Stephanie Laurens Rogues' Reform Bundle (13 page)

Ignoring her cap, Lenore took the note, settling back on her pillows, the folded parchment between her hands as Gladys bustled about the room, shaking out Lenore's evening gown, exclaiming at the way it had been carelessly tossed on a chair.

Lenore eyed the inscription on the front of the note. “Miss Lester” stared back at her in bold black letters.

Despite her conviction that she would fall instantly asleep the moment her head touched the pillow, rest had been a long time coming. As soon as she had settled in the dark, safe and secure in her feather bed, the cauldron of her emotions, simmering all evening, had boiled over. For a while she had let them seethe, shedding frustrated, fearful tears, drawing comfort from the release. Then she had tried to decide where she stood.

One point was clear. The rage that had overpowered her in the library had been misplaced. Recalling her accusations, she squirmed. Eversleigh had deserved none of them. She would have to apologise, an act that would further weaken her position in the necessary negotiations for her release from their unexpected betrothal.

That was as far as she had got in her musings, despite another hour or two's fruitless cogitation. Eversleigh's real concern and care for her, not just that evening, but demonstrated in so many ways now she looked back on their short association, undermined the image she had tried to erect of him, the ruthless tyrant perfectly ready to ride roughshod over her feelings. She had no firm idea of what had transpired between His Grace and her father—until she had the facts in her hands, she would be wise to reserve judgement. And, despite all the shocking revelations of the day before, she still did not know
why
His Grace of Eversleigh was so set on marrying her.

All of which left her in a very uncertain state.

Lenore grimaced, then unfolded the note.

“I'll wait for you in the library,” was all he had written.

Her lips twisting in self-mockery, Lenore laid the note aside, along with a childish wish to remain safely in bed, pretending the day before had been nothing more than a bad dream. Downstairs and all about the house, the guests would be preparing to leave. She should be present, lending her aid in a thousand different ways. Today, however, she felt not the slightest qualm in leaving her brothers to their own resources. Her staff were well-trained; her presence was not essential.

With a deep sigh, Lenore sat up. “No,” she said, shaking her head at the grey gown Gladys held up. “There's a primrose muslin in there somewhere. See if you can find it—I believe its time has come.”

The muslin proved to be more gold than yellow, its scooped neckline perfectly decent although the soft material draped about Lenore's slim figure in a way far removed from her stiff cambrics and pinafores. Harriet had ordered it up from London two years before in a vain attempt to interest Lenore in fashion. Staring at her reflection, Lenore decided it would do. She had coiled her braided hair about her head; to her eyes, her slender neck, now fully revealed, was too long.

Giving herself no time to change her mind, and her gown, she descended to the library.

He did not hear her enter. Seated in the chair before her desk, he had the text she had been studying, a history of the Assyrians, in his hand. Afflicted by a sudden breathlessness, Lenore paused, seizing the rare moment to study him. The planes of his face seemed less angular, his expression less forbidding. There was still a great deal of strength, in his face, in the long body relaxed in the chair, but, to her, now, the impact was more reassuring than threatening, more desirable than dangerous. Slowly, Lenore drew nearer, conscious of her deep fascination. A lingering shadow of the delight she had felt when last in this room touched her.

Jason heard her and turned. His gaze met hers, keenly perceptive, searching for signs of her mood. “Good morning, my dear.”

Carefully gliding past the desk, Lenore nodded. “Your Grace.”

For a moment, realisation of what she was wearing held Jason still. Then, shutting the book and laying it aside, he stood.

“I must apologise, Your Grace, for my outburst yesterday.” Lenore hurried into the speech, desperate to clear that particular hurdle. Rather than take the seat behind the desk, she stopped beside the window, her gaze on the garden, holding herself erect, head high as she recalled her embarrassing behaviour. “I realise my accusations were unfounded and entirely out of order.” She inclined her head in Eversleigh's direction, too tense to look directly at him. “I pray you will excuse me.”

“I believe you were somewhat overwhelmed at the time,” came the smooth reply.

Lenore looked around to find he had come to stand on the other side of the window, negligently propping one shoulder against the frame, his grey eyes oddly gentle as they studied her.

The blush that rose to her cheeks was another irritation. Biting her tongue on the unwise retort that her mind had instantly supplied, she forced her voice to an even tone to say, “At the time, I was not thinking with my customary clarity.”

Jason's lips curved. “Granted.” His voice retained its even, reassuring tone as he added, “Apropos of that event, you'll be re-lieved to know that neither Lord Percy nor any of the three ladies can recall anything of it. In fact,” he mused, “it's doubtful that they recall having been anywhere near this room.”

Lenore blinked. She returned his unwavering scrutiny for a full minute before remarking, “One of the benefits of being born to the purple?”

Jason's smile reached his eyes. “One of the
few
benefits of being born to rule.”

A puzzled frown settled over Lenore's brows. “But why?” she eventually asked, curiosity overcoming reserve. “Surely their…interruption strengthened your hand?”

She glanced up to meet a stern, not to say forbidding, frown.

“My dear Lenore, if you imagine I'd allow any breath of scandal to touch my future wife's name—worse, would permit the slightest suggestion that I offered for her to rectify some slight to her honour—you are greatly mistaken.”

She had to have imagined it, for he had not altered his stance, yet Lenore was certain he had somehow grown larger, taller, infinitely more intimidating. She felt her eyes grow round. “Oh.”

“However,” Jason said, letting his sudden tension seep away. He looked down, examining the signet on his right hand. “If we are on the subject of apologies, you have my very humblest, Lenore, for the shock you were subjected to last night. It was not my intention that any announcement be made. I had merely asked your father for permission to pay my address to you in form.” He looked up as he spoke, capturing her eyes with his, willing her to understand. “I think, somehow, he misunderstood.”

The sincerity in his tone, in the grey of his eyes, the look which was, she suspected, as close to beseeching as he would ever get, shook Lenore. Breathless all over again, she swung her gaze away, out of the window, to the weeping cherry gracing the lawn. “He does that, I'm afraid. He hears only the words he wishes to hear and disregards the rest.”

That was the truth. Her father was the worst sort of manipulator—had been for years. But it was the revelation that Eversleigh had not sought to conspire with her sire behind her back that shook Lenore to her very soul. Unfortunately, having her reading of his character thus confirmed did not make the task before her any easier. Drawing a determined breath, she hurried on. “However, even though we might agree that neither of us is to blame for the predicament we now find ourselves in, there is still that very predicament to be faced.”

“Which predicament is that?”

Lenore turned to face him only to find his expression improbably bland. Her eyes narrowed. “To all intents and purposes, Your Grace, we are betrothed. Everyone who attended last night believes that to be so.”

Jason merely nodded, watching her closely.

Her worries flooding back, Lenore drew herself up, pressing her hands tightly together, crushing the front of her skirt. “My lord, I would ask you to release me from this…this unforeseen contract.”

Jason's stern expression returned; Lenore's heart quavered.

“That, my dear, would be very difficult to do.”

“But you
could
do it—we could say we were mistaken.”

Jason's winged brows rose. “But I'm not mistaken.” Lenore allowed her exasperation at that arrogant statement to show. Jason disregarded it, straightening away from the window frame. “Even if I were prepared to allow you to waste your life here—”

“I am
not
wasting my life!”

“With old civilisations?” A contemptuous wave indicated her desk. “You have a life to live, Lenore. You must live it in the present, not the past.”

“I have plenty to occupy my present, Your Grace.”

“Jason. And if you're referring to your position as chatelaine of Lester Hall,” Jason said, advancing to stand in front of her, “how long do you think that will last once Jack weds?”

Her face told him all. Lenore stared up at him, her expression utterly blank. “Jack…” She blinked, struggling to bring the idea more firmly into focus.

“It comes to us all.” The statement held more than a hint of irony. When Lenore remained silent, Jason added more gently. “You cannot expect to remain in your position of eminence here, my dear.”

It was a major effort to wrench her mind about to view her life from a different perspective, but, once she had done so, Lenore felt utterly defeated. She had concentrated for so long on getting her present established as she wished, she had overlooked the future. And her brothers, of course, had never encouraged anyone to think of their marrying.

“If you'll consider the matter, my dear, I think you'll see that marriage to me will assure you of the position, the status, you deserve.”

Jason studied her face, then continued, his words softly seductive. “I need you far more than the Lesters, Lenore.” A little staggered by how truthful he was being, he quickly added, “Besides the Abbey, which, God knows, is large enough to house a brigade and frequently does, there's the London houses, as well as minor estates in Leicestershire, Northumberland and Cornwall.”

Her gaze abstracted, a frown tangling her brows, Lenore shifted restlessly, casting a troubled glance up at him. “I can understand why your aunts wish you to wed, Your Grace.”

“Jason.” Jason paused, then carefully played his trump card.

“Besides, you wouldn't want to destroy your father's peace of mind.” Instantly, he knew he had struck true. Lenore looked up, her expression revealing her suspicions. Relentlessly, Jason pressed his advantage home, his eyes, deadly serious, holding hers. “My offer lifted a great weight from his shoulders. He has worried about you, and your future, for years. From what he let fall, our betrothal will greatly ease your aunt's mind, too. Apparently, she's felt responsible for your state, imagining herself to have failed in imbuing you with suitable sentiments.”

“No!” Lenore was appalled. Vehemently, she shook her head. “I decided what I wanted to do. It was no fault of theirs.”

“That may be so, but you cannot deny their concern for your welfare.”

“But…” Raising a hand to brush back a wisp of hair, Lenore felt the web of her situation closing about her. Distractedly she looked up, into the calm of Eversleigh's eyes.

Moved by an emotion she was not at all pleased to have to acknowledge, invoked by the helpless look in her eyes, Jason, with the greatest reluctance, chanced his all on one last throw. “My dear, if you can give me one sane, rational reason why we should not wed, I'll do what I can to dissolve our betrothal.”

Lenore's mind jumped at the offer, even if her emotions lagged behind. Her eyes brightened, only to dim as the truth of her position sank in. She stared up into his eyes, confirming that the offer was indeed genuine, that he was giving her an opportunity to save her heart.

She couldn't take it.

No lady or gentleman of her class would consider her fear of being hurt, of giving and receiving nothing in return, her very fear of loving, to be a sane and rational reason, not in any circumstances. And how could she dash her father's joy? For she had seen it clearly, had not needed Eversleigh to tell her how proud and relieved her parent had been. There was, as she had feared in the dark of last night, no escape.

Swallowing, Lenore allowed the past to slip away, jettisoning her image of her future and, knowing there was no alternative, she allowed his image to fill the void. Dropping her gaze, she stared at her linked hands. “I have no reason to advance, Your Grace.”

She missed the sudden easing of tension in Jason's shoulders as he let out the breath he had been holding. “Jason,” he corrected softly. Her reluctance, he knew, stemmed from some peculiar female fear. He would lay it to rest—once she was his.

Lenore looked up, then, slowly, inclined her head, letting her lashes fall. “Jason.”

For a moment, all was still. No sound broke the silence bar the cooing of doves from beneath the window and the shrill call of starlings in the cherry tree. Lenore felt the odd tension that held them. Nervous of where it might lead, she shook her shoulders and straightened, raising her head to look out of the window once more. “Given that it seems we are to wed, Your Grace—Jason,” she amended, “I would like to know what you expect of me—precisely why you have determined that I am to be the next Duchess of Eversleigh.”

Jason frowned. “I'm certain you'll fulfil the demands of that role admirably, my dear.”

“Be that as it may, I should like to know precisely what duties you believe that role to encompass.” Lenore kept her gaze on the cherry tree, knowing without looking that he was wearing his forbidding expression.

Jason eyed her profile. He did not like her question but relief at her acceptance of his suit prompted him to answer. Having considered the matter so frequently in recent days, his reasons for marriage were crystal-clear in his mind. He omitted his first stipulation. After their interlude of the previous afternoon, he needed no further confirmation of her state. Only a virgin could have responded so…so…Abruptly, he hauled his mind away from that track. “As a wife, I need a woman of breeding who can act as my hostess, someone with the requisite talents and experience to run a large household and to officiate at both formal and large family gatherings.” Jason forced himself to step back, leaning against the window frame, folding his arms against temptation. “I do not need a giddy miss, more intent on her own enjoyment than solicitous of her guests' welfare. You, on the other hand, have impeccable credentials in that area.”