A Lady of Expectations and Other Stories. Kasey Michaels

from the first round of packing for a light luncheon, both Sophie and Clarissa were commanded to appear before the family’s seamstress for a final fitting of the walking gowns, morning gowns, chemises and petticoats they had all agreed could be perfectly adequately supplied from home. The rest of their wardrobes, Lucilla had declared, must come from Bruton Street. As, after four years’ absence from London, none of the gowns Sophie currently possessed could be considered presentable, she was as much in need of the modistes as Clarissa. Even Lucilla had murmured her intention of taking advantage of their time in the capital to refurbish her own extensive wardrobe.

      It was midafternoon before Sophie was free. She had barely had time to wander down to the front hall before the younger Webbs found her. With the single-mindedness of the young, they claimed her for their accustomed ride. With an inward sigh, Sophie surveyed the bright faces upturned to hers, eyes glowing, eager to be off. “Very well,” she said. “But I think we’ll take a groom with us today. Jeremy, please tell John he’s to accompany us. I’ll get Clarissa and meet you at the stables.”

      To her relief, none of them commented on her departure from their established norm. Jeremy merely nodded, and all three departed with alacrity.

      Glancing down at her morning gown, Sophie turned and started back up the stairs, refusing to dwell on what had prompted her caution, reflecting instead that, given that her aunt relied on her to ensure her cousins were exposed to no untoward occurrences, it was the least she should do.

      When she appeared at the stables, Clarissa in tow, Old Arthur, the head groom, raised a questioning brow at her. Pulling on her gloves, Sophie nodded a greeting. “I’ll take Amber out today. She hasn’t had a run for some time, I believe.”

      Arthur blinked. Then, with a shrug which stated louder than words that it was not his place to question the vagaries of his betters, he went to fetch the mare. To Sophie’s surprise, Clarissa, busy mounting her own high-bred chestnut, refrained from questioning her choice. Amber was as close to docile as any horse in the Webb stables. Taking her cue from her cousin, Sophie steadfastly ignored the niggling little voice which harped in her ear. Her choice of mount had nothing to do with Mr. Lester—and even less with that gentleman’s too strongly stated opinions.

      The tenor of his comments, both before and after dragging her from the Sheik’s back, had stunned her. She had not before encountered such arrogantly high-handed behaviour, but she was quite certain what she thought of it. Yet her lingering reaction to the entire episode was equivocal, ambivalent, no help at all in restoring her equanimity.

      Setting placid Amber to the task of catching up with the boys and Amy, already well ahead, Sophie frowned.

      Until yesterday, she had been inclined to suspect Jack Lester of harbouring some romantic interest in her. Her conscience stirred, and Sophie blushed delicately. Irritated, she forced herself to face the truth: she had started to hope that he did. But his reactions yesterday afternoon had given her pause; whatever it was that had stared at her from the depths of his dark blue eyes—some deeply felt emotion that had disturbed his sophisticated veneer and wreaked havoc on her calm—it was not that gentle thing called love.

      Sophie acknowledged the fact with a grimace as, with a wave and a whooping “halloo,” Clarissa shot past. Twitching the reins, Sophie urged Amber into the rolling gait which, with her, passed for a gallop. Clarissa, meanwhile, drew steadily ahead.

      Trapped in her thoughts, Sophie barely noticed. Love, as she understood it, was a gentle emotion, built on kindness, consideration and affection. Soft glances and sweet smiles was her vision of love, and all she had seen, between her uncle and aunt and her mother and father, had bolstered that image. Love was calm, serene, bringing a sense of peace in its wake.

      What she had seen in Jack Lester’s eyes had certainly not been peaceful.

      As the moment lived again in her mind, Sophie shivered. What was it she had stirred in him? And how did he really view her?

      * * *

      HER FIRST QUESTION, had she but known it, was also exercising Jack’s mind, and had been ever since he had returned from Webb Park the afternoon before. As soon as his uncharacteristically violent emotions had eased their grip on his sanity, he had been aghast. Where had such intense impulses sprung from?

      Now, with the afternoon bright beyond the windows, he restlessly paced the parlour of Rawling’s Cottage, inwardly still wrestling with the revelations of the previous day. He was deeply shocked, not least by the all but ungovernable strength of the emotion that had risen up when he had seen Sophie’s slender figure, fragile against the grey’s heaving back, disappear in the direction of the woods and possible death.

      And he was shaken by what the rational part of his brain informed him such feelings foretold.

      He had innocently supposed that courting the woman he had chosen as his wife would be a mild process in which his emotions remained firmly under his control while he endeavoured, through the skill of his address, to engage hers. A stranger, as he now realized, to love, he had imagined that, in the structured society to which they belonged, such matters would follow some neatly prescribed course, after which they could both relax, secure in the knowledge of each other’s affections.

      Obviously, he had misjudged the matter.

      A vague memory that his brother-in-law had not surrendered to love without a fight glimmered at the back of his mind. Given Jason’s undoubted conversion, and his equally undoubted acumen, Jack had always wondered what had made him hesitate—on the brink, as it were.

      Now he knew.

      Emotions such as he had felt yesterday were dangerous.

      They boded fair to being strong enough to overset his reason and control his life.

      Love, he was fast coming to understand, was a force to be reckoned with.

      A knock on the front door interrupted his reverie. Glancing out of the window, he saw his undergroom leading a handsome bay around to the stables. The sight piqued Jack’s interest.

      A scrape on the parlour door heralded his housekeeper. “Mr. Horatio Webb to see you, sir.”

      Intrigued, Jack lifted a brow. “Thank you, Mrs. Mitchell. I’ll receive him here.”

      A moment later, Horatio Webb was shown into the room. As his calm gaze swept the comfortable parlour, warm and inviting with its wealth of oak panelling and the numerous sporting prints gracing the walls, a smile of ineffable good humour creased Horatio’s face. Rawling’s Cottage was much as he remembered it—a sprawling conglomeration of buildings that, despite its name, constituted a good-sized hunting lodge with considerable stabling and more than enough accommodation for guests. Approaching his host, waiting by the fireplace, he was pleased to note that Jack Lester was much as he had imagined him to be.

      “Mr. Webb?” Jack held out a hand as the older man drew near.

      “Mr. Lester.” Horatio took the proffered hand in a strong clasp. “I’m here, sir, to extend my thanks, and that of Mrs. Webb, for the sterling service you rendered in averting misadventure yesterday afternoon.”

      “It was nothing, I assure you, sir. I was there and merely did what any other gentleman, similarly circumstanced, would have done.”

      Horatio’s eyes twinkled. “Oh, I make no doubt any other gentleman would have tried, Mr. Lester. But, as we both know, few would have succeeded.”

      Jack felt himself falling under the spell of the peculiarly engaging light in his visitor’s eye. His lips twitched appreciatively. “A glass of Madeira, sir?” When Horatio inclined his head, Jack crossed to pour two glasses, then returned, handing one to his guest. “Phoenix is, perhaps, one of the few horses that could have caught your Sheik. I’m just dev’lish glad I was on him.”

      With a wave, he invited Sophie’s uncle to a chair, waiting until the older man sat before taking a seat facing him.

      With the contemplative air of a connoisseur, Horatio sipped the Madeira, savouring the fine wine.