Читать книгу Rules of Engagement: The Reasons for Marriage - Stephanie Laurens - Страница 6

THE DOOR OF THE Duke of Eversleigh’s library clicked shut. From his chair behind the huge mahogany desk, Jason Montgomery, fifth Duke of Eversleigh, eyed the oak panels with marked disfavour.

“Impossible!” he muttered, the word heavy with contemptuous disdain laced with an odd reluctance. As the sound of his cousin Hector’s retreating footsteps dwindled, Jason’s gaze left the door, travelling across the laden bookcases to the large canvas mounted on a nearby wall.

Expression bleak, he studied the features of the young man depicted there, the impudent, devil-may-care smile and mischievous grey eyes topped by wind-tousled dark brown hair. Broad shoulders were clad in the scarlet of regimentals, a lance stood to one side, all evidence of the subject’s occupation. A muscle twitched at the corner of Jason’s mouth. He quelled it, his austere, chiselled features hardening into a mask of chilly reserve.

The door opened to admit a gentleman, elegantly garbed and smiling amiably. He paused with his hand on the knob and raised a brow enquiringly.

“I saw your cousin depart. Are you safe?”

With the confidence of one sure of his welcome, Frederick Marshall did not wait for an answer but, shutting the door, strolled towards the desk between the long windows.

His Grace of Eversleigh let out an explosive sigh. “Damn it, Frederick, this is no laughing matter! Hector Montgomery is a man-milliner! It would be the height of irresponsibility for me to allow him to step into the ducal shoes. Even I can’t stomach the thought—and I wouldn’t be here to see it.”

Pushing back his chair, Jason swung to face his friend as he sank into an armchair nearby. “More to the point,” he continued, stretching his long legs before him, a somewhat grim smile twisting his lips, “tempting though the idea might be, if I introduced cher Hector to the family as my heir, there’d be a riot—a mutiny in the Montgomery ranks. Knowing my aunts, they would press for incarceration until such time as I capitulated and wed.”

“I dare say your aunts would be delighted to know you see the problem—and its solution—so clearly.”

At that, Jason’s piercing gaze focused on his friend’s face. “Just whose side are you on, Frederick?”

Frederick smiled. “Need you ask? But there’s no sense in ducking the facts. Now Ricky’s gone, you’ll have to wed. And the sooner you make up your mind to it, the less likely it will be that your aunts, dear ladies, think to take a hand themselves—don’t you think?”

Having delivered himself of this eminently sound piece of advice, Frederick sat back and watched his friend digest it. Sunshine shone through the windows at Jason’s back, burnishing the famous chestnut locks cut short in the prevailing mode. Broad shoulders did justice to one of Schultz’s more severe designs, executed in grey superfine, worn over tightly fitting pantaloons. The waistcoat Frederick espied beneath the grey coat, a subtle thing in shades of deeper grey and muted lavender, elicited a twinge of envy. There was one man in all of England who could effortlessly make Frederick Marshall feel less than elegant and that man was seated behind the desk, sunk in unaccustomed gloom.

Both bachelors, their association was bound by many common interests, but in all their endeavours it was Jason who excelled. A consummate sportsman, a noted whip, a hardened gamester and acknowledged rake, dangerous with pistols—and even more dangerous with women. Unused to acknowledging any authority beyond his own whims, the fifth Duke of Eversleigh had lived a hedonistic existence that few, in this hedonistic age, could match.

Which, of course, made the solution to his present predicament that much harder to swallow.

Seeing Jason’s gaze, pensive yet stubborn, rise to the portrait of his younger brother, known to all as Ricky, Frederick stifled a sigh. Few understood how close the brothers had been, despite the nine years’ difference in age. At twenty-nine, Ricky had possessed a boundless charm which had cloaked the wilful streak he shared with Jason—the same wilful streak that had sent him in the glory of his Guards’ captaincy to Waterloo, there to die at Hougoumont. The dispatches had heaped praise on all the fated Guardsmen who had defended the vital fort so valiantly, yet no amount of praise had eased the grief, all the more deep for being so private, that Jason had borne.

For a time the Montgomery clan had held off, aware, as others were not, of the brothers’ affection. However, as they were also privy to the understanding that had been forged years before—that Ricky, much less cynical, much less hard than Jason, would take on the responsibility of providing for the next generation, leaving his older brother free to continue his life unfettered by the bonds of matrimony, it was not to be expected that the family’s interest in Jason’s affairs would remain permanently deflected. Consequently, when Jason had re-emerged, taking up his usual pursuits with a vigour which, Frederick shrewdly suspected, had been fuelled by a need to bury the recent past, his aunts became restive. When their arrogantly errant nephew continued to give no hint of turning his attention to what they perceived as a now pressing duty, they had, collectively, deemed it time to take a hand.

Tipped off by one of Jason’s redoubtable aunts, Lady Agatha Colebatch, Frederick had deemed it wise to prod Jason’s mind to deal with the matter before his aunts made his hackles rise. It was at his urging that Jason had finally consented to meet with his heir, a cousin many times removed.

The silence was broken by a frustrated snort.

“Damn you, Ricky,” Jason grumbled, his gaze on his brother’s portrait. “How dare you go to hell in your own way and leave me to face this hell on earth?”

Detecting the resigned undertones in his friend’s complaint, Frederick chuckled. “Hell on earth?”

Abruptly straightening and swinging back to his desk, Jason raised his brows. “Can you think of a better description for the sanctified institution of marriage?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Frederick waved a hand. “No reason it has to be as bad as all that.”

Jason’s grey gaze transfixed him. “You being such an expert on the matter?”

“Hardly me—but I should think you could figure as such.”

“Me?” Jason looked his amazement.

“Well, all your recent mistresses have been married, haven’t they?”

Frederick’s air of innocence deceived Jason not one whit. Nevertheless, his lips twitched and the frown which had marred his strikingly handsome countenance lifted. “Your misogyny defeats you, my friend. The women I bed are prime reasons for my distrust of the venerable bonds of matrimony. Such women are perfect examples of what I should not wish for in a wife.”

“Precisely,” agreed Frederick. “So at least you have that much insight.” He looked up to discover Jason regarding him intently, a suspicious glint in his silver-grey eyes.

“Frederick, dear chap, you aren’t by any chance possessed of an ulterior motive in this matter, are you? Perchance my aunts have whispered dire threats in your ear?”

To his confusion, Frederick blushed uncomfortably. “Damn you, Jason, get those devilish eyes off me. If you must know, Lady Agatha did speak to me, but you know she’s always been inclined to take your side. She merely pointed out that her sisters were already considering candidates and if I wished to avert a major explosion I’d do well to bring the matter to your mind.”

Jason grimaced. “Well, consider it done. But having accomplished so much, you can damn well help me through the rest of it. Who the devil am I to marry?”

The question hung in the calm of the library while both men considered the possible answers.

“What about the Taunton chit? She’s surely pretty enough to take your fancy.”

Jason frowned. “The one with reams of blonde ringlets?” When Frederick nodded, Jason shook his head decisively. “She twitters.”

“Hemming’s girl then—a fortune there, and word is out that they’re hanging out for a title. You’d only have to say the word and she’d be yours.”

“She and her three sisters and whining mother to boot? No, I thank you. Think again.”

And so it went, on through the ranks of the year’s débutantes and their still unwed older sisters.

Eventually, Frederick was close to admitting defeat. Sipping the wine Jason had poured to fortify them through the mind-numbing process, he tried a different tack. “Perhaps,” he said, slanting a somewhat peevish glance at his host, “given your highly specific requirements, we would do better to clarify just what it is you require in a wife and then try to find a suitable candidate?”

Savouring the excellent Madeira he had recently acquired, Jason’s eyes narrowed. “What I want in a wife?” he echoed.

For a full minute, silence held sway, broken only by the discreet tick of the ornate clock on the mantelpiece. Slowly, Jason set down his long-stemmed glass, running his fingers down the figured stem in an unconscious caress. “My wife,” he stated, his voice sure and strong, “must be a virtuous woman, capable of running the Abbey and this house in a manner commensurate with the dignity of the Montgomerys.”

Wordlessly, Frederick nodded. Eversleigh Abbey was the Montgomery family seat, a sprawling mansion in Dorset. Running the huge house, and playing hostess at the immense family gatherings occasionally held there, would stretch the talents of the most well-educated miss.

“She would need to be at least presentable—I draw the line at any underbred antidote being the Duchess of Eversleigh.”

Reflecting that Jason’s aunts, high-sticklers every one, would certainly echo that sentiment, Frederick waited for more.

Jason’s gaze had dropped to his long fingers, still moving sensuously up and down the glass stem. “And, naturally, she would have to be prepared to provide me with heirs without undue fuss over the matter.” His expression hardened. “Any woman who expects me to make a cake of myself over her will hardly suit.”

Frederick had no doubts about that.

After a moment’s consideration, Jason quietly added, “Furthermore, she would need to be prepared to remain principally at the Abbey, unless I specifically request her presence here in town.”

At that cold declaration, Frederick blinked. “But … do you mean after the Season has ended?”

“No. I mean at all times.”

“You mean to incarcerate her in the Abbey? Even while you enjoy yourself in town?” When Jason merely nodded, Frederick felt moved to expostulate. “Really, Jason! A mite draconian, surely?”

Jason smiled, a slow, predatory smile that did not reach his eyes. “You forget, Frederick. I have, as you noted earlier, extensive experience of the bored wives of the ton. Whatever else, rest assured my wife will never join their ranks.”

“Ah.” Faced with such a statement, Frederick had nothing to do but retreat. “So what else do you require in your bride?”

Leaning back in his chair, Jason crossed his ankles and fell to studying the high gloss on his Hessians. “She would have to be well-born—the family would accept nothing less. Luckily, a dowry makes no odds—I doubt I’d notice, after all. Connections, however, are a must.”

“Given what you have to offer, that should hardly pose a problem.” Frederick drained his glass. “All the haut ton with daughters to establish will beat a path to your door once they realize your intent.”

“No doubt,” Jason returned ascerbically. “That, if you must know, is the vision that spurs me to take your advice and act now—before the hordes descend. The idea of being forced to run the gamut of all the dim-witted debs fills me with horror.”

“Well, that’s a point you haven’t mentioned.” When Jason lifted his brows, Frederick clarified. “Dim-witted. You never could bear fools lightly, so you had better add that to your list.”

“Lord, yes,” Jason sighed, letting his head fall back against the padded leather. “If she’s to avoid being strangled the morning after we are wed, my prospective bride would do well to have rather more wit than the common run.” After a moment, he mused, “You know, I rather wonder if this paragon—my prospective bride—exists in this world.”

Frederick pursed his lips. “Your requirements are a mite stringent, but I’m sure, somewhere, there must be a woman who can fill your position.”

“Ah,” said Jason, amusement beginning to glimmer in his grey eyes. “Now we come to the difficult part. Where?”

Frederick racked his brain for an answer. “A more mature woman, perhaps? But one with the right background.” He caught Jason’s eyes and frowned. “Dash it, it’s you who must wed. Perhaps I should remind you of Miss Ekhart, the young lady your aunt Hardcastle pushed under your nose last time she was in town?”

“Heaven forbid!” Jason schooled his features to a suitably intimidated expression. “Say on, dear Frederick. Where resides my paragon?”

The clock ticked on. Finally, frowning direfully, Frederick flung up a hand. “Hell and the devil! There must be some suitable women about?”

Jason met his frustration with bland resignation. “I can safely say I’ve never found one. That aside, however, I agree that, assuming there is indeed at least one woman who could fill my bill, it behoves me to hunt her out, wherever she may be. The question is, where to start?”

With no real idea, Frederick kept mum.

His gaze abstracted, his mind turning over his problem, Jason’s long fingers deserted his empty glass to idly play with a stack of invitations, the more conservative gilt-edged notelets vying with delicate pastel envelopes, a six-inch-high stack, awaiting his attention. Abruptly realising what he had in his hand, Jason straightened in his chair, the better to examine the ton’s offerings.

“Morecambes, Lady Hillthorpe’s rout.” He paused to check the back of one envelope. “Sussex Devenishes. The usual lot.” One by one, the invitations dropped from his fingers on to the leather-framed blotter. “D’Arcys, Pen-brights. Lady Allington has forgiven me, I see.”

Frederick frowned. “What did she have to forgive you for?”

“Don’t ask. Minchinghams, Carstairs.” Abruptly, Jason halted. “Now this is one I haven’t seen in a while—the Lesters.” Laying aside the other invitations, he reached for a letter-knife.

“Jack and Harry?”

Unfolding the single sheet of parchment, Jason scanned the lines within and nodded. “Just so. A request for the pleasure, et cetera, et cetera, at a week-long succession of entertainments—for which one can read bacchanal—at Lester Hall.”

“I suspect I’ve got one, too.” Frederick uncurled his elegant form from the depths of the armchair. “Thought I recognised the Lester crest but didn’t stop to open it.” Glass in hand, he picked up Jason’s glass and crossed to place both on the sideboard. Turning, he beheld an expression of consideration on His Grace of Eversleigh’s countenance.

Jason’s gaze lifted to his face. “Do you plan to attend?”

Frederick grimaced. “Not exactly my style. That last time was distinctly too licentious for my taste.”

A smile of complete understanding suffused Jason’s features. “You should not let your misogyny spoil your enjoyment of life, my friend.”

Frederick snorted. “Permit me to inform His Grace of Eversleigh that His Grace enjoys himself far too much.”

Jason chuckled. “Perhaps you’re right. But they haven’t opened Lester Hall for some years now, have they? That last effort was at Jack’s hunting box.”

“Old Lester’s been under the weather, so I’d heard.” Frederick dropped into his armchair. “They all thought his time had come, but Gerald was in Manton’s last week and gave me to understand the old man had pulled clear.”

“Hmm. Seems he’s sufficiently recovered to have no objection to his sons opening his house for him.” Jason reread the brief missive, then shrugged. “Doubtful that I’d find a candidate suitable to take to wife there.”

“Highly unlikely.” Frederick shuddered and closed his eyes. “I can still recall the peculiar scent of that woman in purple who pursued me so doggedly at their last affair.”

Smiling, Jason made to lay aside the note. Instead, his hand halted halfway to the pile of discarded invitations, then slowly returned until the missive was once more before him. Staring at the note, he frowned.

“What is it?”

“The sister.” Jason’s frown deepened. “There was a sister. Younger than Jack or Harry, but, if I recall aright, older than Gerald.”

Frederick frowned, too. “That’s right,” he eventually conceded. “Haven’t sighted her since the last time we were at Lester Hall—which must be all of six years ago. Slip of a thing, if I’m thinking of the right one. Tended to hug the shadows.”

Jason’s brows rose. “Hardly surprising given the usual tone of entertainments at Lester Hall. I don’t believe I’ve ever met her.”

When he made no further remark, Frederick turned to stare at him, eyes widening as he took in Jason’s pensive expression. “You aren’t thinking …?”

“Why not?” Jason looked up. “Jack Lester’s sister might suit me very well.”

“Jack and Harry as brothers-in-law? Good God! The Montgomerys will never be the same.”

“The Montgomerys are liable to be only too thankful to see me wed regardless.” Jason tapped the crisp parchment with a manicured fingernail. “Aside from anything else, at least the Lester men won’t expect me to turn myself into a monk if I marry their sister.”

Frederick shifted. “Perhaps she’s already married.”

“Perhaps,” Jason conceded. “But somehow I think not. I rather suspect it is she who runs Lester Hall.”

“Oh? Why so?”

“Because,” Jason said, reaching over to drop the invitation into Frederick’s hand, “some woman penned this invitation. Not an older woman, and not a schoolgirl but yet a lady bred. And, as we know, neither Jack, Harry nor Gerald has yet been caught in parson’s mousetrap. So what other young lady would reside at Lester Hall?”

Reluctantly, Frederick acknowledged the likely truth of his friend’s deduction. “So you plan to go down?”

“I rather think I will,” Jason mused. “However,” he added, “I intend to consult the oracle before we commit ourselves.”

“Oracle?” asked Frederick, then, rather more forcefully. “We?”

“The oracle that masquerades as my aunt Agatha,” Jason replied. “She’s sure to know if the Lester chit is unwed and suitable—she knows damned near everything else in this world.” He turned to study Frederick, grey eyes glinting steel. “And as for the ‘we’, my friend, having thrust my duty upon me, you can hardly deny me your support in this, my greatest travail.”

Frederick squirmed. “Dash it, Jason—you hardly need me to hold your hand. You’ve had more experience in successfully hunting women than any man I know.”

“True,” declared His Grace of Eversleigh, unperturbed. “But this is different. I’ve had women aplenty—this time, I want a wife.”

“WELL, EVERSLEIGH?” Straight as a poker, Lady Agatha Colebatch sat like an empress giving audience from the middle of her chaise. An intimidating turban of deepest purple crowned aristocratic features beset by fashionable boredom, although her beaked nose fairly quivered with curiosity. Extending one hand, she watched with impatience as her nephew strolled languidly forward to take it, bowing gracefully before her. “I assume this visit signifies that you have come to a better understanding of your responsibilities and have decided to seek a bride?”

Jason’s brows rose haughtily. Instead of answering the abrupt query, he took advantage of his aunt’s waved offer of a seat, elegantly disposing his long limbs in a chair.

Watching this performance through narrowed eyes, Lady Agatha possessed her soul with what patience she could. From experience she knew studying Eversleigh’s expression would yield nothing; the strong, patrician features were impassive, his light grey eyes shuttered. He was dressed for a morning about town, his tautly muscled frame displayed to advantage in a coat of Bath superfine, his long legs immaculately clad in ivory inexpressibles which disappeared into the tops of glossy tasselled Hessians.

“As it happens, Aunt, you are right.”

Lady Agatha inclined her turbaned head regally. “Have you any particular female in mind?”

“I do.” Jason paused to enjoy the ripple of astonishment that passed over his aunt’s features. “The lady at present at the top of my list is one of the Lesters, of Lester Hall in Berkshire. However, I’m unsure if she remains unwed.”

Dazed, Lady Agatha blinked. “I take it you are referring to Lenore Lester. To my knowledge, she has not married.”

When his aunt preserved a stunned silence, Jason prompted, “In your opinion, is Miss Lester suitable as the next Duchess of Eversleigh?”

Unable to resist, Lady Agatha blurted out the question sure to be on every lady’s lips once this titbit got about. “What of Lady Hetherington?”

Instantly, she regretted the impulse. The very air about her seemed to freeze as her nephew brought his steely grey gaze to bear.

Politely, Jason raised his brows. “Who?”

Irritated by the very real intimidation she felt, Lady Agatha refused to retreat. “You know very well whom I mean, sir.”

For a long moment, Jason held her challenging stare. Quite why his transient liaisons with well-born women evoked such interest in the breasts of righteous females he had never fathomed. However, he felt no real qualms in admitting to what was, after all, now little more than historical fact. Aurelia Hetherington had provided a momentary diversion, a fleeting passion that had rapidly been quenched. “If you must know, I’ve finished with la belle Hetherington.”

“Indeed!” Lady Agatha stored that gem in her capacious memory.

“However,” Jason added, his tone pointed, “I fail to see what that has to say to Lenore Lester’s suitability as my duchess.”

Lady Agatha blinked. “Er … quite.” Faced with her nephew’s penetrating gaze, she rapidly marshalled her facts. “Her breeding, of course, is beyond question. The connection to the Rutlands, let alone the Havershams and Ranelaghs, would make it a most favourable match. Her dowry might leave something to be desired, but I suspect you’d know more of that than I.”

Jason nodded. “That, however, is not a major consideration.”

“Quite,” agreed her ladyship, wondering if, perhaps, Lenore Lester could indeed be a real possibility.

“And the lady herself?”

Lady Agatha spread her hands. “As you must be aware, she manages that great barn of a hall. Lester’s sister is there, of course, but Lenore’s always been mistress of the house. Lester himself is ageing. Never was an easygoing soul, but Lenore seems to cope very well.”

“Why hasn’t she married?”

Lady Agatha snorted. “Never been presented, for one thing. She must have been all of twelve when her mother died. Took over the household from then—no time to come to London and dance the nights away …”

Jason’s gaze sharpened. “So she’s … unused to the amusements of town?”

Reluctantly, Lady Agatha nodded. “Has to be. Stands to reason.”

“Hold old is she?”

Lady Agatha pursed her lips. “Twenty-four.”

“And she’s presentable?”

The question shook Lady Agatha to attention. “But …” she began, then frowned. “Haven’t you met her?”

His eyes on hers, Jason shook his head. “But you have, haven’t you?”

Under the concerted scrutiny of those perceptive silver eyes, Lady Agatha’s eyes glazed as memories of the last time she had met Lenore re-formed in her mind. “Good bone-structure,” she began weakly. “Should bear well. Good complexion, fair hair, green eyes, I think. Tallish, slim.” Nervous of saying too much, she shrugged and glanced at Jason. “What more do you need to know?”

“Is she possessed of a reasonable understanding?”

“Yes—oh, yes, I’m quite certain about that.” Lady Agatha drew a steadying breath and shut her lips.

Jason’s sharp eyes had noted his aunt’s unease. “Yet you entertain reservations concerning Miss Lester?”

Startled, Lady Agatha grimaced. “Not reservations. But if my opinion is to be of any real value, it would help if I knew why you have cast your eye in her direction.”

Briefly, unemotionally, Jason recounted his reasons for marriage, his requirements of a bride. Concluding his recitation, he gave his aunt a moment to marshall her thoughts before saying, “So, dear aunt, we come to the crux. Will she do?”

After a fractional hesitation, Lady Agatha nodded decisively. “I know of no reason why not.”

“Good.” Jason stood. “And now, if you’ll forgive me, I must depart.”

“Yes, of course.” Lady Agatha promptly held out her hand, too relieved to have escaped further inquisition to risk more questions of her own. She needed time away from her nephew’s far-sighted gaze to assess the true significance of his unexpected choice. “Dare say I’ll see you at the Marshams’ tonight.”

Straightening from his bow, Jason allowed his brows to rise. “I think not.” Seeing the question in his aunt’s eyes, he smiled. “I expect to leave for the Abbey on the morrow. I’ll travel directly to Lester Hall from there.”

A silent “oh” formed on Lady Agatha’s lips.

With a final benevolent nod, Jason strolled from the room.

Lady Agatha watched him go, her fertile brain seething with possibilities. That Jason should marry so cold-bloodedly surprised her not at all; that he should seek to marry Lenore Lester seemed incredible.

“I SAY, Miss Lester. Ready for a jolly week,what?”

Her smile serene, Lenore Lester bestowed her hand on Lord Quentin, a roué of middle age and less than inventive address. Like a general, she stood on the grand staircase in the entrance hall of her home and directed her troops. As her brothers’ guests appeared out of the fine June afternoon, bowling up to the door in their phaetons and curricles, she received them with a gracious welcome before passing them on to her minions to guide to their chambers. “Good afternoon, my lord. I hope the weather remains fine. So dampening, to have to cope with drizzle.”

Disconcerted, his lordship nodded. “Er … just so.”

Lenore turned to offer a welcoming word to Mrs. Cronwell, a blowsy blonde who had arrived immediately behind his lordship, before releasing the pair into her butler’s care. “The chambers in the west wing, Smithers.”

As the sound of their footsteps and the shush of Mrs. Cronwell’s stiff skirts died away, Lenore glanced down at the list in her hand. Although this was the first of her brothers’ parties at which she had acted as hostess, she was accustomed to the role, having carried it with aplomb for some five years, ever since her aunt Harriet, her nominal chaperon, had been afflicted by deafness. Admittedly, it was usually her own and her aunt’s friends, a most select circle of acquaintances, as refined as they were reliable, that she welcomed to the rambling rooms of Lester Hall. Nevertheless, Lenore foresaw no difficulty in keeping her hands on the reins of her brothers’ more boisterous affair. Adjusting her gold-rimmed spectacles, she captured the pencil that hung in an ornate holder from a ribbon looped about her neck and marked off Lord Quentin and Mrs. Cronwell. Most of the guests were known to her, having visited the house before. The majority of those expected had arrived; only five gentlemen had yet to appear.

Lenore looked up, across the length of the black-and-white-tiled hall. The huge oak doors were propped wide to reveal the paved portico before them, steps disappearing to left and right leading down to the gravelled drive.

The clop of approaching hooves was followed by the scrunch of gravel.

Smoothing back a few wisps of gold that had escaped her tight bun, Lenore tweaked out the heavy olive-green-twill pinafore she wore over her high-necked, long-sleeved gown.

A deep male voice rumbled through the open doorway, carried on the light breeze.

Lenore straightened, raising a finger to summon Harris, the senior footman, to her side.

“Oh, Miss Lester! Could you tell us the way to the lake?”

Lenore turned as two beauties, scantily clad in fine muslins, came bustling out of the morning-room at the back of the hall. Lady Harrison and Lady Moffat, young matrons and sisters, had accepted her brothers’ invitation, each relying on the other to lend them countenance. “Down that corridor, left through the garden hall. The door to the conservatory should be open. Straight through, down the steps and straight ahead—you can’t miss it.”

As the ladies smiled their thanks and, whispering avidly, went on their way, Lenore turned towards the front door, murmuring to Harris, “If they don’t return in an hour, send someone to check they haven’t fallen in.” The sound of booted feet purposefully ascending the long stone steps came clearly to her ears.

“Miss Lester!”

Lenore turned as Lord Holyoake and Mr. Peters descended the stairs.

“Can you point us in the direction of the action, m’dear?”

Unperturbed by his lordship’s wink, Lenore replied, “My brothers and some of the guests are in the billiard-room, I believe. Timms?”

Instantly, another footman peeled from the ranks hidden by the shadows of the main doors. “If you’ll follow me, my lord?”

The sound of the trio’s footsteps retreating down the hallway was overridden by the ring of boot heels on the portico flags. With a mental “at last”, Lenore lifted her head and composed her features.

Two gentlemen entered the hall.

Poised to greet them, Lenore was struck by the aura of ineffable elegance that clung to the pair. There was little to choose between them, but her attention was drawn to the larger figure, insensibly convinced of his pre-eminence. A many-caped greatcoat of dark grey drab fell in long folds to brush calves clad in mirror-glossed Hessians. His hat was in his hands, revealing a wealth of wavy chestnut locks. The newcomers paused just inside the door as footmen scurried to relieve them of hats, coats and gloves. As she watched, the taller man turned to survey the hall. His gaze scanned the area, then came to rest with unwavering intensity upon her.

With a jolt, Lenore felt a comprehensive glance rake her, from the top of her tight bun to the tips of her serviceable slippers, then slowly, studiously return, coming at last to rest on her face.

Outrage blossomed in her breast, along with a jumble of other, less well-defined emotions.

The man started towards her, his companion falling in beside him. Summoning her wits to battle, Lenore drew herself up, her gaze bordering on the glacial, her expression one of icy civility.

Unheralded, the hall before her erupted into chaos. Within seconds, the black-and-white-tiled expanse had filled with a seething mass of humanity. Her brother Gerald had come in from the garden, a small crowd of bucks and belles in tow. Simultaneously, a bevy of jovial gentlemen, led by her brother Harry, had erupted from the billiard-room, apparently in search of like-minded souls for some complicated game they had in hand. The two groups collided in the hall and immediately emerged into a chattering, laughing, giggling mass.

Lenore looked down upon the sea of heads, impatient to have the perpetrator of that disturbing glance before her. She intended making it quite clear from the outset that she did not appreciate being treated with anything less than her due. The mêlée before her was deafening but she disregarded it, her eyes fixed upon the recent arrival, easy to discern given his height. Despite the press of people, he was making remarkably swift progress towards her. As she watched, he encountered her brother Harry in the throng and stopped to exchange greetings. Then he made some comment and Harry laughed, waving him towards her with some jovial remark. Lenore resisted the urge to inspect her list, determined to give the newcomer no chance to find her cribbing. Her excellent memory was no aid; she had not met this gentleman before.

Reaching the stairs in advance of his companion, he halted before her. Confidently, Lenore allowed her eyes to meet his, pale grey under dark brows. Abruptly, all thought of upbraiding him, however subtly, vanished. The face before her did not belong to a man amenable to feminine castigation. Strong, clean, angular planes, almost harsh in their severity, framed features both hard and dictatorial. Only his eyes, faultless light grey, and the clean sweep of his winged brows saved the whole from the epithet of “austere”.

Quelling an odd shiver, Lenore imperiously extended her hand. “Welcome to Lester Hall, sir.”

Her fingers were trapped in a warm clasp. To her annoyance, Lenore felt them quiver. As the gentleman bowed gracefully, she scanned his elegant frame. He was clad in a coat of sober brown, his cravat and breeches immaculate ivory, his Hessians gleaming black. He was, however, too tall. Too tall, too large, altogether too overwhelming.

She reached this conclusion in a state bordering on the distracted. Despite standing on the step below her, despite the fact that she was unfashionably tall, she still felt as if she risked a crick in her neck as she endeavoured to meet her disturbing guest eye to eye. For the first time in living memory, maintaining her mask of calm detachment, her shield, honed over the years to deflect any attack, became a major effort.

Blinking aside her momentary fascination, Lenore detected a glimmer of amused understanding in the grey eyes watching her. Her chin went up, her eyes flashed in unmistakable warning, but the gentleman seemed unperturbed.

“I am Eversleigh, Miss Lester. I don’t believe we’ve previously met.”

“Unfortunately not, Your Grace,” Lenore promptly responded, her tone calculated to depress any pretension, leaving a vague, perfectly accurate suggestion that she was not entirely sure she approved of their meeting now. Eversleigh! She should have guessed. Curtsying, she tried to ignore the reverberations of the duke’s deep voice. She could feel it, buried in her chest, a curious chord, thrumming distractingly.

Attention riveted by a welcome entirely out of the ordinary, Jason’s gaze was intent as he studied the woman before him. She was long past girlhood, but still slender, supple, with the natural grace of a feline. Her features, fine-drawn and delicate in her pale, heart-shaped face, he could not fault. Fine brown brows arched above large, lucent eyes of palest green, edged by a feathering of long brown lashes. A flawless complexion of creamy ivory set off her small straight nose and determinedly pointed chin and the rich promise of her lips. Her eyes met his squarely, her expression of implacable resistance framed by her gilded spectacles.

Unable to resist, Jason smiled, stepping slightly aside to gesture to Frederick. “And this is—”

“Mr. Marshall.” If her tormentor was Eversleigh, then his companion’s identity was a foregone conclusion. Belatedly realising that she might well be playing with fire, Lenore retrieved her hand from the duke’s firm clasp and bestowed it upon Frederick Marshall.

Smiling easily, Frederick bowed. “I do hope you have saved us rooms, Miss Lester. I fear we had not realised what a crowd there would be and made no shift to arrive early.”

“No matter, sir. We were expecting you.” Lenore returned his smile, confident in her role. As he was the only duke attending, she had allotted the best guest suite to Eversleigh, with the chamber beside for Mr. Marshall. She turned to Harris on the stair behind her. “The grey suite for His Grace, and Mr. Marshall in the blue room.” Harris bowed gravely and started up the stairs. Turning back to Frederick Marshall, Leonore added, “No doubt you’ll want to acquaint yourself with your quarters. We’ll see you both at dinner. Six-thirty in the drawing-room.”

With a polite nod and a smile, Frederick Marshall moved up the stairs.

Lenore waited for the large frame on her right to follow, determined not to look up at him until he was safely on his way. The seconds stretched. Eversleigh did not move. An odd nervousness gripped Lenore. Eversleigh stood between her and the crowd in the hall; the sense of being alone with a dangerous companion stole over her.

Having found the novelty of being so lightly dismissed not at all to his taste, Jason allowed the tension between them to wind tight before remarking, in his most equable tone, “I understand, Miss Lester, that you are to be our hostess through this week of dissipation?”

Lenore raised her head, her expression one of remote serenity. “That is correct, Your Grace.”

“I do hope you won’t be overwhelmed by your duties this week, my dear. I look forward to acquainting myself with what I have obviously overlooked on my earlier visits to your home.”

Rapidly calculating that if he had visited before, she must have been eighteen and intent on staying out of his or any other eligible gentleman’s sight, Lenore met his gaze with one of limpid innocence. “Indeed, Your Grace? The gardens are very fine this year. I dare say you did not get the opportunity to do them justice last time you were here? A stroll about them should certainly prove of interest.”

Jason’s lips twitched. “Undoubtedly,” he replied smoothly, “were you to accompany me.”

Trenchantly reminding herself that she was beyond being rattled by rakes, Lenore allowed distant regret to infuse her features. “I’m afraid my duties, as you call them, frequently keep me from my brothers’ guests, Your Grace. However, I doubt my absence is noticed—my brothers’ entertainments usually prove remarkably engrossing.”

Jason’s eyes glinted; his lips curved. “I can assure you, Miss Lester, that I will certainly notice your absence. Furthermore, I can promise you that the distraction of your brothers’ entertainments will be quite insufficient as recompense for the lack of your company. In fact,” he mused, one brow rising in open consideration, “I find it hard to imagine what power could deter me from seeking you out, in the circumstances.”

His words rang like a challenge, one Lenore was not at all sure she wished to face. But she was in no mood to permit any gentleman—not even one as notorious as Eversleigh—to disrupt her ordered life. Allowing her brows to rise in cool dismissal, she calmly stated, “I greatly fear, Your Grace, that I have never considered myself one of the amenities of Lester Hall. You will have to make shift with what comes more readily to hand.”

Unable to suppress a rakish grin at this forthright declaration, Jason brought his considerable charm to bear, softening his smile as he said, “I greatly fear you have misjudged me, Miss Lester.” His voice dropped in tone, a soothing rumble. “I would rather class you as one of the attractions of Lester Hall—the sort of attraction that is frequently seen but rarely appreciated.”

If it hadn’t been for the odd intensity in his curious grey gaze, Lenore might have taken his words as nothing more than an elegant compliment. Instead, she felt shaken to the core. Her heart, for so long safe beneath her pinafore, thudded uncomfortably. With an enormous effort she dragged her eyes from his.

And spied Lord Percy Almsworthy doggedly pressing through the crowd. He fought free and gained the stairs. Lenore could have fallen on his thin chest with relief. “Lord Percy! How delightful to see you again.”

“Hello, hello,” replied his lordship, trying to sound cheery as he tweaked his wilting collars up around his chin. “Damned crush, what?”

“I’ll get a footman to take you to your room immediately.” Lenore raised her hand, beckoning two footmen forward. “His Grace was just about to go up,” she lied, not daring to glance Eversleigh’s way.

“The grey suite, I believe,” came a low murmur from her right. To her surprise, Lenore felt long fingers close about her hand. She swung to face him but, before she could do more than blink, His Grace of Eversleigh raised her fingers to his lips and brushed a light kiss across their sensitive tips.

Jason paused to savour the flush of awareness that rose to his hostess’s cheeks and the stunned expression that invaded her eyes before reluctantly conceding, “Until later, Miss Lester.”

Skittering sensation prickled Lenore’s skin. Rocked, she simply stared up at him. To her consternation, a subtle smile twisted his mobile lips before, with a polite nod, he released her hand and, moving past her, ascended the stairs in the footman’s wake.

Speechless, Lenore turned to stare at his broad back, wishing she could have thought of some comment to wipe the smug smile from those silver eyes. Still, she reflected as her senses returned, at least he had gone.

Turning back to the hall, she was jolted from her daze by an aggrieved Lord Percy.

“Miss Lester—my room, if you please?”