Stephanie Laurens Rogues' Reform Bundle (32 page)

Sophie felt her eyes widen. Lowering her lashes, she inclined her head. As she moved to her place in the set, she felt his words reverberate deep within her. Her heart thudded; it was an effort to concentrate on Mr. Simpkins's conversation.

There had been a wealth of meaning hidden in Jack Lester's subtle farewell—and she had no idea whether he meant it or not.

H
E DID MEAN IT.

That was the only logical conclusion left to Sophie when, poised to alight from the Webb family carriage in the shadow of the lych-gate the next morning, she caught sight of a pair of powerful shoulders, stylishly encased in the best Bath superfine, and then their owner, wending his way aimlessly through the gravestones. As if sensing her regard, he looked around and saw her. White teeth flashed as he smiled. Recalled to her surroundings by Clarissa's finger in her ribs, Sophie abruptly gathered her wits and descended.

In the protective confines of the lych-gate, she fussed with her reticule and the skirts of her cherry-red pelisse while her cousins, Jeremy, George and Amy, as well as Clarissa—at just six years old, the twins, Henry and Hermione, were too young to be trusted in church—descended and straightened their attire under their mother's eagle eye. Finally satisfied, Lucilla nodded and they fell into line, Amy beside her mother in the lead, Sophie and Clarissa immediately behind, followed by the two boys, their boots on the paving stones.

As they ascended the steps leading up from the gate, Sophie carefully avoided glancing at the graveyard to their left, looking up, instead, at the sharp spire that rose into the wintry sky. March had arrived, unexpectedly mild. The chill blue of the heavens was dotted with puffs of white cloud, scudding along before the brisk breeze.

“Good morning, Mrs. Webb.”

The cavalcade stopped. Although she could only see her aunt's back, Sophie had the distinct impression that even that redoubtable matron was taken aback by the sight of Jack Lester bowing elegantly before her just yards from the church door. His ambling peregrination had, most conveniently, converged with their route at that spot.

Regardless of her surprise, there was no doubt of her aunt's pleasure. Her “Mr. Lester, how fortunate. We had not looked to see you thus soon” positively purred with satisfaction. “Would you care to join us in our pew, sir?”

“I'd be delighted, ma'am.” Until then, Jack had not looked Sophie's way. Now, smiling, he turned to her. “Good morning, Miss Winterton.” He briefly nodded at Clarissa. “Miss Webb.”

Sophie dipped and gave him her hand.

“Sophie dear, perhaps you would show Mr. Lester the way while I take care of this brood.” Her aunt waved an airy hand at her offspring, who, of course, could very well have found their way unaided to the pew they occupied every Sunday.

“Of course, Aunt.” Sophie knew better than to argue.

As Lucilla swept her children into the church, Sophie risked a glance upwards, only to meet a pair of dark blue eyes that held a very large measure of amused understanding. Her own eyes narrowed.

“Miss Winterton?” With a gallant gesture, Jack offered his arm. When she hesitated, his brows rose slightly.

Head high, Sophie placed her fingers on his sleeve and allowed him to lead her to the door. As they entered the dim nave, she noted the smothered stir as their neighbours noticed her escort. It was close to eleven and the church was full. Hiding her consciousness behind a calm mask, she indicated the pair of pews, close to the front on the left, where her cousins were already settling. Glancing down as they passed the pew two rows behind, she encountered a malevolent stare from Mrs. Marston and a sternly disapproving one from her son, seated supportively beside her.

Suppressing a sudden grin, Sophie reflected that, as this was God's house, perhaps Mr. Lester was the Almighty's way of assisting her in the difficult task of rejecting Mr. Marston. She had no time to dwell on that unlikely prospect, however, for, gaining the second of the Webb pews, she found herself seated between Lucilla and Mr. Lester. Luckily, the vicar, Mr. Snodgrass, entered almost immediately.

To her relief, Mr. Lester behaved impeccably, as if going to church on Sunday were his normal habit.

Beside her, Jack bided his time.

When the congregation rose for the first hymn, he reached out and touched Sophie's gloved wrist. Leaning closer, he whispered, “I'm afraid, Miss Winterton, that I did not anticipate attending church during my stay in Leicestershire.”

She blinked up at him, then glanced down at the slim volume covered in tooled blue leather that she had extracted from her reticule.

“Oh.” With an effort, Sophie dragged her mind from the disturbing thought of what, exactly,
had
brought him to the tiny church of Allingham Downs. Her fingers busy flicking through the pages, she glanced up at him and hoped her distrust was evident. “Perhaps, sir, if I hold it between us, we could share my book?”

He smiled, so very sweetly that, if she had not known better, she would have thought his predicament an innocent oversight. Raising her chin, she held her hymnal between them, up and slightly to her right.

The 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 would invite you to call, Mr. Lester,” Lucilla declared. “Yet with our departure imminent, I fear it would be unwise. Perhaps you might call on us when you return to the capital?”

“Indeed, Mrs. Webb, nothing would give me greater pleasure.” The carriage door was shut; he bowed, a gesture compounded of strength and grace. “I shall look forward to seeing you in London, Mrs. Webb. Miss Webb.” His blue eyes caught Sophie's. “Miss Winterton.”

Outwardly calm, Sophie nodded in farewell. The carriage jolted forward, then the horses found their stride. The last view she had was of an elegant figure in pale grey morning coat, tightly fitting inexpressibles and highly polished Hessians, his dark hair slightly ruffled by the breeze. He dominated her vision; in contrast, in his severe, if correct, garb, Mr. Marston seemed to fade into the shadows of the lych-gate. Sophie laid her head back against the squabs, her thoughts in an unaccustomed whirl.

Her aunt, she noticed, smiled all the way home.

 

S
UNDAY AFTERNOON
was a quiet time in the Webb household. Sophie habitually spent it in the back parlour. In a household that included five boisterous children, there was always a pile of garments awaiting mending and darning. Although the worst was done by her aunt's seamstress, Lucilla had always encouraged both Clarissa and herself to help with the more delicate work.