Stephanie Laurens Rogues' Reform Bundle

by Stephanie Laurens

  That had never been one of his reasons for marriage.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  LATER THAT EVENING, Jason, his emotions under the severest control, propped the wall of his aunt’s ballroom and watched as his duchess made her bow to polite society. His aunt Eckington’s ball was the perfect venue; his senior paternal aunt commanded an awesome position in the ton. With Lady Eckington and her sister’s support, Lenore’s success was assured.

  Not that his wife needed any help. She looked superb, all traces of tiredness vanished, her gleaming hair coiled about her head, her ivory shoulders bare. She had worn a pearl and emerald necklace, one he had given her, with her stunning deep green gown. The matching bracelets, worn high on her forearms, caught and diffracted the light. She looked gorgeous; he could not tear his eyes from her.

  At the very hub of all attention, Lenore suffered an interminable round of introductions conducted by her hostess, ably seconded by Agatha. They ensured she met all the senior hostesses—to her considerable surprise, all these august matrons seemed only too pleased to exchange words and invitations with her. Then she realised that, as the Duchess of Eversleigh, she herself was now of their group; they were only seeking to establish social connection with the latest member of the highest echelon in the ton.

  The realisation gave her courage to endure the smiles and nods and arch questions. The danger in admitting to her condition was obvious. Once Jason’s aunts learned she was carrying the heir, for so they would see it, they would hem her about, fuss and fume over her—they would drive her mad. So she blithely turned aside all their delicately probing questions. Her years of experience stood her in good stead; her new awareness of her station allowed her the liberty of distance, if she chose to assume it. Two hours of intense activity saw her feet firmly on the road to social success.

  “Phew!” Agatha threw her a heartening glance. “You’ve done well, my dear. I know it’s all a bit trying, especially as you don’t look to be in town much. But having the position counts, when all’s said and done. It would do you no good to ignore it.”

  Lenore acknowledged her mentor’s words with a smile, inwardly wondering where Jason was. She still felt horrendously guilty over her afternoon’s gaucherie. Try as she might, she had not been able to mend her fences, for he had given her no opportunity to do so. In fact, he had been so distant, she had barely found a chance to smile at him, let alone thank him as she ought for his thoughtful gifts. And if he continued as he was, she doubted she would get a chance.

  Perhaps that was as well. When he came to her tonight, she would apologise and make him laugh, then thank him as he had wished her to do this afternoon.

  “Lady Eversleigh, my dear. A pleasure to see you in Town.”

  Lenore turned to find Lord Selkirk, a friend of Harry’s, by her side. She held out her hand. “Good evening, my lord. Are you here for the duration or merely until the next meeting at Newmarket?”

  “Dash it, m’dear. I’m not such a tipster as all that.”

  “Lenore, dear. How’s life with His Grace of Eversleigh?”

  Absorbed with turning aside such jocular queries, before she knew it Lenore was surrounded by a small court of acquaintances, friends of her brothers and some of the young ladies she had met in the weeks before her wedding. There was no escape from their chatter. Lenore smiled serenely and bore up under the strain, determined none would be able to say that the Duchess of Eversleigh was not up to snuff.

  But she was wilting. In the heat of the ballroom, with the press of bodies all about her, the air close and increasingly stale, she started to feel her senses slide and wondered, in desperation, if she could break free. The conversation about her became a droning buzz in her ears.

  “There you are, my dear.”

  Jason’s strong voice hauled her back to reality an instant before faintness took hold. Lenore looked up at him with relief in her wide eyes and a small, tight smile on her lips.

  Jason understood. He had crossed the room as soon as he had realised how long she had been standing at the centre of her circle. While no gathering, no matter how large, held the slightest power to overwhelm him, he knew she felt differently. He took her hand in a comforting clasp and, with the briefest of nods to her court, led her to the dance-floor.

  Lenore came back to life to find herself held in her husband’s arms, slowly circling the room in a waltz. She blinked rapidly. “Th-thank you, my lord. I…didn’t feel at all the thing, just then. The lack of air, I expect.”

  “No doubt.” Jason glanced down at her. “We’ll leave after this dance.”

  Lenore was too grateful to take umbrage at his edict.

  When she found herself seated beside him in the carriage, she wondered whether now would be a propitious time to thank him for her jewels. She tried to discover some way of introducing the topic, racking her tired brain to yield some innocuous phrase. Unconsciously, she leaned her head against his shoulder. Two minutes later, she was sound asleep.

  Realising as much, Jason kept silent. Deep in consideration of his latest discovery on the fascinating topic of his wife, he was thankful she was not awake to further confound him. He had quite enough to deal with with this latest revelation. Standing in his aunt’s ballroom, watching his wife smile and laugh at other men’s sallies, seeing her attention focused on them, however innocently, he had been racked by a powerful emotion he could only describe as jealousy. He was jealous—of the entire ton, for the women who claimed her friendship were also included in his sights.

  Relaxing back against the leather, he drew a deep breath. After a moment’s hesitation he stretched a protective arm about his sleeping wife, settling her safe against his side. A strong surge of emotion rocked him, but he was getting used to the effect she had on his system and no longer felt surprise at such happenings. This, he knew, was how he wanted things between them, her alone with him, comfortable and secure.

  Which was why he had no intention of boasting of her condition. A word to his aunt Eckington as they were leaving had reassured him Lenore had not mentioned the fact. That did not surprise him; his wife was intelligent enough to guess how his aunts would behave once the news was out. His reasons for keeping mum were rather more serious. From his vantage point by the wall, he had seen a number of gentlemen eye his wife speculatively. None had dared approach her; the wolves of the ton had a tried and true approach to succulent young matrons who appeared within their orbit—he should know; he had perfected the art. They would not approach a young wife until she was known to be bearing her husband’s child. With this point established, most husbands could be relied on to become complacent, keeping to their clubs, leaving their front door unattended. Once it became known Lenore was pregnant, she would become fair game—most tempting game, if he had read the looks on his peers’ faces aright. Although he had no intention of ever becoming a complacent husband, he would much rather his wife was not exposed to the lures of the ton’s greatest lovers.

  He glanced down at her face, what he could see of it, and felt his features relax. She had done well, his duchess. She had appeared exactly as he would have wished, gracious, with just a touch of hauteur in her manner to keep the unintroduced at bay. She would do well in the ton—she would succeed there as she had in all the other endeavours she had taken on in marrying him.

  When the carriage stopped outside their door, and she did not wake, he carried her inside, soothing her confused murmur when she woke in the light of the hall. To his surprise, she blinked up at him, then smiled and, clasping her arms more tightly about his neck, placed her cheek on his shoulder and allowed him to carry her upstairs.

  As he did so, he noted that she did not feel any heavier. It seemed strange that she was carrying his child, that it was growing apace within her, yet there was nothing in her slender figure to attest to the fact. Just as well. With any luck, the Little Season would be over before their news became too obvious to hide.

  She was asleep again by the time he reached her room
. Trencher, hurrying along the corridor, was taken aback to find her in his arms. At his nod, she opened Lenore’s bedchamber door, hanging back as he strode to the bed and gently laid his wife down.

  Jason stood by the bed, drinking in the flawless symmetry of his wife’s features. Slowly, he let his gaze travel down, over the gentle swell of her breasts, along the slender lines of her body and the long, smooth curves of her thighs. There was nothing he wished for more than to be able to stay here, with her, for the rest of the night. But after this afternoon, he no longer had the confidence to press his claims.

  He had thought the desire that had burned between them would never die, even if it had nothing more concrete beneath to support it. After this afternoon, he was not even sure of that. Her rejection, unconsidered though it had been, had been all the more damning for that. He had surprised her and she had reacted automatically—there was no surer measure of a woman’s true feelings, he knew that well. Lenore was willing to be his wife—but she had never agreed to be more than that.

  He was aware of Trencher, hovering by the door. He beckoned her forward. “Try not to wake her,” he whispered. “And let her sleep in the morning.”

  With that injunction, he headed for his room before his baser instincts could rebel and change his mind.

  THE NEXT MORNING, Lenore awoke, stretched, and immediately knew she was alone. Surprised, she swung around—and wished she hadn’t. Not only did the smooth pillow beside her bear testimony to the fact that she had not made her peace with her husband as intended, her head was now swimming.

  “Oh, dear,” she murmured weakly, putting a hand to her brow. It felt slightly clammy.

  It was still clammy half an hour later, but by then, she felt slightly better, well enough to stand somewhat shakily and cross to the bell-pull.

  “Oh, Y’r Grace! Looks like it’s got to you good and proper.”

  Trencher came bustling up to where Lenore had collapsed in a chair. Chafing her hands, the maid eyed her with concern.

  “Now don’t you go getting up. I’ll just duck downstairs and get some weak tea.”

  Lenore opened her eyes in alarm.

  Trencher saw her horrified look and smiled reassuringly. “Take my word for it—me mam says it works every time.”

  Ten minutes later, fortified with sweet weak tea, Lenore did, indeed, feel more like herself. “Is that going to happen every morning?”

  “For a while, at least. Some, it goes most of the way.”

  Closing her eyes, Lenore shuddered. Did Jason know, she wondered, what she was going to have to go through to provide him with his heir? She hoped so—in fact, if he didn’t, she would make sure she told him.

  No, she wouldn’t. What could he do about it? She couldn’t run from town the day after making her curtsy as the Duchess of Eversleigh—what would all the ladies who had invited her to tea think? If she admitted to this weakness, Jason would feel honour-bound to send her back to the country. He had been so generous—she could not contemplate letting him down. Particularly after yesterday afternoon.

  Eyes still closed, Lenore heaved a weary sigh. She had yet to settle her accounts from yesterday afternoon.

  Recalling the incident, she frowned. Ever since she had told him of her pregnancy, Jason had not come to her bed. She had explained his absence first on the grounds that he had clearly made the decision to leave early the next morning and had decided not to disturb her, and later, when he had returned to the Abbey but not to her bed, because they were travelling the next day. At Salisbury they had been given separate rooms, of course. But, if he had wished to exercise his conjugal rights, why had he not come to her last night, or at the very least, this morning? Clearly, he had not thought her too tired yesterday afternoon.

  Rubbing her fingers across her brow, Lenore admitted to her mind a series of facts she had been staunchly ignoring for the past week. Jason had not been the least reluctant to leave her at the Abbey. He had only come to fetch her to town at the behest of his aunts. Yesterday afternoon had merely been an opportune moment. There was no evidence that he bore any deep-seated wish to maintain a close relationship with her now the business of his heir had been satisfactorily set in train. In short, his interest in her had waned.

  Why had she thought otherwise?

  Because she loved him and had entertained hopes beyond the possible.

  Drawing a shuddering breath, Lenore forced her eyes open. “Perhaps, Trencher, I should lie down again—just for a while.” Until I can face the day, she thought, as Trencher helped her to her bed.

  Downstairs, in the sunny breakfast parlour, Jason studied the remnants of his substantial breakfast with a jaundiced eye. The fact that his wife had decided to adopt the habit of most fashionable women and stay in bed until noon, and thus would not be joining him, had finally sunk in.

  “No, Smythe. No more coffee.” Waving his butler away, Jason rose and, picking up the Gazette, headed for the library.

  Once there, he prowled the room before settling, reluctantly, in the chair behind the desk. He frowned at the correspondence Crompton had neatly stacked by the blotter. With a frustrated sigh, Jason swung his chair about and stared out of the long windows. He could not go on like this.

  He had gone down to the Abbey with high hopes, only to have them dashed. What had he expected? He had given Lenore not the slightest indication that his interest went any deeper than the conventional affection a gentleman was supposed to feel for his wife, in the ill-judged expectation that his affliction would pass. It had only grown stronger, until now it consumed his every waking hour, leaving him bad-tempered and generally confused. Leaning his elbows on the arms of the chair, he steepled his fingers and rested his chin on his thumbs. As the long-case clock in the corner ticked on, his grim expression slowly lightened. Eventually, taking his hands from his face, Jason allowed his lips to relax in a small, self-deprecatory smile.

  He would have to see the Little Season out; impossible to achieve anything in town—not with every man and his dog, let alone the gossip-mongers, watching. The fact that His Grace of Eversleigh was stalking his wife would make the most sensational on-dit. Once they were back, alone at the Abbey, he could lay siege to her sensibilities in earnest, rekindle the embers of passion that had burned so brightly and make her want him as much as he wanted her. Until then, all he needed to do was make sure she came to no harm and that no harm, in the form of the wolves of the ton, came to her.

  With a decisive nod, Jason turned back to his desk. After a moment’s consideration he drew a sheet of paper towards him. Dipping his pen in the inkstand, he wrote a short note to Compton, instructing him to deal with affairs as he thought best until further notice as his employer had weightier matters on his mind. Leaving the note in a conspicuous spot, Jason rose and, feeling as if he was seeing daylight for the first time in weeks, strolled out.

  “PASS ME that pot, Trencher.”

  With a sigh, Lenore held out her hand for the small pot of rouge she had sent Trencher to buy that morning. She had never used the cosmetic before but there was no denying she needed it now. Her cheeks were pallid, her eyes too large.

  Hesitantly, Trencher handed her the small jar. “Are you sure, Y’r Grace? You’ve got such lovely skin—seems a shame, somehow.”

  “It’ll be an even greater shame if Lady Albemarle and her guests see me like this.” With a grimace, Lenore opened the pot and picking up a haresfoot, dipped it in. Carefully, she brushed the fine red powder across her cheekbones, trying to make the addition as inconspicuous as possible.

  It was the end of her first week in London as the Duchess of Eversleigh. She had been fêted and, to her dismay, positively fawned upon by some of the more select of the ton’s hostesses. Being Jason’s wife, she had realised, made her something of a drawcard, a fact which had left her at the centre of attention for far longer than she liked. Thus far, she had coped.

  But her morning sickness was tightening its grip. Not only was she unable to rise much bef
ore noon, a fact camouflaged, luckily, by fashionable habit, but in the last two days she had started feeling nauseated in mid-afternoon. Today she had tried not eating at luncheon, taken at Lady Harrison’s small town house with a gaggle of other young ladies, and had nearly shamed herself by fainting in the park. How to overcome her increasing problems without absenting herself from a full schedule of visits was a quandary she had yet to solve. But if her illness became any worse, she would have to do something.

  Studying the effects of her ministrations, Lenore laid the rouge pot aside and stood. “My gown, please.”

  Trencher hurried over with a gown of silver spider gauze. Once encased in the scintillating folds, Lenore paraded before her cheval glass. It was her fervent hope that her undeniably elegant body would deflect notice from her less than healthy countenance.

  Spreading the shimmering skirts wide, she wondered if Jason would be present tonight. She was due to leave shortly for Lady Albemarle’s rout, taking Agatha up in her carriage. Like most husbands, Jason did not accompany her on her engagements, not unless they were invited together for a dinner or some special occasion. However, he knew which functions she attended; he might or might not look in on them. Thus far, he had been at every ball and party she had, a fact which had brought her mixed joy.

  Mentally shying from the joy her husband brought her, she focused on the far more serious question of whether he would notice her rouge. His eyes were sharp—if he noticed, would he guess her reasons for using it? Deciding there was no point in trying to predict His Grace of Eversleigh’s actions if he did, Lenore let her fingers trail over the delicate peridot and diamond necklace, one of Jason’s gifts, that she had clasped about her neck. She could never wear any of the pieces without feeling a pang of guilt that she had not, yet, had a chance to thank him as she would wish.

  Shaking aside her dismal thoughts, she waved to Trencher. “That small silver fan—and the matching reticule, I think.” While Trencher rummaged for the required articles, Lenore fell to considering her social schedule. As yet, she had formed no firm friendships, although there were many who sought her out. Occasionally she ran across Amelia, but her cousin was still consumed by her pursuit of Frederick Marshall; Lenore did not feel comfortable in distracting her attention. Nevertheless, the weeks ahead were rapidly filling with engagements; she herself was hosting a tea party for a select group of ladies next Tuesday.