Stephanie Laurens Rogues' Reform Bundle

by Stephanie Laurens

  THE WEEKS that followed were an idyllic time for Lenore, a period lifted from her deepest dreams—those she had never acknowledged. Her days were filled with laughter and happy enterprise as Jason introduced her to his home. He was never far from her side as the summer days followed each other, sunshine and fair weather mirroring their interaction. The nights brought pleasures of a different sort, an enthralling web of sensation that wrapped them together with its silken strands. And through it all, like a swelling tide, ran a deepening, burgeoning realisation of what she had sensed was possible, what she had feared. But, in that halcyon time, it seemed that no dark cloud could intrude.

  AS HE SAT UP and swung his legs over the edge of his wife’s bed, Jason aimed a playful smack at her bottom, naked beneath the silk sheet.

  “Ow!” Lenore turned to frown direfully at him, rubbing her abused posterior. As he stood and drew on his grey silk robe, her expression turned sulky. Her lips pouted, but her eyes teased. “Didn’t I please you, my lord?”

  His grey eyes soft as he gazed down at her, Jason laughed. Catching her hand, he leaned over her to raise it to his lips. “You always please me, Lenore, as you very well know. Stop fishing for compliments.”

  Lenore’s smile was dazzling.

  Jason ducked his head and planted a kiss on her offended rump. When she merely giggled, he raised a brow at her. “In fact, your progress in your study of certain of the wifely virtues can only be described as remarkable.”

  Serenely content, Lenore turned to lie back on her pillows. “I had heard you were a very experienced teacher, Your Grace.”

  Jason’s brows rose, his expression coolly superior, but Lenore detected the twinkle in his eyes. “I will admit that in certain disciplines I have been labelled a master. However, natural aptitude and overt enthusiasm are beyond my poor powers to call forth.” Cinching the tie of his robe, he swept her an elegant bow. “Those talents, my dear, are entirely your own.” With a rakish smile and one last lingering look, Jason strolled across the room towards his chamber. The long windows were open; a summer breeze played with the fine curtains. Outside, a bright day beckoned, yet he had to exert all his willpower to leave his wife’s bed.

  Turning back at the door, he watched as she stretched languorously, like a sleek cat, sated and satisfied. They had been married more than a month yet her allure had not faded. He found her daily more fascinating, more tempting, their mutual passion more fulfilling. Which was not at all what he had expected.

  “You have to admit, my dear, that this marriage of convenience has, in fact, been highly convenient for us both.” With a slight smile, which did not succeed in disguising the frown lurking in his eyes, Jason turned and left the room.

  Lenore returned his light smile with one of her own, yet, when he had gone, her expression slowly sobered. A puzzled frown knitted her brows.

  Clouds found the sun. Suddenly chilled, Lenore pulled the coverlet up around her shoulders. Had he intended his last comment as a warning that she should not let herself forget the basis of their marriage?

  With a snort, she turned on her side to stare moodily at her nightdress, draped crazily over a chair where it had fallen the evening before. She was in no danger of forgetting their marriage—any part of it. She knew only too well that this was her time in paradise—that soon, this phase would end and he would leave to pursue his life as he had before. She had known how it would be from the start, when they had discussed his reason for marriage in the library at Lester Hall. Her role as he saw it was engraved in stone in her mind, but she had determined to focus on the present, to enjoy each moment as it came and lay up a store of memories, so that when the time came to bid him goodbye, she would be able to do it with dignity.

  Grumpily, Lenore pushed aside the coverlet and, shrugging on her robe, rang for Trencher.

  THE FIRST HINTS of gold had appeared in the green of the Home Wood on the day Jason and Lenore left its shady precincts to canter in companionable silence across the meadows to the forested ridge beyond.

  Holding his grey hunter to a sedate pace, Jason slanted a protective glance at Lenore, beside him on a dainty roan mare. In the last weeks, she had ridden over much of the estate, accompanying him whenever he rode out, eager to learn all she could of the Abbey’s holdings. Yet she was a far from intrepid horsewoman, recently admitting, when he had twitted her over her liking for the slowest mount in his stables, that she preferred to drive herself in a gig. His eyes opened, he had, from then on, taken the gig whenever possible. When he had tentatively suggested he buy her a phaeton and pair, she had laughed at him, breathlessly disclaiming all wish to travel faster than the pace of a single, well-paced beast. Jason’s lips twitched. His wife, he had finally realised, liked to play safe. She did not take risks; she was happy as she was, content with who she was, and sought no additional thrills. She liked calmness, orderliness—a certain peace.

  It had taken him weeks to realise that he had seriously disrupted her peace by uprooting her from Lester Hall. Ever after, he had sought to make it up to her, never entirely sure if he was succeeding, for there was still a side of her that remained hidden, elusive, a part of her he had yet to touch, to claim, to make his own.

  The thought brought a frown to his eyes.

  As they neared a hedge, Jason drew on his reins, turning his horse’s head. “This way,” he called and Lenore followed. He led her through a gate, then down a narrow lane, turning aside on to a bridle path cutting deep into the forest slope.

  Slightly nervous, as ever, atop a horse, Lenore kept her placid mare’s nose as close as she dared to Jason’s gelding’s rump. Jason had explained that the lookout he wished to take her to could not be reached by a carriage. She hoped the view would be worth the journey.

  As they wended their way upwards, between the boles of tall trees, the smell of damp earth and the tang of crushed greenery rose from beneath their horses hooves. And then they were in the open once more.

  Lenore gasped and reined in. Before her, the Eversleigh valley lay unfurled, a patchwork of fields dotted with cottages, the Abbey planted like a grey sentinel in their midst. “How beautiful!” she breathed, her eyes feasting on the panorama.

  Jason dismounted and came to lift her down. While he tethered the horses, Lenore looked her fill, then glanced about. The lookout was no more than a natural clearing on the side of the hill. A broad expanse of sun-warmed grass, protected from the winds by the trees about, provided a perfect picnic spot. A small stream bubbled and gurgled through rocks to one side, spreading to form a small pool before tumbling over the lip to disappear on its journey downhill.

  It was too late in the day for a picnic, but Lenore saw no reason not to avail herself of the amenities. She sat down, then, feeling the sun strike through her riding jacket, took it off, folding it neatly before laying it down and stretching full-length, her head on the velvet pillow.

  With a smile, Jason came up and stretched out beside her, propped on one elbow, a speculative light in his eyes.

  Lenore saw it. She struggled up on her elbows and squinted into the distance. “Having brought me here, my lord, you may now proceed to tell me what I am looking at.”

  Jason laughed and obliged. For the next twenty minutes, prompted by her questions, he described the layout of his tenant farms and gave her a potted history of the families who held them.

  When her questions ran out, they lapsed into silence, perfectly content, the afternoon golden about them.

  Dulled by his deep satisfaction in the moment, Jason’s faculties slowly turned to focus on his contentment—at how odd it was that he should feel so very much at peace, as if he had gained his life’s ambition and was now content to lie here, beside his wife, and revel in life’s small pleasures.

  His gaze dropped to Lenore, lying prone beside him, her eyes shut, a peaceful smile gently curving her lips.

  Desire shook him—desire and so much more. A wealth and breadth of feeling for which he was entirely unprepared rose up and
engulfed him.

  Abruptly, Jason looked away, across the valley, only to have his gaze fall on the Abbey. In the past six weeks Lenore had somehow become a part of it, synonymous in his mind with his home. She was its chatelaine, in spirit as well as fact.

  Allowing his mind to lose itself in aspects of his wife he found less confounding, to let the suffocating sensation that had overcome him dissipate, he dwelt on her success in taking up the reins of his household. Not that he had expected anything less. Her confidence in that sphere stemmed from experience and all in his employ had been quick to recognise that fact. He had held aloof, but had watched avidly. His wife had a natural flair for command, for organisation—the entire staff had fallen under her spell, Moggs included. He would not, in future, need to concern himself with matters within her jurisdiction.

  Which meant that there was no real reason he could not return to town. September was here, the ton would be filtering back to the capital in preparation for the Little Season. The total apathy that filled him at the thought of the social whirl, his milieu for the past decade and more, unnerved him. Why had he changed?

  “Penny for your thoughts?”

  Startled, Jason glanced down to find Lenore smiling up at him. He blinked, erasing all telltale expression. He shook his head. “They wouldn’t interest you.”

  He would have recalled the words, and his brusque tone, but it was too late. A frown crossed Lenore’s brow. Her eyes leached of expression.

  “I apologise for having intruded, Your Grace.”

  Abruptly, Lenore scrambled to her feet, all pleasure in the afternoon shattered. Briskly, she set about brushing down her skirts, shaking out her jacket before shrugging into it and buttoning it up.

  Languidly, endeavouring to hide his irritation, Jason rose to his feet. Damn her questions—how could he explain his thoughts when he did not understand them himself? When they might be too dangerous to put into words? They had made an arranged marriage—he had no right to expect more. And no assurance he could get more, even should he make the demand.

  What already lay between them was more than he had hoped for—he had no wish to risk it.

  Assuming the faintly bored air he used to deflect the curiosity of other women, he turned the matter aside with a superior, “My dear Lenore, it is not the fashion for married couples to live in each other’s pockets.”

  Lenore bit her tongue against the temptation to reply. She went to where her mare was peacefully cropping grass and busied herself untying her reins. Inwardly berating herself for being so foolish as to let his rejoinder bother her—for it was no more than the truth and she knew it—she silently vowed that, henceforth, she would not again fall into error, would never again forget that theirs was an arranged marriage and nothing more. From now on, she would keep her distance, as he, apparently, intended to keep his.

  Jason lifted her to her saddle, then swung up to his own. Turning the grey’s head back down the track, he led the way down, distracted and abstracted. Through the turmoil of his thoughts one fact stood out, immutable and unchanging. He had stated, clearly and decisively, his reasons for marrying. Lenore had accepted him on that basis, agreeing to leave her sanctuary and brave what he now recognised had been a challenging world. She was succeeding on all fronts—he could ask no more of her than that.

  But if he could have his heart’s desire—ask and be granted all that he wished—what then?

  The grey jibbed.

  His expression stony, Jason brought his horse under control and gave his attention to the ride home.

  IN THE DAYS that followed, Lenore made a concerted attempt to establish a daily routine that excused her from her husband’s side. Telling herself it was no more than what she would need when he was no longer in residence, she organised her day so it was full to overflowing, leaving no time for rides or picnics, or for any moping. And if her household chores were insufficient to fill her time, there was always the library. She had yet to complete a list of the types of books present, let alone consider how best to arrange them.

  For his part, Jason endeavoured to respect her transparent wish for her own life, her own interests. How could he not? This was undoubtedly how their lives should be lived, he with his concerns, she with hers. There was no necessity, given the relationship they shared, for any closer communication. He knew it.

  Yet, deep down, he didn’t like it. At first, he told himself his odd affliction would pass, that it was merely a temporary derangement of his senses, a reaction, perhaps, to taking a wife at his advanced age and so much against his inclination. But, when he found himself propped against the wall of the corridor in the west wing, gazing moodily at the library door, dismissing his present inclinations became that much harder. Fate, he finally decided, was playing games with him.

  The surrounding families had not been backward in welcoming Lenore to their circle. She dutifully played hostess to the expected visits; subsequently she and Jason were invited to the parties and dinners at which their neighbours amused themselves. They had dined with the Newingtons, and were descending the long flight of stone steps before Newington Hall, their hosts waiting on the porch above to wave them on their way, when fate sent Lady Newington’s fox terrier, escaping from the confines of the house, to nip at the carriage horses’ legs.

  Chaos ensued.

  Both horses reared, then plunged, tangling the traces. The footman, who had been holding the carriage door, swore and dashed after the dog, trying to shoo it from under the frightened horses’ hooves.

  “Wait here!” Jason left Lenore on the bottom step and ran to the horses’ heads. Horton, caught by surprise, was struggling with the reins, trying to calm his charges to no avail. Another minute and one or both of the prize chestnuts Jason had bought to pull his wife’s carriage would have a leg over the traces.

  Lenore watched as Jason caught the offside horse’s harness just above the bit, calming and soothing the panicking beast. But Horton could still not control the wheeler; the horse reared again, dragging on the traces. Lenore heard Lord Newington puffing his way down the steps and waited no longer. She ran to the wheeler, catching its head as she had seen Jason do, crooning soothing nothings to the snorting animal.

  Prodded by the footman, the dog scooted from under the carriage and made for the shrubbery.

  Slowly, peace returned to the scene before Newington Hall. The horses, sensing the departure of the devil that had attacked them, calmed, still snorting and shifting restlessly but no longer in danger of doing themselves injury.

  With a sigh of relief, Lenore let the huge head slip from her grasp. She glanced at her husband—and realised her relief was premature. His lips were a thin line; his grey eyes glinted steel. He was furious and only just succeeding in keeping his tongue between his teeth.

  A cold vice closed about her heart. Lenore turned away as Lord Newington reached her.

  “I say, Lady Eversleigh! Damned courageous and all that—but dangerous, m’dear—want to watch out for such beasts, y’know.”

  “Precisely my thoughts,” Jason said through clenched teeth.

  “Perhaps, my dear, you should sit down in the carriage. We’d best be on our way.”

  Allowing him to hand her into the carriage, Lenore held her tongue as Jason took his leave of Lord Newington and climbed in after her. Outside, the light had almost gone; in the shadowy carriage, she could not make out his expression.

  He waited until they gained the main road before saying, “It’s my fervent hope, my dear Lenore—nay, my express wish—that in future, when I give you a direct order, you will obey it.”

  Shaken by the violence of his feelings, Jason did not mute his scathing accents. He turned his head and saw that, far from appearing contrite, Lenore’s head was up, her chin tilted at a far from conciliatory angle.

  “If that is the case, my lord,” Lenore replied, “I suggest you endeavour to instil your orders with more sense. You know per-fectly well the wheeler would have broken a fetlock, if not
worse, had I not calmed him.” That her husband should so repay her aid hurt more than she would have believed possible. But she was not going to let him see that she cared. “Lord Newington would never have reached him in time, and even then, I doubt his lordship would have had the strength to do the job. I did—and all ended well. I do not in the least understand why you’re so piqued. Surely not simply because I disobeyed you?”

  Her sarcastic tone proved too much for Jason’s temper. “God grant me patience,” he appealed. “Has it not occurred to you, my dear, that I might, conceivably, be concerned for your welfare? That I might, just possibly, feel responsible for your safety?”

  Lenore’s wide stare told him more clearly than words that such a notion had never entered her head. She was appalled by the idea. In her experience, people who felt responsible for one’s safety invariably ended by trying to proscribe one’s existence. The possibility that her husband harboured such feelings, in a proprietorial way, was alarming. “But why should you?” she continued. “We might be married but I can hardly allow that to be sufficient cause to permit you to dictate my actions in such circumstances.”

  “If your actions weren’t so damned foolhardy, I dare say I shouldn’t wish to dictate them at all!”

  Lenore’s temper soared to dizzying heights. Putting her nose in the air, she stated, “I fail to see, my lord, why you should so greatly exercise your sensibilities over my poor self. Given the businesslike nature of our relationship, I really don’t see that you need feel responsible for me. If I take hurt as a result of my own actions, I do not believe that reflects on you. I consider my life my own concern.”

  “Until you provide me with heirs you may forget that particular consideration.”

  Deprived by his chilly words of any of her own, Lenore sat rigid on the carriage seat and uncharacteristically wished her life were over. She felt bereft, struck numb with despair. His tone, cold and hard and utterly uncompromising, confirmed beyond doubt how he saw their union. His only interest in her revolved about whether she could fulfil her role as his wife—giving him the heirs he sought was one part of the contract—a part she had yet to fulfil. Lenore blinked back the moisture welling in her eyes. She had wondered why he had dallied for so long instead of returning to his usual haunts in London. Now she knew. And once she had delivered on that part of her promise, his interest in her would evaporate—his statement implied as much—how much more clearly did she need to have it said?