One look at Lenore’s face, at the way her eyes widened before she blinked, bringing her features under control, was enough to tell Jason the truth. “I think,” he replied, taking possession of one of her hands before she could commence wringing it and give herself away entirely, “that you have cast a glib spell over my susceptible wife.” Jason calmly switched his smile from his friend to Lenore. “However, we’ll certainly consider your ‘capital notion’, will we not, my dear?”
“Yes, of course.” Lenore felt a slight blush warm her cheeks. Glancing up, she met her husband’s grey gaze, warm and reassuring, and felt her heart tremble. Abruptly, she conjured a smile and trained it upon Lord Alvanley as he bowed before her.
“Farewell, my dear Duchess,” his lordship said, wagging a playful finger her way. “But a last warning. Don’t let your reprobate of a husband monopolise your time—not at all the thing, not at all.”
With a roguish smile, his lordship departed, merging into the crowd.
Jason quelled an impulse to grimace at his back. Monopolise his wife’s time? If only he could. He glanced down; when Lenore persisted in studying his shoes, he calmly raised the hand he was still holding to his lips. She immediately looked up. As his lips caressed the back of her fingers, he felt them tremble. Her eyes, firmly trapped in his gaze, widened. “I’m glad I caught you, my dear. You’ve been cutting such a swathe through the ballrooms I feared I might not catch you up.”
Struggling to keep her voice matter-of-fact, Lenore let her lashes hide her eyes. “Have you been looking for me, my lord?”
“After a fashion.” Realising that to remain stationary with his wife was to invite interruption, Jason tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow and steered her towards the side of the room. “I wondered if you might care to ride with me in the Park one morning. My hunters need exercise. I keep a number of mounts suitable for you here in town—you don’t need to fear to trust them. Given that you seem to have hit your straps with ton-ish entertainments, I thought you might like to savour yet another of London’s pleasures.”
The elation Lenore had felt on hearing he had been looking for her, and that for the express purpose of requesting her company, sagged dramatically. She could not—dared not—accept. No matter how much her heart longed to do so, her stomach would never permit it. Unconsciously, her fingers tightened on his sleeve. “I…that is…” Desperately, she sought for some acceptable white lie. She could not even get out of bed in the mornings, not at the time he rode. But she had not told him of her indisposition—after all her hard work to avoid doing so, to avoid any possibility of his feeling compelled to urge her to return to the Abbey before she had become established socially, she felt deeply reluctant to do so now. In desperation, she fell back on the fashionable excuse. “I’m afraid, my lord, that I would find it extremely difficult to meet with you at that hour.”
That was the literal truth, even though she knew he would interpret it in an altogether erroneous way. She was hardly surprised to feel his instant withdrawal, although none watching them would have seen anything amiss.
“I see—no need to say more.” Jason tried very hard not to feel rejected. He forced himself to smile down at her. “You’re bent on taking the ton by storm, my dear, making up for your years of absence with a vengeance.” Entirely against his will, his smile took on a wistful air. “Don’t burn the candle at both ends, Lenore. It never does work.”
For one heart-stopping moment Lenore stared up into his eyes, wondering what it was she had glimpsed there.
Simultaneously, both she and Jason became aware of another, hovering before them. She turned and beheld Lord Falkirk, he of the punt, eyeing her, and her husband, uneasily. Having gained their attention, he grew even more nervous.
“The cotillion,” he said, as if stating the obvious. When they both continued to stare uncomprehendingly, he blurted out, “My dance, y’know, Lady Eversleigh.”
“Oh…yes, of course.” With an effort, Lenore gathered her wandering wits. She turned, with the greatest reluctance, to her husband. “If you’ll excuse me, my lord?”
“Of course.” With consummate grace, Jason bowed over her hand. As she disappeared in the direction of the dance-floor, her hand on Lord Falkirk’s arm, he had to fight an almost overwhelming urge to remove her forthwith from this ballroom, London and the ton and take her back to the Abbey with all speed. His inexperienced wife had certainly overcome her dislike of ton-ish entertainments. In fact, he would not wager a groat she had not changed her opinion entirely on such pastimes. Her enjoyment of the balls and parties seemed all too genuine.
As he settled his cuffs and looked about for the refreshment-room, Jason admitted that he did not wish that last to be so. An unnerving fear that he was losing his wife—the Lenore he had married, the Lenore he now wanted beyond all reason—had started to prey on his mind.
He was turning aside to hunt up a footman when his sleeve was twitched.
“Good evening, Your Grace. Tell me, are you finding this singularly pretentious ball as boring as I am?”
Closing his eyes, Jason prayed for patience. Where were they coming from? It was as if the bored wives of the ton had declared open season—on him. Smoothly turning to bow over Eugenia, Lady Hamilton’s hand, he allowed his brows to rise. “Do you find this boring, Eugenia?” As if seeing the thronging guests for the first time, Jason lifted his quizzing glass, rarely if ever used except in instances such as this, and scanned the multitude. “Dear me. I believe you may well be right.” The glass swung about to focus on Lady Hamilton. For a pregnant instant, Jason viewed her through it, as if examining the pale blonde curls clustered about her sharp face and the voluptuous curves daringly revealed for all to see, before letting the weapon fall. “There do seem to be an enormous number of boring people present. I fear I’ve been so engrossed in conversation I had failed to remark the fact.”
“You were talking to your wife!” Lady Hamilton snapped.
Jason’s grey eyes, cold and hard, swung down to impale her. “Precisely.” He let a measured period elapse, to make sure that barb struck home, before, with the slightest of polite nods, he said, “If you’ll excuse me, Eugenia. I’m thirsty.”
From her position in the cotillion Lenore saw him turn away and let out the breath she had been holding. They were shameless, every last one. Even had she not come to London with a very accurate idea of her husband’s past history, the blatant advances made to him by certain of the so-called ladies of the ton would have made all clear to a novice. And she was no novice. She knew all too well what they were offering—it was a wonder he had not yet taken any of them up on their invitations.
As she obediently twirled through the next figure, the idea that he had, but she did not know of it, arose to torment her. In an effort to hold back the tide of sheer misery that welled at the thought, Lenore forced her mind to another puzzling point. What did that odd look mean, the softer light she had seen, quite clearly, just for a moment, in his eyes?
“Lady Eversleigh!”
Just in time, Lenore avoided a collision. Whispering her apologies to Lord Falkirk, she sternly warned herself to keep her mind on the business at hand. That her husband felt some degree of affection for her was no great discovery—witness his many kindnesses. The gentle expression in his eyes owed its existence to that—and nothing more. And his words of concern might just as well stem from an entirely proprietorial interest in her health—and that of his heir. No need to puzzle any longer—there was no mystery there.
She would have to stop her silly yearnings—they could only cause her grief.
“Thank you, my lord.” Lenore rose from her final curtsy and gifted Lord Falkirk with a brilliant smile. “Perhaps you could escort me to Lady Agatha?” she suggested. “I think she’s near the door.”
Perfectly willing to be seen with one of the brightest lights in the ton on his arm, Lord Falkirk readily agreed.
Fixing a suitable smile on her lips, Lenore glided graciou
sly by her escort’s side, sternly reminding herself of her purpose. She could not simply go home—the night was yet young. But at least she could gain a respite by Agatha’s side, before she threw herself once more into the fray—the hurly-burly of being the Duchess of Eversleigh.
It was a difficult task, constantly to perform as if her whole existence revolved about the glib conversations, the innuendo and cynical laughter, the glittering carousel of the ton at play. Particularly when her eyes kept straying out over the pomaded heads, searching for elegantly waving chestnut locks atop a tall frame. Now and again, he hove into view, always in the distance. Lenore struggled to shackle her jealousy for those unsighted women who stood before him, warmed by his slow smile.
“I vow and declare, my dear, it’s all becoming far too heated—this argument between Lennox and Croxforth. And all over a horse, would you believe it?”
Nodding her head at Lady Morecambe’s assessment, Lenore tried to keep from yawning. She had left Agatha to join her little clique—Lady Morecambe and Mrs. Athelbury, Mr. Merryweather, Lord Selkirk and Mr. Lawton. Miss Dalney, on the arm of Lord Moresby, had just come up. On the outskirts of this inner group, Lord Rodley, Mr. Hemminghurst, Lord Jerry Penshaw and a few other younger gentlemen hung, hopeful of gaining recognition but unsure how to most acceptably make their presence felt. Within the protective confines of her little circle, Lenore knew she would meet no challenge to her equanimity. “Perhaps they should simply sell the poor animal and halve the proceeds?”
Barely listening to the laughs this produced, Lenore allowed her mind to slide away. Having contributed her mite to keep the conversation flowing, she was woolgathering, her gaze idly scanning the crowd, when her husband again hove into view—but this time much nearer, approaching rapidly and, quite possibly, with intent.
Immediately, Lenore brightened, consciously infusing enthusiasm into her expression, a smile of dazzling brilliance on her lips. “Will you be attending Lady Halifax’s drum tomorrow, my lord?” With a show of eagerness, she quizzed Lord Moresby. From the corner of her eye, she saw her husband’s progress slow. “I’ve heard that her gatherings are always a sad crush.”
“Indeed, yes,” his lordship replied.
“I heard,” said Miss Dalney, leaning forward to speak across his lordship, “that at her last ball, part of the balustrade on her stairs was dislodged by the crowd trying to ascend.”
Lenore looked suitably impressed, mentally making a note to put Lady Halifax’s affair at the bottom of her list. Lady Morecambe made a comment and Lenore took the chance to cast a surreptitious glance her husband’s way. To her relief, he was deep in conversation with Lord Carnaby and seemed no longer interested in her.
In thinking so, she was wrong. While trading information on horseflesh with Lord Carnaby, another amateur of equine bloodlines, a large part of Jason’s mind was absorbed in noting how scintillating his wife appeared. She was bright-eyed, radiant. She needed no help in braving the world of the ton—she had it at her pretty feet.
“I’ll let you know if I hear any more about that bay of Salisbury’s.” With a nod, Lord Carnaby moved on, leaving Jason to his musings.
They weren’t pleasant. A niggle of an entirely unexpected sort had inserted itself into his brain. Was Lenore’s effervescent charm, the bloom in her cheeks, the wide starry gaze merely brought on by enjoyment of the ton’s offerings? Or was there more to it than that? Could it be that some gentleman, perhaps, was responsible for the transformation in his wife?
Suppressing a low growl, Jason shook off his unsettling thoughts and headed for the card-room. He could not believe Lenore had found a lover—would not believe it. Not Lenore—his Lenore.
Yet such things happened. Every day. None knew that better than he.
Once inside the card-room, Jason halted, dragging in a deep breath. Seeing a footman passing with a loaded tray, he took a glass of brandy. Taking a soothing draught, he calmed himself with the reflection that he was letting his jaundiced view of ton-ish wives colour his expectations. As far as his wife was concerned, there was no evidence to support such a notion.
Was there?
ONCE SOWN, the seed would simply not die, no matter how hard he struggled to kill it. Five days later, Jason stood, moodily staring out of the windows of his library and, defeated, considered how to put paid to his suspicions. That such thoughts were unworthy—of himself, of Lenore—he was only too well aware. But he was also aware of the dreams—nay, nightmares—that had come to haunt him.
Despite his very real inclination, he had not returned to his wife’s bed. The knowledge that she evinced no real interest in him was depressing; the idea she might yield him his rights out of duty was simply appalling. Sinking into the chair behind his desk, Jason grimaced. Impossible not to admit to a certain measure of cowardice, yet what rake of his extensive experience would not, in the circumstances, feel reticent? Never in his life had a woman turned him down; he had never had to ask for a woman’s favours. That the first woman to find him resistible should be his own wife was undoubtedly fate’s revenge. Demanding his dues was beyond him, a course entirely repugnant. Once they were alone at the Abbey, he would work on her susceptibilities, draw her to him once again, heal the breach that had somehow developed between them. And rekindle the embers that still smouldered into a roaring blaze from which something more permanent than mere passion would emerge.
Until then, he would have to contain his desire and concentrate instead on retaining his sanity. The first step was to convince himself that his ridiculous suspicions were just that. Leaning back in his chair, Jason focused his mind on his task—how to discover with whom his wife spent her time.
Her evenings were accounted for. Despite her full schedule, she had shown no inclination to deviate from the list Compton left on his desk every morning; no danger there. Her luncheon engagements were rather more hazy, yet, from experience, he knew that was not a favoured time for seduction. Empty stomachs had a way of interfering with carnal appetites. Afternoons, on the other hand, were prime time.
And Lenore’s afternoons were veiled in secrecy—at least, from him.
Frowning, Jason reluctantly discarded the obvious solution. He could not set Moggs on her trail, no matter how obsessed he became. Regardless of the truth behind her smiles, regardless of his fears, it would be unforgivable to allow any of his staff to get so much as a whiff of his suspicions.
The steady drum of his fingers on the blotter was interrupted by the click of the door latch.
“Are you receiving?” With a confident air, Frederick entered.
Jason threw him an abstracted smile and waved him to a chair. “What brings you here?”
Subsiding into the chair, Frederick stared at him. “It’s Thursday, remember?”
When Jason continued to look blank, Frederick sighed. “Dashed if I know what’s got into you these days. You’re promised to Hillthorpe and yours truly this afternoon for a round at Manton’s.”
“Ah, yes.” Jason shifted in his chair. “I’ve been somewhat absorbed with another matter—our engagement momentarily slipped my mind.” He flashed Frederick a charming though far from contrite smile and pushed his chair back from the desk. “But I’m only too willing to accommodate you now you’ve jogged my memory.”
“Humph!” As Jason stood and came around the desk, Frederick struggled up out of the comforting depths of the armchair. “Perhaps I should mention your wandering wits to your duchess—saw her just now at Lady Chessington’s.”
Jason halted in his progress to the door. “Oh?”
“Yes. Luncheon. She was there, along with the usual crowd. Exhausting. Don’t know how they all do it. Think Lenore went on to Mrs. Applegate’s after that. Gave it a miss, myself.”
“An undoubtedly wise move.” Jason nodded absent-mindedly as his route to salvation clarified in his brain. As Frederick drew level, he clapped him on the shoulder. “How’s Lady Wallace?”
“Amelia? Er…” Trapped, Frederick
threw him an irritated glance. At sight of Jason’s wide eyes, he scowled. “Damn it, Jason. It’s nothing like what you’re thinking.”
Abruptly assuming his patriarchal persona, Jason raised his brows. “I certainly hope not. I might remind you that Lady Wallace is now a connection.”
Frederick looked struck. “So she is. Forgot that.”
“Well, I haven’t. So I’ll take it amiss if you’re merely trifling with the lady’s affections, dear chap.”
Frederick narrowed his eyes. “Jason…” he said warningly.
But Jason only laughed. His interest in the day miraculously restored, he waved Frederick through the door. “Come on. Let’s find Hillthorpe. Suddenly, I’m in the mood to take the pips out of the aces.”
IT SHOULD, in fact, be child’s play to track his wife’s movements through the ton. Buoyed with confidence, Jason strolled through the crowd at Lady Cheswell’s rout, his smile at the ready, his manner easy and urbane, his eyes searching for Mrs. Applegate.
After allowing Frederick to win their round at Manton’s, the least he could do to repay his friend for his help, all unconscious though it had been, he had made a brief foray to the Park. From the high perch of his racing phaeton, scanning the fashionable crowds had been simple enough. Lenore had not been there. Presumably, she had spent the afternoon at the Applegates’ or some similar function. He was quite sure Mrs. Applegate would be able to confirm his duchess’s movements; Lenore had become such a hit, few missed her presence and most, even Frederick, took note of whither she was bound.
The crowd before him shifted, revealing his quarry resplendent in bronzed bombazine. She did not even wait for him to reach her before exclaiming, “Your Grace! What a pleasant surprise.”
Suppressing his natural response to such gushing sentiment, Jason kept his most unintimidating smile firmly in place. Taking Mrs. Applegate’s chubby fingers in his, he bowed politely. “My dear Mrs. Applegate.” Straightening, he considered her with affected surprise. “I confess to being amazed to see you, ma’am. I’d heard your tea this afternoon was positively exhausting.”
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