Stephanie Laurens Rogues' Reform Bundle (16 page)

Once the gown had been adjusted and removed, Lafarge hesitantly brought forward a silk confection. “And this,
monsieur le duc
ordered for your wedding-night.”

Resigned, Lenore shook out the shimmering folds and held them up. Agatha stifled a chuckle. “I dare say,” was all the comment offered. She handed the scandalously sheer, tantalisingly cut nightgown and matching peignoir back to Lafarge. “I expect you had better send them with the rest.”

It was after two when they descended once more to the carriage. The first of the gowns, three day dresses and one evening gown ordered by Eversleigh, would be delivered that evening, along with some chemises and petticoats. As she followed Agatha into the carriage, Lenore heaved an unexpectedly satisfied sigh.

Agatha heard it and chuckled. “Not as boring as you expected, my dear?”

Lenore inclined her head. “I have to admit I was not bored in the least.”

“Who knows,” Agatha said, settling herself back on the seat. “You might even come to enjoy town pleasures. Within reason, of course.”

“Perhaps,” Lenore replied, unwilling to argue that point.

“Tell me,” Agatha said. “Those gowns you ordered—not in the usual style but not in your usual style, either. Don't tell me Eversleigh has succeeded where your aunt, myself and my sisters all failed?”

A subtle smile played on Lenore's lips. “My previous style was dictated by circumstances. Situated as I was, going about the estates alone, with my brothers bringing their friends to stay, it seemed more practical to wear gowns that concealed rather than revealed, dampened rather than excited. As you know, I did not look for marriage.”

Head on one side, Agatha studied her charge. “So you don't mind Eversleigh's choices?”

“I wouldn't go quite so far as
some
of the styles he favours, but…” Lenore shrugged. “I see no reason, now I'm to be wed, to hide my light under a bushel any longer.”

Agatha chuckled. “And you wouldn't get any bouquets from my nephew for attempting to do so.”

Lenore smiled and wondered how long it would be before Eversleigh came to see her.

 

H
E CAUGHT UP
with her the next day. On her way to convey a shank of embroidery silk left in the upstairs parlour to Agatha in the morning-room, Lenore was halfway down the stairs before she heard the rumble of Eversleigh's deep tones below. After a fractional hesitation, she continued her calm descent.

Jason turned as she gained the hall tiles, his grey gaze sweeping from her hair, neatly braided and coiled, over her modish amber morning gown with its delicate fluted chemisette, to the tips of her old-fashioned slippers peeking from beneath the dress's scalloped hem. Seeing his gaze become fixed, Lenore had no difficulty divining his thoughts. She went forward with her usual confident air, her hand outstretched. “Good morning, Your Grace. I trust I see you well?”

With a slight, questioning lift to his brows, Jason took her hand and, without preamble, raised it to his lips. “I apologise for not being here to greet you. Business took me to Dorset and thence to Salisbury, as I hope Agatha explained.”

Quelling the now familiar sensation that streaked through her at his unconventional caress, Lenore retrieved her hand. “Lady Agatha has been most kind.” Turning to lead him to the morning-room, she added, “You will, no doubt, be happy to know that yesterday she and I visited a certain Madame Lafarge, who is, even now, endeavouring to create a wardrobe fit for the Duchess of Eversleigh. We plan to visit the shoemakers, glovers and milliners tomorrow. Tell me, my lord, do you have any particular makers you wish to recommend?”

The airily polite question was more than enough to put Jason on his guard. “I'm sure Agatha will know who is best,” he murmured.

Agatha was delighted to see him, promptly informing him of a ball to be given by her sister, Lady Attlebridge, the following evening. “Mary's agreed to use the event to puff off your engagement. A select dinner beforehand, so you'd best be here by seven. My carriage or yours?”

Jason frowned. “I've sent the main Eversleigh carriages to be refitted, so it had better be yours, I imagine.”

Lenore noted his slight constraint and, after years of tripping over her brothers' secrets, wondered if he had intended the refit as a surprise for her.

“I had thought to take Miss Lester for a drive in the Park.” Jason smoothly turned to Lenore. “That is, if you'd like to take the air?”

There was, in fact, little Lenore would have liked better. Buoyed by the bracing effect of Agatha's encouragement, she was determined to make a start gaining experience dealing with her husband-to-be while she still had his aunt behind her. “You're most kind, Your Grace. If you'll wait while I get my pelisse?”

Jason merely nodded, sure she would not keep his horses waiting.

Making an elegant exit from the morning-room, Lenore hurried upstairs. The day was unseasonably cool; she was eager to try out the new cherry-red pelisse delivered from Lafarage's this morning. It was an item Eversleigh had ordered; she was determined to give him no warning of her other purchases prior to Lady Attlebridge's ball. Ringing for Trencher, she tidied her hair, fastening it with extra pins given she as yet had no suitable bonnet; she refused to have it cut nor yet to wear a scarf. Shrugging into the pelisse and buttoning it up, Lenore turned this way and that before her cheval glass, admiring the soft merino wool edged with simple ribbon and trimmed at collar and cuffs with grey squirrel fur. The pastel amber of her gown did not clash with the deep cherry. Then she noticed her slippers.

Grimacing, Lenore turned to Trencher. “My brown half-boots and gloves. They'll have to do until I can get something to match. Perhaps tomorrow?”

Descending the stairs busy with the last buttons on her gloves, Lenore did not see Eversleigh at their foot.

“Commendably prompt, my dear.”

Lenore looked up, straight into his grey eyes and found them warm with appreciation. She smiled but did not deceive herself that he had not noticed her gloves and boots.

“That shade of red suits you to admiration,” Jason murmured as, taking her hand, he led her to the door.

Lenore bit back her impulsive rejoinder, to the effect that it was hardly surprising if his taste found favour in his eyes. Letting her lashes fall, she replied, “It's not a colour I have previously had a chance to wear. I must admit I rather favour it.”

The gleam of pride in his eyes as he lifted her to the box seat of his curricle filled her with a curious elation.

The drive to the Park was accomplished swiftly, the traffic in the more fashionable quarters having markedly decreased. It was the first of July and many of the
ton
had already quit the capital. Nevertheless, there were more than enough of the élite left to nod and whisper as His Grace of Eversleigh swept past in his curricle, an elegant lady beside him.

Lenore revelled in the speed of the carriage, bowling along at a clipping pace. She had been driven in curricles before, but never on such smooth surfaces. Jason's matched greys were, she suspected, Welsh thoroughbreds; the carriage, sleek and perfectly sprung, was no great load for them. Above their heads, the sun struggled to pierce the clouds; the breeze, redolent with the scents of summer, whipped her cheeks.

Bethinking herself of the one item she should make a point of mentioning, Lenore leant closer to Eversleigh. “I must thank you for my bridal gown, my lord. It's truly lovely.”

Briefly, Jason glanced down at her. “It was my mother's. My parents' marriage was, by all accounts, a highly successful one. It seemed a fitting omen to re-use my mother's gown.”

Not quite sure how to take his words, Lenore made no reply, keeping her gaze on the passing trees and the occupants of the carriages about them.

Noting the sensation their appearance was causing, Jason sought to clarify the matter. “The announcement of our betrothal will appear in the
Gazette
the day after tomorrow, after the announcement at my aunt's ball.” He glanced down at the fair face beside him, refreshingly open, her complexion aglow. He smiled wryly. “I had to make sure all my major connections, such as my uncle Henry, heard of it first from me, else there'd have been hell to pay.”

Lenore returned his glance with a grin. “I can imagine. Your family is very large, is it not?”

“Very! If you were to ask how many could claim kinship I would not be able to tell you. The Montgomerys, I fear, are a somewhat robust breed. While the direct line has dwindled due to accident, the collateral lines continue to increase unabated.”

“Will they all be attending our wedding?” Lenore asked, struck by the possibility.

“A large number of them,” Jason replied, his attention on his horses. Only when he had successfully negotiated the turn and had the leisure to glance again at Lenore did he perceive her worried frown. “You won't have to converse with them all.”

“But, as your wife, I should at least know their names,” she countered. “
And
their associations. Great heavens—and you've left me only three weeks to learn them all.”

Belatedly perceiving his error, and foreseeing hours spent in recounting his family connections—a topic that had always bored him witless—Jason groaned. “Lenore—believe me. You don't need to know.”

Fixing him with a steady gaze, Lenore enunciated carefully, “
You
might be able to wander through a reception ostensibly given by you without a qualm despite not knowing everyone's name.
I
cannot.”

Jason glared at her. “Great gods, woman! You'll never get them all straight.”

“Am I right in supposing you wish us to marry in three weeks?”

Jason scowled. “We
are
marrying in three weeks.”

“Very well,” Lenore continued, her tone perfectly even. “In that case, I suggest you lend me your assistance in coming to grips with your relatives. And your friends among the
ton
. Some I know; others I don't. I'll need some assistance in defining those you wish me to acknowledge, and those you do not.”

Her careful words reminded Jason that she did, indeed, know some of his “friends” he would not wish her to encourage. And there were yet others who might claim friendship who he would not wish her to countenance.

Considering the task ahead of her, Lenore frowned. “We'll have to prepare a guest-list. Perhaps I could use that?”

Jason felt a sudden chill. “Actually,” he replied, “the guest-list has already been prepared.”

Silence greeted this pronouncement. While he rehearsed his defence—there was only three weeks, after all—he was well aware that, regardless, she had good cause to feel annoyed. More than annoyed.

“Oh?”

The lack of ire in the query brought his head around. But nothing he could see in her mild green gaze gave any indication of aggravation. Which was impossible. The fact that she was shutting him out, hiding her feelings, and that he could not penetrate her mask if she so wished, rocked him. Abruptly, he focused on his horses. “Your father started the list, Jack and your aunt made some additions and I dictated the whole to my secretary.”

Again, a painful minute passed unbroken. “Perhaps you would be good enough to ask your secretary—Compton, is it not?—to furnish me with a copy of this list?”

“I'll call to take you for a drive tomorrow afternoon. I'll bring you a copy and we can discuss it during the drive.” Jason heard his clipped accents, quite different from his habitual drawl, and knew his temper was showing. Not that he had any right to feel angry with her, but she threw him entirely with her cool and utterly assumed calm. She had every right to enact him a scene and demand an apology for what was, he knew, high-handed behaviour of the most arrogant sort. Instead, she was behaving as if his transgression did not matter—why that fact should so shake his equilibrium he was at a loss to understand.

Keeping her gaze on the carriages they passed, a serene smile on her lips, Lenore gave mute thanks for her years of training in the subtle art of polite dissimulation. The Park, she was certain, was not the place to indulge in heated discussions. Not that she had any intention of discussing her fiancé's error with him later. He would only use logic and reason to make his actions seem perfectly reasonable, a fact she would never concede. Besides, there were other ways of making her point. His irritated tone had already provided a modicum of balm for her abraded pride. Guilt, she recalled, had always turned her brothers into bears. The thought cheered her immensely.

“Perhaps we could make a start with members of the
ton
. Who is that lady in the green bonnet up ahead?”

Determined not to let another awkward silence develop, Lenore continued to quiz her betrothed on personages sighted until, after half an hour, he turned his horses for Green Street once more.

A
S THE
Colebatch carriage rumbled down Park Lane, Lenore clutched at the edge of her velvet evening cloak, her expression serene, her stomach a hard knot of apprehension. Her silk gown was entirely concealed by the dark green cloak, one Eversleigh, sitting opposite her, had ordered. Although the evening was fine, there was just enough chill in the air to excuse her need for warmth; she had been cloaked and waiting when he had arrived to escort them to Attlebridge House.

Beside her, Agatha was in high gig, resplendent in midnight-blue bombazine with a peacock feather adorning her black turban. Her patrician features were animated, her black eyes alert. It was plain she expected to enjoy the evening immensely. Lenore swallowed, easing the nervous flutter in her throat, and risked a glance at Eversleigh. Superb in severe black, his ivory cravat a work of art, her fiancé was the epitome of the elegant man about town. His heavy signet glittered on his right hand; a single gold fob hung from the pocket of his embossed silk waistcoat.

His features were in shadow but, when they passed a street-lamp, Lenore found his grey eyes steady on hers. Her breath caught in her throat. He smiled, gently, reassuringly. Lenore returned the smile and, looking away, wondered whether she was that transparent.

In an effort to distract herself from the coming ordeal, she reviewed the list of those Montgomerys she was shortly to meet. Thanks to Agatha, she had the immediate family committed to memory. Given that she was already acquainted with Eversleigh's aunts, she felt few qualms about the social hurdles facing her tonight. It was an entirely different hurdle, one she had erected herself, that had her nerves in unanticipated disarray.

True to his word, Eversleigh had arrived to drive her in the Park that afternoon armed with a copy of all three hundred names on their guest list. She had spared a thought for the unfortunate Compton, required to produce the copy in less than twenty-four hours. At Agatha's suggestion she had restricted her queries to those of his friends included on the list, leaving the family connections to be later clarified by Agatha. Any awkwardness that might have existed had been ameliorated by her shy thanks tendered for the present he had sent her that morning.

That
had been extremely disconcerting. She had returned with Agatha from a most successful expedition—bonnets, gloves, slippers and boots had consumed most of their morning, leaving her with little opportunity to dwell on the iniquitous behaviour of her fiancé—to discover a package addressed to herself, left in Higgson's care. Removing the wrappings, she had discovered a pair of soft kid half-boots in precisely the same shade of cherry-red as her new pelisse, together with a pair of matching pigskin gloves. Accompanying these had been a chip bonnet with long cherry ribbons. There had been no card.

Agatha had crowed.

Any doubts she had harboured over who had sent her such a gift had been laid to rest when she had tried on the boots in her chamber, exclaiming over their perfect fit. Trencher had giggled, then admitted that a person named Moggs, known to be in Eversleigh's employ, had materialised in the kitchens the previous afternoon, asking for her shoe size.

The episode had left her shaken. The idea that Eversleigh had turned London upside down—or, more likely, kept some poor cobbler up half the night—just to make this peace with her was distinctly unnerving. His abrupt dismissal of her thanks, as if his effort meant nothing at all, almost as if he did not wish to acknowledge it, had been even more odd.

Throughout their drive, she had kept her eyes glued to his secretary's scrawl and bombarded him with questions. Despite a certain reluctance, she had wrung from him enough answers to satisfy.

The bright lights of Piccadilly swung into view. Lenore quelled a shiver of expectation, drawing her cloak closer.

Ten minutes later, they pulled up outside Attlebridge House in Berkeley Square. Jason descended then turned to assist first his aunt, then his fiancée to the pavement. As Lenore stepped down from the carriage, her cloak parted slightly, affording his sharp eyes a glimpse of silver-green. His lips twitched. Inwardly he sent up a prayer that Lafarge had adhered to her usual standards. After his gaffe over the guest-list, he did not feel sufficiently secure to object even had Lenore donned a pinafore.

Trapping her hand on his sleeve, he detected the tremor in her fingers. Capturing her wide gaze, he smiled encouragingly, trying to banish the lingering memory of the feelings that had swamped him in the Park the day before. The feelings that had sent him home in a savage mood, to give Moggs a most peculiar set of orders. Typically, Moggs had achieved the desired result quietly and efficiently. Yet the fact that he had felt such a compelling urge to prove to his wife-to-be that he was not an ogre was disturbing. She was an intelligent woman—there should be no need to go to such lengths.

As he waited beside her for his aunt's door to swing open, he recalled Lenore's thanks, tendered with a smile of rare sweetness. He had been decidedly brusque, thrown off-balance by the sudden thought that, while he had frequently showered diamonds on his mistresses, he wooed his bride with boots.

And then they were inside the hall, and the moment of revelation was upon them.

Gripped by sudden shyness, Lenore allowed Jason to remove the velvet cloak from her shoulders. Trying for an air of sophisticated confidence, she twitched her skirts straight, then, her head high, fixed her eyes on Agatha's face.

Warm approval shone in Agatha's black eyes. “You look absolutely
splendid
, my dear.” Her peacock feather bobbed with her nod. “Doesn't she, Eversleigh?” This last was uttered pointedly in an attempt to prod her nephew to speech. Agatha glared at him but his eyes were fixed on Lenore.

Lenore knew it. The silence from beside her was complete, but she could feel his gaze roving over her shoulders, bared by the wide neckline of her gown, then moving down, over her breasts, outlined by the high waist, then down, down the long length of her filmy skirts, cut narrow to emphasise her height and slenderness. A slow blush rose to her cheeks. In desperation, she tweaked the delicate cuffs of the long, fitted sleeves over her wrists.

Becoming aware of how long he had stood, gawking like a schoolboy, Jason tried to speak, but had to pause and clear his throat before he could do so. “You look…exquisite, my dear.”

At the deep, strangely raspy words, Lenore glanced up, into his eyes—and was content. Then he smiled and she felt a quiver ripple from the top of her head all the way to her toes.

“Shall we go in?” Smoothly, Jason offered her his arm, unable, for the life of him, to take his eyes from her. The silver-green silk clung and slid over her curves as she moved to his side. The gown was more concealing than any he had ordered yet, oddly, it was far more alluring to have such promise so tantalisingly withheld.

Success, Lenore found, was a heady potion. As she placed her fingertips on his silk sleeve her entire body tingled with the thrill of conquest, of having brought the silver light to his eyes. The sensation left her breathless. Side by side, both so tall, she a graceful counterpoint to his strength, they strolled into the large drawing-room.

All conversation halted.

Wide-eyed stares rained upon them; the entire company followed their stately progress to Lady Attlebridge, an imposing figure standing before the fireplace. There was not a shred of doubt who the focus of interest was that night.

And so it proved. To Lenore's abiding relief, Eversleigh remained firmly entrenched by her side, resisting any number of attempts, some subtle, others less so, to either distract him, or displace him. When her memory failed, he prompted or, as happened more frequently, when her memory was blank, because neither he nor Agatha had recalled certain of his connections, he duly filled her in, his charming smile warming her all the while.

From his sudden stiffness when they hove near, she deduced his aunts were his greatest concern, an observation she found particularly interesting. When the fact that she knew them finally registered as they were leaving Lady Eckington, the most redoubtable and unpredictable of the six, he murmured, “They know you, don't they?”

Lenore opened her eyes wide. “I thought you knew,” she murmured, turning to smile as one of his cousins passed by. “They often visit Lester Hall. They're all friends of Harriet's. I've known most of your aunts since I was—oh, twelve or so.”

Jason raised his brows, surprised yet cynical as realisation dawned. Given the favour of his formidable aunts, Lenore would have no need of his support in establishing her social position. Which was a relief. Nevertheless, his voice held a disgruntled note when he said, “I had thought to have to protect you from them. The next time they come calling with me in their sights, I'll know who to hide behind.”

Lenore's eyes widened but she laughed the comment aside. “Never mind that—just tell me who the lady in the atrocious purple turban is. She's been trying to attract our attention for ages. On the sofa by the wall.”

Obediently, Jason slowly turned. “That, dear Lenore, is Cousin Hetty. Come. I'll introduce you.”

And so it went on. The dinner proved no greater ordeal than the drawing-room; by the end of it, Lenore felt entirely at home among the Montgomerys. An official announcement of their engagement was made at the end of the meal, and their healths drunk in the finest champagne before the company moved to the ballroom, keen to meet the incoming guests and spread the news.

Lenore glided through the throng on Jason's arm, smiling and nodding, her head in a whirl. She was thankful the long windows to the terrace were open, allowing a gentle breeze to cool the heated room. Despite the time of year, Lady Attlebridge's rooms were full. Bodies hemmed her in, the colours of coats and gowns blending like an artist's palette. As she clung to Jason's arm, grateful for the reassuring pressure of his fingers on hers, her responses to the introductions and congratulations became automatic.

Then the musicians struck up.

“Come, my dear.”

As if he had been waiting for the signal, Eversleigh drew her away from the crowd, into the area miraculously clearing in the middle of the floor. As she felt his arm go around her, Lenore remembered. The waltz—their engagement waltz. “Ah,” she said, relaxing into his arms. “I'd forgotten about this.”

“Had you?” Jason raised one arrogant brow. “I hadn't.”

He watched her eyes cloud with delicious confusion.

Lenore blinked, the only way to break free of his spell. Fixing her gaze in convenient space, she prayed he could not hear her thudding heart. “Tell me, my lord. Is Lord Alvanley an accomplished dancer?”

“Accomplished enough,” Jason returned, quelling his grin.

“But Alvanley's claim to fame is his wits, rather than his grace. Furthermore, given he's half a head shorter than you, I would not, if I was you, favour him with a waltz.” He considered the matter gravely. “A cotillion, perhaps. Or a quandrille.”

Lenore's eyes narrowed, but, before she could formulate another distracting question, Jason took charge.

“But enough of my friends, my dear—and
more
than enough of my relatives,” he added, frowning when she opened her lips. “I would much rather hear about you.”

“Me?” The words came out in a higher register and without the languid dismissiveness Lenore had intended, owing to the fact that Jason had drawn her closer as they approached the end of the floor. His hand burned through the fine silk of her gown, his thighs brushing hers as they whirled through the turn. When they straightened to precess back up the room, he did not relax his hold. Luckily, other couples were crowding on to the floor, obscuring everyone's view.

“You,” Jason confirmed. “I sincerely hope you cancelled the gowns I ordered from Lafarge.” Lenore looked up, eyes wide. Jason smiled. “Your style is uniquely yours, my dear. I like it far better than any other.”

More flattered than she would have believed possible, Lenore stared up at him. “Actually, my lord—”

“Jason.”

Lenore felt her fingers tighten around his. She forced them to relax. “Jason, the gowns you had ordered were perfectly appropriate. It's merely that, at least until I get used to such styles, I fear I would find wearing the more revealing gowns unsettling. No doubt I'll get used to such things in time.”

“Lenore, I would prefer you to dress as you wish. Your own style is much more becoming and infinitely more appropriate than the current mood. I would be happy to see you always garbed in gowns such as you are wearing tonight.”

“Oh.” Lenore looked deep into his eyes but could see nothing beyond an unnerving sincerity. She drew a deep breath. “In that case, my—Jason, I suspect I should warn you to expect a very large bill from Madame Lafarge.”

A smile of considerable charm lit Jason's face. He chuckled. “I see. What did you do—double the order?”

Eyes on his, Lenore nodded.

For a moment, he could not take it in. Then, the trepidation in her wide eyes, her suspended breathing, registered, confirming the reality. For the first time in a very long while, Jason was at a loss, sheer incredulity obstructing coherent thought. In the end, his sense of humour won through. His lips lifted in an irrepressible grin, breaking into a smile as he saw her confusion grow. Drawing her slightly closer, he sighed. “You will, no doubt, be relieved to know that settling with Lafarge will not greatly dent my fortune. However,” Jason continued, his eyes holding hers, “next time you wish to upbraid me for my high-handed ways, do you think, my dear, that you could simply lose your temper? I find your methods of making me sorry rather novel, to say the least.” Not to mention effective, but he was not so far lost to all caution as to say such words out aloud.

“I…ah…” Lenore did not know what to say. His grey eyes, gently quizzing her, were far too perceptive to risk any white lie. As the fact that he was disposed to view her actions in an understanding, even conciliatory way sank in, she summoned enough strength to tilt her chin at him. “If you would refrain from acting high-handedly in the first place, my lord, I would not need to exercise my temper in any way whatever. Which would be greatly to be desired, for I find it extremely wearying.”