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.
“THAT 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 grima
ce 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’ 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 friend’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’ 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’ 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 sen
ses 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”.
Stephanie Laurens Rogues' Reform Bundle Page 27
