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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of the Roger de Coverley and sank gracefully into a smiling curtsy. About her, the ballroom of Asfordby Grange was full to the seams with a rainbow-hued throng. Perfume wafted on the errant breezes admitted through the main doors propped wide in the middle of the long room. Candlelight flickered, sheening over artful curls and glittering in the jewels displayed by the dowagers lining the wall.
“A positive pleasure, my dear Miss Winterton.” Puffing slightly, Mr. Bantcombe bowed over her hand. “A most invigorating measure.”
Rising, Sophie smiled. “Indeed, sir.” A quick glance around located her young cousin, Clarissa, ingenuously thanking a youthful swain some yards away. With soft blue eyes and alabaster skin, her pale blond ringlets framing a heart-shaped face, Clarissa was a hauntingly lovely vision. Just now, all but quivering with excitement, she forcibly reminded Sophie of a highly strung filly being paraded for the very first time.
With an inward smile, Sophie gave her hand and her attention to Mr. Bantcombe. “Lady Asfordby’s balls may not be as large as the assemblies in Melton, but to my mind, they’re infinitely superior.”
“Naturally, naturally.” Mr. Bantcombe was still short of breath. “Her ladyship is of first consequence hereabouts—and she always takes great pains to exclude the hoi polloi. None of the park-saunterers and half-pay officers who follow the pack will be here tonight.”
Sophie squelched a wayward thought to the effect that she would not really mind one or two half-pay officers, just to lend colour to the ranks of the gentlemen she had come to know suffocatingly well over the last six months. She pinned a bright smile to her lips. “Shall we return to my aunt, sir?”
She had joined her aunt and uncle’s Leicestershire household last September, after waving her father, Sir Humphrey Winterton, eminent paleontologist, a fond farewell. Departing on an expedition of unknown duration, to Syria, so she believed, her father had entrusted her to the care of her late mother’s only sister, Lucilla Webb, an arrangement that met with Sophie’s unqualified approval. The large and happy household inhabiting Webb Park, a huge rambling mansion some miles from Asfordby Grange, was a far cry from the quiet, studious existence she had endured at the side of her grieving and taciturn sire ever since her mother’s death four years ago.
Her aunt, a slender, ethereal figure draped in cerulean-blue silk, hair that still retained much of its silvery blond glory piled high on her elegant head, was gracefully adorning one of the chaises lining the wall, in earnest conversation with Mrs. Haverbuck, another of the local ladies.
“Ah, there you are, Sophie.” Lucilla Webb turned as, with a smile and a nod for Sophie, Mrs. Haverbuck departed. “I’m positively in awe of your energy, my dear.” Pale blue eyes took in Mr. Bantcombe’s florid face. “Dear Mr. Bantcombe, perhaps you could fetch me a cool drink?”
Mr. Bantcombe readily agreed. Bowing to Sophie, he departed.
“Poor man,” Lucilla said as he disappeared into the crowd. “Obviously not up to your standard, Sophie dear.”
Sophie’s lips twitched.
“Still,” Lucilla mused in her gentle airy voice, “I’m truly glad to see you so enjoying yourself, my dear. You look very well, even if ’tis I who say so. The ton will take to you—and you to it, I make no doubt.”
“Indeed the ton will, if your aunt and I and all your mother’s old friends have anything to say about it!”
Both Sophie and Lucilla turned as, with much rustling to stiff bombazine, Lady Entwhistle took Mrs. Haverbuck’s place.
“Just stopped in to tell you, Lucilla, that Henry’s agreed—we’re to go up to town tomorrow.” Lifting a pair of lorgnettes from where they hung about her neck, Lady Entwhistle embarked on a detailed scrutiny of Sophie with all the assurance of an old family friend. Sophie knew that no facet of her appearance—the style in which her golden curls had been piled upon her head, the simple but undeniably elegant cut of her rose-magenta silk gown, her long ivory gloves, even her tiny satin dancing slippers—would escape inspection.
“Humph.” Her ladyship concluded her examination. “Just as I thought. You’ll set the ton’s bachelors back on their heels, m’dear. Which,” she added, turning to Lucilla, a conspiratorial gleam in her eye, “is precisely to my point. I’m giving a ball on Monday. To introduce Henry’s cousin’s boy to our acquaintance. Can I hope you’ll be there?”
Lucilla pursed her lips, eyes narrowing. “We’re to leave at the end of the week, so I should imagine we’ll reach London by Sunday.” Her face cleared. “I can see no reason not to accept your invitation, Mary.”
“Good!” With her habitual bustle, Lady Entwhistle stood, improbable golden ringlets bouncing. Catching sight of Clarissa through the crowd, she added, “It’ll be an informal affair, and it’s so early in the Season I see no harm in Clarissa joining us, do you?”
Lucilla smiled. “I know she’ll be delighted.”
Lady Entwhistle chuckled. “All wound tight with excitement, is she? Ah, well—just remember when we were like that, Lucy—you and I and Maria.” Her ladyship’s eyes strayed to Sophie, a certain anticipation in their depths. Then, with determined briskness, she gathered her reticule. “But I must away—I’ll see you in London.”
Sophie exchanged a quiet smile with her aunt, then, lips curving irrepressibly, looked out over the crowded room. If she were asked, she would have to admit that it was not only Clarissa, barely seventeen and keyed up to make her come-out, who was prey to a certain excitement. Beneath her composure, that of an experienced young lady of twenty-two years, Sophie was conscious of a lifting of her heart. She was looking forward to her first full Season.
She would have to find a husband, of course. Her mother’s friends, not to speak of her aunt, would accept nothing less. Strangely, the prospect did not alarm her, as it certainly had years ago. She was more than up to snuff—she fully intended to look carefully and choose wisely.
“Do my eyes deceive me, or has Ned finally made his move?”
Lucilla’s question had Sophie following her aunt’s gaze to where Edward Ascombe, Ned to all, the son of a neighbour, was bowing perfunctorily over her cousin’s hand. Sophie saw Clarissa stiffen.
A little above average height, Ned was a relatively serious young man, his father’s pride and joy, at twenty-one already absorbed in caring for the acres that would, one day, be his. He was also determined to have Clarissa Webb to wife. Unfortunately, at the present moment, with Clarissa full of nervy excitement at the prospect of meeting unknown gentlemen up from London for the hunting, Ned was severely handicapped, suffering as he did from the twin disadvantages of being a blameless and worthy suitor and having known Clarissa all her life. Worse, he had already made it plain that his heart was at Clarissa’s tiny feet.
Her sympathy at the ready, Sophie watched as he straightened and, all unwitting, addressed Clarissa.
“A cotillion, if you have one left, Clary.” Ned smiled confidently, no premonition of the shaky ground on which he stood showing in his open countenance.
Eyes kindling, Clarissa hissed, “Don’t call me that!”
Ned’s gentle smile faded. “What the d-deuce am I to call you? Miss Webb?”
“Exactly!” Clarissa further elevated her already alarmingly tilted chin. Another young gentleman hovered on her horizon; she promptly held out her hand, smiling prettily at the newcomer.
Ned scowled in the same direction. Before the slightly shaken young man could assemble his wits, Ned prompted, “My dance, Miss Webb?” His voice held quite enough scorn to sting.
“I’m afraid I’m not available for the cotillion, Mr. Ascombe.” Through the crowd, Clarissa caught her mother’s eyes. “Perhaps the next country dance?”
For a moment, Sophie, watching, wondered if she and Lucilla would be called upon to intervene. Then Ned drew himself up stiffly. He spoke briefly, clearly accepting whatever Clarissa