“I’ll move your damned desk.” Jason grumbled, turning to do her bidding.
Her lips twisting in an affectionate smile, Lenore watched as he duly delivered the book on herbs to its fellows. His sudden interest in her endeavours was disarming. Despite being excessively well-read, he did not share her love of books. Quite what his present purpose was, she had yet to divine. She watched him return to her side, his expression easy, his long limbed body relaxed. He carried a small volume bound in red leather in his hand.
Before she could point out the next book she wished to examine, Jason sat down on the rug beside her. Reclining so that his shoulder pressed against the cushions at her back, he propped on one elbow and, stretching his long legs before him, opened the red book. “I found this amid your stacks. It must have fallen and been forgotten.”
“Oh?” Lenore leaned closer to see. “What is it?”
“A collection of love sonnets.”
Lenore sat back. Her heart started to thud. Drawing her lists towards her, she pretended to check them.
Jason frowned, flicking through the pages. Every now and then, he stopped to read a few lines. When he paused on one page, clearly reading the verse, Lenore risked a glance through her lashes.
And very nearly laughed aloud. Her husband’s features were contorted in a grimace which left very little doubt as to his opinion of the unknown poet.
Abruptly, Jason shut the book and laid it aside. “Definitely not my style.”
Turning to Lenore, he reached one large hand to her hip and drew her down, her morning gown slipping easily over the silk cushions and soft carpet.
“Jason!” Lenore managed to mute her surprised squeal. One look at her husband’s face, grey eyes shimmering, was enough to inform her he had lost interest in books. Eyes wide, she glanced over his shoulder at the door.
Jason smiled wickedly. “It’s locked.”
Lenore was caught between scandalised disapproval and insidious temptation. But her fear of revealing the depths of her feelings while making love had receded. She had discovered that her husband was as prone to losing himself in her every bit as much as she lost herself in him. But in the library? “This is not—” she got out before he kissed her “—what you are supposed—” another kiss punctuated her admonition “—to be helping me with.”
Having completed her protest, Lenore wriggled her arms free and draped them about his neck. Without further objection, she suffered a long-drawn-out kiss that made her toes curl and the lacings of her bodice seem far too tight. Her husband, luckily, seemed aware of her difficulties.
Raising his head to concentrate on the laces of her gown, Jason’s eyes held hers. “I’m sick of handling dusty tomes. I’d rather handle you—for an hour or two.”
The laces gave way. His fingers came up to caress her shoulders, slipping her gown over and down. As his head bent, Lenore let her lids fall. An hour or two?
With a shuddering sigh, she decided she could spare him the time.
* * *
IN THE DAYS that followed their return to the Abbey, Jason tried by every means possible to break down the constraint, subtle but still real, that existed between himself and his wife. The last barrier. He had come a long way since propounding his “reasons for marriage”. Not only could he now acknowledge to himself that he was deeply in love with Lenore, but he wanted their love to be recognised and openly accepted by them both.
And that was the point where he continued to stumble.
Seated astride his grey hunter, he surveyed the vale of Eversleigh, his fields laid like a giant patchwork quilt over the low hills. He had come to the vantage point on the escarpment in the hope that the distance and early morning peace would give him a clearer perspective on his problem.
He had joined in his wife’s pastimes, as far as could be excused, working in the library by her side, taking her for gentle walks about the rambling gardens and nearby woods. Mrs. Potts now looked on him with firm approval. And Lenore gladly accepted his escort, his help, his loving whenever it was offered. But she made no demands, no indication that she desired his attentions.
Yet she did. Of that he was convinced. No woman could pretend to the depths of loving intimacy, the heights of passion that Lenore effortlessly attained—not for so long. No woman could conjure without fail the welcoming smiles she treated him to every time he approached. Her reactions came from her heart, he was sure.
The grey sidled, blowing steam from his great nostrils. Leaning forward to pull the horse’s ears, Jason looked down on his home, the grey stone pale in the weak morning light. A strange peace had enveloped him since returning to the Abbey, as if for years he had been on some journey and had finally found his way home. This, he now knew, was what he had searched for throughout the last decade, a decade filled with balls and parties and all manner of ton-ish pursuits. This was where he wished to remain, here, on his estates, at his home, with Lenore and their children. And he owed the discovery and his sense of deep content to Lenore.
However, no matter how hard he tried to show her, his stubborn wife refused to see. He loved her—how the devil was he to convince her of that?
Until he succeeded, she would continue as she was, eager for his company but never showing it, pleased as punch when he elected to stay by her side but frightened of suggesting it, even obliquely. No matter her task, she would never ask for his help, fearing to step over the line of what could reasonably be expected from a conventional spouse.
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.
* * *
MOONLIGHT 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’s 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 fr
iend’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’s 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’s 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.
* * *
LENORE 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.
Dear Lenore, I had to do something to convince you I love you. Do you love me?
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.
* * * * *
The Wedding Party
Kasey Michaels
Contents
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
EPILOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
WAS HE GOING TO KISS HER? He very often looked at her as if he wanted to kiss her. He had kissed her, to seal their betrothal.
But that had been a month ago. More precisely, thirty-two days, ten hours and some minutes ago. There were no clocks in the gardens, of course, but she was fairly certain of at least the hour.
You’d really have to think it was more than time he kissed her again—if yo
u thought of this sort of thing. Which Alana Wallingford did.
Almost constantly.
Not that he hadn’t kissed her hand, every day, rather than to simply bow over her fingertips, as he’d done before their betrothal. And he’d kissed her cheek, at least twice. And, granted, he hadn’t been constantly in her presence since that marvelous, never-to-be-forgotten moment when he’d told her he loved her and asked her to become his wife, which was what she had wanted to hear from him since the very moment they met.
But then he’d left. There had been his mother to visit, to give her the happy news. He’d said he’d be gone for a week, but it had stretched beyond two. There had been something about overseeing the closing off of a room because of the damp, or a fallen-in roof, or some such thing. As he’d said, “The estate house is ancient, and huge, and falling down around our ears. But you’ll love it, I swear!”
Bailey Armstrong, at the moment the Viscount Netherfield, but heir to the Earl of Whitcomb, had been excruciatingly honest about his fortune, or rather his sad lack of fortune. But that was all right, too, because she was odiously wealthy, or at least that’s what Kate had once told her. “You’re quite odiously wealthy, you know.”
Alana couldn’t wait to see Bailey’s home. Not that she’d be the lady of the manor, not yet, but she could certainly enjoy watching her fortune refurbish the estate Bailey clearly loved so much.
They talked about it, incessantly. Alana didn’t much care for moving about in Society, and neither did Bailey. They would ship his mother and sisters off to London, which was where they wanted to be in any case. His father already resided in their town house, when he was not shooting, fishing or gaming…mostly gaming, always losing. With the family where it wanted to be, and themselves where they wanted to be, the world would be a lovely place. Alana daydreamed about her soon-to-be married life all the time.
Rules of Engagement: The Reasons for MarriageThe Wedding PartyUnlaced (Lester Family) Page 28