more than enough to occupy myself. And I frequently visited with my father’s sisters at Bath and Tonbridge Wells.” She glanced up—and laughed at the comical grimace that contorted her companion’s face.
“Tonbridge Wells?” he uttered, dramatically faint. “My dear Miss Winterton, you would be wasted there, smothered beneath the weight of ageing propriety.”
Sophie sternly suppressed a giggle. “Indeed, it wasn’t very lively,” she conceded. “Luckily, my mother had many friends who invited me to their house parties. However, at home, I must admit I oftimes pined for younger company. My father lived very much retired through that time.”
“And now?”
“My aunt—” she nodded at Lucilla on the chaise which by some magic was now a step away “—persuaded Papa to take an interest in an expedition. He’s a paleontologist, you see.”
From beneath her lashes, she glanced up, waiting.
Jack met her innocent gaze, his own inscrutable. Despite her best efforts, Sophie’s lips twitched. With a resigned air, Jack raised a languidly interrogatory brow.
This time, Sophie did giggle. “Old bones,” she informed him, her voice confidingly low. Despite the fact he had just sidestepped a trap guaranteed to depress the pretensions of any overly confident rake, Sophie could not stop her smile. As her eyes met his, warmly appreciative, the suspicion that while Mr. Lester might be demonstrably confident, he was not overly so, broke over her. Her breath became tangled again.
His gaze sharpened. Before she could react, and retreat, he lifted his head, then glanced down at her, his brows lightly lifting.
“Unless my ears are at fault, that’s a waltz starting up. Will you do me the honour, Miss Winterton?”
The invitation was delivered with a calm smile, while his eyes stated, very clearly, that no feeble excuse would suffice to deflect him.
Nerves aquiver, Sophie surrendered to the inevitable with a suffocatingly gracious inclination of her head.
Her determinedly calm composure very nearly cracked when he swept her onto the floor. His arm about her felt like iron; there was such strength in him it would be frightening if it was not so deliberately contained. He whirled her down the floor; she felt like thistledown, lighter than air, anchored to reality only by his solidity and the warm clasp of his hand.
She had never waltzed like this before, precessing without conscious thought, her feet naturally following his lead, barely touching the floor. As her senses, stirred by his touch, gradually settled, she glanced up. “You dance very well, Mr. Lester.”
His eyes glinted down at her from under heavy lids. “I’ve had lots of practice, my dear.”
His meaning was very clear; she should have blushed and looked away. Instead, Sophie found enough courage to smile serenely before letting her gaze slide from his. Aware of the dangerous currents about her, she made no further attempt to converse.
For his part, Jack was content to remain silent; he had learned all he needed to know. Freed of the burden of polite conversation, his mind could dwell on the pleasure of having her, at long last, in his arms. She fitted perfectly, neither too tall nor, thankfully, too short. If she were closer, her curls would tickle his nose, her forehead level with his chin. She was not completely relaxed—he could not expect that—yet she was content enough in his arms. The temptation to tighten his hold, to draw her closer, was very real, yet he resisted. Too many eyes were upon them, and she did not yet know she was his.
The last chord sounded; he whirled them to a flourishing halt. He looked down, smiling as he drew her hand through his arm. “I will return you to your aunt, Miss Winterton.”
Sophie blinked up at him. Could he hear her heart thudding? “Thank you, sir.” Retreating behind a mask of cool formality, she allowed him to lead her back to the chaise. However, instead of leaving her by her aunt’s side, her partner merely nodded at Lucilla, then led her to where her circle of acquaintances was once again forming. Larger than life, he stood beside her, acknowledging her introductions with a coolly superior air which, she suspected, was innate. Feeling her nerves stretch and flicker, Sophie glanced up as the musicians once more laid bow to string.
His eyes met hers. Suddenly breathless, Sophie looked away. Her gaze fell on Lady Asfordby, bustling up.
“Glad to see, Lester, that you’re not one of those London dandies who think they’re above dancing in country ballrooms.”
Stifling a resigned sigh, Jack turned to his hostess, an amiable smile on his lips.
Her ladyship’s gimlet gaze swept the assembled company, fixing on a bright-faced young lady. “Dare say Miss Elderbridge will be pleased to do you the honour.”
Thus adjured, Jack bent a practiced smile on Miss Elderbridge, who assured him, somewhat breathlessly, that she would be delighted to partner him in the country dance about to begin. Hearing a murmur to his left, Jack glanced back to see Sophie place her hand on another gentleman’s sleeve. They were both poised to move away, their partners by their sides. Jack grasped the moment, trapping Sophie’s gaze in his, lowering his voice to say, “Until next we meet, Miss Winterton.”
Sophie felt her eyes widen. Lowering her lashes, she inclined her head. As she moved to her place in the set, she felt his words reverberate deep within her. Her heart thudded; it was an effort to concentrate on Mr. Simpkins’s conversation.
There had been a wealth of meaning hidden in Jack Lester’s subtle farewell—and she had no idea whether he meant it or not.
CHAPTER TWO
HE DID MEAN IT.
That was the only logical conclusion left to Sophie when, poised to alight from the Webb family carriage in the shadow of the lych-gate the next morning, she caught sight of a pair of powerful shoulders, stylishly encased in the best Bath superfine, and then their owner, wending his way aimlessly through the gravestones. As if sensing her regard, he looked around and saw her. White teeth flashed as he smiled. Recalled to her surroundings by Clarissa’s finger in her ribs, Sophie abruptly gathered her wits and descended.
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
