That was the way things were in her world; she knew it well enough. And after all Lucilla’s and Clarissa’s kindnesses, she would not allow her unhappiness to cloud Clarissa’s Season. She would do her best to ensure it did not sink her own, either.
Feeling oddly better to have such clear goals before her, Sophie perched on the end of her bed. Her fingers pulled at her wrinkled handkerchief; her gaze grew abstracted. There was one point she had yet to consider: how best to deal with him when they met, as, inevitably, they would.
After deep and lengthy cogitation, she had absolved him of all blame. She could not believe he had sought to cause her pain. She it was who had misread his purpose; she was, in reality, no more experienced in such matters than Clarissa. It was, very likely, as Miss Billingham had said-to him, she was a safe and agreeable companion, one with whom to pass the time until the Season was fully under way and he could set about choosing his bride. Indeed, Lady Matcham’s observations left little room for any other interpretation.
There were, admittedly, his curious words when he had last left her.
Which meant that, given his innocence, she would have to treat him as if nothing was wrong. Pride dictated she do so. Any awkwardness she felt must be suppressed, hidden, for she couldn’t bear him to know what she had thought-hoped.
Somehow, she would cope. Like Madame Jorge, like Lucilla, she could contrive.
With a sigh, Sophie climbed onto her bed and tugged the covers over her. She snuggled down, settling her head on the pillows; calmly determined, she closed her eyes. She forced herself to relax, to allow the furrows in her forehead to ease away. If she was going to contrive, she would need some sleep.
The days ahead would not be easy.
CHAPTER SEVEN
EVEN PICCADILLY WAS CROWDED. Jack frowned as, leaving the shady avenues of the Park behind him, he was forced to rein in his horses by the press of traffic, vehicular and pedestrian, that thronged the wide street. Manoeuvring his curricle into the flow, he sat back, resigned to the crawling pace. To his right, Green Park luxuriated in the unseasonable heat, green buds unfurling as the fashionable strolled its gentle paths. Its calm beckoned, but Jack ignored it. The clamour of the traffic more suited his mood.
Grimacing at his inching progress, he kept his hands firm on his horses’ reins. Just as he did on his own. He supposed his wooing of Sophie Winterton was progressing satisfactorily, yet this snail’s pace was hardly what he had had in mind when he had exchanged the informality of the country for the ton’s structured delights. Lady Entwhistle’s small ball had raised his hopes; at its conclusion he had felt decidedly smug. Thus, he felt sure, should a lady be wooed.
That success had been followed by his admittedly precipitous invitation to go driving, prompted by the unexpectedly tempestuous feelings which lay beneath his reasoned logic. He could justify to his own and anyone else’s satisfaction just why Sophie Winterton would make him an excellent wife but, underneath it all, that peculiarly strong emotion which he hesitated to name simply insisted she was his.
Which was all very well, but Sophie’s aunt, while not disputing his claim, had made it clear she would not assist him in sweeping Sophie off her feet.
Which, given his present state, was a serious set-back.
His horses tossed their heads impatiently, tugging at the reins. Reining them in, Jack snorted, very much in sympathy.
That drive in the Park, that gentle hour of Sophie’s company, had very nearly tripped him up. If he was to obey her aunt’s clear injunction and allow her to enjoy her Season unencumbered by a possessive fiance-he had few illusions about that-then he would have to keep a firmer grip on himself. And on his wayward impulses.
Not that that was presently proving a problem; he had not set eyes on Sophie since that morning nearly a week ago. After her aunt’s warning, he had held off as long as he could-until Friday, when he had called only to learn she was ill. That had shaken him; for an instant, he had wondered if her indisposition was real or just one of those tricks ladies sometimes played, then had dismissed the thought as unworthy-of Sophie and himself. He knew she liked him; it was there in her eyes, a warm, slightly wary but nonetheless welcoming glow that lit up her face whenever they met. Chiding himself for his ridiculous sensitivity, he had dispatched his man, Pinkerton, to scour the town for yellow roses. As always, Pinkerton, despite his perennial gloom, had triumphed. Three massive sprays of yellow blooms had duly been delivered in Mount Street with a card, unsigned, wishing Miss Winterton a speedy recovery.
He had looked for her in the Park, morning and afternoon, on both Saturday and Sunday but had failed to come up with the Webb carriage.
So, feeling distinctly edgy, all but champing on his metaphorical bit, he had called in Mount Street this morning-only to be informed that Miss Winterton had gone walking with her cousins.
Fate, it seemed, had deserted him. Despite the bright sunshine, his view of the Season was growing gloomier by the minute.
Lord Hardcastle, driving his greys, hailed him; they spent a few minutes exchanging opinions on the unusual press of traffic before said traffic condescended to amble onward, parting them. An organ-grinder, complete with monkey, was playing to an attentive crowd, blocking the pavement, much to the disgust of merchants and those less inclined to dally. Jack smiled and returned his attention to his horses. As he did so, a flash of gold caught his eye.
Turning, he searched the throng bustling along the pavement-and saw Sophie with Clarissa beside her, the two boys and Amy reluctantly following, casting longing glances back at the organ-grinder. As he watched, the little cavalcade halted before a shop door, then, leaving the maid and groom who had brought up the rear outside, Sophie led the way in.
Jack glanced up and read the sign above the shop, and smiled. He pulled his curricle over to the kerb. “Here- Jigson! Take charge of ‘em. Wait here.” Tossing the reins in Jigson’s general direction, Jack leapt down and, threading his way through the traffic, entered the door through which Sophie had passed.
The door shut behind him, abruptly cutting off the noisy bustle outside. Calm and well-ordered, the refined ambience of Hatchard’s Book Shop and Circulating Library enfolded him. No raised voices here. A severely garbed man behind a desk close to the door eyed him, disapproval withheld but imminent. Jack smiled easily and walked past. Despite its relative peace, the shop was quite crowded. He scanned the heads but could not find the one he sought. An eddy disturbed the calm; Jack spotted Jeremy, George and Amy huddling in a nook by the window, noses pressed to the pane, gazes locked on the entertainment on the pavement opposite.
Glancing around, Jack discovered that the disapproving man had been joined by an equally severely garbed woman. They were now both regarding him askance. With another urbane smile, he moved into the first aisle and pretended to scan the spines until he was out of their sight.
At the end of the third aisle, Sophie frowned up at the novel she most expressly wished to borrow. It was wedged tightly between two others on the topmost shelf, barely within reach. She thought of summoning the clerk to retrieve it for her, and grimaced; he was, she had discovered, quite cloyingly admiring. Sophie smothered a snort. She would make one last effort to prise the book loose before she surrendered to the attentions of the clerk.
Sucking in a breath, she stretched high, her fingers grappling to find purchase above the leather-covered tome.
“Allow me, my dear.”
Sophie jumped. Snatching back her hand, she whirled, her colour draining then returning with a rush. “Oh! Ah…” her eyes widened as they met his. Abruptly, she dropped her gaze and stepped back, determinedly shackling her wayward wits. “Why thank you, Mr. Lester.” With all the calm she could command, Sophie raised her head. “This is quite the last place I had thought to meet you, sir.”
Tugging the book free of its fellows, Jack presented it to her with a bow. “Indeed. Not even
