Stephanie Laurens Rogues' Reform Bundle (12 page)

Desire streaked through Lenore. She gasped and broke free of their kiss. Her head fell back, her lids fell as pure sensation raced along her nerves. Time and place were no more—her whole being was alive in a world of sensuous pleasure. As Jason leaned nearer, she shifted her hands from his shoulders to thread her fingers through his rich chestnut hair, fascinated by the silky texture and the thick, tumbling locks.

Jason drew a ragged breath, struggling to retrieve his will from the web she had lured it into. But her allure was too strong for even him to break. He could no more stop breathing than deny his fingers the right to caress the creamy mounds bared to his sight. The feel of her satiny skin seared his fingertips, burning itself into his memories. She was even more beautiful than he had imagined, her breasts a perfect fit for his large hands, their peaks pink crests, puckered with passion. Passion he had aroused. The realisation shook him, but her soft murmur as his fingers gently teased, knowingly tantalised, was like a siren's song, dispelling reservations, dispelling all thought. Even as he lowered his head, part of him marveled at that fact.

Trapped in a world of sensual delight, Lenore revelled in all she could feel. His subtle caresses sent her senses spinning. Then his hands left her; one tactile sensation was replaced with another. She gasped, then whimpered with desire as his lips caressed her, his tongue gently rasping one tightly budded nipple. Lenore's fingers tightened convulsively, tangling in his hair as wave after wave of desire crashed through her.

As she felt her bones melt under the onslaught, she was conscious of only one thought. She didn't want him to stop.

Enthralled in desire, neither heard the approaching footsteps nor the click as the latch lifted.

“Here we are! The library. Knew it had to be somewhere. Plenty of books—” Lord Percy came to an abrupt halt as his gaze came to rest, goggling, on the pair behind the desk.

At Lord Percy's first word, Jason disengaged, pulling Lenore to him, crushing her protectively against his chest. As he took in the stunned looks on the faces of the three ladies crowding behind Lord Percy—Mrs. Whitticombe, her daughter and Lady Henslaw—he knew that nothing would erase the image they must have beheld as the door had swung open.

Prevented from seeing what had befallen, her cheek pressed against Eversleigh's coat, his heart thundering in her ear, Lenore struggled to recall her wits from the deep haze still engulfing them.

To everyone's surprise, it was Lord Percy who rescued them all. Abruptly turning, he threw out his arms, flapping to usher the ladies out. “Go and see the succession houses. I'm told they're very fine.”

Without a single backward glance, he herded the ladies into the corridor and firmly shut the door.

The sound of the latch dropping home, a cold clang, jolted Lenore back to reality. Slowly, she eased herself from Eversleigh's embrace, aware of a sense of loss as she left its comfort. She steeled herself against it, dragging in breath after breath. Her mind raced, picking up the threads, trying to weave them into a cohesive picture as her fingers automatically fumbled with the buttons of her blouse. Suddenly, she felt very cold.

Wrapping her arms about her, she stepped back, blinking as she fought to regain her composure. Slowly, she brought her head up to stare at Eversleigh's face. The angular planes seemed softer, but she couldn't be sure. He was breathing rapidly. She saw him blink, as if he, too, was as affected as she. But that couldn't be so.

“You tricked me.” She made the statement coldly, a deliberate indictment.

Jason blinked again, a frown gathering. Collecting his wits was proving a strain. Not only did he have to shackle his desire, now rampant, and assimilate the shock of their discovery, together with its attendant ramifications, but he had yet to succeed in convincing himself that what had occurred was real. Too much of it seemed like a dream. Never before had any woman undermined his control as Lenore had so effortlessly done. Dazed, he scrambled to catch up with her thoughts.

Unaware of his difficulties, Lenore drifted around the desk, pacing back and forth before it, her features hardening, her entire body stiffening as all that had occurred crystallised in her brain. “I wouldn't agree to marry you, so you arranged
this
!” Her voice gained in force “
This farce
!” Gesturing dramatically, she flung a glance loaded with scorn at the man standing still and silent behind the desk. “When I would not agree willingly, you sought to trap me into marriage. Tell me, Your Grace,” she asked with awful disdain, contempt filling her eyes, “did Lord Percy make his entrance too soon? How far were you prepared to go in compromising my honour to gain your ends?” To her horror, her voice broke as a damning self-pity rose beneath her fury.

Abruptly, Lenore swung to face her nemesis over the desk. Head high, she looked him straight in the eye. “You, Your Grace, are undoubtedly the most
despicable
rogue it has ever been my misfortune to meet! Regardless of
what
might transpire, regardless of what whispers and scandal you call down upon me, I will
not
marry you!”

Her denunciation ended on a high, quavering note.

Her fury was nothing to his. With a superhuman effort, Jason forced himself to stand, silent, expressionless, and let her words hit him. His face felt like marble—cold and hard.

When he said nothing, made no attempt to defend himself against her wild accusations, Lenore's composure crumbled. Catching her breath on a hysterical sob, she turned blindly for the door and fled, her heart twisting painfully with every step.

In a feat bordering on the miraculous, Jason succeeded in forcing himself to remain still and silent behind the desk. Inside, his rage, a cold and deadly flame, seared him. As the danger peaked, every muscle in his body clenching in the effort to contain the explosive emotion, he forced himself to recall that Lenore had been upset, hysterical, not in command of herself.

The rationalisation did not ease the sting of her words. Gradually, the danger passed, leaving mere anger in its wake. Even so, Jason refused to give in to the impulse to go after her; he had sufficient knowledge of his own temperament to know that if he found her, her dignity would not survive intact. Instead, dragging in a deep breath, he focused his mind on what needed to be done, first to remove the threat to her reputation, secondly to secure her hand in marriage.

For one fact was now written in stone. Lenore Lester was his. He would not leave Lester Hall without her promise to marry him.

Not after that kiss.

His eyes grey coals, his expression like stone, His Grace of Eversleigh stalked from the room.

A
T FIVE-THIRTY
, despite the dull throbbing in her temples and the sickening disillusion that had her in its grip, Lenore entered the drawing-room prepared to greet her father's guests. In honour of the ball, she had allowed her maid to dress her hair high, with large soft curls falling in drifts about her ears and throat. Her lustring sack of magenta silk glowed richly, cream lace filling in the expanse from its square neckline to the base of her throat, her long sleeves fashioned from the same material. She hoped the gown would underline her status; tonight she had every intention of courting the title of ape-leader.

Jack was waiting for her, strikingly handsome in a dark blue coat over ivory inexpressibles. He winked at her. “Ready to greet the hordes?”

“Hardly hordes,” Lenore replied absent-mindedly. “If you recall, we agreed to invite only six couples to join us for dinner. The rest won't arrive until eight.”

Jack threw her a sharp look, then offered, “Took a gander at the ballroom. Doing us proud, Lennie.”

Taking his arm, Lenore summoned a smile. Leading him towards the main doors where they would take up their stance, she tried to deflect the concern she saw in his blue eyes. It was prompted, she knew, by the harried expression she was only just managing to conceal. “I'm sure everything will turn out splendidly, just as long as you and Harry toe the line. The staff have worked like slaves and the guests have thrown themselves into the spirit of things with abandon. There's been such demand for the crimping tongs, the maids are well nigh dead on their feet.”

Jack laughed. To Lenore's relief, he said no more.

A bare two hours had elapsed since her dramatic meeting with Eversleigh; she had yet to regain her calm. She had fled the library to immediately fall victim to her hostessly chores. Mrs. Hobbs had caught her in the front hall. After she had given her blessing to the substitution of pheasant pie for the roasted grouse, Smithers had come up, wanting her opinion on the positioning of the heavy épergné in the centre of the table. Next, it had been Harris with a request for guidance in the matter of how many footmen should be stationed in the supper-room. A succession of similar questions and difficulties had kept her from the sanctuary of her room, from giving way to temper and tears in equal measure.

Whenever she thought of what had happened, her emotions threatened to overwhelm her. Knowing she could not afford to be distracted, not tonight, with so many eyes to see, she pushed the jumble of outrage, guilt and hurt betrayal to the back of her mind. With a smile firmly in place, her serenity to the fore, she stood beside her brother and prepared to greet their neighbours.

As the first of the house-guests drifted into the room, chatting easily, Lenore heard the clang of the front doorbell. She turned to Jack. “Papa isn't down yet.”

Jack grimaced. “Doubt that he'll show, not till later.” When Lenore gazed at him, bewildered, he said, “Never one for doing the pretty, you know that.”

Lenore sighed. Retrieving her smile, she turned as Smithers announced Major and Mrs. Holthorpe. Their other neighbours arrived in good time, the ladies making the most of this opportunity to brush shoulders with their London sisters and catch up on both fashion and the latest
on-dits
. Conversation buzzed, punctuated by gay laughter. When the time to announce dinner was at hand and her father had yet to appear, Lenore cast a questioning glance at Harriet. Her aunt shrugged. Wondering if perhaps her father had been taken ill, Lenore started for the door.

She had cleared the crush of the guests and was but a few yards from the double doors when they swung inwards, propelled by two footmen. Her father entered, Harris pushing his chair. Beside it walked Eversleigh.

Lenore froze, presentiment dropping like a cold cloak about her shoulders.

“Friends!” Archibald Lester, wreathed in smiles, waved a lordly hand at his guests. He saw Lenore, too distant for her face to be properly in focus, and his smile grew brighter still. As the guests, as a body, turned to face him, he continued, his old voice carrying easily over the last shreds of dying conversations. “It's a pleasure to welcome you to Lester Hall. Doubly so for I've an announcement to make!”

Jason, standing alongside, his gaze fixed unwaveringly on Lenore, stiffened. He turned to Archibald Lester, only to hear his host declaim, “I have today given my blessing to a union between my daughter, Lenore, and Jason Montgomery, Duke of Eversleigh.”

A buzz of excited comment rolled through the room. Archibald Lester beamed with pride and gratification.

All expression leaching from her face, Lenore stood as if turned to stone.

Two strides brought Jason to her side. His face lit by a charming smile, his eyes filled with concern, he caught her icy fingers in his and smoothly raised them to his lips. “Don't faint.” He searched her large eyes, wide and empty, for a glimmer of consciousness.

The warmth of his lips on her fingers tugged Lenore back to reality. Dazed and utterly undone, she blinked up at him. “I never faint,” she murmured, her mind completely overwhelmed.

Jason bit his lip and glanced over her head; they had mere seconds before the hordes descended. “Smile, Lenore.” His voice held the unmistakable if muted tones of command. “You are
not
going to break down and embarrass yourself and your family.”

Vaguely, Lenore's eyes rose to his, slowly focusing as his words sank in. He was right. Whatever he had done, however hurt she might feel, now was no time for hysterics.

To Jason's relief she straightened slightly, a little of her rigidity falling away. A smile, a travesty of her usual calm confidence, appeared on her lips. But panic shadowed her eyes.

“You can weather this, Lenore. Trust me.” His whispered words were loaded with reassurance. Placing her hand on his sleeve and covering it with his, he turned her to meet their well-wishers. “I won't leave you.”

He didn't. Strangely, it seemed to Lenore that his support was the only thing that kept her functioning throughout that interminable evening. She should have been too furious to accept his help, to trust him, yet she knew instinctively that he would not fail her. It seemed the most natural thing in the world to lean on his strength.

Luckily, Amelia reached her first, throwing her arms about her and hugging her with joy. As her cousin disengaged, casting a puzzled glance at her weak smile, Lenore dragged and bullied and goaded her wits into action, forcing her features to her bidding. The muscles of her face relaxed into a gay if brittle smile. She got no chance to thank Amelia, nor to respond to her, “Good luck!” as the other guests pressed forward, none wishing to appear backward in congratulating the next Duchess of Eversleigh. She responded as best she could to their felicitations, thankful for Eversleigh's presence, a solid prop to sanity by her side. He kept his fingers entwined with hers, imparting calm strength even as his ready tongue deflected the more ribald comments.

Dinner was delayed. When Smithers eventually interrupted the chorus, Eversleigh drew her free of the throng, leading her in advance of them all as was his right. As usual, he sat beside her, an unnerving but unshakeable protection against any untoward questions. But by that time Lenore had herself in hand. Clamping an iron lid over the turmoil within allowed her to respond to both conversation and organisational queries with something approaching her usual calm grace. As long as she did not allow herself to think of what had occurred, she could cope.

Her father had ordered champagne to be served. As she took an invigorating sip of the bubbly liquid, Lenore caught Eversleigh's eye. To the casual observer his expression was exactly what one would expect—gratified, proud, confident in his triumph. As she studied the concern, the real worry etched in the grey eyes, Lenore wondered if only she could see past his mask. Allowing her lids to fall, she glanced away. Seconds later, she was startled to feel the gentle touch of his fingers on hers, then shocked when her fingers automatically returned the brief caress.

Firmly resettling the iron lid over her treacherous emotions, Lenore threw herself into the conversation.

They rose from the table just before eight, the gentlemen escorting the ladies into the huge ballroom. With long windows and high ceiling, it filled the entire ground floor of one wing. “Oohs” and “aahs” came from all sides as the guests took in the massed spring blooms and the first of the summer roses, tumbling in profusion from every available site. Draped in garlands from the musicians gallery, looped around every pillar, frothing from vases and urns, the flowers scented the warm air and lifted spirits to new heights.

The receiving line was a trial Lenore could have done without. Even though the rest of their neighbours were prompt, there was time enough in between arrivals for her seething emotions to slip loose. One minute she felt like murdering the man beside her, the next, when the touch of his fingers on hers eased her away from disaster, her heart swelled, with reluctant gratitude for his unwavering support, and with something else that she dared not name.

With every passing minute, the turmoil of her thoughts, the tangle of her emotions, intensified. And all she could do was smile and nod and allow her father, in his chair beside her, to introduce Eversleigh as her betrothed.

In her confusion, she did not hear the musicians start up. It was Eversleigh who drew her attention to the fact, smiling down at her father as he settled her hand on his sleeve. “I suspect we should open the ball, sir, if you'll release your daughter to me.”

“She's all yours, m'boy.” Archibald Lester beamed and waved them to the floor.

Reflecting that her father was definitely to be classed with old dogs—beyond changing—Lenore allowed herself to be led to the edge of the huge area of polished parquetry revealed as the guests drew back.

Smoothly, Jason drew her into his arms, feeling the effortless glide as she matched her steps to his. They waltzed as if they were made for each other, their bodies, his so large, hers slender and tall, natural complements in line and grace.

Lenore let the bright colours of the ladies' gowns whirl into an unfocused blur as they precessed, revolution after smooth revolution, down the long room.

“Your ball has all the hallmarks of success, my dear.”

Allowing her gaze to shift to his face, Lenore studied his expression before remarking, her own expression calmly serene, “Particularly after my father's little announcement.”

Jason's lips momentarily firmed into a line before he forced them to relax back into a smile. “An unfortunate misunderstanding.” He held her gaze, his own steady and intent. “We must talk, Lenore, but not here. Not now.”

“Certainly not now,” Lenore agreed, feeling her control waver. A misunderstanding? Was it not as she had thought? Abruptly, she looked away, over his shoulder, relieved to see others taking to the floor in their wake.

“Later, then. But talk we must. Don't try to escape me this time.” Jason saw her slight nod and was content. Prey to a host of conflicting emotions, the only one he felt sure of was anger. Anger that his wooing of her had gone so disastrously wrong. Anger that such a simple task as offering for a wife had somehow laid siege to his life. But he knew what needed to be done, to reassure her, to smooth away the confused hurt that lingered in her large eyes.

But fate had decreed he would get no chance that night. By the time the last carriage had rolled down the drive and the last of the house-guests had struggled wearily upstairs, his betrothed was dead on her feet. From the foot of the stairs, he watched as, turning from the main doors, she suffered a hug from each of her eldest brothers and a smacking kiss from Gerald. Lenore received their approbations with a smile that struggled to lift the corners of her lips.

“G'night.”

Jason nodded as Harry, stifling a yawn, passed on his way upstairs. With a sleepy smile, Gerald followed.

With Lenore on his arm, Jack approached. “Time for a game before you leave us tomorrow, o, prospective brother-in-law?”

Jason held Jack's gaze for an instant, then inclined his head. “I'll catch up with you in the morning.”

“Right-ho! Sleep well.” With a rakish salute, Jack left, making no demur when Lenore lingered.

Absent-mindedly, Lenore rubbed a hand across her brow, trying to ease the ache behind. “Now, Your Grace. Perhaps the library—”

“No. You're exhausted. There's nothing that needs saying that won't survive the night.”

Numbly, Lenore blinked up at him. “But I thought you said—”

“Go to bed, Lenore. I'll see you tomorrow. Time enough then to sort matters out.” When she continued to look blankly at him, Jason reached for her elbow. Gently but purposefully, he urged her up the stairs.

In the end, Lenore went readily, too tired and too grateful to argue further.

She said not a word as they traversed the long corridors. In the dim light, Jason studied her face. She looked so fatigued, so unutterably fragile, now she had laid aside her social mask. When they reached her door, he set it ajar. Taking her hand in his, he raised it to his lips, brushing a gentle kiss across her fingertips. “Sleep, Lenore. And don't worry. We'll talk tomorrow.” With a wry smile, he bowed her over the threshold.

She entered, then paused, casting a puzzled glance back at him. Slowly, she closed the door.

 

“Y
OU'D BEST BE
stirring, Miss Lenore. 'Tis past eleven.”

Groaning, Lenore burrowed her face deeper into her soft pillow, hiding from the light that rushed in as her maid Gladys, thrust the bedcurtains aside.

Gladys, a motherly soul, eyed her charge shrewdly. “And there's a note here from that duke.”

“Eversleigh?” Lenore turned her head so rapidly her cap fell off. “Where?”

With a knowing nod, Gladys handed over a folded sheet of parchment. “Said you were to have it once you were awake.”