smoothly, Sophie cut in, clinging to her usual calm. “Everything’s organized and I’m sure my aunt would not wish you to withdraw purely on account of her indisposition.”

Mrs. Billingham humphed. “Well, I suppose with your uncle present and myself and the other ladies, there’s really no impropriety.”

“I seriously doubt my aunt would ever countenance any,” Sophie replied, her smile a trifle strained.

“We’ll stay at least until the morning.” Mrs. Billingham cast a darkling glance out of the open door. “Perhaps by then the weather will have eased. I’ll make a decision then.”

With that declaration, Mrs. Billingham allowed herself to be shown to her chamber.

Hard on the Billinghams’ heels came Lord Ainsley. His lordship had unwisely driven out in his curricle, and he was soaked to the skin. He tried hard to smile, but his chattering teeth made it difficult.

Sophie was horrified, visions of guests catching their deaths whirling through her mind. Issuing orders left and right-for hot baths and mustard to ward off chills, for the staff to make sure all the fires were blazing-she turned from the sight of Lord Ainsley’s back disappearing up the stairs to behold a bedraggled Lord Annerby on the doorstep.

And so it went, on through the afternoon, while outside a preternatural darkness descended.

Belle Chessington and her equally cheery mother were amongst the last to arrive.

“What a perfectly appalling afternoon,” Mrs. Chessington remarked as she came forward with a smile, hand outstretched.

Sophie heaved an inward sigh of relief. The Marquess of Huntly, another who had unwisely opted to drive himself, was dripping all over the hall flags. Her little speech now well rehearsed, Sophie quickly made Lucilla’s indisposition known, then smoothed away their exclamations with assurances of their welcome. Horatio had retreated to the main parlour to play host to those gentlemen who had already descended, looking for something to warm themselves while they waited for the dinner gong.

The Chessingtons and the marquess took the news in their stride. They were about to head upstairs when a tremendous sneeze had them all turning to the door.

Mr. Somercote stood on the threshold, a pitiful sight with water running in great rivers from his coattails.

“My dear sir!” Belle Chessington swept back along the hall to drag the poor gentleman in.

His place in the doorway was immediately filled by Miss Ellis and her mother, closely followed by Mr. Marston, Lord Swindon and Lord Thurstow. Of them all, only Mr. Marston, clad in a heavy, old-fashioned travelling cloak, was less than drenched. Sophie left the marquess; she tugged the bell-pull twice, vigorously, then hurried forward to help the others out of their soaked coats.

Mentally reviewing the guest list, she thought most had now arrived.

Mr. Marston moved to intercept her, unwrapping his cloak as he came. He was frowning. “What’s this, Miss Winterton? Where is your aunt?”

His question, uttered in a stern and reproving tone, silenced all other conversation. The latest arrivals glanced about, noting Lucilla’s absence. Suppressing a curse, Sophie launched into her explanation. Mr. Marston did not, however, allow her to get to her reassurances. He cut across her smooth delivery to announce, “A sad mischance indeed. Well-there’s nothing for it-we’ll all have to return to town. Can’t possibly impose on the family with your aunt so gravely ill. And, of course, there are the proprieties to consider.”

For an instant, silence held sway. The others all looked to Sophie.

With an effort, Sophie kept her smile in place. “I assure you, Mr. Marston, that my aunt has nothing more than a cold. She would be most unhappy if such a trifling indisposition were to cause the cancellation of this party. And with my great-aunt, my uncle and Mrs. Chessington and the other matrons all present, I really don’t think the proprieties are in any danger of being breached. Now,” she went on, smiling around at the others, “if you would like to retire to your chambers and get dry-”

“You’ll pardon me, Miss Winterton, but I must insist that you fetch your uncle. I cannot be easy in my mind over this most peculiar suggestion that the party proceed as planned.” Supercilious as ever, Phillip Marston drew himself up. “I really must insist that Mr. Webb be consulted at once. It is hardly a minor matter.”

An utterly stunned silence ensued.

It was broken by a stupendous thunderclap-then the night outside lit up. The blaze in the forecourt threw the shadow of a man deep into the hall.

As the brilliance beyond the door died, Sophie, along with everyone else, blinked at the newcomer.

“As usual, Marston, you’re mistaken,” Jack drawled as he strolled forward. “Mrs. Webb’s indisposition undoubtedly is, as Miss Winterton has assured us, entirely minor. Our kind hostess will hardly thank you for making an issue of it.”

A most peculiar frisson frizzled its way along Sophie’s nerves. She could not drag her gaze from the tall figure advancing across the floor towards her. The long folds of his many-caped greatcoat were damp, but it was clear he, alone amongst the gentlemen invited, had been wise enough to come in a closed carriage. Beneath the greatcoat, his dark coat and breeches were dry and, as usual, immaculate.

With his usual grace, he bowed over her hand. “Good evening, Miss Winterton. I trust I see you well?”

Sophie’s mind froze. She had convinced herself he wouldn’t come, that she would never see him again. Instead, here he was, arriving like some god from the darkness outside, sweeping difficulties like Mr. Marston aside. But his expression was impassive; his eyes, as they touched her face, held no particular warmth. Sophie’s heart contracted painfully.

Glancing about, Jack bestowed a charming smile on the other, much damper, guests. “But pray don’t let me detain you from giving succour to these poor unfortunates.” His smile robbed the term of any offence.

Gently, he squeezed Sophie’s hand.

Sophie dragged in a sharp breath. She retrieved her hand and pinned a regal smile to her lips. “If you and Mr. Marston don’t mind, I shall see these others to their rooms.”

Still smiling, Jack politely inclined his head; Phillip Marston hesitated, frowning, then nodded curtly.

Determinedly calm, Sophie moved forward to deal with the last of her aunt’s guests. As she did so, Ned slipped in through the door. He grinned at her. “Shall I shut it? Jack was sure we’d be last.”

Sophie smiled and nodded. “Please.” As she helped Minton ease Lord Thurstow from his sodden coat, she wondered whether Jack Lester had purposely arrived last for greatest effect-or whether his lateness was a reflection of reluctance.

The heavy door clanged shut on the wild night; to Sophie, it’s resounding thud sounded like the knell of an inescapable doom.