A Lady of Expectations and Other Stories. Kasey Michaels

carefully avoiding Mr. Lester’s eye.

      She had first seen him as he stood at the door, darkly, starkly handsome. In his midnight-blue coat, which fitted his large lean frame as if it had been moulded to him, his thick dark hair falling in fashionable dishevelment over his broad brow, his gaze intent as he scanned the room, he had appeared as some predator—a wolf, perhaps—come to select his prey. Her feet had missed a step when his gaze had fallen on her. Quickly looking away, she had been surprised to find her heart racing, her breath tangled in her throat.

      Now, with his gaze, an unnervingly intense dark blue, full upon her, she lifted her chin, calmly stating, “Mr. Lester and I have not previously met, Aunt.”

      Jack’s gaze trapped hers as he took her hand. His lips curved. “An accident of fate which has surely been my loss.”

      Sophie sternly quelled an instinctive tremor. His voice was impossibly deep. As the undercurrent beneath his tones washed over her, tightening the vice about her chest, she watched him straighten from an ineffably elegant bow.

      He caught her glance—and smiled.

      Sophie stiffened. Tilting her chin, she met his gaze. “Have you hunted much hereabouts, sir?”

      His smile reached his eyes. A small shift in position brought him closer. “Indeed, Miss Winterton.”

      He looked down at her; Sophie froze.

      “I rode with the Quorn only yesterday.”

      Breathless, Sophie ignored the twinkle in his eye. “My uncle, Mr. Webb, is a keen adherent of the sport.” A quick glance about showed her aunt in deep conversation with Lady Asfordby; her court was hidden by Mr. Lester’s broad shoulders. He had, most effectively, cut her out from the crowd.

      “Really?” Jack lifted a polite brow. His gaze fell to her hands, clasped before her, then rose, definite warmth in the deep blue. “But your aunt mentioned you had been in London before?”

      Sophie resisted the urge to narrow her eyes. “I was presented four years ago, but my mother contracted a chill shortly thereafter.”

      “And you never returned to grace the ballrooms of the ton? Fie, my dear—how cruel.”

      The last words were uttered very softly. Any doubts Sophie had harboured that Mr. Lester was not as he appeared vanished. She shot him a very straight glance, irrelevantly noting how the hard line of his lips softened when he smiled. “My father was much cut up by my mother’s death. I remained with him, at home in Northamptonshire, helping with the household and the estate.”

      His response to that depressing statement was not what she had expected. A gleam of what could only be intrigued interest flared in his dark eyes.

      “Your loyalty to your father does you credit, Miss Winterton.” Jack made the statement with flat sincerity. His companion inclined her head slightly, then glanced away. The perfect oval of her face was a delicate setting for her regular features: wide blue eyes fringed with long, thick lashes, golden brown as were her arched brows, a straight little nose and full bowed lips the colour of crushed strawberries. Her chin was definite, yet gently rounded; her complexion was like thick cream, rich and luscious, without flaw. Jack cleared his throat. “But did you not yearn to return to the ton’s ballrooms?”

      The question took Sophie by surprise. She considered, then answered, “No. Indeed, the thought never arose. I had 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