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

by Stephanie Laurens

  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 Compton 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 sh
e unable to rise much before 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.

  Every noon she would leave Eversleigh House for some ton-ish affair—a luncheon of one description or another. That was invariably followed by an afternoon tea, or a drive in the Park in company with ladies of her circle. At some time after five o’clock she would return home to change for dinner. She and Jason had yet to share a meal over the long table in the dining-room; they had dined, together or separately, elsewhere every day since she had arrived. The dinners would lead to balls or parties—impossible not to attend at least two every night.

  She was heartily sick of it all. But she was determined to see the Little Season out, establishing the position of the Duchess of Eversleigh. She owed it to Jason and she had no intention of failing him in however small a degree.

  Accepting her fan and reticule from Trencher, along with her long silver gloves, Lenore disposed these articles appropriately, then stood for Trencher to swing her black velvet evening cloak over her shoulders.

  “You look just lovely, my lady.”

  Bestowing a sceptical look upon her helpful maid, Lenore, head high, swept out of her room and down the stairs to do battle with her particular dragon—the ton.

  The Albemarles’ ball was indistinguishable from the others, all equal, in Lenore’s opinion, in their forgettability. She danced with those gentlemen she considered suitable, thankful that the unsuitable had thus far kept their distance. In dispensing with her pinafores, she had expected rather more problems from that direction and could only be grateful if her position as Jason’s wife precluded their active interest. And, as had happened for the past seven nights, her husband also attended Lady Albemarle’s function. She sighted him through the throng, speaking with the very attractive Lady Hidgeworth and some other gentleman. Her ladyship had placed her hand on His Grace of Eversleigh’s black sleeve.

  He saw her and bowed slightly. Lenore nodded politely in return, then wished she had not when he detached himself from Lady Hidgeworth’s somewhat possessive conversation and strolled, all languid elegance, across the ballroom towards her.

  Surrounded by a small coterie of five ladies and three gentlemen, Lenore pretended not to notice her approaching danger. Her heart thumped uncomfortably. Would he notice her rouge?

  “Well met, my dear.”

  At his smoothly drawled comment, Lenore had no option than to turn to him, extending her hand and praying the light of the chandeliers would not reveal her secret. “My lord, I confess I’m surprised to find you here.”

  Lenore hoped the comment would keep his mind on the company and not on her.

  Jason smiled down at her, his mind engrossed with its habitual subject. “Are you, my dear? But how so, when there are so many attractions among Lady Albemarle’s guests?”

  Lenore blinked. He could not mean her, so presumably he meant Lady Hidgeworth and her like.

  Straightening from his bow, Jason kept her hand in his, drawing nearer as his eyes scanned her face. She was looking peaked. And was that rouge on her cheeks? Lowering his voice, he murmured, “Are you quite well, my dear. You look rather tired.”

  “Do I?” Lenore opened her eyes wide. “I assure you, my lord, I’m thoroughly enjoying myself. Perhaps the wind in the Park has dried my complexion slightly? I must get Trencher to look out some Denmark lotion. Heaven forbid I develop any wrinkles!”

  Wondering who it was she was impersonating with such a fatuous response, Lenore kept her expression politely impassive and waited, her breath caught in her throat, to see if she had succeeded in deflecting her husband’s dangerous interest.

  “Heaven forbid, indeed,” Jason murmured, all softness leaching from his expression. There were times when his wife retreated behind a subtle screen beyond which he could not reach. It galled him that such a reserve could exist, that she could keep her thoughts and emotions from him if she so wished. That was something he was determined to change, just as soon as he got her back to the Abbey. “As you are so well entertained, madam, I will leave you to your friends.”

  With a smile which did not reach his eyes, he bowed and moved away. Turning back to her friends, Lenore felt her heart sink, as if a weight had been attached and let fall as he left.

  Contrary to his intimation, Jason went only as far as the nearest wall, where a convenient palm afforded him some respite from the attention of the loose ladies of the ton. To his considerable annoyance, they, plural and singular, seemed of the fixed opinion that if he was in London, he was available. Their invitations would have made a whore blush. As he appeared unable to convince them of the error in their assumption, he had been forced to fall back upon a gentleman’s last defence—he now ignored them, heartily wishing that they would return the compliment.

  His gaze fixed broodingly on his wife’s fair head, Jason reviewed the current state of play. He was not at all convinced by his wife’s airy reassurance—or was his secret hope that she would soon tire of the bright lights of town and wish of her own accord to return to the Abbey colouring his assessment? If it had been any other woman, he would find no inconsistency with her professed enjoyment—she was surrounded by many, potential friends as well as the inevitable toad-eaters, all vying to excite her interest. She was a social hit on anyone’s scale; if she wished, she need never have a moment’s peace in her life again. None of which sat well with his knowledge of Lenore—his Lenore—the one who preferred gigs to riding and the company of musty tomes to that of the swells. She, he was quite sure, would not be enjoying herself in
Lady Albemarle’s ballroom.

  Letting his gaze roam the long room, he automatically noted the position of the more dangerous rakes. None had yet braved his wife’s circle. Most would have noted his presence at her evening entertainments and drawn the conclusion he wished them to draw.

  Jason’s lips twitched, then firmed into a severe line as the prospect of Lenore’s having an interest in another gentleman swam across his consciousness. Reluctantly, watching her laugh at some sally, he considered the possibility. It did not seem at all likely; there were none of the subtle signs of hyper-awareness he was adept at reading present in her manner—only when he hove in sight did she become skittish. Yet he had to acknowledge the unnerving fact that, if she was harbouring any illicit passion, he might not know of it, given that as yet impenetrable reserve she could deploy to conceal her innermost feelings.

  As Lenore accepted the arm of gangly Lord Carstairs and allowed him to lead her to the dance floor, Jason grimaced and, straightening, moved away from his protective palm. Convention made it difficult for him to dance frequently with his wife—not when she was so sought after by others.

  Lenore’s movements in the evenings were easy enough to follow, given he was prepared to brave any chance observer noting his peculiar pastime. The evenings, however, were not the time of greatest threat. Her afternoons were filled with a succession of entertainments, some for ladies only, but there were others at which the town beaux took care to appear. And where husbands, by and large, were considered de trop.

  A problem, but not nearly so immediate as Lady Dallinghurst, bearing down on him from the right.

  “Jason! I vow it’s an age since I’ve had a chance to speak with you alone, my lord.”

  “In case it’s escaped your notice, Althea, we’re surrounded by at least three hundred other human beings.”