A Lady Of Expectations. Stephanie Laurens
organ swelled into the introduction. Even as she drew breath for the first note of the first verse, Sophie experienced an inner quake. He had moved closer, an action excused by the fine print of the hymnal. His shoulder was behind her, her shoulder close to his chest. She could sense the warmth of his large body, now so near—and feel the dagger glances of the Marstons, mother and son, on her back.
Her hand shook; his came up to steady the hymnal. She quelled the impulse to glance sideways—he was so close, his head bent, his eyes would be very near, his lips a potent distraction. With an effort, she concentrated on the music, only to be thoroughly distracted by the sound of his warm baritone, rich and strong, effortlessly supporting her soprano.
The hymn was one of praise—and an unexpected joy.
At its conclusion, Sophie felt slightly dizzy. She forced herself to breathe deeply.
Her companion hesitated; she knew his gaze was on her. Then he lifted the hymnal from her hand, gently closed it and presented it to her.
“Thank you, Miss Winterton.”
It was impossible; she had to glance up. His eyes, darkly blue, warm and gently smiling, were every bit as close as she had imagined; his lips, softened by his smile, drew her gaze.
For a moment, time stood still.
With an enormous effort, Sophie dragged in a breath and inclined her head.
They were the last to sit down.
The sermon brought her no peace; indeed, Mr. Snodgrass would have needed to be inspired to compete with her thoughts, and the subtle tug of the presence beside her. She survived the second hymn only because she now understood the danger; she kept her mind totally focused on the lyrics and melody, ignoring her companion’s harmony as best she could. Ignoring him proved even more difficult.
It was something of a relief to stroll slowly up the aisle, her hand on his sleeve. They were among the last to quit the church. Lucilla and her children preceded them; her aunt stopped on the porch steps to exchange her usual few words with the vicar.
“Sophia you know, of course.” Lucilla paused as the vicar nodded, beamed and shook Sophie’s hand. “But I’m not sure if you’ve met Mr. Lester. From Rawling’s Cottage.” Lucilla gestured at Jack, immediately behind Sophie.
“Indeed?” Mr. Snodgrass was an absent-minded old soul. “I don’t recall ever having met anyone from there.” He blinked owlishly up at Jack.
Sophie looked up in time to catch the reproachful glance that Jack bent on her aunt, before, with ready courtesy, he greeted the vicar.
“I’m rarely to be found in these parts, I’m afraid.”
“Ah.” The vicar nodded his head in complete understanding. “Up for the hunting.”
Jack caught Sophie’s eye. “Just so.”
Sternly quelling a shiver, Sophie turned away. Her aunt had stopped to chat with Mrs. Marston farther along the path. Clarissa stood slightly to one side, cloaked in fashionable boredom. This last was attributable to Ned Ascombe, standing some yards away, his expression similarly abstracted. Noting the quick, surreptitious glances each threw the other, Sophie struggled not to smile. Feeling immeasurably older than the youthful pair, she stepped off the church steps and strolled slowly in her aunt’s wake.
Jack made to follow but was detained by the vicar.
“I often used to ride with the Cottesmore, you know. Excellent pack, excellent. Major Coffin was the Master, then.” Launched on reminiscence, the old man rambled on.
From the corner of his eye, Jack watched Sophie join her aunt, who was deep in discussion with a country matron, a large figure, swathed in knitted scarves.
“And then there was Mr. Dunbar, of course …”
Jack stiffened as a dark-coated gentleman stepped around the country dame to accost Sophie. Abruptly, he turned to the vicar, smoothly breaking into his monologue. “Indeed, sir. The Cottesmore has always been a most highly qualified pack. I do hope you’ll excuse me—I believe Miss Winterton has need of me.”
With a nod, Jack turned and strode briskly down the path. He reached Sophie’s side just in time to hear the unknown gentleman remark, in a tone that, to Jack, sounded a great deal too familiar, “Your aunt mentioned that she expected to remove to London at the end of the week. Dare I hope I may call on you before you depart?”
Inwardly, Sophie grimaced. “I’m sure, Mr. Marston, that my aunt will be delighted, as always, to entertain Mrs. Marston and yourself. However, I’m not certain of her plans for this week. It’s so very complicated, transferring the whole family up to town.”
Sensing a presence by her side, she turned and, with inexplicable relief, beheld her late companion. He was not looking at her, however, but at Mr. Marston, with a frown in his eyes if not on his face.
“I believe I introduced you to Mr. Marston last evening, Mr. Lester.”
The dark blue gaze momentarily flicked her way. “Indeed, Miss Winterton.” Apparently a distant nod was all the recognition Mr. Marston rated.
For his part, Phillip Marston had drawn himself up, his thin lips pinched, his long nose elevated, nostrils slightly flaring. He returned Jack’s nod with one equally curt. “Lester.” He then pointedly turned back to Sophie. “I have to say, Miss Winterton, that I cannot help but feel that Mrs. Webb is being far too soft-hearted in allowing the younger children to accompany the party.” His gaze grew stern as it rested on Jeremy and George, engaged in an impromptu game of tag about the gravestones. “They would be better employed at their lessons.”
“Oh, no, Mr. Marston—just think how educational the trip will be.” Sophie did not add that ‘soft-hearted’ was a singularly inappropriate adjective when used in conjunction with her aunt. Lucilla might appear as fragile as glass, but her backbone was pure steel. Sophie knew the combination well; her own mother had been just the same. “The children have been so looking forward to it.”
“I should think, Marston, that Mr. and Mrs. Webb are well able to decide the right of such matters.”
Sophie blinked. The coldly superior edge of Mr. Lester’s deep voice was distinctly dismissive. She turned, only to find an elegant sleeve cloaking an arm she already knew to be steel before her.
“If I may, I’ll escort you to your carriage, Miss Winterton. Your aunt has moved on.”
Sophie looked up; his expression was not what she had expected. Superficially assured, fashionably urbane, there was an underlying tension, a hint of hardness in the patriarchal features; she was at a loss to account for it. However, she was not about to decline an opportunity to escape Mr. Marston, particularly in his present, officiously disapproving mood. Nevertheless, she kept her answering smile restrained. Mr. Lester, regardless of his mood, needed no encouragement. “Thank you, sir.” Placing her hand on his sleeve, she looked back—and surprised a look of distinct chagrin on Phillip Marston’s face. “Good day, Mr. Marston.”
With a nod, she turned away, and found herself very close to Jack Lester at the top of the steps above the lych-gate. Sophie’s heart hiccoughed. She glanced up.
His dark eyes met hers, his expression mellow. “Helping you down the steps is the least I can do to repay you for your … company this morning, my dear.”
Sophie did not need to look to know Phillip Marston and his mother were close behind; all the confirmation she needed was contained in Jack Lester’s smooth, deep and thoroughly reprehensible tone. Incensed, unable to contradict his subtle suggestion, she glared at him. “Indeed, Mr. Lester, you are certainly in my debt.”
His slow smile softened his lips. “I’ll look forward to repaying your kindness, Miss Winterton—when I see you in London.”
He made it sound like a promise—one her aunt made certain of as he handed her into the carriage.
“I