“Yes, please,” Amelia returned, blonde ringlets bobbing as she exchanged nods with those of the company already known to her.
While Jack played the gallant host, Lenore oversaw insertion of another leaf at the head of the huge table. Once Amelia and Mrs. Smythe were installed, Lenore paused to tell Smithers, “Her ladyship in the rose room, with Mrs. Smythe in the room further down the hall.”
Smithers nodded and departed.
Lenore returned to her seat, idly wondering what brought Amelia, now widowed, to Berkshire. Picking up her fork, she glanced up to find Eversleigh, his chair pushed slightly back from the table, his long fingers crooked about the stem of his goblet, watching her, an entirely unreadable expression in his eyes. Lenore frowned in what she hoped was a quelling manner.
Jason’s pensive attitude dissolved as he smiled, raising his glass in silent toast. He toyed with the idea of informing his hostess that the ability to remain unflustered in the face of the unexpected was a talent he felt certain his wife should possess. His smile deepened as he wondered what she would answer to that.
After one long look at Eversleigh’s peculiarly unnerving smile, Lenore determinedly turned to Lord Farningham, irritatingly aware that, if she allowed herself the liberty, she could easily spend the entire meal staring at the fascinating face beside her.
Reluctantly, mindful of his true aim, Jason devoted himself impartially to Lady Henslaw and the others about for the remainder of the meal.
At the conclusion of the last course, an array of jellies, custards and trifles interspersed with dishes of sweetmeats, Lenore collected Aunt Harriet and led the ladies from the room. As she crossed the front hall, she made a firm resolution that she would not again allow Eversleigh to unsettle her.
“Shameless hussy! That one dresses in pink silk and thinks we can’t see through it. A good deal less than she ought to be, mark my words!”
Her aunt’s scathing comments, delivered in a highly audible hiss, shook Lenore from her thoughts. She had no difficulty following Harriet’s train of thought—Mrs. Cronwell, thankfully some way behind them, was resplendent in lurid pink silk, the low neckline of her clinging gown trimmed with ostrich feathers. Knowing she was safe, Lenore nodded—it was pointless disagreeing. Virtually completely deaf, Harriet could not be brought to believe that her animadversions, perfectly audible to any within a radius of ten feet, were anything more than the merest whispers. Following her erstwhile chaperon across the room, Lenore helped Harriet, grey-haired and stooped, to settle her purple skirts in her favourite chair a little removed from the fireplace.
Seeing her aunt pull her tatting from a bag beside the chair and start to untangle the bobbins, Lenore placed a hand on her arm and slowly stated, “I’ll bring you some tea when the trolley arrives.”
Harriet nodded and returned to her craft. Lenore left her, hoping she would not become bored and start musing, aloud, on the guests.
Despite the presence of some women she could not in all conscience call friends, Lenore moved easily through the bevy of bright dresses, scattered like jewels about the large room. She had long ago perfected the art of graciously acknowledging those she did not wish to encourage, leaving them a little puzzled by her serene acceptance of their presence. To those who were her social peers she acted the hostess in truth, listening to their gossip, complimenting them on their gowns. It was in gatherings such as this that she learned much of what was transpiring beyond the gates of Lester Hall.
Tonight, however, once she had done her duty and gone the rounds, she gravitated to her cousin’s side, intent on learning why Amelia had so unexpectedly arrived.
“It was Rothesay.” Amelia made a moue of distaste. “He’s been positively hunting me, Lenore.”
Standing by the side of the room, out of earshot of the company, Lenore sent Amelia a commiserating glance. “I take it the viscount is to be numbered among those gentlemen who have difficulty in understanding the word no?”
Amelia frowned. “It’s not so much a matter of his understanding as a sad lack of imagination. I do believe that he simply cannot credit the fact that any lady would refuse him.”
Lenore swallowed a snort. At sixteen, Amelia had dutifully acceded to her parents’ wishes and married a man forty years her senior. Widowed at the age of twenty-three, left with a respectable jointure and no protector, she was ripe game for the wolves of the ton. Determined not to be pressured into another loveless union, Amelia spent her days endeavouring to avoid a union of less respectable state. The gentlemen of the ton, however, had yet to accept the fact that the widowed Lady Wallace felt in no pressing need of male protection.
Fleeing London and the importunings of Lord Rothesay, Amelia had come first to her relatives in Berkshire. “I’m sure a few months will be sufficient to cool Rothesay’s ardour. I had planned to go to stay with Aunt Mary but she won’t be back in Bath before the end of the month.” Amelia scanned the crowd, swelling as the gentlemen strolled in, forsaking their port for feminine company.
“As Jack said, you’re always welcome here.” When Amelia continued to consider the gentlemen as they strolled through the door, Lenore asked, “There is none here who has caused you any bother, is there?”
“No.” Amelia shook her head. “I was just checking for any potential problems.” Linking arms with Lenore, she smiled up at her. “Don’t fret. I’m sure I’ll manage to survive Jack and Harry’s crowd. They all seem to be well-heeled enough not to need my money and well-mannered enough to accept a dismissal. I must say, though, that I’m surprised to see Eversleigh here.”
“Oh?” Conscious of a sharp stab of curiosity, Lenore strolled beside Amelia. “Why so?”
“I had heard,” Amelia said, lowering her voice conspiratorially, “that he’s decided to marry. I’d have thought he’d be playing host to a collection of the fairest debs and their doting mamas at Eversleigh Abbey, rather than enjoying the delights of one of your brothers’ little gatherings.”
Aware of a sudden sinking feeling, Lenore resisted the compulsion to tur
n and look for Eversleigh in the crowd. “I hadn’t considered him the marrying sort, somehow.”
“Exactly so! The story is that he had no intention of succumbing. His brother was to keep the line going. But he—the brother, I mean—was killed at Waterloo. So now Eversleigh must make the ultimate sacrifice.”
Lenore’s lips twitched. “I wonder if he considers it in that light?”
“Undoubtedly,” Amelia averred. “He’s a rake, isn’t he? Anyway, from everything I’ve heard and seen, it’s the poor soul he takes to wife who deserves our pity. Eversleigh’s a handsome devil and can be utterly charming when the mood takes him. It would be hard work to remain aloof from all that masculine appeal. Unfortunately, His Grace is reputed to be impervious to the softer emotions, one of the old school in that regard. I can’t see him falling a victim to Cupid and reforming. His poor wife will probably end in thrall and have her heart broken.”
Brows rising, Lenore considered Amelia’s prediction. “Charming” was not the word she would have chosen to describe Eversleigh; the power he wielded was far stronger than mere charm. Suppressing an odd shiver, she decided that, all in all, Amelia was right. The future Lady Eversleigh was to be sincerely pitied.
Leaving her cousin with Lady Henslaw, Lenore paused by the side of the room. Under pretext of straightening the upstanding collar of her chemisette, she glanced about, eventually locating Eversleigh conversing with her father, ensconced in his chair by the fireplace. The sight brought a frown to Lenore’s eyes. Listening to her father’s reminiscences seemed an unlikely joy for a man of Eversleigh’s tastes. Still, she was hardly an expert on what a gentleman recently determined on marriage might find entertaining. Shrugging the point aside, she embarked on an ambling progress about the room, providing introductions, ensuring the conversation flowed easily and keeping a watchful eye on some of the more vulnerable ladies. Two such innocents were the Melton sisters, Lady Harrison and Lady Moffat, whom she discovered under determined seige from a trio of gentlemen.