A Lady of Expectations and Other Stories. Kasey Michaels

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 scanned the dancers.

      And saw her.

      She was immediately in front of him, in the set nearest the door. His gaze had been drawn to her, her rich golden curls shining like a beacon. Even as realization hit, his eyes met hers. They were blue, paler than his own, the blue of cloudless summer skies. As he watched, her eyes widened, her lips parted. Then she twirled and turned away.

      Beside him, Percy was filling Lady Asfordby’s ears with an account of his father’s latest illness. Jack inhaled deeply, his eyes on the slim figure before him, the rest of the company a dull haze about her.

      Her hair was true gold, rich and bountiful, clustered atop her neat head, artfully errant curls trailing over her small ears and down the back of her slender neck. The rest of her was slender, too, yet, he was pleased to note, distinctly well-rounded. Her delectable curves were elegantly gowned in a delicate hue that was too dark for a debutante; her arms, gracefully arching in the movements of the dance, displayed an attractive roundness not in keeping with a very young girl.

      Was she married?

      Suavely, Jack turned to Lady Asfordby. “As it happens, I have not met many of my neighbours. Could I impose on your ladyship to introduce me?”

      There was, of course, nothing Lady Asfordby would have liked better. Her sharp eyes gleamed with fanatical zeal. “Such a loss, your dear aunt. How’s your father getting on?”

      While replying to these and similar queries on Lenore and his brothers, all of whom her ladyship knew of old, Jack kept his golden head in sight. Perfectly happy to disguise his intent by stopping to chat with whomever Lady Asfordby thought to introduce, he steered his hostess by inexorable degrees to the chaise beside which his goal stood.

      A small knot of gentlemen, none of them mere youths, had gathered about her to pass the time between the dances. Two other young ladies joined the circle; she welcomed them graciously, her confidence as plain as the smile on her lips.

      Twice he caught her glancing at him. On both occasions, she quickly looked away. Jack suppressed his smile and patiently endured yet another round of introductions to some local squire’s lady.

      Finally, Lady Asfordby turned towards the crucial chaise. “And, of course, you must meet Mrs. Webb. I dare say you’re acquainted with her husband, Horatio Webb of Webb Park. A financier, you know.”

      The name rang a bell in Jack’s mind—something to do with horses and hunting. But they were rapidly approaching the chaise on which an elegant matron sat, benignly watching over a very young girl, unquestionably her daughter, as well as his golden head. Mrs. Webb turned as they approached. Lady Asfordby made the introduction; Jack found himself bowing over a delicate hand, his eyes trapped in a searching, ice-blue stare.

      “Good evening, Mr. Lester. Are you here for the hunting?”

      “Indeed yes, ma’am.” Jack blinked, then smiled, careful not to overdo the gesture. To him, Mrs. Webb was instantly recognizable; his golden head was protected by a very shrewd dragon.

      A lifted finger drew the younger girl forward.

      “Allow me to present my daughter, Clarissa.” Lucilla looked on as Clarissa, blushing furiously, performed the regulation curtsy with her customary grace. Speech, however, seemed beyond her. Lifting one sceptical brow, Lucilla spared a glance for the magnificence before her, then slanted a quick look at Sophie. Her niece was studiously absorbed with her friends.

      An imperious gesture, however, succeeded in attracting her attention.

      Her smile restrained, Lucilla beckoned Sophie forward. “And, of course,” she continued, rescuing Jack from Clarissa’s tongue-tied stare, “you must let me introduce my niece, Miss Sophia Winterton.” Lucilla halted, then raised her fine brows. “But perhaps you’ve met before—in London? Sophie was presented some years ago, but her Season was cut short by the untimely death of her mother.” Switching her regal regard to Sophie, Lucilla continued, “Mr. Jack Lester, my dear.”

      Conscious