Stephanie Laurens Rogues' Reform Bundle

by Stephanie Laurens

  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 ball-room.

  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 hyperawareness 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.”

  Lady Dallinghurst made so bold as to put her hand on his sleeve. “And since when has that ever stopped you, Your Grace?”

  Jason looked down, into her pretty pink and white face and felt pity for the absent Lord Dallinghurst. Althea Dallinghurst was a Dresden doll who played the game hard and fast. Lifting his brows, his expression nothing if not supercilious, Jason asked, “Dallinghurst in town?”

  Lady Dallinghurst’s eyes gleamed. Her hold on his arm tightened.

  “No. And he won’t be back for a month!” She looked up at him, clearly expecting a proposition of the most explicit nature.

  “Pity. There’s a horse I’d like to see him about. Tell him I’m interested when you se
e him next, will you, my dear.”

  With a polite nod, Jason moved into the crowd, leaving a very stunned lady behind him. It was, he decided, time to suggest to his wife that they leave and travel on to Lady Holborn’s affair, the next on her never-ending list, before he was provoked into making a wrong move and some slighted madam, with intuition fuelled by fury, guessed just how highly unfashionable was his interest in his wife.

  THE NEXT AFTERNOON brought near-disaster for Lenore. She had opted to attend Lady Hartington’s luncheon, an al fresco affair in the extensive gardens of Hartington House. Because of the distance from town, the luncheon continued all afternoon, with the guests enjoying the amenities of the gardens. To Lenore, it was a welcome relief from the stuffy salons of the capital. All went well, until Lady Morecambe and Mrs. Athelbury, with both of whom Lenore was on good terms, became possessed of the idea of punting on the lake.

  “Do come with us, Lenore. Lord Falkirk has offered to pole us about.”

  Seeing nothing against the venture, Lenore agreed. Together with her friends, she crossed the wide lawn to where a punt was drawn up at the water’s edge. Young Lord Falkirk had already assumed his place in the stern, the long pole gripped firmly between his hands. “A quick trip to the fountain and back, ladies?”

  They laughingly agreed. In the middle of the shallow lake, an island of stones was crowned by a fountain which fed a small waterfall, the whole, in reality, a disguise for the small waterwheel concealed in the rocks which caused ripples on the otherwise glassy surface of the protected lake.

  Mr. Hemminghurst followed them down and gallantly assisted them to board, handing them in with a flourish. Smothering their giggles, they took their seats on the punt’s narrow crossboards. There was only just room enough for all three.

  “Off we go, then!” With a sturdy heave, Lord Falkirk poled off.

  Almost immediately, Lenore had second thoughts. By the time they were halfway to the rocks, she could feel each rolling wave created by the waterwheel as it passed under the punt. Her stomach started to move in synchrony. As they neared the rocks, she pressed a hand to her lips. The nape of her neck was warm and growing warmer—a very bad sign.

  “Isn’t it delightful!” Lady Morecambe leaned out to pull the boat closer to the island, rocking the boat dreadfully.

  Lenore shut her eyes tight, then quickly opened them again. “Yes, quite,” she managed, before setting her teeth again. An ominous chill was spreading over the back of her shoulders.

  Luckily, the other three occupants of the punt were more interested in the cunning way the waterfall had been created to hide the wheel assembly than in the odd hue she was sure her skin had assumed. Breathing deeply, Lenore told herself that they would head back now, that the rocking would get less with every yard they came closer to the shore. If she could just hold on, she would see this through, without giving her secret away. Agatha, she remembered, was in the crowd on the lawn, and Lady Attlebridge, too. Along with half the female members of the ton. This was the last place on earth to fall victim to her affliction.

  After declaiming with what Lenore felt to be quite unnecessary long-windedness on the mechanism that drove the wheel, Lord Falkirk turned the punt around. Gradually, Lenore felt her glazed vision improve. The bank, and salvation, were only a few yards away. She blinked, then frowned, as her sight now revealed many of the other guests lining the edge of the lake, laughing and waving at them.

  Naturally, Lady Morecambe and Mrs. Athelbury waved back. Perforce, Lenore had to join in, struggling to fix a smile on her lips. But with the increased movement, added to by Mrs. Athelbury leaning out of the punt to flick water at those on the shore, the punt was rocking quite hideously again.

  Lenore felt the blood drain from her face. Any minute…She closed her eyes, very close to defeat.

  “There we are!”

  With a grand gesture, Lord Falkirk ran the punt aground.

  Letting out the breath she had been holding in a shuddering sigh, Lenore waited patiently for the other two ladies to clamber out, drawing most of the gathering crowd’s attention, before allowing Lord Falkirk to assist her to shore.

  Once on terra firma, the young man looked at her in concern. “I say, are you all right, Lady Eversleigh? You look dev’lish pale.”

  Summoning a smile, Lenore plastered it on her lips. “Just a touch of the sun, I suspect, my lord. I think I’ll sit down in the shade for a minute. If you’ll excuse me?”

  Leaving his lordship casting puzzled glances at the light clouds covering the sun, Lenore headed for a wooden seat placed under a willow. The drooping branches of the willow gave her a modicum of privacy in which she could risk hunting in her reticule for the smelling salts Harriet had given her years before. She had never thought to use them, but, sighting the little bottle among the trinkets on her dressing-table, she had added it to the contents of her reticule the week before. Sending a thank-you prayer Harriet’s way, Lenore took a cautious sniff then leaned back and closed her eyes.

  To her relief, the crowd had moved on in the opposite direction to view the sunken garden. She was left in peace under the willow, a reprieve of which she took full advantage. Only when she was sure she could stand and walk without tempting disaster did she emerge and, finding the first of the guests departing, rejoined the crowd only to say her farewells.

  Returning directly home in the swaying carriage, she only just managed to gain her chamber before the inevitable overcame her.

  Trencher, tipped off by Smythe, came rushing up to assist her. Finally, with wet cloths laid over her brow, Lenore lay, weak and exhausted, stretched out on her bed. It was nearly five o’clock. Soon, she would have to get up and commence the long process of dressing for the evening.

  “You’ll feel lots better after a bath, my lady,” said Trencher, echoing Lenore’s thoughts. “But rest awhile now. I’ll call you when ’tis time.”

  Lenore did not even try to nod. Total immobility seemed the only defence against this particular illness. She drifted into a light doze but all too soon she heard the sounds of her bath being readied in the small bathing chamber next door. The splashing of the water as it poured into the tub pulled her mind back to full consciousness.

  This afternoon’s near catastrophe could not be repeated—not if she wished to preserve her secret. Luckily, she had devised a plan. A plan that would, she fervently hoped, achieve her twin aims of concealing her indisposition while keeping the Duchess of Eversleigh circulating among the haut ton. A plan so simple, she was confident none would detect her sleight of hand.

  With a deep sigh, Lenore removed the cloth from her forehead and slowly, gingerly, sat up. The room swayed gently before settling into its proper place. She grimaced. It was definitely time to put her plan into action.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  WITH A PERFECTLY genuine smile on her lips, Lenore whirled down the long ballroom of Haddon House, laughing up at Lord Alvanley as that jovial peer partnered her in a vigorous country dance. It was a week since Lady Hartington’s luncheon and, Lenore reflected, her plan had worked wonders.

  She laughed at Lord Alvanley’s opinion of Lady Mott’s latest coiffure, her confidence waxing strong. She had become adept at this charade, projecting the image of blissful enjoyment expected of a new peeress. She could rattle along with the best of them, prattling on about nothing of more serious consequence than their latest bonnets or exclaiming over the monkey Lady Whatsit had got from her latest lover. A charade of the superficial, while beneath her rouge her cheeks were still pale and her mind longed for quieter surrounds and more meaningful pastimes.

  But she was determined to preserve her disguise until the Little Season ended and she could retire with honour to Dorset. It was the least she could do to repay her husband’s generosity.

  “An excellent measure, m’dear,” his lordship said as they came to a swirling stop. “Tell me, do you plan to open up that mansion of your lord’s down in Dorset?”

  While she waxed lyric
al about the Abbey and her future plans for its use, Lenore became aware of an odd tingling at her nape, a sensation she associated with her husband’s attention. Was he here? She had not seen him that day and was depressingly conscious of an urge to turn about and search the brightly dressed crowd for a glimpse of his elegant form.

  Suppressing her highly unfashionable impulse, she nevertheless could not resist turning slightly, scanning the crowd while ostensibly discussing the most acceptable composition of house parties with his lordship.

  From the corner of her eye she detected a movement, a black coat detaching itself from the brightly hued background. He was here—and was coming to speak with her. Desperately trying to dampen the excitement that swelled in her breast, Lenore realised Lord Alvanley was looking at her, an expectant expression on his good-natured face.

  “Er…I do believe you’re right, my lord,” Lenore hazarded. She heaved an inward sigh when his lordship all but preened.

  Then he glanced up. “Here—Eversleigh! I’ve just had a capital notion—your wife thinks it so, too.”

  “Oh?” Jason strolled up, favouring Lenore with a nod and an appraising stare. He shook hands with the Viscount. “Just what are you hatching, my friend?”

  “Just a little party, don’t y’know. A convivial gathering—just the old crew, none of these hangers-on. At the Abbey, old man! Just what your lady wife needs to set her in full trim. We were thinking of just after Christmas—what d’you think?”