Stephanie Laurens Rogues' Reform Bundle (25 page)

Seeing nothing against the venture, Lenore agreed. Together with her friends, she crossed the wide lawn to where a punt was drawn up at the water's edge. Young Lord Falkirk had already assumed his place in the stern, the long pole gripped firmly between his hands. “A quick trip to the fountain and back, ladies?”

They laughingly agreed. In the middle of the shallow lake, an island of stones was crowned by a fountain which fed a small waterfall, the whole, in reality, a disguise for the small waterwheel concealed in the rocks which caused ripples on the otherwise glassy surface of the protected lake.

Mr. Hemminghurst followed them down and gallantly assisted them to board, handing them in with a flourish. Smothering their giggles, they took their seats on the punt's narrow crossboards. There was only just room enough for all three.

“Off we go, then!” With a sturdy heave, Lord Falkirk poled off.

Almost immediately, Lenore had second thoughts. By the time they were halfway to the rocks, she could feel each rolling wave created by the waterwheel as it passed under the punt. Her stomach started to move in synchrony. As they neared the rocks, she pressed a hand to her lips. The nape of her neck was warm and growing warmer—a very bad sign.

“Isn't it delightful!” Lady Morecambe leaned out to pull the boat closer to the island, rocking the boat dreadfully.

Lenore shut her eyes tight, then quickly opened them again. “Yes, quite,” she managed, before setting her teeth again. An ominous chill was spreading over the back of her shoulders.

Luckily, the other three occupants of the punt were more interested in the cunning way the waterfall had been created to hide the wheel assembly than in the odd hue she was sure her skin had assumed. Breathing deeply, Lenore told herself that they would head back now, that the rocking would get less with every yard they came closer to the shore. If she could just hold on, she would see this through, without giving her secret away. Agatha, she remembered, was in the crowd on the lawn, and Lady Attlebridge, too. Along with half the female members of the
ton
. This was the last place on earth to fall victim to her affliction.

After declaiming with what Lenore felt to be quite unnecessary long-windedness on the mechanism that drove the wheel, Lord Falkirk turned the punt around. Gradually, Lenore felt her glazed vision improve. The bank, and salvation, were only a few yards away. She blinked, then frowned, as her sight now revealed many of the other guests lining the edge of the lake, laughing and waving at them.

Naturally, Lady Morecambe and Mrs. Athelbury waved back. Perforce, Lenore had to join in, struggling to fix a smile on her lips. But with the increased movement, added to by Mrs. Athelbury leaning out of the punt to flick water at those on the shore, the punt was rocking quite hideously again.

Lenore felt the blood drain from her face. Any minute…She closed her eyes, very close to defeat.

“There we are!”

With a grand gesture, Lord Falkirk ran the punt aground.

Letting out the breath she had been holding in a shuddering sigh, Lenore waited patiently for the other two ladies to clamber out, drawing most of the gathering crowd's attention, before allowing Lord Falkirk to assist her to shore.

Once on
terra firma
, the young man looked at her in concern. “I say, are you all right, Lady Eversleigh? You look dev'lish pale.”

Summoning a smile, Lenore plastered it on her lips. “Just a touch of the sun, I suspect, my lord. I think I'll sit down in the shade for a minute. If you'll excuse me?”

Leaving his lordship casting puzzled glances at the light clouds covering the sun, Lenore headed for a wooden seat placed under a willow. The drooping branches of the willow gave her a modicum of privacy in which she could risk hunting in her reticule for the smelling salts Harriet had given her years before. She had never thought to use them, but, sighting the little bottle among the trinkets on her dressing-table, she had added it to the contents of her reticule the week before. Sending a thank-you prayer Harriet's way, Lenore took a cautious sniff then leaned back and closed her eyes.

To her relief, the crowd had moved on in the opposite direction to view the sunken garden. She was left in peace under the willow, a reprieve of which she took full advantage. Only when she was sure she could stand and walk without tempting disaster did she emerge and, finding the first of the guests departing, rejoined the crowd only to say her farewells.

Returning directly home in the swaying carriage, she only just managed to gain her chamber before the inevitable overcame her.

Trencher, tipped off by Smythe, came rushing up to assist her. Finally, with wet cloths laid over her brow, Lenore lay, weak and exhausted, stretched out on her bed. It was nearly five o'clock. Soon, she would have to get up and commence the long process of dressing for the evening.

“You'll feel lots better after a bath, my lady,” said Trencher, echoing Lenore's thoughts. “But rest awhile now. I'll call you when 'tis time.”

Lenore did not even try to nod. Total immobility seemed the only defence against this particular illness. She drifted into a light doze but all too soon she heard the sounds of her bath being readied in the small bathing chamber next door. The splashing of the water as it poured into the tub pulled her mind back to full consciousness.

This afternoon's near catastrophe could not be repeated—not if she wished to preserve her secret. Luckily, she had devised a plan. A plan that would, she fervently hoped, achieve her twin aims of concealing her indisposition while keeping the Duchess of Eversleigh circulating among the
haut ton
. A plan so simple, she was confident none would detect her sleight of hand.

With a deep sigh, Lenore removed the cloth from her forehead and slowly, gingerly, sat up. The room swayed gently before settling into its proper place. She grimaced. It was definitely time to put her plan into action.

W
ITH A PERFECTLY
genuine smile on her lips, Lenore whirled down the long ballroom of Haddon House, laughing up at Lord Alvanley as that jovial peer partnered her in a vigorous country dance. It was a week since Lady Hartington's luncheon and, Lenore reflected, her plan had worked wonders.

She laughed at Lord Alvanley's opinion of Lady Mott's latest coiffure, her confidence waxing strong. She had become adept at this charade, projecting the image of blissful enjoyment expected of a new peeress. She could rattle along with the best of them, prattling on about nothing of more serious consequence than their latest bonnets or exclaiming over the monkey Lady Whatsit had got from her latest lover. A charade of the superficial, while beneath her rouge her cheeks were still pale and her mind longed for quieter surrounds and more meaningful pastimes.

But she was determined to preserve her disguise until the Little Season ended and she could retire with honour to Dorset. It was the least she could do to repay her husband's generosity.

“An excellent measure, m'dear,” his lordship said as they came to a swirling stop. “Tell me, do you plan to open up that mansion of your lord's down in Dorset?”

While she waxed lyrical about the Abbey and her future plans for its use, Lenore became aware of an odd tingling at her nape, a sensation she associated with her husband's attention. Was he here? She had not seen him that day and was depressingly conscious of an urge to turn about and search the brightly dressed crowd for a glimpse of his elegant form.

Suppressing her highly unfashionable impulse, she nevertheless could not resist turning slightly, scanning the crowd while ostensibly discussing the most acceptable composition of house parties with his lordship.

From the corner of her eye she detected a movement, a black coat detaching itself from the brightly hued background. He
was
here—and was coming to speak with her. Desperately trying to dampen the excitement that swelled in her breast, Lenore realised Lord Alvanley was looking at her, an expectant expression on his good-natured face.

“Er…I do believe you're right, my lord,” Lenore hazarded. She heaved an inward sigh when his lordship all but preened.

Then he glanced up. “Here—Eversleigh! I've just had a capital notion—your wife thinks it so, too.”

“Oh?” Jason strolled up, favouring Lenore with a nod and an appraising stare. He shook hands with the Viscount. “Just what are you hatching, my friend?”

“Just a little party, don't y'know. A convivial gathering—just the old crew, none of these hangers-on. At the Abbey, old man! Just what your lady wife needs to set her in full trim. We were thinking of just after Christmas—what d'you think?”

One look at Lenore's face, at the way her eyes widened before she blinked, bringing her features under control, was enough to tell Jason the truth. “I think,” he replied, taking possession of one of her hands before she could commence wringing it and give herself away entirely, “that you have cast a glib spell over my susceptible wife.” Jason calmly switched his smile from his friend to Lenore. “However, we'll certainly consider your ‘capital notion', will we not, my dear?”

“Yes, of course.” Lenore felt a slight blush warm her cheeks. Glancing up, she met her husband's grey gaze, warm and reassuring, and felt her heart tremble. Abruptly, she conjured a smile and trained it upon Lord Alvanley as he bowed before her.

“Farewell, my dear Duchess,” his lordship said, wagging a playful finger her way. “But a last warning. Don't let your reprobate of a husband monopolise your time—not at all the thing, not at all.”

With a roguish smile, his lordship departed, merging into the crowd.

Jason quelled an impulse to grimace at his back. Monopolise his wife's time? If only he could. He glanced down; when Lenore persisted in studying his shoes, he calmly raised the hand he was still holding to his lips. She immediately looked up. As his lips caressed the back of her fingers, he felt them tremble. Her eyes, firmly trapped in his gaze, widened. “I'm glad I caught you, my dear. You've been cutting such a swathe through the ballrooms I feared I might not catch you up.”

Struggling to keep her voice matter-of-fact, Lenore let her lashes hide her eyes. “Have you been looking for me, my lord?”

“After a fashion.” Realising that to remain stationary with his wife was to invite interruption, Jason tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow and steered her towards the side of the room. “I wondered if you might care to ride with me in the Park one morning. My hunters need exercise. I keep a number of mounts suitable for you here in town—you don't need to fear to trust them. Given that you seem to have hit your straps with
ton
-ish entertainments, I thought you might like to savour yet another of London's pleasures.”

The elation Lenore had felt on hearing he had been looking for her, and that for the express purpose of requesting her company, sagged dramatically. She could not—dared not—accept. No matter how much her heart longed to do so, her stomach would never permit it. Unconsciously, her fingers tightened on his sleeve. “I…that is…” Desperately, she sought for some acceptable white lie. She could not even get out of bed in the mornings, not at the time he rode. But she had not told him of her indisposition—after all her hard work to avoid doing so, to avoid any possibility of his feeling compelled to urge her to return to the Abbey before she had become established socially, she felt deeply reluctant to do so now. In desperation, she fell back on the fashionable excuse. “I'm afraid, my lord, that I would find it extremely difficult to meet with you at that hour.”

That was the literal truth, even though she knew he would interpret it in an altogether erroneous way. She was hardly surprised to feel his instant withdrawal, although none watching them would have seen anything amiss.

“I see—no need to say more.” Jason tried very hard not to feel rejected. He forced himself to smile down at her. “You're bent on taking the
ton
by storm, my dear, making up for your years of absence with a vengeance.” Entirely against his will, his smile took on a wistful air. “Don't burn the candle at both ends, Lenore. It never does work.”

For one heart-stopping moment Lenore stared up into his eyes, wondering what it was she had glimpsed there.

Simultaneously, both she and Jason became aware of another, hovering before them. She turned and beheld Lord Falkirk, he of the punt, eyeing her, and her husband, uneasily. Having gained their attention, he grew even more nervous.

“The cotillion,” he said, as if stating the obvious. When they both continued to stare uncomprehendingly, he blurted out, “My dance, y'know, Lady Eversleigh.”

“Oh…yes, of course.” With an effort, Lenore gathered her wandering wits. She turned, with the greatest reluctance, to her husband. “If you'll excuse me, my lord?”

“Of course.” With consummate grace, Jason bowed over her hand. As she disappeared in the direction of the dance-floor, her hand on Lord Falkirk's arm, he had to fight an almost overwhelming urge to remove her forthwith from this ballroom, London and the
ton
and take her back to the Abbey with all speed. His inexperienced wife had certainly overcome her dislike of
ton
-ish entertainments. In fact, he would not wager a groat she had not changed her opinion entirely on such pastimes. Her enjoyment of the balls and parties seemed all too genuine.

As he settled his cuffs and looked about for the refreshment-room, Jason admitted that he did not wish that last to be so. An unnerving fear that he was losing his wife—the Lenore he had married, the Lenore he now wanted beyond all reason—had started to prey on his mind.

He was turning aside to hunt up a footman when his sleeve was twitched.

“Good evening, Your Grace. Tell me, are you finding this singularly pretentious ball as boring as I am?”

Closing his eyes, Jason prayed for patience. Where were they coming from? It was as if the bored wives of the
ton
had declared open season—on him. Smoothly turning to bow over Eugenia, Lady Hamilton's hand, he allowed his brows to rise. “Do you find this boring, Eugenia?” As if seeing the thronging guests for the first time, Jason lifted his quizzing glass, rarely if ever used except in instances such as this, and scanned the multitude. “Dear me. I believe you may well be right.” The glass swung about to focus on Lady Hamilton. For a pregnant instant, Jason viewed her through it, as if examining the pale blonde curls clustered about her sharp face and the voluptuous curves daringly revealed for all to see, before letting the weapon fall. “There do seem to be an enormous number of boring people present. I fear I've been so engrossed in conversation I had failed to remark the fact.”

“You were talking to your
wife
!” Lady Hamilton snapped.

Jason's grey eyes, cold and hard, swung down to impale her. “Precisely.” He let a measured period elapse, to make sure that barb struck home, before, with the slightest of polite nods, he said, “If you'll excuse me, Eugenia. I'm thirsty.”

From her position in the cotillion Lenore saw him turn away and let out the breath she had been holding. They were shameless, every last one. Even had she not come to London with a very accurate idea of her husband's past history, the blatant advances made to him by certain of the so-called ladies of the
ton
would have made all clear to a novice. And she was no novice. She knew all too well what they were offering—it was a wonder he had not yet taken any of them up on their invitations.

As she obediently twirled through the next figure, the idea that he had, but she did not know of it, arose to torment her. In an effort to hold back the tide of sheer misery that welled at the thought, Lenore forced her mind to another puzzling point. What did that odd look mean, the softer light she had seen, quite clearly, just for a moment, in his eyes?

“Lady Eversleigh!”

Just in time, Lenore avoided a collision. Whispering her apologies to Lord Falkirk, she sternly warned herself to keep her mind on the business at hand. That her husband felt some degree of affection for her was no great discovery—witness his many kindnesses. The gentle expression in his eyes owed its existence to that—and nothing more. And his words of concern might just as well stem from an entirely proprietorial interest in her health—and that of his heir. No need to puzzle any longer—there was no mystery there.

She would have to stop her silly yearnings—they could only cause her grief.

“Thank you, my lord.” Lenore rose from her final curtsy and gifted Lord Falkirk with a brilliant smile. “Perhaps you could escort me to Lady Agatha?” she suggested. “I think she's near the door.”

Perfectly willing to be seen with one of the brightest lights in the
ton
on his arm, Lord Falkirk readily agreed.

Fixing a suitable smile on her lips, Lenore glided graciously by her escort's side, sternly reminding herself of her purpose. She could not simply go home—the night was yet young. But at least she could gain a respite by Agatha's side, before she threw herself once more into the fray—the hurly-burly of being the Duchess of Eversleigh.

It was a difficult task, constantly to perform as if her whole existence revolved about the glib conversations, the innuendo and cynical laughter, the glittering carousel of the
ton
at play. Particularly when her eyes kept straying out over the pomaded heads, searching for elegantly waving chestnut locks atop a tall frame. Now and again, he hove into view, always in the distance. Lenore struggled to shackle her jealousy for those unsighted women who stood before him, warmed by his slow smile.

“I vow and declare, my dear, it's all becoming far too heated—this argument between Lennox and Croxforth. And all over a horse, would you believe it?”

Nodding her head at Lady Morecambe's assessment, Lenore tried to keep from yawning. She had left Agatha to join her little clique—Lady Morecambe and Mrs. Athelbury, Mr. Merryweather, Lord Selkirk and Mr. Lawton. Miss Dalney, on the arm of Lord Moresby, had just come up. On the outskirts of this inner group, Lord Rodley, Mr. Hemminghurst, Lord Jerry Penshaw and a few other younger gentlemen hung, hopeful of gaining recognition but unsure how to most acceptably make their presence felt. Within the protective confines of her little circle, Lenore knew she would meet no challenge to her equanimity. “Perhaps they should simply sell the poor animal and halve the proceeds?”

Barely listening to the laughs this produced, Lenore allowed her mind to slide away. Having contributed her mite to keep the conversation flowing, she was woolgathering, her gaze idly scanning the crowd, when her husband again hove into view—but this time much nearer, approaching rapidly and, quite possibly, with intent.

Immediately, Lenore brightened, consciously infusing enthusiasm into her expression, a smile of dazzling brilliance on her lips. “Will you be attending Lady Halifax's drum tomorrow, my lord?” With a show of eagerness, she quizzed Lord Moresby. From the corner of her eye, she saw her husband's progress slow. “I've heard that her gatherings are always a sad crush.”

“Indeed, yes,” his lordship replied.

“I heard,” said Miss Dalney, leaning forward to speak across his lordship, “that at her last ball, part of the balustrade on her stairs was dislodged by the crowd trying to ascend.”

Lenore looked suitably impressed, mentally making a note to put Lady Halifax's affair at the bottom of her list. Lady Morecambe made a comment and Lenore took the chance to cast a surreptitious glance her husband's way. To her relief, he was deep in conversation with Lord Carnaby and seemed no longer interested in her.

In thinking so, she was wrong. While trading information on horseflesh with Lord Carnaby, another amateur of equine bloodlines, a large part of Jason's mind was absorbed in noting how scintillating his wife appeared. She was bright-eyed, radiant. She needed no help in braving the world of the
ton
—she had it at her pretty feet.