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 had offered, then bowed and abruptly turned on his heel.
Clarissa stood, her lovely face blank, watching his back until he was swallowed up by the crowd. For an instant, her lower lip softened. Then, chin firming, she straightened and beamed a brilliant smile at the young gentleman still awaiting an audience.
“Ah.” Lucilla smiled knowingly. “How life does go on. She’ll marry Ned in the end, of course. I’m sure the Season will be more than enough to demonstrate the wisdom of her heart.”
Sophie could only hope so, for Clarissa’s sake as well as Ned’s.
“Miss Winterton?”
Sophie turned to find Mr. Marston bowing before her. A reserved but eminently eligible gentleman of independent means, he was the target of more than a few of the local matchmaking mamas. As she dipped in a smooth curtsy, Sophie inwardly cursed her guilty blush. Mr. Marston was enamoured—and she felt nothing at all in response.
Predictably interpreting her blush as a sign of maidenly awareness, Mr. Marston’s thin smile surfaced. “Our quadrille, my dear.” With a punctilious bow to Lucilla, who regally inclined her head, he accepted the hand Sophie gave him and escorted her to the floor.
Her smile charming, her expression serene, Sophie dipped and swayed through the complicated figures, conscious of treading a very fine line. She refused to retreat in confusion before Mr. Marston’s attentions, yet she had no wish to encourage him.
“Indeed, sir,” she replied to one of his sallies. “I’m enjoying the ball immensely. However, I feel no qualms about meeting those gentlemen up from London—after all, my cousin and I will shortly be in London ballrooms. Acquaintances made tonight could prove most comforting.”
From her partner’s disapproving expression, Sophie deduced that the thought of her gaining comfort from acquaintance with any other gentleman, from London or elsewhere, was less than pleasing. Inwardly, she sighed. Depressing pretensions gently was an art she had yet to master.
About them, Lady Asfordby’s guests swirled and twirled, a colourful crowd, drawn primarily from the local families, with here and there the elegant coats of those London swells of whom her ladyship approved. This distinction did not extend to all that many of the small army of ton-ish males who, during the hunting season, descended on the nearby town of Melton Mowbray, lured by the attraction of the Quorn, the Cottesmore and the Belvoir packs.
Jack realized as much as, with Percy hovering in his shadow, he paused on the threshold of her ladyship’s ballroom. As he waited for his hostess, whom he could see forging her way through the crowd to greet him, he was conscious of the flutter his appearance had provoked. Like a ripple, it passed down the dark line of dowagers seated around the room, then spread in ever widening circles to ruffle the feathers of their charges, presently engaged in a quadrille.
With a cynical smile, he bowed elegantly over her ladyship’s beringed fingers.
“So glad you decided to come, Lester.”
Having smoothly introduced Percy, whom Lady Asfordby greeted with gratified aplomb, Jack
