Sophie knew her smile was almost as bright as Clarissa’s. Her aunt’s gaze, pausing meaningfully on her, sent her heart soaring. Ridiculous—but there was no other word for it—the exhilarating excitement that gripped her at the mere thought of seeing him again. She lived for the moment but, given he had not appeared at Almack’s—faint hope though that had been—it had seemed likely they would not meet again until Clarissa was out and they could move freely in society’s mainstream.
Unless, of course, he called to take her driving again.
She spent all morning with one ear tuned to the knocker. When the time for luncheon arrived and he had not called, she put her disappointment aside and, her smile still bright, descended to the dining-room. She was determined none of her cousins would guess her true state. As for her aunt, she had directed one or two pointed glances at her niece and once, she had surprised a look of soft satisfaction upon Lucilla’s face. That, of course, was inevitable.
It was at Mrs. Morgan-Stanley’s at-home later that day that her bubble of happiness was punctured.
On entering the Morgan-Stanleys’ large drawing-room, Lucilla immediately joined the circle of fashionable matrons gathered about the fireplace. Clarissa drifted across to the windows, to where the youngest of those present had shyly retreated to trade dreams. With a confident smile, Sophie joined a small group of young ladies for whom this was not their first Season. She was taking tea with them in their corner when, in the midst of a discussion on the many notables already sighted in town, Miss Billingham, a thin young lady with severe, pinched features, cast her an arch glance.
“Indeed! Miss Winterton, I fancy, can testify to the fact. Why, we saw you in the Park just the other morning, my dear, driving with Mr. Lester.”
“Mr. Lester?” Miss Chessington, a bright, cheerful soul, short, good-natured and of an indefatigably sunny temperament, blinked in amazement. “But I thought he never drove mere females.”
“Not previously,” Miss Billingham conceded with the air of one who had made a thorough study of the matter and was unshakeably certain of her facts. “But it’s clear he has, at last, realized he must change his ways. My mama commented on the point, even last Season.” When the others, Sophie included, looked their question, Miss Billingham consented to explain. “Well, it’s common knowledge that he must marry well. More than well—real money—for there are his brothers, too, and everyone knows the Lesters have barely a penny to bless themselves with. Good breeding, good estates—it’s the blunt that’s wanting.”
Sophie was not the only one who blinked at the crude term and the hard gleam in Miss Billingham’s eyes but, in her case, the action was purely reflex. Her mind was reeling; a horrible sinking feeling had taken up residence in the pit of her stomach. Her features froze in a polite mask, and a sudden chill swept through her.
“My mama has long maintained,” Miss Billingham declaimed, “that he’d have to come about. Too high in the instep by half, he spent all last Season searching for some goddess. Likely he’s come to the understanding that he cannot look so high.”
Miss Billingham looked at Sophie. The others, following her lead, did the same. Caught on a welling tide of despair, Sophie did not notice.
“I suppose, it being so early in the Season, he thought to amuse himself—get his hand in at the practice in safety, so to speak—by squiring you about, Miss Winterton.”
It was the rustling of skirts as the others drew back, distancing themselves from the snide remark, that shook Sophie from her trance. As Miss Billingham’s words registered, she felt herself pale. A cattish gleam of satisfaction flared in Miss Billingham’s eyes. Pride came to Sophie’s rescue, stiffening her spine. She drew in a steadying breath, then lifted her chin, looking down at Miss Billingham with chilly hauteur. “I dare say, Miss Billingham.” Her tone repressively cool, Sophie continued, “I can only assume that Mr. Lester could find no other to suit his purpose, for, as you say, I hardly qualify as a rich prize.”
At first, Miss Billingham missed the allusion; the poorly suppressed grins of the other young ladies finally brought Sophie’s words home. Slowly, Miss Billingham’s sallow complexion turned beet-red, an unhappy sight. She opened her mouth, casting a glance around for support. As she found none, her colour deepened. With a few muted words, she excused herself to return to the safer precincts close by her mother, a woman of battleship proportions.
“Don’t pay any attention to her,” Miss Chessington advised as their little circle closed comfortably about Sophie. “She’s just furious Jack Lester paid her no heed whatever last year. Set her cap at him, and fell flat on her face.”
Valiantly, Sophie struggled to return Miss Chessington’s bright smile. “Indeed. But what of your hopes? Do you have anyone in your sights?”
Belle Chessington grinned hugely. “Heavens, no! I’m determined to enjoy myself. All that bother about a husband can come later.”
Reflecting that, a few months ago, she, too, would have been as carefree, Sophie dragged her thoughts away from what had focused her mind on marriage. She clung to Miss Chessington’s buoyant spirits until it was time to depart.
Once enveloped in the quiet of her aunt’s carriage, cool reason returned to hold back the misery that threatened to engulf her. Sophie closed he
r eyes and laid her head back on the squabs.
“Aren’t you feeling quite the thing, my dear?”
Lucilla’s calm voice interrupted Sophie’s thoughts. Sophie tried to smile, but the result was more like a grimace. “Just a slight headache. I found Mrs. Morgan-Stanley’s drawing-room a trifle close.” It was the best she could do. To her relief, her aunt seemed to accept the weak excuse.
Lucilla reached over and patted her hand. “Well, do take care. I hope you’ll both remember that one never appears to advantage while a martyr to ill health.” After a moment, Lucilla mused, “I don’t think our schedule is overly full, but if you do feel the need, you must both promise me you’ll rest.”
Together with Clarissa, Sophie murmured her reassurances.
As the carriage rolled steadily onward, she kept her eyes closed, hiding her frown. Despite her often outrageous machinations, Lucilla was ever supportive, always protective. If Jack Lester was, indeed, totally ineligible as a suitor for her hand—or, more specifically, if, as a mere lady of expectations, she was ineligible to be his bride, then Lucilla would not have allowed him to draw so close. Her aunt was as clever as she could hold together. Surely she could trust in Lucilla’s perspicacity?
Perhaps Miss Billingham had it wrong?
That possibility allowed Sophie to meet the rest of her day with equanimity, if not outright enthusiasm. Until the evening, when Lady Orville’s little musical gathering brought an end to all hope.
It was, most incongruously, old Lady Matcham who squashed the bubble of her happiness flat. A tiny little woman, white-haired and silver-eyed with age, her ladyship was a kindly soul who would never, Sophie knew, intentionally cause anyone harm.
“I know you won’t mind me mentioning this, Sophia, my dear. You know how very close I was to your mother—well, she was almost a daughter to me, you know. So sad, her going.” The old eyes filled with tears. Lady Matcham dabbed them away with a lace-edged handkerchief. “Silly of me, of course.” She smiled with determined brightness up at Sophie, sitting beside her on a chaise along the back wall of the music room.
Before them, the very select few whom Lady Orville had invited to air their musical abilities along with her two daughters were entertaining the gathering, seated in rows of little chairs before the pianoforte. Now, to the sound of polite applause, Miss Chessington took her seat at the instrument and laid her hands upon the keys.