Stephanie Laurens Rogues' Reform Bundle (29 page)

He had no intention of being a conventional spouse, nor of settling for a conventional marriage. Not now he knew he could have so much more. With a snort of derision Jason hauled on the grey's reins and set the beast down the track for the stables. Agatha had been right—he was a fool beyond excuse for having recited his reasons for marriage. But that was the past; he needed to secure the future—their future.

Thwarted by her reticence, he had attempted, first to encourage, then to entrap her into admitting her love, hoping to use the opportunity to assure her of his. Remembering the scene, Jason grimaced. Unfortunately, his wife was one of those rare women who could, if pushed, out do him in sheer stubborn will. He was powerless to cajole, much less force her to reveal her secrets. She remained adamantly opposed to uttering the very words he dreamed of hearing her say—for the simple reason that he had led her to believe he would never want to hear them.

“Damn it—
why
is it that only women are allowed to change their minds?”

The grey tossed his head. With a frustrated sigh, Jason turned him on to the wide bridle path at the bottom of the hill and loosened the reins.

There was only one solution. He would have to convince her that, against all expectations, he did indeed love her. As the steep roof of the stables rose above the last trees, Jason acknowledged that mere words were unlikely to suffice. Actions, so the saying went, spoke louder.

 

M
OONLIGHT STREAMED
in through the long uncurtained windows, bathing Lenore's bedroom in silvery light. Thoroughly exhausted, courtesy of her husband's amorous games, Lenore lay deeply asleep. Beside her, Jason was wide awake, listening for the sounds that would herald Moggs and his surprise. A full week had passed since his visit to the escarpment. It had taken that long to devise, then execute his plan. Tonight was the final stage, for which he had had to enlist Moggs' support.

Eyes wide in the dim light, Jason had time to pray that his valet would, as with most other matters, keep silent on this night's doings. The notion of facing his servants after they had heard of his latest touch of idiocy did not appeal. Quite how he and Moggs were going to conceal the evidence afterwards, he had not yet considered but he would think of some ploy. Unbidden, Frederick Marshall's image floated into his mind. Jason grinned wryly. If Frederick ever heard of this episode, he would cut him without compunction. Recalling his friend's absorption with Lady Wallace, Jason's grin broadened. On the other hand, it was entirely possible that Frederick might need advice on a similar problem someday soon.

A soft click heralded Moggs' arrival. Raising his head, Jason saw his valet's diminutive form glide into the room. Moggs moved about the large chamber, arranging his surprise as directed. Keeping count as Moggs went back and forth, Jason slowly eased from the warmth of his wife's bed and, finding his robe on the floor, shrugged into it. Padding noiselessly across the floor, he joined his redoubtable henchman as Moggs settled the last of his cargoes on the carpet.

“Thank you, Moggs.” Jason kept his words to a whisper.

Silent as ever, Moggs bowed deeply and withdrew, drawing the door shut behind him and easing the latch back so that it did not even click.

Alone with his sleeping wife, Jason turned and surveyed Moggs' handiwork. Then, reaching into the deep pocket of his robe, he drew forth a stack of white cards. For a moment, he stood silently regarding them, and the words inscribed in his own strong hand upon their smooth surfaces. If this didn't work, Lord only knew what else he could do.

Like a ghostly shadow, Jason circled his wife's chamber, depositing the cards in their allotted places. Finally, with a sigh and a last prayer for success, he slid into bed beside his wife.

 

L
ENORE WOKE
very early. The muted light of pre-dawn suffused the room, slanting in through the long windows on either side of the bed. It was, she was well aware, anticipation that brought her to her senses thus early in the day. She was facing away from Jason; without turning, she let her senses stretch. His body was relaxed and still, heavy in the bed behind her, his breathing deep and regular. Deciding she could do with a doze before he woke her up, she was about to snuggle deeper under the eiderdown when the outline of something caught her eye.

Something that should not have been there. Raising her head, Lenore blinked through the dimness, waiting for her eyes to adjust. In the grey light she made out the shape of a pedestal placed a few feet from the window, a vase of flowers—were they roses?—atop.

Frowning, she glanced to the right and saw another pedestal, the twin of the first. Slowly easing up until she was sitting, Lenore saw a third and a fourth—in fact, a large semi-circle of pedestals supporting vases of roses surrounded her bed.

They couldn't be roses. It was November.

Propelled by curiosity, Lenore slipped from her bed, shivering as the chill air reminded her of her nakedness. Suppressing a curse, she grabbed up her nightgown from the floor where Jason had thrown it and dragged it over her head. Seconds later, she was standing by the first pedestal, staring through the poor light at the flowers in the vase. They looked like roses—perhaps made of silk? Lenore rubbed a velvety petal between two fingers. Real roses. As far as she could tell in the odd light, golden ones.

Turning to study the display, she counted fifteen pedestals, each vase sporting twenty or so beautiful blooms. Such extravagance would have cost a small fortune. No need to ask from whom they came.

Slanting a glance at the bed, she saw that the large lump that was her husband had not stirred. Looking back at the vase, she noticed a small card propped by the base, overhung by a spray of roses. Picking it up, she held it to the light. “Dear” was inscribed upon the pristine surface in her husband's unmistakable scrawl. Nothing more.

Glancing at the next pedestal, Lenore saw it, too, held a card. That one said “Lenore”.

Faster and faster, Lenore flitted from vase to vase, collecting cards until she stood on the other side of the bed, by the other window and, hardly daring to believe the message they held, forced herself to shuffle them and read it again.

Her heart in her mouth, Lenore looked up, straight into her husband's grey eyes. He was very much awake, propped on the pillows, his arms crossed, tense, behind his head, watching her. The shadows of the bed hid his expression.

When she simply stood, his painstakingly inscribed cards carrying a message he had sweated blood over in her hands, and said nothing, Jason inwardly grimaced. “Well, my dear?” he prompted, as gently as he was able.

Lenore did not know where to start. Struggling to command her voice, she waved at him. “Come here if you want my answer.”

Slowly expelling the breath he had been holding, Jason sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed. Did she have to make this quite so difficult? He was on tenterhooks, more nervous than he had ever been in his life. Reaching for his robe, he stood and shrugged into it, belting it loosely before crossing the few yards to stand before her.

Fingers clutching the white cards she could not yet believe were real, Lenore waited until he towered over her before asking, her voice a shaky whisper, “Do you
really
love me?”

Her throat had constricted; tears were not far away.

Jason's heart stopped. Desperately, his eyes searched her face, trying to discover what she meant by her question, what further assurance it was in his power to give her. From his heart came the answer. Without thinking, he went down on one knee before her, capturing one small hand in his. “Lenore, I arranged our marriage for all the wrong reasons but I never
asked
you to marry me.
Will
you marry me, my dear, not for all my rational reasons, but for the right reason—because you love me—and I love you?”

Tears obliterated Lenore's vision. “Oh, Jason!” she sobbed.

Immediately, Jason was on his feet but before he could do anything, Lenore threw herself into his arms, clinging to him, the white cards scattering like confetti about them.

Bemused, Jason closed his arms about his sobbing wife, burying his face in her golden hair. “Sweetheart, I didn't mean to make you cry.”

“It's—” Lenore sniffed, then gulped. “It's just
too
beautiful,” she wailed, as a fresh flood threatened. “Oh,” she said, struggling to wipe her eyes on his sleeve. “This is
dreadful
. I'm not a watering pot, truly.”

“Thank God for that,” Jason replied. The fact that, despite her unconventional response, he had got the answer he wanted was slowly sinking in. The relief was enormous. Wrapping his arms about his snuffling wife, he lifted her and carried her back to their bed.

Snuggling back beneath the eiderdown, Lenore wiped her eyes with the lace edge of the coverlet. Her thoughts were whirling, a disjointed jumble of emotions buffeted her. She blinked at her husband as he climbed back into bed beside her, stretching out on his back, his head on the pillows. He shut his eyes, as if worn out. “You really do love me?” she asked, her voice rather small.

Exasperated, Jason groaned. “Lenore—no man in his right mind makes a cake of himself as I have over you without a
bloody good reason
. Now for God's sake come and put me out of my misery and convince me my reason was, in truth, the very best.”

He reached for her. Lenore gave a last watery giggle and, without further ado, devoted herself to convincing her arrogant rake of a husband that she did indeed love him.

Beyond
all reason.

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

“L
ADY
A
SFORDBY
, of Asfordby Grange, requests the pleasure of the company of Mr. Jack Lester, of Rawling's Cottage, and guests, at a ball.”

Ensconced in an armchair by the fireplace, a glass of brandy in one long-fingered hand, the white card of Lady Asfordby's invitation in the other, Jack Lester made the pronouncement with ill-disguised gloom.

“She's the
grand dame
of these parts, ain't she?” Lord Percy Almsworthy was the second of the three gentlemen taking their ease in the parlour of Jack's hunting box. Outside, the wind howled about the eaves and tugged at the shutters. All three had ridden to hounds that day, taking the field with the Quorn. But while both Jack and his brother Harry, presently sprawled on the chaise, were clipping riders, up with the best of them, Percy had long ago taken Brummel's lead, indefatigable in turning out precise to a pin but rarely venturing beyond the first field. Which explained why he was now idly pacing the room, restless, while the brothers lounged, pleasantly exhausted, with the look about them of men not willing to stir. Pausing by the fireplace, Percy looked down on his host. “Lend a bit of colour to your stay, what? Besides,” he added, turning to amble once more, “You never know—might see a golden head that takes your eye.”

“In this backwater?” Jack snorted. “If I couldn't find any golden head worth the attention last Season—nor during the Little Season—I don't give much for my chances here.”

“Oh, I don't know.” Unconsciously elegant, Harry Lester lounged on the chaise, one broad shoulder propped against a cushion, his thick golden locks rakishly dishevelled. His sharply intelligent green eyes wickedly quizzed his elder brother. “You seem remarikably set on this start of yours. As finding a wife has become so important to you, I should think it behoves you to turn every stone. Who knows which one hides a gem?”

Blue eyes met green. Jack grunted and looked down. Absent-mindedly, he studied the gilt-edged card. Firelight glinted over the smooth waves of his dark hair and shadowed his lean cheeks. His brow furrowed.

He had to marry. He had inwardly acknowledged that fact more than twenty months ago, even before his sister, Lenore, had married the Duke of Eversleigh, leaving the burden of the family squarely on his shoulders.

“Perseverance—that's what you need.” Percy nodded to no one in particular. “Can't let another Season go by without making your choice—waste your life away if you're too finicky.”

“I hate to say it, old son,” Harry said. “But Percy's right. You can't seriously go for years looking over the field, turning your nose up at all the offerings.” Taking a sip of his brandy, he eyed his brother over the rim of his glass. His green eyes lit with an unholy gleam. “Not,” he added, his voice soft, “unless you allow your good fortune to become known.”

“Heaven forbid!” Eyes narrowing, Jack turned to Harry.

“And just in case you have any ideas along that track, perhaps I should remind you that it's our good fortune—yours and mine and Gerald's, too?” Features relaxing, Jack sank back in his chair, a smile erasing the severe line of his lips. “Indeed, the chance of seeing
you
playing catch-me-who-can with all the enamoured damsels is sorely tempting, brother mine.”

Harry grinned and raised his glass. “Fear not—that thought has already occurred. If the
ton
stumbles onto our secret, it won't be through me. And I'll make a point of dropping a quiet word in our baby brother's ear, what's more. Neither you nor I need him queering our pitch.”

“Too true.” Jack shuddered artistically. “The prospect does not bear thinking of.”

Percy was frowning. “I can't see it. Why not let it out that you're all as rich as bedammed? God knows, you Lesters have been regarded as nothing more than barely well-to-do for generations. Now that's changed, why not reap the rewards?” His guileless expression was matched by his next words. “The debs would be yours for the asking—you could take your pick.”

Both Lester men bent looks of transparent sympathy upon their hapless friend.

Bewildered, Percy blinked and patiently waited to be set aright.

Unable to hold a candle to his long-time companions in the matter of manly attributes, he had long since become reconciled to his much slighter figure, his sloping shoulders and spindly shanks. More than reconciled—he had found his vocation as a Pink of the
Ton.
Dressing to disguise his shortcomings and polishing his address to overcome his innate shyness had led to yet another discovery; his newfound status spared him from the trial of chasing women. Both Jack and Harry thrived on the sport, but Percy's inclinations were of a less robust nature. He adored the ladies—from a distance. In his estimation, his present style of life was infinitely preferable to the racy existence enjoyed by his companions.

However, as both Jack and Harry were well aware, his present lifestyle left him woefully adrift when it came to matters of strategy in handling the female of the species, particularly those dragons who menaced all rakes—the matrons of the
ton.

And, naturally, with his mild manners and retiring ways, he was hardly the sort of gentleman who inhabited the debutantes' dreams. All the Lester men—Jack, at thirty-six, with his dark good looks and powerful athlete's physique, and Harry, younger by two years, his lithe figure forever graceful and ineffably elegant—and even twenty-four-year-old Gerald, with his boyish charm—were definitely the stuff of which females' dreams were made.

“Actually, Percy, old man,” Harry said. “I rather suspect Jack thinks he can have his pick regardless.”

Jack shot a supercilious glance at his sibling. “As a matter of fact, I've not previously considered the point.”

Harry's lips lifted; gracefully, he inclined his head. “I have infinite confidence, oh brother mine, that if and when you find your particular golden head, you won't need the aid of our disgusting wealth in persuading her to your cause.”

“Yes—but
why
the secrecy?” Percy demanded.

“Because,” Jack explained, “while the matrons have considered my fortune, as you so succinctly put it, as barely well-to-do, they've been content to let me stroll among their gilded flowers, letting me look my fill without undue interference.”

With three profligate sons in the family and an income little more than a competence, it was commonly understood that the scions of Lester Hall would require wealthy brides. However, given the family connections and the fact that Jack, as eldest, would inherit the Hall and principal estates, no one had been surprised when, once he had let it be known he was seriously contemplating matrimony, the invitations had rolled in.

“Naturally,” Harry suavely put in. “With all Jack's years of…worldly experience, no one expects him to fall victim to any simple snares and, given the lack of a Lester fortune, there's insufficient incentive for the dragons to waste effort mounting any of their more convoluted schemes.”

“So I've been free to view the field.” Jack took back the conversational reins. “However, should any whiff of our changed circumstances begin circulating through the
ton,
my life of unfettered ease will be over. The harpies will descend with a vengeance.”

“Nothing they like better than the fall of a rake,” Harry confided to Percy. “Brings out their best efforts—never more hellishly inventive than when they've a rich rake with a declared interest in matrimony firmly in their sights. They relish the prospect of the hunter being the hunted.”

Jack threw him a quelling glance. “Sufficient to say that my life will no longer be at all comfortable. I won't be able to set foot outside my door without guarding against the unimaginable. Debs at every turn, hanging on a fellow's arm, forever batting their silly lashes. It's easy to put one off women for life.”

Harry shut his eyes and shuddered.

The light of understanding dawned on Percy's cherubic countenance. “Oh,” he said. Then, “In that case, you'd better accept Lady Asfordby's invitation.”

Jack waved a languid hand. “I've all the Season to go yet. No need to get in a pother.”

“Ah, yes. But will you? Have all the Season, I mean?” When both Jack and Harry looked lost, Percy explained, “This fortune of yours was made on 'Change, wasn't it?”

Jack nodded. “Lenore took the advice of one of the pater's acquaintances and staked a fleet of merchantmen to the Indies. The company was formed through the usual channels and is listed in London.”

“Precisely!” Percy came to a flourishing halt by the fireplace. “So any number of men with an interest at the Exchange know the company was wildly successful. And lots of them must know that the Lesters were one of the major backers. That sort of thing's not secret, y'know. M'father, for one, would be sure to know.”

Jack and Harry exchanged looks of dawning dismay.

“There's no way to silence all those who know,” Percy continued. “So you've only got until one of those men happens to mention to his wife that the Lesters' fortunes have changed and the whole world will know.”

A groan escaped Harry.

“No—wait.” Jack straightened. “It's not that simple, thank God.” The last was said with all due reverence. “Lenore organized it, but naturally she could hardly act for herself in the matter. She used our broker, old Charters, a terribly stuffy old soul.
He
has never approved of females being involved in business—the old man had to lean on him to accept instructions from Lenore years ago. Charters only agreed on the understanding of secrecy all round—he didn't want it known that he took orders from a woman. Which probably means he won't admit it was us he was working for, as it's fairly well known Lenore was in charge of our finances. If Charters doesn't talk, there's no reason to imagine our windfall will become common knowledge overnight.”

Percy frowned and pursed his lips. “Not overnight, maybe. But dashed if I think it'll be all that long. These things filter through the cracks in the mortar, so my old man says.”

A sober silence descended on the room as the occupants weighed the situation.

“Percy's right.” Harry's expression was grim.

Glumly resigned, Jack held up Lady Asfordby's invitation.

“In more ways than one. I'll send round to Lady Asfordby to expect us.”

“Not me.” Harry shook his head decisively.

Jack's brows rose. “You'll get caught in the storm, too.”

Stubbornly, Harry shook his head again. He drained his glass and placed it on a nearby table. “
I
haven't let it be known I'm in the market for a wife, for the simple reason that I'm not.” He stood, stretching his long, lean frame. Then he grinned. “Besides, I like living dangerously.”

Jack returned the grin with a smile.

“Anyway, I'm promised at Belvoir tomorrow. Gerald's there—I'll tip him the wink over our desire for silence on the subject of our communal fortune. So you can proffer my regrets to her ladyship with a clear conscience.” Harry's grin broadened. “Don't forget to do so, incidentally. You might recall she was an old friend of our late lamented aunt and can be a positive dragon—she'll doubtless be in town for the Season, and I'd rather not find myself facing her fire.”

With a nod to Percy, Harry made for the door, dropping a hand on Jack's shoulder in passing. “I should inspect Prince's fetlock—see if that poultice has done any good. I'll be off early tomorrow, so I'll wish you good hunting.” With a commiserating grin, he left.

As the door closed behind his brother, Jack's gaze returned to Lady Asfordby's invitation. With a sigh, he put it in his pocket, then took a long sip of his brandy.

“So, are we going?” Percy asked around a yawn.

Grimly, Jack nodded. “We're going.”

While Percy went up to bed and the house settled to slumber around him, Jack remained in his chair by the fire, blue eyes intent on the flames. He was still there when, an hour later, Harry re-entered the room.

“What? Still here?”

Jack sipped his brandy. “As you see.”

Harry hesitated for a moment, then crossed to the sideboard. “Musing on the delights of matrimony?”

Head back, Jack let his eyes track his brother's movements. “On the inevitability of matrimony, if you really want to know.”

Sinking onto the chaise, Harry lifted a brow. “Doesn't have to be you, you know.”

Jack's eyes opened wide. “Is that an offer—the ultimate sacrifice?”

Harry grinned. “I was thinking of Gerald.”

“Ah.” Jack let his head fall back and stared at the ceiling. “I have to admit I've thought of him, too. But it won't do.”

“Why not?”

“He'll never marry in time for the pater.”

Harry grimaced but made no answer. Like Jack, he was aware of their sire's wish to see his line continue unbroken, as it had for generations past. It was the one last nagging worry clouding a mind otherwise prepared for death.

“But it's not only that,” Jack admitted, his gaze distant. “If I'm to manage the Hall as it should be managed, I'll need a chatelaine—someone to take on the role Lenore filled. Not the business side, but all the rest of it. All the duties of a well-bred wife.” His lips twisted wryly. “Since Lenore left, I've learned to appreciate her talents as never before. But the reins are in my hands now, and I'll be damned if I don't get my team running in good order.”

Harry grinned. “Your fervour has raised a good few brows. I don't think anyone expected such a transformation—profligate rakehell to responsible landowner in a matter of months.”

Jack grunted. “You'd have changed, too, if the responsibility had fallen to you. But there's no question about it, I need a wife. One like Lenore.”