Stephanie Laurens Rogues' Reform Bundle (7 page)

Lenore's shocked gasp filled the room. Her eyes flew wide at the excruciating sensation of her gown shifting over her tightened nipples. Horrified, she batted his hand away.

“Permit me to inform you, Miss Lester, that you have a severely proscribed understanding of the basis of male interest. I suggest you extend your studies before you come to any conclusions.”

“As I have
no
intention of marrying, I have
absolutely
no interest in such topics, Your Grace!”

Her declaration focused Eversleigh's attention dramatically. His penetrating gaze bored into her eyes, his expression hardened. Flushed, Lenore held her own, but she could see nothing in the steel of his eyes to give her any clue to his thoughts.

Then, to her considerable relief, he straightened, his hands dropping to his side.

“Miss Lester, has it occurred to you that you have been much indulged?”

Lenore drew breath, determined to keep her chin up. “Indeed, Your Grace. My father and brothers are most supportive.”

“They have been slack, Miss Lester.” Without warning, he caught her chin on the edge of one large hand, keeping her face turned up to his. The grey eyes once more roamed her features. Lenore could not breathe. His expression was stern, almost forbidding. “Your father and brothers have not done their duty by you. A woman of your intelligence and beauty is wasted outside marriage.”

“That is not my opinion, Your Grace.”

“I am aware of that, my dear. We shall have to see what can be done to change it.”

Paralysed, Lenore stared up at him. Startled conjecture vied with a strange, breathless, senseless yearning, a panoply of thoughts and sensations buffeting her brain. She could think of nothing to say.

The door opened.

“Oh! Excuse me, Miss Lenore, but I've come to do the menus.”

Twisting her chin from Eversleigh's grasp, Lenore peeked around him and saw her housekeeper, Mrs. Hobbs, standing uncertainly in the doorway. “Er…yes. Lord Eversleigh and I were just examining the lock of this cupboard. It was stuck.” With a warning glance at Eversleigh, Lenore turned towards her desk.

“Ah, well,” said Mrs. Hobbs, ambling forward, a large bundle of old menus and receipts clutched to her ample bosom. “I'd better get John to take a look at it, then.”

“No, no. It's working now.” Lenore cast a desperate glance at Eversleigh, praying he would behave himself and depart.

To her relief, he swept her a graceful bow. “I'm pleased to have been of assistance, my dear. If you have any other difficulties that are within the scope of my poor abilities to cure, pray feel free to call on my talents.”

Lenore's eyes narrowed. “Thank you, Your Grace.”

Jason smiled, his wolf's smile, and turned to the door. On the threshold, he paused, glancing back to see Lenore close her account book and lay it aside, then draw a pile of menus towards her.

“Miss Lester?”

Lenore looked up. “Yes, Your Grace?”

A long finger pointed at the corner of her desk. “Your spectacles, my dear.”

Swallowing a curse, Lenore grabbed the delicate frames and arranged them on her nose, then glanced up, but her tormentor had gone.

“Now. For lunch I'd thought to have…”

Stifling a wholly unexpected sigh, Lenore gave her attention to Mrs. Hobbs.

An hour later, she was staring out of the window, her account book open before her, the ink dry on her nib, when Amelia's head appeared around the door.

“There you are! I'd despaired of finding you.”

Lenore returned her cousin's bright smile, laying aside her pen as Amelia crossed the room to subside into the armchair before the desk in a froth of apricot muslin. “I take it last evening passed without incident?”

Amelia waved the question aside. “You were right. They're a perfectly manageable lot. All except Eversleigh. I wouldn't care to have to manage him. But His Grace had taken himself off somewhere. Truth to tell, I retired early myself.” She turned to look at Lenore. “I looked for you but couldn't find you anywhere.”

Lenore shut her account book with a snap. “I was detained on the terrace.”

“Oh? By what?”

“A discussion of the relative merits of present and past civilisations, as I recall.”

Amelia grimaced. “One of your dry discussions, I take it?”

Calmly sorting her papers, Lenore did not respond.

“Anyway, you'll be pleased to know I took care of one of your hostessly chores for you.”

“Oh?”

“The Melton sisters. They had quite worn down poor Mr. Marshall; I had to rescue him. And that reminds me.” Amelia swung about, bright brown eyes dancing. “I've discovered why Eversleigh's here!”

Lenore's hands stilled. “Why?” she asked, hoping Amelia would not detect the breathlessness that had laid siege to her voice.

“Mr. Marshall told me that Eversleigh is dreading the prospect of facing all the matchmaking mamas. I do believe he's here rusticating, recouping his energies before returning to town and facing his fate. He's got
six
aunts, you know.”

“Yes, I know,” Lenore murmured, her thoughts elsewhere. When Amelia turned an enquiring gaze on her, she added, “They're friends of Harriet's.” Lenore cleared her throat. “What sort of woman do you think Eversleigh will marry?”

“A diamond of the first water,” Amelia promptly declared. “Whoever of the latest lot fills that description and is suitably connected. It's what's expected, after all. And, for once, Eversleigh seems intent on fulfilling expectations.”

Lenore nodded and sank into silence.

After a few moments, her expression pensive, her fingers pleating the ribbons of her gown, Amelia asked, “Tell me, do you know much of Mr. Marshall?”

The question drew Lenore from her own thoughts to gaze in surprise at her friend. “Just how long did it take to rescue him last night?”

Amelia blushed. “Well, I couldn't just leave the poor man—he was parched for entertainment. Those Melton girls might be very pretty, but
widgeons
, my dear.”

Lenore's lips twitched. “I thought you were here to avoid that sort of thing?”

Amelia looked pained. “I came here to avoid being pursued, Lenore. As far as I know, Frederick Marshall has never pursued a woman in his life.”

Putting her head on one side, Lenore acknowledged that truth. “I had heard that. Odd, given his association with Eversleigh.”

“Yes, but very refreshing.” Amelia slanted a glance at Lenore. “Tell me, Lenore, do you still cling to your ideal of a singular existence, without the complications of men?”

Lenore looked down, picking up her papers. “Certainly. It's the only sensible course, given the strictures that rule our lives.” She glanced up briefly through her glasses. “I would have thought that you, of all people, would appreciate that.”

Amelia sighed, her gaze on the ceiling. “Oh, I know. But, just sometimes, I wonder. If one is not in the marketplace, one cannot buy. And if one is not…” Her brow creased as she sought for words. “If one does not put oneself in the way of love, however will it find you?”

“Love, as you well know, is not for us.”

“I know, I know. But don't you sometimes dream?” Abruptly, Amelia swung about in her chair, fixing Lenore with an impish smile. “What happened to those dreams of yours—about being the prisoner of some evil ogre and locked in a tower guarded by a dragon only to be rescued by a tall and fearless knight errant?”

Lenore glanced up from her piles of receipts. “I long since realised that being held prisoner in some musty dungeon was likely to prove quite uncomfortable and that relying on being rescued was a mite risky, given the likelihood of my knight errant's being distracted by a mill, or some such event, and forgetting to turn up.”

“Oh, Lenore!” Amelia sat back, pulling a disgusted face. After a moment, she said, “You know, I understand all your arguments, but I've never understood why you're so convinced there's no hope for us.”

Lenore paused in her sorting, eyes lifting to the peaceful scene beyond her window as memories of her mother's face, always trying to look so brave, filled her mind's eye. Abruptly, she drew a curtain firmly across the vision. Looking down, she said, “Let's just say that love among the
ton
is a sadly mismanaged affair. It afflicts only one sex, leaving them vulnerable to all sorts of hurts. You only have to listen to the tales of Harriet's friends. How they bear such lives I do not know. I could never do so.”

Amelia was frowning. “You mean the…the emotional hurts? The pain of loving and not being loved in return?”

Brusquely, without looking up, Lenore nodded.

“Yes, but…” Amelia's brow was furrowed as she wrestled with her meaning. “If one does not take a chance and give one's love, one cannot expect to receive love in return. Which would be worse—to never risk love and die never having known it, or to take a chance and, just possibly, come away with the prize?”

For a long moment, Lenore gazed at Amelia, a frown deeply etched in her eyes. “I suspect that depends on the odds of winning.”

“Which in turn depends on the man one loves.”

Silence descended in the small room, both occupants sunk deep in uneasy speculation. Then, in the distance, a gong clanged.

With a deep sigh, Amelia stood and shook out her skirts. She looked up and met Lenore's gaze squarely. “Lunch.”

 

T
HAT EVENING
, Lenore entered the drawing-room, her expression serene, her mind in a quandary. Instantly she was aware of Eversleigh, one of a group of guests on the other side of the room, chatting urbanely. Slipping into her accustomed role, she glided from group to group, playing the gracious hostess with effortless ease. Avoiding the group of which Eversleigh was a part, she came to rest beside Amelia, chatting animatedly with Frederick Marshall, the Melton sisters and two other gentlemen.

“Oh, Miss Lester! I did so enjoy this afternoon!” Lady Moffat, blue eyes bright, positively bubbled with innocent enthusiasm.

“I'm delighted you found so much to entertain you,” Lenore replied. Lunch, an
al fresco
affair served beside the lake, had been voted a success by all who had attended. This had excluded the majority of the gentlemen, still busy at Harry's stud. Unfortunately, instead of settling to a quiet afternoon, gossiping or punting on the lake, some of the younger ladies had spied the archery butts, stored in the boat-house. Nothing would do but to stage an impromptu archery contest; Lenore had not had a minute to spare.

“I was just explaining that the dancing this evening was to be entirely informal,” Amelia said.

Lenore smiled, feeling infinitely more experienced in the face of the younger ladies' overt eagerness. “Just the house guests. The ball on Friday will be a much larger affair.”

“How positively exciting! We'll both look forward to the event.” Lady Harrison exchanged a bright glance with her sister.

Amelia shot a glance of long-suffering at Lenore, severely trying her composure.

The clang of the dinner gong, and Smithers' stentorian, “Dinner is served,” recalled Lenore to an unresolved dilemma. Would Eversleigh take advantage of country party informality to sit elsewhere at table, leaving her to claim whoever she chose for the seat on her right?

Casting a surreptitious glance across the room, she saw her answer crossing the floor, his stride determined, his eyes on her. Quelling a sudden inner flutter, Lenore raised her head. Eversleigh paused by her side, his grey eyes smiling. With a graceful gesture, he offered her his arm. “Shall we, Miss Lester?”

“Certainly, Your Grace.” Lenore placed her fingertips upon his dark sleeve. As they headed for the door, her entire concentration was turned inward, to the task of subduing her skittering nerves and overcoming the odd breathlessness that had seized her.

“Would it help if I promised not to bite?”

The soft words, little more than a whisper in her ear, had Lenore looking upward in surprise. The expression in Eversleigh's eyes, a not ungentle amusement, shook her precarious equanimity even more. It was all she could do to return a haughty look, turning her eyes forward, determined not to give him the satisfaction of knowing how grateful she was for his reassurance.

He was as good as his word, conversing amiably with Mrs. Whitticombe, who had claimed the place on his right, encouraging Lord Farningham to such an extent that, to Lenore's experienced gaze, something close to hero-worship glowed in that young man's eyes. His Grace of Eversleigh could be utterly charming when he chose, but, to Lenore's prickling senses, the powerful predator beneath the veneer, the presence that had made Lord Farningham so hesitant initially, was not asleep. He was merely in benevolent mood, watching, patient behind his grey eyes.

That evening, the gentlemen quit their port with alacrity, drawn to the drawing-room by the scrape of the violins, bows wielded with enthusiasm by five musicians installed in an alcove. Lenore was constantly on the move, encouraging the more timid of the ladies to join in, ensuring none of the gentlemen hung back. Despite her real liking for the pastime, she rarely danced herself, knowing how awkward most gentlemen found the exercise. She was too tall for even her brothers, only as tall as herself, to partner adequately in any measure beyond the formal quadrilles or cotillions. She was chatting to Mrs. Whitticombe, slightly flushed after a hectic boulanger, when she felt hard fingers close about her elbow.

A
frisson
of awareness informed her of who stood beside her even before she turned to meet his grey eyes.

Bestowing a charming if fleeting smile on Mrs. Whitticombe, Jason turned his gaze upon his hostess. “You're not dancing, Miss Lester. Can I tempt you to honour me with this waltz?”