Stephanie Laurens Rogues' Reform Bundle (27 page)

“My dear Duchess! Allow me to compliment you on your gown, my dear.”

Mentally girding her loins, Lenore turned to exchange polite nods with Lady Hartwell. “How do you do, Lady Hartwell. Madame Lafarge will be delighted to know you approve of her style. Are you enjoying your evening?”

A little taken aback by this forthright response, Lady Hartwell rallied. “Why, yes, my dear. Such a sad crush, is it not? But I wanted to make sure you had received my note about my little gathering tomorrow. Dare I hope you'll be able to attend?”

With the ease born of frequent repetition, Lenore smiled at Lady Hartwell, just the right combination of regret and reluctance in her eyes. “Indeed I got your note, but I regret I'm promised elsewhere for the afternoon. Perhaps next time?”

Fleetingly laying her hand on her ladyship's gloved arm, as if appealing for her understanding, Lenore was not surprised to see resigned acceptance overlay her ladyship's annoyance. She had her routine perfected to an art.

After promising to attend her soirée later in the month, Lenore parted from her ladyship, returning once more to the safety of her own circle. Lady Hartwell's invitation was the sixth she had refused for the following afternoon. The number of ladies desirous of her company over tea would have made Harriet cackle.

Nodding to Lady Argyle as she passed her in the crowd, Lenore banished her boredom, casting herself once more into the fray—the chattering, glimmering, clamouring world of the
ton
.

For her, the time to leave could not come soon enough.

When, at last, the evening was done and she was handed into her carriage by her husband, she merely smiled sleepily at him, then subsided into silence, grateful for the darkness that cloaked her tiredness from his perceptive gaze. It was comforting, the way he was always there to escort her home. At times like this, when her willpower had been sapped by the demands of the ball and her resistance was low, she found it impossible not to admit, to that inner self who knew all her secrets, that she could not imagine any other gentleman giving her the same sense of security, of being protected against all harm. The vibrant strength of him as he sat beside her, his thigh brushing her silken skirts, came clearly to her senses.

Abruptly, blinking back her tears of frustration, Lenore turned to stare out of the carriage window, into the gloom. She had had her taste of paradise; she should be content with her memories—they were more than many others had to warm them.

Beside her, Jason sat, chilled to the marrow, a man condemned. As the carriage ambled over the cobbles towards Eversleigh House, he watched the fa
des slip past, his hand fisted so tightly his knuckles ached. Long before it had been time to quit Lady Cheswell's ballroom, he had exhausted all avenues of salvation. Lenore had not been at Lady Argyle's; there had been no other entertainments held that afternoon at which a lady of her station would have appeared.

Which left one vital question unanswered, a suffocating cloud of uncertainty pressing down blackly upon him, making it difficult to breathe and even harder to think.

Where
was
Lenore spending her afternoons—
and with whom
?

I
N THE DAYS
that followed, Jason verified beyond all possible doubt that his wife was absenting herself from the
ton
's afternoon entertainments. His mood vacillated between cold cynicism and the blackest despair. One minute he had convinced himself that he did not need to know who she was dallying with, the next he was overcome by a primitive urge to find the gentleman responsible and flay him to within an inch of his life. In his more rational moments he wondered how it had all come about, why he had been unwise enough to let such a black fate befall him.

It was Agatha who brought the matter to a head.

Pacing restlessly before the fire in his library, the October morning grey beyond the long windows, Jason read for the twelfth time, his aunt's missive. Quite why Agatha had nominated eleven o'clock for a meeting when she rarely rose before noon was a mystery. Likewise, he felt there was some significance in the fact that she had elected to call on him, rather than summoning him to attend her. Unfortunately he could not fathom what it was. Nevertheless, there could be no doubt that she was coming to tell him what he was not at all sure he wished to hear. Presumably Agatha had discovered what he had not—with whom Lenore was trysting.

The sound of the front doorbell halted him in his tracks. Lifting his head, he heard his aunt's tones, unusually muted, in the hall. Squaring his shoulders, Jason braced himself to hear the unwelcome truth.

Smythe held the door open as Agatha swept in.

“Good morning, Aunt.” Smoothly, Jason went forward and gave her his arm to the chaise.

“Glad you found the time to see me, Eversleigh.” Agatha subsided on to the chaise, settling her heavy green carriage dress and placing her muff beside her. As the door clicked shut behind Smythe, she raised a worried face to Jason, standing by the fireplace, one arm braced against the mantelpiece. “It's about Lenore. Don't know what your plans are, but you should take her back to the Abbey immediately.”

Despite the fact that he had expected as much, hearing it said brought the misery that much nearer. His heart a solid lump of cold stone in his chest, Jason steeled himself to learn which sprig had stolen Lenore from him.

All Agatha saw was the hardening of the planes of his face. Already austere, his features took on an intimidating cast. Agatha allowed her own stubbornness to show, wagging a stern finger at him. “Oh, her little deception has been quite clever and entirely successful thus far, I'll grant you, but she won't get away with it forever.”

Jason could bear it no longer. “For God's sake, Agatha, cut line. Who the devil
is
the bounder?” He ground the question out, then swung on his heel, restlessly pacing the hearth rug. “That's
all
I want to know. I'll call him out, of course.” The last was said with a certain measure of relief, even relish. At last he could do something, strike out at someone, to relieve his frustration and bitter disappointment.

Agatha stared at him as if he had run mad. “Have you lost your wits? If you're to blame any man, it would have to be yourself. And how can you call yourself out, pray tell?”

Jason halted, total bewilderment replacing his look of predatory rage.

Agatha waved him to a chair. “For God's sake, do sit down and stop towering over me. Remind me of your father when you behave like that.”

Too taken aback to protest, Jason did as he was bid.

“I'm merely here to bring to your notice the fact that Lenore is not well.” Agatha fixed her nephew with a penetrating stare. “
If
she's breeding, she should be back at the Abbey. You know perfectly well she does not enjoy life here in town. It's my belief the air's not good for her, either. And the strain of supporting her new position, on top of all else, is proving too much.”

“Nonsense.” Jason had regained his composure. Obviously, his aunt was not as
au fait
with his wife's doings as he had thought. “She's enjoying herself hugely—throwing herself into the fray with the best of them.” His tone was dismissive, laced with contempt.

Agatha's brows rose to astronomical heights. “Nonsense, is it? And just how much do you know of your wife's life, sir? It might interest you to know that, when I did not see her at any of the afternoon engagements over the past week, I became suspicious. When she did not appear at Mrs. Athelbury's tea, I stopped by here yesterday at four. And what did I find?”

Transfixed, Jason waited, every muscle tensed.
Here
? In his house?

Agatha's eyes narrowed. “I'd wager my best bonnet she was laid down upon her bed, fast asleep.
That
's why she looks so much better in the evening than she does at luncheon. Spends her afternoons recouping so no one will see how worn down she is. Doesn't sound like enjoyment to me.”

Jason's brain was reeling. “Did you see her?”

“Oh, yes.” Agatha sat back. “Those fools of yours woke her before I knew what they were about. Half green, she was—so you needn't tell me I'm not right. She's breeding, is she not?”

Absent-mindedly, Jason nodded. Lenore was not playing him false—had never done so—had never even thought of it.

When her nephew remained silent, absorbed with his thoughts, Agatha humphed. “What the devil is going on between you two? You're head over ears in love with each other, which anyone with eyes in their heads can see, and you're both playing fast and loose—for all the world as if you're trying to convince yourselves, and the
ton
, that isn't so.” Agatha paused to draw breath. Seeing the stunned expression on her nephew's face, she rushed on, determined to have her say. “Well—it's not working, so you might as well make the best of it and take off for the country!” She glared belligerently at Jason.

Jason stared back. The idea that the entire
ton
was privy to what he had hitherto believed a deep personal secret left him staggered. Foundering in a morass of relief, consternation and uncertainty, he voiced the first thought that entered his head. “Lenore doesn't love me. We did not marry for love.”

“
You
may not have—who said you had?” Agatha opened her eyes wide. “I remember your reasons for marriage quite clearly—you needn't repeat them. But what do you imagine that's got to do with it?” When Jason made no response but, instead, looked set to slide back into melancholy absorption, she added, “And as for Lenore's not loving you—you know nothing about the matter. Well—we all know what rakes are like—and let's face it, dear boy, you're one of the leaders of the pack. Never do know anything of love. Blind, you know. Rakes always are, even when it hits them in the face.”

Jason recovered enough to bestow a warning glance.

Agatha was unimpressed. “You aren't going to try to tell me that you don't love her, are you?”

Jason coloured.

“Ah ha! And I'm just as right about Lenore—you'll see. Or you would, if you'd only
do
something about it.”

“That, my dear aunt, I think I can safely promise.” Feeling that he had allowed his aunt to lead the conversation long enough, Jason straightened in his chair. Agatha frowned, as if recalling some caveat to her deductions.

Glancing up, Agatha found her nephew's grey gaze fixed on her face. “Tell me,” she said, narrowing her eyes. “Did you, by any foolish chance, tell Lenore why you wanted to wed her—your ‘reasons for marriage'?”

“Of course, I did.”

“Merciful heavens!” Agatha declared in disgust. “By all the gods, Jason, I'd have thought you could do better than that. An approach, no better than the veriest whipster.”

Jason stiffened.

“Positively useless!” Agatha continued. “No wonder Lenore has been so set on this charade of hers—with no cost counted. She thinks to please you, to give you want you said you wanted—a marriage of convenience—no!—a marriage of
reason
.” Her tone scathing, her expression no less so, Agatha gathered her muff and fixed her errant nephew with a stern glare. “Well, Eversleigh! A nice mull you've made of it. Your wife's been endangering her health and that of your heir just to give you the satisfaction of knowing your duchess is accepted by all the best people. I just hope you're satisfied.” Imperiously, Agatha rose. “I suggest, now that I've shown you the error of your ways, you take immediate steps to rectify the situation.”

Her message delivered, in a most satisfying way, for she had rarely had the pleasure of seeing her intimidating nephew so vulnerable, Agatha bestowed a curt nod upon him and left him to his task. Feeling justifiably pleased with her morning's work, she swept out.

Left to mull over her words, Jason was unsure whether he stood on his head or his heels. Luckily, the numbing sensation did not last, blown away by sheer relief and heady elation. Lenore was still his. Feeling oddly humble, he silently vowed he would take nothing for granted with respect to his wife henceforth. Dragging in what seemed like his first truly relaxed breath in a week, he stood and strode determinedly to the door.

It was time and past he had a long talk with his wife.

Upstairs, Lenore had just staggered from her bed. Unaware of any impending danger, she was engaged in her customary occupation on first rising—contemplating the roses about the rim of the basin left in readiness on a sidetable. She had long ago ceased to fight the nausea that engulfed her as soon as she came upright and took two steps. It was a thing to be endured. So she clung to her bowl and shut reality from her mind, waiting for the attack to pass.

Feeling her legs weaken and her knees tremble, she grasped the bowl more firmly and sank to the carpeted floor. In acute misery, she tried to think of other things as spasm after spasm shook her.

The click of the door-latch penetrated her blanket about her senses. Trencher, no doubt, with her washing water. Lenore remained silent on the floor. She had no secrets from Trencher.

His hand on the door knob, Jason surveyed his wife's room. He had knocked gently but had heard no response. Puzzled, his glance swept the rumpled bed, the drawn curtains. Perhaps she was in the small chamber beyond? Frowning, he took a step into the room and closed the door behind him.

Turning, his vision adjusting to the dimmer light, he looked across to the door that led into Lenore's bathing chamber. And saw her bare feet and the hem of her nightgown on the floor beyond the bed.

“Lenore!”

His exclamation shook Lenore firmly into reality. She lifted her head, barely able to believe her senses. But the heavy footsteps approaching the bed did not belong to Trencher.

“Go away!” The effort to imbue her words with a reasonable amount of purpose brought on another bout of retching.

Jason reached her, his expression grim. “I'm here and I'm staying.” Appalled to see her so pale and weak, he sank on to the floor beside her, drawing the long strands of her hair back from her face, letting her slump against him as the paroxysm passed.

Lenore longed to argue but his presence was more comforting than she would have believed possible. His warmth struck through her thin gown, easing her tensed muscles. His hands about her shoulders imparted a strength of which she was sorely in need.

For the next few minutes, Jason said nothing, concentrating on supporting his wife, his hands moving gently, soothingly, over her shoulders and back.

Then the door opened and Trencher came hurrying in. Seeing him, she came to an abrupt halt, only just managing not to slosh the water in the ewer she carried on to the floor.

One look at her face was enough to tell Jason that his wife's maid was well aware of his ignorance of Lenore's indisposition. His eyes narrowed.

Recovering, Trencher came hurrying forward to place the ewer on the washstand. “Oh, Your Grace! Here, I'll take care of her.”

“No.
You
can get her a glass of water and a damp towel.
I'll
take care of her.”

Even through the dimness shrouding her senses, Lenore heard the determination that rang in his tongue. Despite her present circumstances, despite everything, she felt a ripple of pure happiness that he should be so adamant in his desire to help her, in claiming his right to do so. He was only being kind but she was in dire need of his kindness.

When Trencher returned with the glass and towel, Jason coaxed Lenore to drink, then, ignoring her weak protests, gently washed her face, cradling her in his arms. Handing the towel to the hovering maid, Jason raised a brow at his wife. “Better?”

Suddenly shy, Lenore nodded. Jason's arms slipped from her as he stood. Before she could even sit up, he bent and lifted her into his arms. Lenore clutched at his lapel, her eyes meeting Trencher's awed gaze.

Jason strode around the bed and deposited his wife on her pillows. Anticipating Trencher, he transfixed her with a steely glance and fluffed Lenore's pillows himself, before settling her back on them and tucking the eiderdown about her.

Seeing the maid gather the towel and basin and head for the door, Jason said, his tone coldly commanding, “Your mistress will ring when she has need of you.”

Eyes wide, Trencher bobbed a curtsy and withdrew, pulling the door shut behind her.

Making a mental note to have a word—several words, in fact—with his wife's maid, and his valet, on the subject of leaving him in ignorance of such vital matters as his wife's health, Jason turned his attention to Lenore. Smoothly taking her hand in his, he sat on the edge of the bed.

From beneath her lashes Lenore looked up at him, not at all certain of what would come next. Yet the unconscious movement of his thumb over her knuckles erased any trepidation.

His expression non-committal, Jason looked down at her. “How long has this been going on, Lenore?”

The concern in his voice tied Lenore's tongue. She looked down, picking at the lace edge of the eiderdown with her free hand while considering how much it would be wise to admit. She wished with all her heart to confess all and return to the Abbey, but the Season was not yet ended.