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