His fingers closed strongly over hers; in that instant, Sophie was not at all sure just what question she had answered. Yet she followed his lead, allowing him to seep her into his arms. With a single deft turn, he merged them with the circling throng; they were just one couple among the many on the floor.
Time and again, Sophie told herself that was so, that there was nothing special in this waltz, nothing special between them. One part of her mind formed the words; the rest wasn’t listening, too absorbed in silent communion with a pair of dark blue eyes.
She only knew the dance was over when they stopped. They had spoken not a word throughout; yet, it seemed, things had been said, clearly enough for them both. She could barely breathe.
Jack’s expression was serious yet gentle as he drew her hand once more through his arm. “It’s time for supper, my dear.”
His eyes were softly smiling. Sophie basked in their glow. Shy yet elated, off balance yet strangely assured, she returned the smile. “Indeed, sir. I rely on you to guide me.”
His lips lifted lightly. “You may always do so, my dear.”
He found a table for two in the supper room and secured a supply of delicate sandwiches and two glasses of champagne. Then he settled back to recount the most interesting of the past year’s on-dits, after which they fell to hypothesizing on the likely stance of the various protagonists at the commencement of this Season.
Despite her blithe spirits, Sophie was grateful for the distraction. She felt as if she was teetering on some invisible brink; she was not at all sure it was wise to take the next step. So she laughed and chatted, ignoring the sudden moments when breathlessness attacked, when their gazes met and held for an instant too long.
Her elation persisted, that curious uplifting of her spirits, as if her heart had broken free of the earth and was now lighter than air. The sensation lingered, even when Jack, very dutifully, escorted her back to Lucilla’s side.
With what was, she felt, commendable composure, Sophie held out her hand. “I thank you for a most enjoyable interlude, sir.” Her voice, lowered, was oddly soft and husky.
A small knot of gentlemen hovered uncertainly, awaiting her return.
Jack eyed them, less than pleased but too wise to show it. Instead, he took Sophie’s hand and bowed elegantly. Straightening, for the last time that evening he allowed his gaze to meet hers. “Until next we meet, Miss Winterton.”
His eyes said it would be soon.
* * *
TO SOPHIE’S CONSTERNATION, he called the next morning. Summoned to join her aunt in the drawing-room, she entered to find him, garbed most correctly for a morning about town in blue Bath superfine and ivory inexpressibles, rising from a chair to greet her, a faint, challenging lift to his dark brows.
“Good morning, Miss Winterton.”
Determined to hold her own, Sophie bludgeoned her wits into order and plastered a calm, unflustered expression over her surprise. “Good day, Mr. Lester.”
His smile warmed her before he released her hand to greet Clarissa, who had entered in her wake.
Aware that her aunt’s deceptively mild gaze was fixed firmly upon her, Sophie crossed to the chaise, cloaking her distraction with a nonchalant air. As she settled her skirts, she noted that susceptibility to Mr. Lester’s charms appeared strangely restricted. Despite her inexperience, Clarissa showed no sensitivity, greeting their unexpected caller with unaffected delight. Released, her cousin came to sit beside her.
Jack resumed his seat, elegantly disposing his long limbs in a fashionably fragile white-and-gilt chair. He had already excused his presence by turning Lucilla’s edict to call on them to good account. “As I was saying, Mrs. Webb, it is, indeed, pleasant to find oneself with time to spare before the Season gets fully under way.”
“Quite,” Lucilla returned, her pale gaze open and innocent. In a morning gown of wine-red cambric, she sat enthroned in an armchair close by the hearth. “However, I must confess it took the small taste of the ton that we enjoyed last night to refresh my memories. I had quite forgotten how extremely fatiguing it can be.”
From behind his urbane facade, Jack watched her carefully. “Indeed.” He gently inclined his head. “Coming direct from the country, the ton’s ballrooms can, I imagine, take on the aspect of an ordeal.”
“A very stuffy ordeal,” Lucilla agreed. Turning to the chaise, she asked, “Did you not find it so, my dears?”
Clarissa smiled brightly and opened her mouth to deny any adverse opinion of the previous evening’s entertainment.
Smoothly, Sophie cut in, “Indeed, yes. It may not have been a crush, yet the crowd was not inconsiderable. Towards the end, I found the atmosphere positively thick.”
It was simply not done to admit to unfettered delight, nor to dismiss a kindly hostess’s entertainments as uncrowded.
Jack kept his smile restrained. “Just so. I had, in fact, wondered, Miss Winterton, if you would like to blow away any lingering aftertaste of the crowd by taking a turn in the Park? I have my curricle with me.”
“What a splendid idea.” Lucilla concurred, turning, wide-eyed, to Sophie.
But Sophie was looking at Jack.
As she watched, he inclined his head. “If you would care for it, Miss Winterton?”
Slowly, Sophie drew in a breath. And nodded. “I…” Abruptly, she looked down, to where her hands were clasped in the lap of her morning gown, a concoction of lilac mull-muslin. “I should change my gown.”
“I’m sure Mr. Lester will excuse you, my dear.”
With a nod to her aunt, Sophie withdrew, then beat a hasty retreat to her chamber. There, summoning a maid, she threw open the doors of her wardrobe and drew forth the carriage dress Jorge had sent round that morning. A golden umber, the heavy material was shot with green, so that, as she moved, it appeared to bronze, then dull. Standing before her cheval-glass, Sophie held the gown to her, noting again how its colour heightened the gold in her hair and emphasized the creaminess of her complexion. She grinned delightedly. Hugging the dress close, she whirled, waltzing a few steps, letting her heart hold sway for just a moment.
Then she caught sight of the maid staring at her from the doorway. Abruptly, Sophie steadied. “Ah, there you are, Ellen. Come along.” She waved the young girl forward. “I need to change.”
Downstairs in the drawing-room, Jack made idle conversation, something he could do with less than half his brain. Then, unexpectedly, Lucilla blandly declared, “I hope you’ll excuse Clarissa, Mr. Lester. We’re yet very busy settling in.” To Clarissa, she said, “Do look in on the twins for me, my love. You know I never feel comfortable unless I know what they’re about.”
Clarissa smiled in sunny agreement. She rose and bobbed a curtsy to Jack, then departed, leaving him wondering about the twins.
“They’re six,” Lucilla calmly stated. “A dreadfully imaginative age.”
Jack blinked, then decided to return to safer topics. “Allow me to congratulate you on your daughter, Mrs. Webb. I’ve rarely seen such beauty in conjunction with such a sweet disposition. I prophesy she’ll be an instant success.”
Lucilla glowed with maternal satisfaction. “Indeed, it seems likely. Fortunately for myself and Mr. Webb, and I dare say Clarissa, too, her Season is intended purely to—” Lucilla gestured airily “—broaden her horizons. Her future is already all but settled. A young gentleman from Leicestershire—one of our neighbours—Ned Ascombe.”
“Indeed?” Jack politely raised his brows.
“Oh,