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.”