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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stood, disguising the sudden movement with a little laugh. “I pray you, Clarissa, don’t let your imagination fly away with you. Mr. Lester’s presence here—and our meetings—have been occasioned by nothing more than coincidence.”
Clarissa looked slightly surprised by her vehemence but, to Sophie’s intense relief, she forbore to argue. “I expect something must have detained them today.” Clarissa’s tone suggested she could see no other likelihood. As she fell to neatly folding the ribbons of her hat, she added, “I wonder when next we’ll meet?”
* * *
AS HE SAT DOWN to dinner that evening in the dining room of the cottage, Jack could have answered Clarissa’s question without further thought. He was leaving Leicestershire on the morrow. Early.
He said as much to Percy, taking his seat on his right hand.
“What brought that on? Thought you were fixed here for another few weeks?”
“So did I,” Jack returned. “But something’s come up.” Before Percy could ask what, he added, “And the weather’s turned, so I think I’ll do better to look in at Lester Hall before hying up to town.”
“There is that,” Percy agreed knowledgeably. “Ground’s softening up. Not many good runs left in the season.”
Jack nodded, unexpectedly grateful for the thaw. As he rode very heavy, the going for his mounts would become noticeably harder in the coming weeks.
“Think I’ll take a look in on the old man,” Percy mused, his expression distant. “Gets a bit obstreperous if we forget him. I’ll go and do my filial duty, then meet you in town.”
Jack nodded again, his mind busy with his plans. There was no need to hurry up to town. The Webbs would not be receiving for at least another week.
His decision to quit the field in Leicestershire was prompted by a firm conviction that such a scene as had occurred when he’d hauled Sophie from her stallion’s back could not be repeated. However, thanks to the incident, he was now on good terms with the Webbs and had been all but commanded to call, once in town. Assuming Mrs. Webb approved, there would, he felt sure, be no impediment placed in his path should he desire to further his interest with Sophie in the usual way.
It was his first, albeit small, advance.
However, given his turbulent and presently unpredictable reactions, it seemed the course of wisdom to suspend all further activity until his golden head was safe in the bosom of the ton. His home ground, as it were.
The strictures of Society reached a pinnacle of stringency in London—the strict mores and unwavering practices would undoubtedly prove sufficiently rigid to ensure his wooing followed acceptable paths.
So, for her sake, and, he reluctantly admitted, his own, he had determined to forgo the sight of Sophie’s fair face until she appeared in London.
It would be safer for everyone that way.
CHAPTER FIVE
CLIMBING THE STAIRS of Entwhistle House, Sophie looked about her, at the silks and satins, the jewels and curls, and knew she was back in the ton. About her, the refined accents and dramatic tones of the elite of society, engaged in their favourite pastime, drowned out the plaintive strains of a violin, struggling through from the ballroom ahead. Immediately in front of her, Lucilla, clad in an exquisite gown of deep blue silk overlaid with figured lace, forged steadily onward, stopping only to exchange greetings with the acquaintances, both close and distant, who constantly hailed her.
Close beside Sophie, Clarissa frankly stared. “Isn’t it wonderful?” she breathed. “So many beautiful gowns. And the men look just as I imagined—precise to a pin. Some are very handsome, are they not?”
As she whispered the words, Clarissa caught the eye of an elegant buck, who, noticing her wide-eyed stare, ogled her shamelessly. Clarissa blushed and retreated behind her fan.
Following her gaze, Sophie caught the gentleman’s eye, and raised a coolly superior brow. The man smiled and bowed slightly, then turned back to his companions. Sophie slipped an arm through Clarissa’s. “Indeed, and you look very handsome, too, so you must expect to be ogled, you know. The best way to deal with such attentions is to ignore them.”
“Is it?” Clarissa sent a cautious glance back at the gentleman, now fully engaged with his friends. Relieved, she relaxed and looked down at her gown, a delicate affair in palest aquamarine muslin, a demure trim of white lace about the neckline and tiny puffed sleeves. “I must admit, I did wonder at Madame Jorge’s choice, but it really does suit me, doesn’t it?”
“As that gentleman has just confirmed,” Sophie replied. “I told you you should never argue with Madam Jorge. Aside from anything else, it’s wasted breath.”
Clarissa giggled. “I never imagined she would be like that.”
Looking ahead, Sophie smiled. They had quit Leicestershire on Friday, spending two nights on the road in a stately progress that had delivered them up in Mount Street on Sunday afternoon. The rest of that day had gone in the predictable chaos of unpacking and installing the family in their home for the Season. Lucilla had shooed them all off to bed early, warning both Sophie and Clarissa, “We’ll be out first thing, off to Madame Jorge. I refuse to permit either of you to step into a ton ballroom unsuitably gowned. We shall have to hope Jorge can come to our aid, for we’re promised to Lady Entwhistle tomorrow night if you recall.”
And so, that morning, immediately after breakfast at the unheard-of hour of ten, they had arrived before the small door on Bruton Street that gave on to Madame Jorge’s salon.
“I only hope she can help us at such short notice,” Lucilla had said as she led the way up the stairs.
Her aunt needn’t have worried; Madame Jorge had fallen on her neck with unfeigned delight.
Madame Jorge was the modiste who for years had been her mother’s and aunt’s favourite; her own wardrobe for her ill-fated first Season had come from Madame Jorge’s salon. But Madame Jorge was definitely not what one expected of a modiste who made for a very select clientele amongst the ton.
For a start, she was huge, a massive bosom balanced by immense hip and brawny arms. But her small hands and thick, short fingers were remarkably nimble. She had almost no neck that one could see; her neat grey hair was perennially coiled in a tight bun upon her round head. Small blue eyes twinkled in a rosy-cheeked face. Only the shrewd gaze and the determined set of Madame Jorge’s mouth gave her away.
“And Miss Sophie, too!” she had exclaimed, once she had finished greeting Lucilla. “Ma pauvre little one, how good it is to see you again.”
Jorge had hugged her to her massive bosom, neatly covered in black bombazine, and then held her at arm’s length, the better to survey her. “But, yes! This is wonderful—wunderbar!” Jorge had never settled entirely into any one language. She was a polyglot and spoke at least three, often all at once. She took a step back, eyes narrowing, then whipped the tape measure which always hung about her neck into her hands. “For you, my liebschen, we will have to retake the measurements.” Jorge’s eyes had gleamed. “You will turn the gentlemen on their heads, no?”
She had murmured that she hoped not, but was not sure Jorge heard. The modiste had spied Clarissa, hanging back, a little overwhelmed. Her cousin had promptly been even more overwhelmed by Jorge’s bear-like embrace.
“Oh—the petit chou! You are your mother’s daughter, but yes! Very young—but the bloom is worth something, hein?”
Utterly bewildered, Clarissa had glanced at her mother. Lucilla had taken Jorge in hand, rapidly explaining their requirements and the need for haste.
Jorge had understood immediately. “Quelle horreur! To go to the ball without a gown—it is not to be thought of! No, no, somehow we will contrive.”
Contrive she certainly had.
Glancing