Stephanie Laurens - A Lady of Expectations and Other Stories - A Lady Of Expectations / The Secrets of a Courtesan / How to Woo a Spinster

“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.