Stephanie Laurens Rogues' Reform Bundle (28 page)

When she did not immediately reply, Jason's brows rose. “Since you arrived in town?”

Looking up, Lenore jettisoned all thoughts of prevarication. “Virtually,” she admitted, her voice low.

Jason sighed and looked down, his fingers interlacing with hers. “My dear, I wish—very much—that you had told me. I'm not a monster.” His fist closed about her hand, then relaxed slightly. Mindful of Agatha's words that Lenore had only followed her odd course to achieve what she believed he desired of her, he added, “There's nothing I can do to relieve you of your present susceptibility but I would not wish you to tire yourself further on my account.”

“Oh, but I'm perfectly…At least, later…” Eyes wide, Lenore leapt in to avert any decree. But when her eyes met his, and she saw the comprehension and perception therein, she faltered to a stop.

One of her husband's brows had risen sceptically.

“Perfectly all right later in the day?
Well
, even? Perhaps I should warn you, my dear, that I do not take kindly to having the wool pulled over my eyes.”

Under his stern grey gaze, Lenore shifted uneasily but the affection in his tone, in his expression, gave her the strength to reply, “But truly, Jason, I
can
manage. I would not wish the
ton
to think your wife was incapable of carrying her position with credit.”

“The
ton
may think what they please. However, in this instance, I think you're making too much of their inconstancy and too little of their sense. You've succeeded as my duchess far better than I'd hoped, Lenore. None of those who matter will hold your desertion of their balls against you, certainly not when they learn the cause.” Entirely unconsciously, Jason's gaze skimmed possessively over his wife's body. When his eyes returned to her face, he saw she was blushing delicately. He smiled, squeezing her hand gently before raising it to his lips. “Who knows?” he murmured, his eyes quizzing her. “They might even be jealous.”

Lenore blushed even more. Wishing she possessed the will to retrieve her fingers, for it was exceedingly hard to think with his lips on her skin, she felt obliged to argue for the conservative course, the course she did not wish to follow in the least. “The season will be over in a few weeks, my lord. It will be time enough to return to the Abbey then.”

Jason shook his head. “We're leaving for the Abbey tomorrow morning, Lenore. At least—” He broke off, regarding her ruefully. “As early as you can manage it.”

They were the words Lenore had both feared and longed to hear. Yet she could not let them pass without challenge. “But—”

“No buts.” Jason's voice was firm. “You may tell me your engagements and I'll have Compton cancel them.”

“But—”

“You'll stay safely in bed until it's time for luncheon. I'll send someone up with a tray—better still, I'll bring it myself.” Jason rose. “We can remain here all day, or, if you wish, I could take you for a stroll in the square. Tonight, I fear you'll have to continue to bear with my unfashionable company, for I do not plan to go out. We'll have dinner together and then you must rest.” At the end of this recitation, his gaze dropped to Lenore's face. “Do you have any more buts, madam wife?”

Not sure whether she wished to glare or laugh, Lenore compromised. “I fear there's an impediment to your plans you've overlooked, my lord.”

Abruptly eschewing his arrogant stance, Jason asked, “Don't you wish to spend your day with your husband? Or is it that you do not wish, in your heart, to return home to the Abbey with me?”

Lenore's heart turned over. What her heart wished, she was convinced she could never have. But she was a little bemused by Jason in vulnerable vein and was at a loss to know how to word her reply.

Sensing her predicament, Jason smiled, raising the hand he still held to clasp it more securely between his. “Forgive my levity, my dear. What is it I've overlooked?”

A little relieved, but not entirely at ease for the soft light that glowed in his grey eyes made her heart stand still, Lenore ventured, “I'm not…entirely sanguine as to how I shall manage in a carriage all the way to the Abbey.”

“We'll travel slowly. No need to rush. We'll only go as far each day as you can manage.” Jason scanned Lenore's face, noting the circles under her large eyes, the absence of her usual sparkling glance and the frown, born of strain, that haunted her pale green gaze. She had pushed herself hard to fulfil his wishes. “No more arguments, Lenore. I'm taking you back to the country tomorrow.” With a smile to soften the absolute nature of that decree, Jason laid her hand down on the quilt. “Rest now, my dear. I'll wake you for lunch.”

Feeling as if, somewhat against her will, a considerable weight had been lifted from her shoulders, Lenore watched him leave. He had not said what had brought him to her room at such an hour but whatever it had been, the outcome had never been in doubt. She had known all along that Jason was not the sort of inconsiderate husband who would take no interest in his wife's health, even had she not been carrying his child. Given that his concern was real, albeit the sort of emotion a gentleman felt for one in his care, his determination to take her back to the Abbey was not to be wondered at. What she was far less sure about was whether he planned to remain there with her. And whether he had asked, or was thinking of inviting, others to join them in Dorset.

With a deep sigh, Lenore closed her eyes, luxuriating in the knowledge that she did not have to get up, get dressed and attend some luncheon party, pandering to the constant demands of her position.

As sleep hovered near, ready to claim her, she realised she did not know which she feared more—if Jason stayed at the Abbey, alone, in her company, would she be able to maintain the inner mask she wore constantly, the one that hid her love from his sight? Yet, if he invited guests to join them and the ladies, as so many ladies did, made a play for him, would she be able to hide the jealousy that, to her surprise, had started eating at her soul?

Dismissing the answer as one of life's imponderables, Lenore slipped wearily over the threshold of sleep, into that realm where dreams were the only reality.

 

T
HEY REACHED
the Abbey on the morning of the third day. As she emerged from the carriage and felt the flags of the steps firm beneath her feet, Lenore sighed deeply, relief and appreciation clear in her eyes as they met her husband's. She turned to greet Morgan, then sighting Mrs. Potts at the top of the steps, she waved before placing her hand on Jason's sleeve.

“Dare I suspect you are pleased to be home, madam?”

At his soft drawl, Lenore cast him a teasing glance. “Indeed, my lord. I have not forgotten I have yet to get far in my cataloguing of your library.”

“Ah, yes.” Jason returned her smile, no longer perturbed by her abiding delight in musty tomes.

At the top of the steps, Mrs. Potts sank into a deep curtsy. “Delighted to welcome you home, Your Grace, ma'am.”

“I'm delighted to be back, Mrs. Potts.”

“I should mention, Mrs. Potts,” Jason cut in smoothly, “that Her Grace is in dire need of chicken broth. I believe that's what my mother swore by during her confinements?”

Mrs. Potts' face lit up. “Dear me, yes! Wonderful for picking a lady up when the babe gets you down. Now just you come along, my lady. We'll get you to bed straight away and I'll bring you a bowl. You must be quite worn down with all that gadding about in London.”

Swept up by the irresistible force of Mrs. Potts fired with a zeal to tend to the wellbeing of the next generation, Lenore was parted from her husband. When she managed to get a look at him, on her way up the stairs, Mrs. Potts directly behind her, she saw a smugly satisfied smile on his face. Lenore shot him a speaking glance, which dissolved against her will, into a misty and grateful smile, before surrendering to her fate.

Indeed, she had need to recoup. The journey had been painfully slow. Jason had ordered that the carriage, the most well-equipped money could buy, should be driven at a spanking pace. That way, he had explained, the springs and speed took the worst out of the bumps. Even so, they had not been able to cover more than twenty miles without halt. Sunk in the luxury of her tub, filled to the brim with blissfully warm, scented water, Lenore closed her eyes and recalled her husband's unfailing support. He had grown adept at gauging how long she could last, and organising their stops so that she could wander on his arm through delightful little villages, or stroll on a green. Their night-time stops had been at the best inns where her comfort had been assured. Always the best parlour and the biggest bedroom. Her only complaint was that she had spent the nights alone in the big beds, but she had accepted that philosphically. She had his company and his affection—she had no right to expect more.

The day passed swiftly. After the promised chicken broth, Lenore dozed for a few hours. Refreshed, she dressed and descended to the parlour. After an hour reacquainting herself with her household, her husband found her. At his suggestion, they strolled on the sun-warmed terrace. It had been weeks since Lenore had been conscious of the sun on her face; it seemed appropriate that it should shine on her return to her home.

Later, she poured tea for them both. The time flew as they entertained each other with wickedly accurate reflections on the
ton
's notables. Then it was time for dinner, taken as had been their habit earlier in the year, in the smaller dining salon.

When the covers were finally drawn, Lenore sighed, deeply content, very glad Jason had insisted on bringing her home. When he raised a brow at her, she said as much, adding, “I already feel very much better.”

As she realised her motive in stating that fact, Lenore blushed. Abruptly, she took another sip of wine, hoping the candlelight would hide her reaction. Yet was it wrong for a wife to invite her husband's attentions. Right or wrong, acceptable or not, she just wished she had more of an idea of how to go about it.

Despite her hopes, the candlelight was in no way dim enough to hide her blush from Jason's sight. Her words, and her reaction, sent his hopes soaring. But still he moved cautiously. “We'll have to ensure we do nothing to overtire you.”

Her senses at full stretch, Lenore detected the subtle undertones in his deep voice. Hesitantly, she answered, “I don't think anything I do here could overtire me.”

Ignoring the clamour of his desire, Jason smiled encouragingly, his eyes holding hers across the length of the table. “Perhaps you should retire early? There's no reason to stay up. I expect I'll come up soon myself.”

Finding her lips suddenly dry, Lenore had to pass the tip of her tongue over them before replying, her voice slightly husky, “Perhaps I should.”

A footman came to assist her to her feet. Jason stood, then, when she had gone, with one, last, lingering look, he subsided once more into his chair, waving aside the port, indicating instead the brandy decanter. Did she know what she did to him when she looked at him like that? What she would do to any man with the unspoken appeal in her large eyes? Suppressing a shudder of pure desire, Jason took a very large sip of his brandy.

Later, fortified by a large dose of the best brandy in his cellars, Jason eyed the plain panels of the door in front of him. Drawing a breath of purest satisfaction, he turned the handle and crossed the threshold.

From the depths of her feather mattress, Lenore heard him enter and could not quite believe it. Was she asleep already and dreaming? But no. The large male body, warm and hard, that slid into the bed beside her was no dream.

With a sound halfway between a cry and a sigh, Lenore turned to welcome him, only to find herself in his arms. They closed possessively, passionately, about her.

Much later, his wife warm and fast asleep beside him, Jason heaved a contented sigh.

Agatha, bless her heart, had been right.

I
T WAS PAST NINE
the next morning and Jason was deep in yesterday's
Gazette
when the door to the breakfast parlour opened. Assuming it to be one of Morgan's minions come to consult with the butler over some household matter, Jason did not look up. Not until Morgan's voice floated over the top of the pages.

“Perhaps I should clear this all away, Your Grace, and fetch you a fresh pot of tea? And perhaps some toast?”

Jason emerged from behind his newspaper in time to see Lenore subside into the chair Morgan held, a grateful look on her face.

“Thank you, Morgan. Just one slice of toast, I think.”

Folding the paper and setting it aside, Jason waited until Morgan and the footman departed, burdened with the remnants of his substantial breakfast, before fixing his wife with a concerned frown. “Should you be up and about so early?”

Lenore smiled, albeit a trifle weakly. “I feel a great deal better this morning.” Belatedly realising how that might sound, she rushed on, “Mrs. Potts advised against languishing in bed unless I need to sleep.”

“Really?” One of Jason's brows had risen. “I fear I must take exception to such strictures. There are other reasons for languishing in bed, which I hope to have you frequently consider.”

Blushing furiously, Lenore shot him a glance she hoped was sternly reproving. Luckily, Morgan appeared with her tea and toast and put an end to such risqué banter.

As she sipped the weak tea, Lenore tried to appear unconscious of the steady regard of her husband's grey eyes. He seemed content to watch her, as if time was of no importance. In the end, she asked, “Do you have much business to attend to down here?”

Jason shook his head. “The harvests are virtually all in. There's not much to be done until early next year.” He watched as Lenore nibbled at her toast then grimaced and pushed the plate aside. She was still very pale. “Compton comes down from London every now and then, when there's any business that needs my attention.” Remembering that his wife was well acquainted with the workings of country estates, and that she liked going about, seeing work progress, he ventured, “There are some cottages being rethatched in the village. Perhaps, later this morning, we could ride over and take a look at the result? Or would you rather go in the gig?”

Consulting her stomach took no more than a minute. Reluctantly, Lenore shook her head. “I don't think I could. I may be well enough to come downstairs, but I would rather not chance a carriage today. And as for riding, it's perhaps a good thing that I'm not a devotee of the exercise.”

She looked up to see a frown on her husband's handsome countenance.

Jason caught her eye. “Is that why you refused my invitations to go riding in town? Because you were too ill?”

Lenore nodded. “The very idea of galloping over the greensward, in the Park, no less, was enough to make me blanch.” Laying aside her napkin, she stood.

Recalling the hurt he had felt when she had declined his offer, Jason, rising, too, fixed her with a stern look. “Might I request, madam, that in future, you refrain from keeping secrets from your husband?”

At his mock severity, Lenore chuckled. “Indeed, my lord, I dare say you're right. It would certainly make life much easier.” She took the arm he offered and they strolled into the hall. “However,” she said, glancing up at him through her lashes, “you must admit you had no real wish to be seen riding in the Park with me. Your aunts told me you never escort ladies on their rides.”

“My aunts are infallible on many points. However, while I would not wish to shatter your faith in their perspicacity, I fear predicting my behaviour isn't one of their strengths.” Jason glanced down to capture his wife's wide green gaze. “In this case, for instance, while they're perfectly correct in noting that I've never seen any point in accompanying females on their jaunts in the Park, I consider accompanying my
wife
on such excursions a pleasure not to be missed.”

Lenore wondered whether the odd weakness she felt was due to her indisposition or to the glow in his grey eyes. Whatever, she wished she had learned to control her blushes, for he was entirely too adept at calling them forth. She no longer had any defence, not when he chose to communicate on that intimate level she shared with no one else.

Raising her hand to his lips, Jason smiled, pleased to see the colour in her cheeks. “I must go and look at those cottages. I'll hunt you up when I return.”

With that promise, he left Lenore in the hall and strode to the front door.

When the heavy door had shut behind him, Lenore shivered deliciously. Wriggling her shoulders the better to throw off his lingering spell, she strolled into the morning-room. Jason's behaviour throughout this morning, both before and after he had left her bed, led to only one conclusion. He intended to reinstate their relationship, exactly as it had been in the month following their wedding.

Sinking on to the chaise before the blazing fire, Lenore folded her arms across the carved back and gazed out at the mist shrouding the hilltops. Contented anticipation thrummed, a steady beat in her blood. Things had changed since August. Then, she had been on a voyage of discovery; this time she knew what was possible, knew what she truly wished of life. Coming back to the Abbey and resuming their relationship felt like returning to a well-loved and much desired place, a home. An acknowledgement that they had shared, and could still share, something that they both now valued.

It was more than she had expected of her marriage—a great deal more.

The only cloud on her horizon was how long it would last—how long Jason would be content with her and country life. Her green eyes darkening, she considered her prospects. The peace of country living had never been his milieu. Her mental pictures had always positioned him against a backdrop of
ton
-ish pursuits. If nothing else, her time in London had convinced her she could never bear more than a few weeks of such distraction; her mind was not attuned to it.

Biting her lips, Lenore frowned. Could his warning that not even his aunts could predict his tastes be a subtle hint, conscious or not, that they were changing? He had denied any plans to invite acquaintances to join them, now or later. Likewise, he had given her to understand that he expected to remain at the Abbey, alone, with her, for the foreseeable future.

With a deep sigh, she stretched her arms, then let herself fall back against the cushions on the chaise. Inside, she was a mass of quivering uncertainty. Despite her determination not to pander to her secret yearnings, hope, a wavering flame, had flared within her. She had his affection and his desire; she wanted his love. That their sojourn here alone would allow that elusive emotion a chance to grow was the kernel of her hope. Unfortunately there seemed little she could do to aid the process.

Her fate remained in the hands of the gods—and those of His Grace of Eversleigh.

 

“T
HAT ONE GOES OVER
there.” Lenore pointed at a stack of leather-bound tomes, precariously balanced near the window.

“How the devil can you tell?” Jason muttered as he lugged an eight-inch-thick, gold-embossed red-calf bound volume to the pile, one of thirty dotted about the library.

Without looking up from the book open in her lap, Lenore explained, “Your father had all of Plutarch's works covered in that style. Unfortunately, he then deposited them randomly through the shelves.” Closing the book she had been studying, she looked up at her husband. “This one had best go with the medicinal works. That group by the sofa table.”

She smiled as Jason came up and squatted to lift the heavy book from her lap. Catching her eye, he grimaced as he hefted the volume. “It escapes my comprehension why you cannot work at a desk like any reasonable being.”

Having already won this argument the previous day, Lenore smiled up at him. “I'm much more comfortable down here,” she said, reclining against the cushions piled at her back. “Besides, the light is much better here than at the desk.” She had made a thick Aubusson rug just inside one of the long windows her area of operations, lounging on its thick pile to examine the books as each section of the library shelves was emptied. Given that many of the volumes were ancient and heavy, her “office” in the gallery was out of the question. Until yesterday, Melrose, a young footman, had helped her unload and sort the tomes. Yesterday morning, after his ride, her husband had arrived and, dismissing Melrose, had offered himself as substitute.

“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.

 

I
N 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.