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

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      “Lucilla dear, so glad you could come.” Her ladyship and Lucilla touched scented cheeks. Casting a knowledgeable eye over Lucilla’s gown, Lady Entwhistle raised a brow. “Dashed if you aren’t capable of giving these young misses a run for their money.”

      Lucilla’s eyes flew wide. “Run, Mary? Gracious heavens, my dear—so enervating!” With a smile that was almost mischievous, Lucilla passed on to greet the young gentleman next in line—Lord Entwhistle’s cousin’s boy, Mr. Millthorpe—leaving both Sophie and Clarissa to make their curtsies to her ladyship.

      Rising, Sophie once more found herself subjected to her ladyship’s lorgnette. As before, no item of her appearance escaped Lady Entwhistle’s scrutiny, from the green ribbon in her curls to her beaded satin dancing slippers.

      “Hmm, yes,” Lady Entwhistle mused, her expression brightening. “Excellent, my dear. No doubt but that you’ll have a truly wonderful Season this time.”

      Her ladyship’s tone left little doubt as to what, in her mind, constituted a “wonderful” Season. Having known what to expect from her mother’s old friends, Sophie smiled serenely. Together with Clarissa, she moved on to Mr. Millthorpe.

      A young gentleman of neat and pleasant aspect, Mr. Millthorpe was clearly overawed at finding himself thus thrust upon the notice of the ton. He replied to Sophie’s calm greeting with a nervously mumbled word; she saw him fight to keep his hand from tugging his cravat. Then he turned to Clarissa, who was close on her heels. Mr. Millthorpe’s colour promptly fled, then returned in full measure.

      “Indeed,” he said, his bow rendered awkward by his determination to keep Clarissa’s face in view. “I’m very glad to meet you Miss…Miss....” Mr. Millthorpe’s eyes glazed. “Miss Webb!” Triumph glowed in his smile. “I hope you won’t mind…that is, that you might have a few minutes to spare later, Miss Webb. Once I get free of this.” His expression earnest, he gestured ingenuously at his aunt.

      A little taken aback, Clarissa sent him a shy smile.

      That was more than enough encouragement for Mr. Millthorpe. He beamed, then was somewhat peremptorily recalled to his duties.

      Bemused, Clarissa joined Sophie where she waited at the top of the shallow flight of steps leading down into the ballroom.

      Poised above the room, Sophie resisted the impulse to send a questing glance out over the sea of heads. Looking down, she raised her skirts and commenced the descent in her aunt’s wake. Beside her, Clarissa was tensing with excitement, her eyes, bright and wide, drinking in every sight. The sensation of tightness about her own lungs informed Sophie that she, too, was not immune to expectation. The realization brought a slight frown to her eyes.

      The odds were that Mr. Lester would not be present. Even if he was, there was no reason to imagine he would seek her out.

      With an inward snort, Sophie banished the thought. Jack Lester was a rake. And rakes did not dance attendance on young ladies—not, that is, without reason. She, however, was in town to look for a husband, the perfect husband for her. She should devote her thoughts to that goal, and forget all about engaging rakes with dark blue eyes and unnerving tempers.

      Determination glimmered in her eyes as she lifted her head—only to have her gaze fall headlong into one of midnight blue.

      Sophie’s heart lurched; an odd tremor shook her. He filled her vision, her senses, tall and strong, supremely elegant in black coat and pantaloons, his dark locks in fashionable disarray, the white of his cravat a stark bed on which a large sapphire lay, winking wickedly.

      Jack watched as, her surprise at seeing him plainly writ in her large eyes, Sophie halted on the second-last stair, her lips parting slightly, the gentle swell of her breasts, exposed by her gown, rising on a sharp intake of breath.

      His eyes on hers, he slowly raised a brow. “Good evening, Miss Winterton.”

      Sophie’s heart stuttered back to life. Large, dark and handsome, he bowed gracefully, his gaze quizzing her as he straightened. Giving her wits a mental shake, she descended the last step, dipping a curtsy, then extending her hand. “Good evening, Mr. Lester. I had not expected to see you here, sir.”

      His brow lifted again; to her relief, he made no direct reply. “Might I request the pleasure of a waltz, my dear? The third, if you have it to spare.”

      She had not even had time to look at her dance card. Shooting him a cool glance, Sophie opened it, then, meeting his eyes briefly, she lifted the tiny pencil and marked his name in the appropriate spot.

      The answer to the question in her mind came with his smooth, “And, perhaps, if you’re not already bespoken, I might escort you to supper at the conclusion of the dance?”

      Blinking, Sophie found she had unthinkingly surrendered her hand to his. Her gaze flew to his as he drew her gently to his side. Her heart leapt to her throat and started beating erratically there. “That will be most pleasant, Mr. Lester,” she murmured, looking away.

      “It will, you know.”

      His tone was gently teasing, on more levels than one. Elevating her chin, Sophie drew her composure more firmly about her. Ahead of them, her aunt was strolling through the crowd, Clarissa by her side.

      To Sophie’s surprise, having escorted her as far as the chaise where her aunt finally deigned to rest, Mr. Lester exchanged a few pleasantries with Lucilla, then, with an elegant bow, excused himself, leaving her to weather a spate of introductions as a small host of gentlemen gravitated to her side.

      Despite the nature of Lady Entwhistle’s little ball, despite the fact that the ton was only just beginning to desert its winter playgrounds to return to the capital, there were sufficient eligible bachelors present to fill her card long before the first dance began.

      Clarissa, by her side, proved a potent attraction for the younger gentlemen. She was soon casting anxious glances at Sophie.

      Keeping her voice firm and clear, Sophie calmly apologized to Mr. Harcourt. “Indeed, sir, I’m most sorry to disappoint you but I fear my card is full.”

      Minutes later, she heard Clarissa copy her words, prettily turning Lord Swindon away.

      As her equilibrium, momentarily undermined, returned, Sophie became conscious of a niggling disquiet, a sense that something was not entirely right. Only when, for the third time, she found her gaze scanning the room, searching automatically, did she realize just what it was she felt.

      Feeling very like muttering a curse, she instead pinned a bright smile on her lips and, with renewed determination, gave her attention to her court. “Will your sister be coming up to London, Lord Argyle? I should be delighted to meet her again.”

      She was here to find a husband, not to fall victim to a rake’s blue eyes.

      By dint of sheer determination, Jack managed to keep himself occupied until the country dance preceding the supper waltz was in progress. He was, he kept reminding himself, far too experienced to cram his leaders. Instead, he had forced himself to circulate, artfully sidestepping subtle invitations to lead other young ladies onto the floor. Now, as the last strains of the music died, he threaded his way through the crowd to come up by Sophie’s side. Fate was smiling on him again; she had just finished thanking her partner, Lord Enderby.

      “Miss Winterton.” With СКАЧАТЬ