Rules of Engagement: The Reasons for MarriageThe Wedding PartyUnlaced (Lester Family)

by Stephanie Laurens

  Whenever she thought of what had happened, her emotions threatened to overwhelm her. Knowing she could not afford to be distracted, not tonight, with so many eyes to see, she pushed the jumble of outrage, guilt and hurt betrayal to the back of her mind. With a smile firmly in place, her serenity to the fore, she stood beside her brother and prepared to greet their neighbours.

  As the first of the house guests drifted into the room, chatting easily, Lenore heard the clang of the front doorbell. She turned to Jack. “Papa isn’t down yet.”

  Jack grimaced. “Doubt that he’ll show, not till later.” When Lenore gazed at him, bewildered, he said, “Never one for doing the pretty, you know that.”

  Lenore sighed. Retrieving her smile, she turned as Smithers announced Major and Mrs. Holthorpe. Their other neighbours arrived in good time, the ladies making the most of this opportunity to brush shoulders with their London sisters and catch up on both fashion and the latest on-dits. Conversation buzzed, punctuated by gay laughter. When the time to announce dinner was at hand and her father had yet to appear, Lenore cast a questioning glance at Harriet. Her aunt shrugged. Wondering if perhaps her father had been taken ill, Lenore started for the door.

  She had cleared the crush of the guests and was but a few yards from the double doors when they swung inwards, propelled by two footmen. Her father entered, Harris pushing his chair. Beside it walked Eversleigh.

  Lenore froze, presentiment dropping like a cold cloak about her shoulders.

  “Friends!” Archibald Lester, wreathed in smiles, waved a lordly hand at his guests. He saw Lenore, too distant for her face to be properly in focus, and his smile grew brighter still. As the guests, as a body, turned to face him, he continued, his old voice carrying easily over the last shreds of dying conversations. “It’s a pleasure to welcome you to Lester Hall. Doubly so for I’ve an announcement to make!”

  Jason, standing alongside, his gaze fixed unwaveringly on Lenore, stiffened. He turned to Archibald Lester, only to hear his host declaim, “I have today given my blessing to a union between my daughter, Lenore, and Jason Montgomery, Duke of Eversleigh.”

  A buzz of excited comment rolled through the room. Archibald Lester beamed with pride and gratification.

  All expression leaching from her face, Lenore stood as if turned to stone.

  Two strides brought Jason to her side. His face lit by a charming smile, his eyes filled with concern, he caught her icy fingers in his and smoothly raised them to his lips. “Don’t faint.” He searched her large eyes, wide and empty, for a glimmer of consciousness.

  The warmth of his lips on her fingers tugged Lenore back to reality. Dazed and utterly undone, she blinked up at him. “I never faint,” she murmured, her mind completely overwhelmed.

  Jason bit his lip and glanced over her head; they had mere seconds before the hordes descended. “Smile, Lenore.” His voice held the unmistakable if muted tones of command. “You are not going to break down and embarrass yourself and your family.”

  Vaguely, Lenore’s eyes rose to his, slowly focusing as his words sank in. He was right. Whatever he had done, however hurt she might feel, now was no time for hysterics.

  To Jason’s relief she straightened slightly, a little of her rigidity falling away. A smile, a travesty of her usual calm confidence, appeared on her lips. But panic shadowed her eyes.

  “You can weather this, Lenore. Trust me.” His whispered words were loaded with reassurance. Placing her hand on his sleeve and covering it with his, he turned her to meet their well-wishers. “I won’t leave you.”

  He didn’t. Strangely, it seemed to Lenore that his support was the only thing that kept her functioning throughout that interminable evening. She should have been too furious to accept his help, to trust him, yet she knew instinctively that he would not fail her. It seemed the most natural thing in the world to lean on his strength.

  Luckily, Amelia reached her first, throwing her arms about her and hugging her with joy. As her cousin disengaged, casting a puzzled glance at her weak smile, Lenore dragged and bullied and goaded her wits into action, forcing her features to her bidding. The muscles of her face relaxed into a gay if brittle smile. She got no chance to thank Amelia, nor to respond to her, “Good luck!” as the other guests pressed forward, none wishing to appear backward in congratulating the next Duchess of Eversleigh. She responded as best she could to their felicitations, thankful for Eversleigh’s presence, a solid prop to sanity by her side. He kept his fingers entwined with hers, imparting calm strength even as his ready tongue deflected the more ribald comments.

  Dinner was delayed. When Smithers eventually interrupted the chorus, Eversleigh drew her free of the throng, leading her in advance of them all as was his right. As usual, he sat beside her, an unnerving but unshakeable protection against any untoward questions. But by that time Lenore had herself in hand. Clamping an iron lid over the turmoil within allowed her to respond to both conversation and organisational queries with something approaching her usual calm grace. As long as she did not allow herself to think of what had occurred, she could cope.

  Her father had ordered champagne to be served. As she took an invigorating sip of the bubbly liquid, Lenore caught Eversleigh’s eye. To the casual observer his expression was exactly what one would expect—gratified, proud, confident in his triumph. As she studied the concern, the real worry etched in the grey eyes, Lenore wondered if only she could see past his mask. Allowing her lids to fall, she glanced away. Seconds later, she was startled to feel the gentle touch of his fingers on hers, then shocked when her fingers automatically returned the brief caress.

  Firmly resettling the iron lid over her treacherous emotions, Lenore threw herself into the conversation.

  They rose from the table just before eight, the gentlemen escorting the ladies into the huge ballroom. With long windows and high ceiling, it filled the entire ground floor of one wing. “Oohs” and “aahs” came from all sides as the guests took in the massed spring blooms and the first of the summer roses, tumbling in profusion from every available site. Draped in garlands from the musicians gallery, looped around every pillar, frothing from vases and urns, the flowers scented the warm air and lifted spirits to new heights.

  The receiving line was a trial Lenore could have done without. Even though the rest of their neighbours were prompt, there was time enough in between arrivals for her seething emotions to slip loose. One minute she felt like murdering the man beside her, the next, when the touch of his fingers on hers eased her away from disaster, her heart swelled, with reluctant gratitude for his unwavering support, and with something else that she dared not name.

  With every passing minute, the turmoil of her thoughts, the tangle of her emotions, intensified. And all she could do was smile and nod and allow her father, in his chair beside her, to introduce Eversleigh as her betrothed.

  In her confusion, she did not hear the musicians start up. It was Eversleigh who drew her attention to the fact, smiling down at her father as he settled her hand on his sleeve. “I suspect we should open the ball, sir, if you’ll release your daughter to me.”

  “She’s all yours, m’boy.” Archibald Lester beamed and waved them to the floor.

  Reflecting that her father was definitely to be classed with old dogs—beyond changing—Lenore allowed herself to be led to the edge of the huge area of polished parquetry revealed as the guests drew back.

  Smoothly, Jason drew her into his arms, feeling the effortless glide as she matched her steps to his. They waltzed as if they were made for each other, their bodies, his so large, hers slender and tall, natural complements in line and grace.

  Lenore let the bright colours of the ladies’ gowns whirl into an unfocused blur as they precessed, revolution after smooth revolution, down the long room.

  “Your ball has all the hallmarks of success, my dear.”<
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  Allowing her gaze to shift to his face, Lenore studied his expression before remarking, her own expression calmly serene, “Particularly after my father’s little announcement.”

  Jason’s lips momentarily firmed into a line before he forced them to relax back into a smile. “An unfortunate misunderstanding.” He held her gaze, his own steady and intent. “We must talk, Lenore, but not here. Not now.”

  “Certainly not now,” Lenore agreed, feeling her control waver. A misunderstanding? Was it not as she had thought? Abruptly, she looked away, over his shoulder, relieved to see others taking to the floor in their wake.

  “Later, then. But talk we must. Don’t try to escape me this time.” Jason saw her slight nod and was content. Prey to a host of conflicting emotions, the only one he felt sure of was anger. Anger that his wooing of her had gone so disastrously wrong. Anger that such a simple task as offering for a wife had somehow laid siege to his life. But he knew what needed to be done, to reassure her, to smooth away the confused hurt that lingered in her large eyes.

  But fate had decreed he would get no chance that night. By the time the last carriage had rolled down the drive and the last of the houseguests had struggled wearily upstairs, his betrothed was dead on her feet. From the foot of the stairs, he watched as, turning from the main doors, she suffered a hug from each of her eldest brothers and a smacking kiss from Gerald. Lenore received their approbations with a smile that struggled to lift the corners of her lips.

  “G’night.”

  Jason nodded as Harry, stifling a yawn, passed on his way upstairs. With a sleepy smile, Gerald followed.

  With Lenore on his arm, Jack approached. “Time for a game before you leave us tomorrow, o, prospective brother-in-law?”

  Jason held Jack’s gaze for an instant, then inclined his head. “I’ll catch up with you in the morning.”

  “Right-ho! Sleep well.” With a rakish salute, Jack left, making no demur when Lenore lingered.

  Absent-mindedly, Lenore rubbed a hand across her brow, trying to ease the ache behind. “Now, Your Grace. Perhaps the library—”

  “No. You’re exhausted. There’s nothing that needs saying that won’t survive the night.”

  Numbly, Lenore blinked up at him. “But I thought you said—”

  “Go to bed, Lenore. I’ll see you tomorrow. Time enough then to sort matters out.” When she continued to look blankly at him, Jason reached for her elbow. Gently but purposefully, he urged her up the stairs.

  In the end, Lenore went readily, too tired and too grateful to argue further.

  She said not a word as they traversed the long corridors. In the dim light, Jason studied her face. She looked so fatigued, so unutterably fragile, now she had laid aside her social mask. When they reached her door, he set it ajar. Taking her hand in his, he raised it to his lips, brushing a gentle kiss across her fingertips. “Sleep, Lenore. And don’t worry. We’ll talk tomorrow.” With a wry smile, he bowed her over the threshold.

  She entered, then paused, casting a puzzled glance back at him. Slowly, she closed the door.

  * * *

  “YOU’D BEST BE stirring, Miss Lenore. ’Tis past eleven.”

  Groaning, Lenore burrowed her face deeper into her soft pillow, hiding from the light that rushed in as her maid, Gladys, thrust the bedcurtains aside.

  Gladys, a motherly soul, eyed her charge shrewdly. “And there’s a note here from that duke.”

  “Eversleigh?” Lenore turned her head so rapidly her cap fell off. “Where?”

  With a knowing nod, Gladys handed over a folded sheet of parchment. “Said you were to have it once you were awake.”

  Ignoring her cap, Lenore took the note, settling back on her pillows, the folded parchment between her hands as Gladys bustled about the room, shaking out Lenore’s evening gown, exclaiming at the way it had been carelessly tossed on a chair.

  Lenore eyed the inscription on the front of the note. “Miss Lester” stared back at her in bold black letters.

  Despite her conviction that she would fall instantly asleep the moment her head touched the pillow, rest had been a long time coming. As soon as she had settled in the dark, safe and secure in her feather bed, the cauldron of her emotions, simmering all evening, had boiled over. For a while she had let them seethe, shedding frustrated, fearful tears, drawing comfort from the release. Then she had tried to decide where she stood.

  One point was clear. The rage that had overpowered her in the library had been misplaced. Recalling her accusations, she squirmed. Eversleigh had deserved none of them. She would have to apologise, an act that would further weaken her position in the necessary negotiations for her release from their unexpected betrothal.

  That was as far as she had got in her musings, despite another hour or two’s fruitless cogitation. Eversleigh’s real concern and care for her, not just that evening, but demonstrated in so many ways now she looked back on their short association, undermined the image she had tried to erect of him, the ruthless tyrant perfectly ready to ride roughshod over her feelings. She had no firm idea of what had transpired between His Grace and her father—until she had the facts in her hands, she would be wise to reserve judgement. And, despite all the shocking revelations of the day before, she still did not know why His Grace of Eversleigh was so set on marrying her.

  All of which left her in a very uncertain state.

  Lenore grimaced, then unfolded the note.

  “I’ll wait for you in the library,” was all he had written.

  Her lips twisting in self-mockery, Lenore laid the note aside, along with a childish wish to remain safely in bed, pretending the day before had been nothing more than a bad dream. Downstairs and all about the house, the guests would be preparing to leave. She should be present, lending her aid in a thousand different ways. Today, however, she felt not the slightest qualm in leaving her brothers to their own resources. Her staff were well-trained; her presence was not essential.

  With a deep sigh, Lenore sat up. “No,” she said, shaking her head at the grey gown Gladys held up. “There’s a primrose muslin in there somewhere. See if you can find it—I believe its time has come.”

  The muslin proved to be more gold than yellow, its scooped neckline perfectly decent although the soft material draped about Lenore’s slim figure in a way far removed from her stiff cambrics and pinafores. Harriet had ordered it up from London two years before in a vain attempt to interest Lenore in fashion. Staring at her reflection, Lenore decided it would do. She had coiled her braided hair about her head; to her eyes, her slender neck, now fully revealed, was too long.

  Giving herself no time to change her mind, and her gown, she descended to the library.

  He did not hear her enter. Seated in the chair before her desk, he had the text she had been studying, a history of the Assyrians, in his hand. Afflicted by a sudden breathlessness, Lenore paused, seizing the rare moment to study him. The planes of his face seemed less angular, his expression less forbidding. There was still a great deal of strength, in his face, in the long body relaxed in the chair, but, to her, now, the impact was more reassuring than threatening, more desirable than dangerous. Slowly, Lenore drew nearer, conscious of her deep fascination. A lingering shadow of the delight she had felt when last in this room touched her.

  Jason heard her and turned. His gaze met hers, keenly perceptive, searching for signs of her mood. “Good morning, my dear.”

  Carefully gliding past the desk, Lenore nodded. “Your Grace.”

  For a moment, realisation of what she was wearing held Jason still. Then, shutting the book and laying it aside, he stood.

  “I must apologise, Your Grace, for my outburst yesterday.” Lenore hurried into the speech, desperate to clear that particular hurdle. Rather than take the seat behind the desk, she stopped beside
the window, her gaze on the garden, holding herself erect, head high as she recalled her embarrassing behaviour. “I realise my accusations were unfounded and entirely out of order.” She inclined her head in Eversleigh’s direction, too tense to look directly at him. “I pray you will excuse me.”

  “I believe you were somewhat overwhelmed at the time,” came the smooth reply.

  Lenore looked around to find he had come to stand on the other side of the window, negligently propping one shoulder against the frame, his grey eyes oddly gentle as they studied her.

  The blush that rose to her cheeks was another irritation. Biting her tongue on the unwise retort that her mind had instantly supplied, she forced her voice to an even tone to say, “At the time, I was not thinking with my customary clarity.”

  Jason’s lips curved. “Granted.” His voice retained its even, reassuring tone as he added, “Apropos of that event, you’ll be relieved to know that neither Lord Percy nor any of the three ladies can recall anything of it. In fact,” he mused, “it’s doubtful that they recall having been anywhere near this room.”

  Lenore blinked. She returned his unwavering scrutiny for a full minute before remarking, “One of the benefits of being born to the purple?”

  Jason’s smile reached his eyes. “One of the few benefits of being born to rule.”

  A puzzled frown settled over Lenore’s brows. “But why?” she eventually asked, curiosity overcoming reserve. “Surely their…interruption strengthened your hand?”

  She glanced up to meet a stern, not to say forbidding, frown.

  “My dear Lenore, if you imagine I’d allow any breath of scandal to touch my future wife’s name—worse, would permit the slightest suggestion that I offered for her to rectify some slight to her honour—you are greatly mistaken.”

  She had to have imagined it, for he had not altered his stance, yet Lenore was certain he had somehow grown larger, taller, infinitely more intimidating. She felt her eyes grow round. “Oh.”