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.
* * *
“YOU’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.”
Ignoring her cap, Lenore took the note, settling back on her pillows, the folded parchment between her hands as Gladys bustled about the room, shaking out Lenore’s evening gown, exclaiming at the way it had been carelessly tossed on a chair.
Lenore eyed the inscription on the front of the note. “Miss Lester” stared back at her in bold black letters.
Despite her conviction that she would fall instantly asleep the moment her head touched the pillow, rest had been a long time coming. As soon as she had settled in the dark, safe and secure in her feather bed, the cauldron of her emotions, simmering all evening, had boiled over. For a while she had let them seethe, shedding frustrated, fearful tears, drawing comfort from the release. Then she had tried to decide where she stood.
One point was clear. The rage that had overpowered her in the library had been misplaced. Recalling her accusations, she squirmed. Eversleigh had deserved none of them. She would have to apologise, an act that would further weaken her position in the necessary negotiations for her release from their unexpected betrothal.
That was as far as she had got in her musings, despite another hour or two’s fruitless cogitation. Eversleigh’s real concern and care for her, not just that evening, but demonstrated in so many ways now she looked back on their short association, undermined the image she had tried to erect of him, the ruthless tyrant perfectly ready to ride roughshod over her feelings. She had no firm idea of what had transpired between His Grace and her father—until she had the facts in her hands, she would be wise to reserve judgement. And, despite all the shocking revelations of the day before, she still did not know why His Grace of Eversleigh was so set on marrying her.
All of which left her in a very uncertain state.
Lenore grimaced, then unfolded the note.
“I’ll wait for you in the library,” was all he had written.
Her lips twisting in self-mockery, Lenore laid the note aside, along with a childish wish to remain safely in bed, pretending the day before had been nothing more than a bad dream. Downstairs and all about the house, the guests would be preparing to leave. She should be present, lending her aid in a thousand different ways. Today, however, she felt not the slightest qualm in leaving her brothers to their own resources. Her staff were well-trained; her presence was not essential.
With a deep sigh, Lenore sat up. “No,” she said, shaking her head at the grey gown Gladys held up. “There’s a primrose muslin in there somewhere. See if you can find it—I believe its time has come.”
The muslin proved to be more gold than yellow, its scooped neckline perfectly decent although the soft material draped about Lenore’s slim figure in a way far removed from her stiff cambrics and pinafores. Harriet had ordered it up from London two years before in a vain attempt to interest Lenore in fashion. Staring at her reflection, Lenore decided it would do. She had coiled her braided hair about her head; to her eyes, her slender neck, now fully revealed, was too long.
Giving herself no time to change her mind, and her gown, she descended to the library.
He did not hear her enter. Seated in the chair before her desk, he had the text she had been studying, a history of the Assyrians, in his hand. Afflicted by a sudden breathlessness, Lenore paused, seizing the rare moment to study him. The planes of his face seemed less angular, his expression less forbidding. There was still a great deal of strength, in his face, in the long body relaxed in the chair, but, to her, now, the impact was more reassuring than threatening, more desirable than dangerous. Slowly, Lenore drew nearer, conscious of her deep fascination. A lingering shadow of the delight she had felt when last in this room touched her.
Jason heard her and turned. His gaze met hers, keenly perceptive, searching for signs of her mood. “Good morning, my dear.”
Carefully gliding past the desk, Lenore nodded. “Your Grace.”