In the protective confines of the lych-gate, she fussed with her reticule and the skirts of her cherry-red pelisse while her cousins, Jeremy, George and Amy, as well as Clarissa—at just six years old, the twins, Henry and Hermione, were too young to be trusted in church—descended and straightened their attire under their mother’s eagle eye. Finally satisfied, Lucilla nodded and they fell into line, Amy beside her mother in the lead, Sophie and Clarissa immediately behind, followed by the two boys, their boots on the paving stones.
As they ascended the steps leading up from the gate, Sophie carefully avoided glancing at the graveyard to their left, looking up, instead, at the sharp spire that rose into the wintry sky. March had arrived, unexpectedly mild. The chill blue of the heavens was dotted with puffs of white cloud, scudding along before the brisk breeze.
“Good morning, Mrs. Webb.”
The cavalcade stopped. Although she could only see her aunt’s back, Sophie had the distinct impression that even that redoubtable matron was taken aback by the sight of Jack Lester bowing elegantly before her just yards from the church door. His ambling peregrination had, most conveniently, converged with their route at that spot.
Regardless of her surprise, there was no doubt of her aunt’s pleasure. Her “Mr. Lester, how fortunate. We had not looked to see you thus soon” positively purred with satisfaction. “Would you care to join us in our pew, sir?”
“I’d be delighted, ma’am.” Until then, Jack had not looked Sophie’s way. Now, smiling, he turned to her. “Good morning, Miss Winterton.” He briefly nodded at Clarissa. “Miss Webb.”
Sophie dipped and gave him her hand.
“Sophie dear, perhaps you would show Mr. Lester the way while I take care of this brood.” Her aunt waved an airy hand at her offspring, who, of course, could very well have found their way unaided to the pew they occupied every Sunday.
“Of course, Aunt.” Sophie knew better than to argue.
As Lucilla swept her children into the church, Sophie risked a glance upwards, only to meet a pair of dark blue eyes that held a very large measure of amused understanding. Her own eyes narrowed.
“Miss Winterton?” With a gallant gesture, Jack offered his arm. When she hesitated, his brows rose slightly.
Head high, Sophie placed her fingers on his sleeve and allowed him to lead her to the door. As they entered the dim nave, she noted the smothered stir as their neighbours noticed her escort. It was close to eleven and the church was full. Hiding her consciousness behind a calm mask, she indicated the pair of pews, close to the front on the left, where her cousins were already settling. Glancing down as they passed the pew two rows behind, she encountered a malevolent stare from Mrs. Marston and a sternly disapproving one from her son, seated supportively beside her.
Suppressing a sudden grin, Sophie reflected that, as this was God’s house, perhaps Mr. Lester was the Almighty’s way of assisting her in the difficult task of rejecting Mr. Marston. She had no time to dwell on that unlikely prospect, however, for, gaining the second of the Webb pews, she found herself seated between Lucilla and Mr. Lester. Luckily, the vicar, Mr. Snodgrass, entered almost immediately.
To her relief, Mr. Lester behaved impeccably, as if going to church on Sunday were his normal habit.
Beside her, Jack bided his time.
When the congregation rose for the first hymn, he reached out and touched Sophie’s gloved wrist. Leaning closer, he whispered, “I’m afraid, Miss Winterton, that I did not anticipate attending church during my stay in Leicestershire.”
She blinked up at him, then glanced down at the slim volume covered in tooled blue leather that she had extracted from her reticule.
“Oh.” With an effort, Sophie dragged her mind from the disturbing thought of what, exactly, had brought him to the tiny church of Allingham Downs. Her fingers busy flicking through the pages, she glanced up at him and hoped her distrust was evident. “Perhaps, sir, if I hold it between us, we could share my book?”
He smiled, so very sweetly that, if she had not known better, she would have thought his predicament an innocent oversight. Raising her chin, she held her hymnal between them, up and slightly to her right.
The organ swelled into the introduction. Even as she drew breath for the first note of the first verse, Sophie experienced an inner quake. He had moved closer, an action excused by the fine print of the hymnal. His shoulder was behind her, her shoulder close to his chest. She could sense the warmth of his large body, now so near—and feel the dagger glances of the Marstons, mother and son, on her back.
Her hand shook; his came up to steady the hymnal. She quelled the impulse to glance sideways—he was so close, his head bent, his eyes would be very near, his lips a potent distraction. With an effort, she concentrated on the music, only to be thoroughly distracted by the sound of his warm baritone, rich and strong, effortlessly supporting her soprano.
The hymn was one of praise—and an unexpected joy.
At its conclusion, Sophie felt slightly dizzy. She forced herself to breathe deeply.
Her companion hesitated; she knew his gaze was on her. Then he lifted the hymnal from her hand, gently closed it and presented it to her.
“Thank you, Miss Winterton.”
It was impossible; she had to glance up. His eyes, darkly blue, warm and gently smiling, were every bit as close as she had imagined; his lips, softened by his smile, drew her gaze.
For a moment, time stood still.
With an enormous effort, Sophie dragged in a breath and inclined her head.
They were the last to sit down.
The sermon brought her no peace; indeed, Mr. Snodgrass would have needed to be inspired to compete with her thoughts, and the subtle tug of the presence beside her. She survived the second hymn only because she now understood the danger; she kept her mind totally focused on the lyrics and melody, ignoring her companion’s harmony as best she could. Ignoring him proved even more difficult.
It was something of a relief to stroll slowly up the aisle, her hand on his sleeve. They were among the last to quit the church. Lucilla and her children preceded them; her aunt stopped on the porch steps to exchange her usual few words with the vicar.
“Sophia you know, of course.” Lucilla paused as the vicar nodded, beamed and shook Sophie’s hand. “But I’m not sure if you’ve met Mr. Lester. From Rawling’s Cottage.” Lucilla gestured at Jack, immediately behind Sophie.
“Indeed?” Mr. Snodgrass was an absent-minded old soul. “I don’t recall ever having met anyone from there.” He blinked owlishly up at Jack.
Sophie looked up in time to catch the reproachful glance that Jack bent on her aunt, before, with ready courtesy, he greeted the vicar.
“I’m rarely to be found in these parts, I’m afraid.”
“Ah.” The vicar nodded his head in complete understanding. “Up for the hunting.”
Jack caught Sophie’s eye. “Just so.”
Sternly quelling a shiver, Sophie turned away. Her aunt had stopped to chat with Mrs. Marston farther along the path. Clarissa stood slightly to one side, cloaked in fashionable boredom. This last was attributable to Ned Ascombe, standing some yards away, his expression similarly abstracted. Noting the quick, surreptitious glances each threw the other, Sophie struggled not to smile. Feeling immeasurably older than the youthful pair, she stepped off the church