Stephanie Laurens Rogues' Reform Bundle (21 page)

Jason lifted her to her saddle, then swung up to his own. Turning the grey's head back down the track, he led the way down, distracted and abstracted. Through the turmoil of his thoughts one fact stood out, immutable and unchanging. He had stated, clearly and decisively, his reasons for marrying. Lenore had accepted him on that basis, agreeing to leave her sanctuary and brave what he now recognised had been a challenging world. She was succeeding on all fronts—he could ask no more of her than that.

But if he could have his heart's desire—ask and be granted all that he wished—what then?

The grey jibbed.

His expression stony, Jason brought his horse under control and gave his attention to the ride home.

 

I
N THE DAYS
that followed, Lenore made a concerted attempt to establish a daily routine that excused her from her husband's side. Telling herself it was no more than what she would need when he was no longer in residence, she organised her day so it was full to overflowing, leaving no time for rides or picnics, or for any moping. And if her household chores were insufficient to fill her time, there was always the library. She had yet to complete a list of the types of books present, let alone consider how best to arrange them.

For his part, Jason endeavoured to respect her transparent wish for her own life, her own interests. How could he not? This was undoubtedly how their lives should be lived, he with his concerns, she with hers. There was no necessity, given the relationship they shared, for any closer communication. He knew it.

Yet, deep down, he didn't like it. At first, he told himself his odd affliction would pass, that it was merely a temporary derangement of his senses, a reaction, perhaps, to taking a wife at his advanced age and so much against his inclination. But, when he found himself propped against the wall of the corridor in the west wing, gazing moodily at the library door, dismissing his present inclinations became that much harder. Fate, he finally decided, was playing games with him.

The surrounding families had not been backward in welcoming Lenore to their circle. She dutifully played hostess to the expected visits; subsequently she and Jason were invited to the parties and dinners at which their neighbours amused themselves. They had dined with the Newingtons, and were descending the long flight of stone steps before Newington Hall, their hosts waiting on the porch above to wave them on their way, when fate sent Lady Newington's fox terrier, escaping from the confines of the house, to nip at the carriage horses' legs.

Chaos ensued.

Both horses reared, then plunged, tangling the traces. The footman, who had been holding the carriage door, swore and dashed after the dog, trying to shoo it from under the frightened horses' hooves.

“Wait here!” Jason left Lenore on the bottom step and ran to the horses' heads. Horton, caught by surprise, was struggling with the reins, trying to calm his charges to no avail. Another minute and one or both of the prize chestnuts Jason had bought to pull his wife's carriage would have a leg over the traces.

Lenore watched as Jason caught the offside horse's harness just above the bit, calming and soothing the panicking beast. But Horton could still not control the wheeler; the horse reared again, dragging on the traces. Lenore heard Lord Newington puffing his way down the steps and waited no longer. She ran to the wheeler, catching its head as she had seen Jason do, crooning soothing nothings to the snorting animal.

Prodded by the footman, the dog scooted from under the carriage and made for the shrubbery.

Slowly, peace returned to the scene before Newington Hall. The horses, sensing the departure of the devil that had attacked them, calmed, still snorting and shifting restlessly but no longer in danger of doing themselves injury.

With a sigh of relief, Lenore let the huge head slip from her grasp. She glanced at her husband—and realised her relief was premature. His lips were a thin line; his grey eyes glinted steel. He was furious and only just succeeding in keeping his tongue between his teeth.

A cold vice closed about her heart. Lenore turned away as Lord Newington reached her.

“I say, Lady Eversleigh! Damned courageous and all that—but dangerous, m'dear—want to watch out for such beasts, y'know.”

“Precisely my thoughts,” Jason said through clenched teeth.

“Perhaps, my dear, you should sit down in the carriage. We'd best be on our way.”

Allowing him to hand her into the carriage, Lenore held her tongue as Jason took his leave of Lord Newington and climbed in after her. Outside, the light had almost gone; in the shadowy carriage, she could not make out his expression.

He waited until they gained the main road before saying, “It's my fervent hope, my dear Lenore—nay, my
express wish
—that in future, when I give you a direct order, you will obey it.”

Shaken by the violence of his feelings, Jason did not mute his scathing accents. He turned his head and saw that, far from appearing contrite, Lenore's head was up, her chin tilted at a far from conciliatory angle.

“If that is the case, my lord,” Lenore replied, “I suggest you endeavour to instil your orders with more sense. You know per-fectly well the wheeler would have broken a fetlock, if not worse, had I not calmed him.” That her husband should so repay her aid hurt more than she would have believed possible. But she was not going to let him see that she cared. “Lord Newington would never have reached him in time, and even then, I doubt his lordship would have had the strength to do the job. I did—and all ended well. I do not in the least understand why you're so piqued. Surely not simply because I disobeyed you?”

Her sarcastic tone proved too much for Jason's temper. “God grant me patience,” he appealed. “Has it not occurred to you, my dear, that I might, conceivably, be concerned for your welfare? That I might, just possibly, feel responsible for your safety?”

Lenore's wide stare told him more clearly than words that such a notion had never entered her head. She was appalled by the idea. In her experience, people who felt responsible for one's safety invariably ended by trying to proscribe one's existence. The possibility that her husband harboured such feelings, in a proprietorial way, was alarming. “But why should you?” she continued. “We might be married but I can hardly allow that to be sufficient cause to permit you to dictate my actions in such circumstances.”

“If your actions weren't so damned foolhardy, I dare say I shouldn't wish to dictate them at all!”

Lenore's temper soared to dizzying heights. Putting her nose in the air, she stated, “I fail to see, my lord, why you should so greatly exercise your sensibilities over my poor self. Given the businesslike nature of our relationship, I really don't see that you need feel
responsible
for me. If I take hurt as a result of my own actions, I do not believe that reflects on you. I consider my life my own concern.”

“Until you provide me with heirs you may forget that particular consideration.”

Deprived by his chilly words of any of her own, Lenore sat rigid on the carriage seat and uncharacteristically wished her life were over. She felt bereft, struck numb with despair. His tone, cold and hard and utterly uncompromising, confirmed beyond doubt how he saw their union. His only interest in her revolved about whether she could fulfil her role as his wife—giving him the heirs he sought was one part of the contract—a part she had yet to fulfil. Lenore blinked back the moisture welling in her eyes. She had wondered why he had dallied for so long instead of returning to his usual haunts in London. Now she knew. And once she had delivered on that part of her promise, his interest in her would evaporate—his statement implied as much—how much more clearly did she need to have it said?

He had married her for his reasons, there was nothing more to their marriage than that.

Her spine rigid with the effort of preserving her composure, Lenore was grateful for the enclosing dark. Hidden in its shadows, she pushed the hurt deep, reminding herself of the household, the position, the library she had gained through marrying Jason Montgomery.

The carriage was nearing the boundary of his estates before the red haze of temper lifted sufficiently for Jason to realise just what he had said. Appalled, by the fact that she could so overset his reason as well as by his apparent insensitivity, he rapidly cast about for some means to mend his fences. But what could he say?

His fury had been invoked by shock—but he could hardly confess to that. The fact she would do what she deemed right regardless of any danger to herself horrified him. How could he possibly feel confident leaving her if that was the way she might behave, even when he was there to order her otherwise? He had thought her liking for non-hazardous pursuits would have saved him any angst—obviously not so. Lenore preferred playing safe, but if that was not possible, she would do what was necessary. Unfortunately, she was clearly not prepared to take his ridiculous sensitivity into account in so doing.

Even more unfortunately, he felt prohibited from making said sensitivity plain, aware he had limited grounds for feeling so. Worse, she would doubtless see it as an imposition on her rightful freedoms. He had no wish to reward her exemplary efforts to fill the role of the Duchess of Eversleigh by placing what she would see as unwarranted constraints on her behaviour.

But he had to say something. The silence in the carriage had become darker than the night outside.

“Lenore…” For the first time in his entire career, Jason was lost for words. He could not explain what he felt—he did not know himself.

As it transpired, Lenore was not ready for explanations, her struggle not to cry consumed too much of her mind. She put a hand to her temple. “I'm afraid I have a headache. If you do not mind, I would rather we did not talk, Your Grace.”

Stiffly, Jason inclined his head in acceptance of her request. Resettling his head against the squabs, he wondered why her headache should hurt him so much.

Lenore managed to hold her head high as Jason handed her down from the carriage before the Abbey. She trod up the steps, her hand on his sleeve, but when they reached the hall, she murmured, “My headache, my lord—I believe I'll retire immediately.”

Jason merely bowed, apparently indifferent, and let her go.

For the first time since coming to the Abbey, Lenore slept alone.

H
OW
COULD
she have overlooked it? Appalled, Lenore stared at the pages of her diary, her mind numb, her fingers trembling.

She had woken early, but had lain, listless in her bed, for hours. Finally rising and ringing for Trencher, she had dressed for the day but had shied from facing her husband over the breakfast-table. Instead, she had sat at the little escritoire by the wall near one window and opened her diary to record the events of the previous evening—depressing though they were.

No words had come. No light comments to record her swelling misery. In an effort to ease her gloom, she had flipped back through the recent pages, filled with glowing happiness and an unstated hope she now knew to be forlorn.

It was then it had struck her.

They had been married in late July. It was now mid-September. August had been a blissful month, totally unmarred by the usual occurrence. For one who had been regularly afflicted ever since she was thirteen, the conclusion was inescapable.

She was pregnant.

With child.

Very possibly bearing Jason's heir.

For one very long moment, she considered not telling him. But that was impossible. Much as she might wish to prolong the time he spent with her—surely last night had simply been his reaction to her supposed indisposition?—she doubted she could keep the news from him and still keep her self-respect. He was waiting for this to occur before he returned to London. He was only doing what his family wished in that respect; the need for an heir was obvious, even she understood that. The requirement had been the principal element in his reason for marrying.

And now she had met it.

Staring, unseeing, at the pale pages inscribed with her flowing script, Lenore called on all her inner strength. She must tell him—and then show a brave face when he took his leave of her. That would be the hardest part. For it had happened much as she had predicted: she had fallen in love with him—when, exactly, she did not know, but weeks ago, certainly. Deeply, totally, irrevocably in love.

And she had known it for weeks, but had tried not to acknowledge it, knowing this day would dawn. Now it had, and she had to carry on, do what she had to and pretend it didn't hurt.

With her usual calm Lenore closed her diary and pushed it into the desk drawer. Then she stood and smoothed down the skirt of her green muslin morning-gown before heading for the door. She had to find her husband and tell him the glad tidings—before she broke down and cried.

But Jason was not at the breakfast-table; when applied to, Morgan informed her he thought his master had gone riding.

There was nothing to do but retreat to the library and try not to think of the black cloud hanging over her.

In the end, Lenore did not set eyes on her husband until dinnertime. Arriving in the drawing-room just ahead of Morgan, he looked so severely handsome that she had to blink rapidly to clear her vision. She accepted his arm into the smaller dining parlour where they sat at either end of the table with space for six between. The presence of the servants made private conversation impossible. Jason seemed abstracted; after casting about and coming up with no subject for inconsequential chatter, Lenore followed his lead and kept silent.

But when it came time for her to leave him to his port, her confidence faltered. What if he did not join her in the drawing-room? Twisting the fingers of one hand in the other, she stood as Morgan pulled back her chair. “My lord,” she began hesitantly. “There is something I must discuss with you, if you would be so good as to spare me a few minutes.”

Jerked from his thoughts, Jason looked up, frowning as his sharp eyes detected her distress. “Yes, of course, my dear. I'll join you in a moment.” God—had it come to this, that his wife needs must make an appointment to see him?

As the door closed behind her, Jason drained his wine and waved aside the decanter a footman proffered. “Leave me.”

Alone with his thoughts, he grimaced. What the devil had happened between them? He had spent all day in a fruitless endeavour to define just what had changed—was it him or her or had they both altered in just a month? With a despondent sigh, he pushed back his chair and stood, stretching, trying to shake the tension from his shoulders.

Whatever had happened, he could not concentrate on anything other than the fact that his wife was worried about something. Useless to try to focus on his problem until he had straightened hers out.

Lenore had only just settled in her favourite chair by the hearth when Jason came through the door. She immediately sat up, clasping her hands tightly in her lap. He smiled reassuringly, coming forward to take the chair opposite, stretching out his long legs and crossing his booted ankles.

“Well, madam wife, you perceive me all ears. What has occurred to put you in such serious vein?” In an effort to lighten her mood, Jason tried for a bantering note. “Let me guess—you've discovered that many of the books in the library are fake? No? Don't tell me—you've conceived of a wish to redecorate in the romantic style and want my permission to drape the front hall in yards of pink silk?”

When his ridiculous
badinage
raised not a glimmer of response, Jason became seriously alarmed. He straightened in his chair, his expression sober. “Lenore, what is it?”

“I…” Lenore looked at him helplessly. “I'm pregnant.” Despite her best intentions, she could not make the fact sound like anything other than the catastrophic occurrence she felt it was.

As it transpired, Jason did not notice, too bowled over by her news. A streak of pure elation seared through him, followed by a jumbled medley of pride, joy and truly humble thanks to a fate that had given him all this. As the first flush of reaction faded, he realised he was grinning inanely. Then his eyes sought Lenore's only to find that her head was bowed, her gaze on her interlaced fingers, twisting in her lap. “My dear, you've made me the happiest man alive.”

Lenore looked up, startled by the sincerity ringing in his tone. “Oh…I mean, yes. That is…” Lenore faltered to a stop, nonplussed. She could hardly tell him it was not entirely her doing—he would laugh at her. Instead, she took a deep breath and, holding her serene mask firmly in place, forced herself to take the next step. “In the circumstances, I expect you'll be returning to London shortly, will you not?”

She had intended to keep her gaze level with his, but could not prevent it falling. Consequently she did not see the frown that passed through Jason's eyes, or the way his jaw clenched as his moment of joy was abruptly curtailed.

For a moment, Jason thought he had not heard her aright. Then his world came crashing down about his ears. She wanted him to leave. He had played his part in fulfilling the expectations of their marriage; he was free to depart. As if from a distance, he heard himself say, “Yes, I rather suppose I will.”

An inane response. He did not want to leave but what else was he do do? Stay and make a fool of himself over a wife who did not want him?

He cleared his throat. “There are a few things I should attend to but I expect I'll head back in a day or so.”

It was an effort to draw breath but, now the moment was upon her, Lenore found the strength to carry through her charade. Looking up, into his grey eyes, she smiled. “I was wondering, my lord, if you could get me some books from Hatchards? There are one or two studies on cataloguing I would like to consult before I make a start on the library. If you could send them down to me as soon as possible I'd be extremely grateful.”

It was not her gratitude he wanted. But, if that was all she was offering, so be it. Stunned, confused, Jason studied her, his expression bleak. “I'd be happy to do so. If you'll give me your list, I'll have my secretary arrange for the matter to be attended to immediately when I reach town.”

She managed to keep her mask from slipping even though the thought that her request would be handled by his secretary slipped under her guard and hurt dreadfully. Lenore inclined her head, her smile still in place. “Thank you, my lord. I'll write it down immediately, if you'll excuse me. I would not wish to have you delay for it.”

Defeated, Jason stood as she rose. With a regal nod, she passed by him, gliding gracefully to the door.

Lenore paused with her hand on the knob. “Goodnight, my lord.”

“Goodnight, madam wife.”

His tone was cold, distant, very far from the warmth they had once shared. Stifling her sigh for what she knew she could never have, Lenore closed the door behind her.

Jason slumped back into his chair, covering his eyes with one hand, the other clenching into a fist on his knee. For a long time, he sat motionless, his mind aimlessly scanning the recent past, forming and discarding possible futures. Eventually, he sighed deeply and sat up, running his hands over his face. What to do?

Hours later, he climbed the stairs with no answer to hand. Undressing and donning his robe, he automatically headed for Lenore's room but pulled up short, eyeing the door. She was pregnant—and had all but declared she expected him to leave, his duty done. That was certainly not his inclination but unless he was prepared to stake a claim to something more—to declare his wish that their marriage should be more than the cold-blooded arrangement he had originally sought—did he have the right to demand more of her? If he went in, would she welcome him to her bed? Or simply accommodate him rather than make a scene?

With a smothered groan, Jason turned away from the door, drifting to the window to stare out at the dark. Lenore had left him with a decision to make and make it he must. What did he really want—of marriage, of life, of Lenore?

He had thought he had known, that his habits were set, yet she had changed him, changed him so much he could not recognise himself. And no longer had any confidence that he knew where he was headed or what was best for him. After thirty-eight years of unmitigated hedonism he felt like a dithering fool, unable to shake free of his confusion and take a firm step forward. His uncertainty paralysed him, destroying his usual decisiveness, making him vacillate when his temperament called for action. The tangled web of his emotions was tearing him apart.

Perhaps he should leave. Lenore clearly did not want him, regardless of whatever he might want of her. He had wanted a bride who would fulfil his reasons for marriage—he had got what he had asked for; he could not complain.

But he could minimise the pain he now felt. There was nothing to prevent him taking her up on her offer to release him from waiting on her here in the country. In London, there would be plenty of women eager to warm his bed—there always had been and, if he knew anything of women, his marriage would only whet their appetites.

Glancing down at the shadows on the floor, Jason thought of the scene when he told her he was leaving. What would she do? Smile brightly and scurry off to get her list of books?

With a smothered curse, he shrugged off his robe and climbed into his bed. He would leave tomorrow morning. Early. Without her wretched list. She could send it on. At least, that way he would not have to endure her smiles as she waved him goodbye.

 

V
ACUOUS CHATTER
engulfed Jason the instant he set foot in Lady Beauchamp's salon. After two nights in less elevated circles, he was back in the bosom of the
ton
. Wandering aimlessly through the crowd, nodding to acquaintances sighted through the crush, he wondered, not for the first time in the past three days, just what he was doing here. He had arrived at Eversleigh House to find a stack of invitations waiting on the desk in his library; this was the third night of stale air and loud voices he had endured in his search for…His expression hardening, Jason forced himself to continue with the thought, the one he had grown adept at avoiding. He was searching for relief from his fascination with his wife.

He knew no other word for it, the emotion he felt for Lenore. The poets had another, but he was not comfortable with that. Frustrated fascination seemed damning enough to have to admit to.

“Ho! Jason!”

Jason turned to see Frederick pushing through the bodies towards him. They shook hands, Frederick thumping his shoulder.

“Where've you been? Looked to see you long before this.”

“The Abbey,” Jason replied shortly.

“Oh.” Frederick glanced more carefully at him, then looked about. “Where's Lenore?”

Having expected this question, Jason had no difficulty keeping his expression untroubled. “She remained at the Abbey.”

“Oh?” Frederick looked worried. After some hesitation, he asked diffidently, “Nothing amiss, I take it?”

Jason opened his eyes wide. “She
prefers
the country, remember?”

“Well, yes, but newly-wed and all that, y'know. Thought she'd have come up with you this once.”

“She didn't,” Jason replied curtly, feeling his mask slip. Abruptly, he asked, “What's all this I've been hearing about Castlereagh?”

After ten minutes' intense speculation on the latest political scandal, Jason left his friend to move among the brightly clad, exotically scented matrons who had for years provided him with the opportunity for scandal of a different sort. Not that any of his affairs, conducted as they always had been with discretion, had ever been the subject of a duel, nor even much more than speculation. While casting his eye over the field, he met Agatha.

“There you are, Eversleigh. 'Bout time, too.” Agatha fixed her nephew with a shrewd eye. “So you've finally managed to drag yourself away from the amenities of the Abbey, have you?”

To his chagrin, Jason flushed and could find nothing to say.

Agatha chuckled. “Where's Lenore? I haven't sighted her yet.”

As his aunt glanced about, trying, from her far from sufficient height, to see about her, Jason stated bluntly, “She's not here.”