Mrs. Potts beamed. “Yes, of course, Your Grace.”
With a benevolent nod, Jason turned and headed for the library. The instant he stepped through the doors, he saw Lenore had made a start on her cataloguing. There were piles of books everywhere, emptied from the shelves and balanced one upon the other in stacks as high as his shoulders. Closing the door gently behind him, he glanced about but could not see her. Carefully he wended his way through the stacks, stepping softly.
Up in the gallery, Lenore was seated on a cushion on the floor, staring out of the large windows before her, a book on the medicinal properties of herbs open in her lap. She had not turned a page for nearly an hour. Despite her efforts to hold back her dismal thoughts, they persisted in trapping her whenever she allowed her mind a moment’s respite from the activities she had organised. The first four days following Jason’s departure had passed in a dull haze, her mind never really winning free of the aching loneliness that had gripped her on reading his brief note, stating that he had altered his plans and had left early that morning, bidding her a distant adieu until he returned. Yesterday, she had declared “Enough!” and made a determined effort to get her new life back on track. She had her position, her own household to run—it was time she commenced running it again. She had a library to catalogue—she had started in with a vengeance. She had a child, growing within her, and that was what, all too often today, had seduced her mind from the task at hand.
She had not previously given a child much thought—how would a new small person fit into her life? Would a child, their child, ease the empty ache she now felt in that part of her heart that Jason had claimed as his, had filled and
now left void? Somehow, she could not quite believe that it would. But she had all that she had been promised—and her memories. She had no cause for complaint.
With a deep sigh, she looked down at the book in her lap, trying to remember why she had been studying it.
“I might have guessed.”
Lenore looked up, straight into her husband’s grey eyes, and only just managed to keep her joy from bursting forth. He stood a few feet away, one shoulder propped against the window-frame, horrendously handsome, his driving cloak with all its capes hanging from his broad shoulders to his calves. For a moment, her senses swayed, urging her to fly to his arms. With an effort, she shackled them, forcing herself to calm. Serenity intact, she smiled. “Good afternoon, my lord. We did not look to see you return so soon. Is anything wrong?”
Faced with a far calmer reception that he had hoped for, Jason did not return her smile. Her attitude dashed his unacknowledged hopes, making it plain that she had not missed him as he had missed her, that she was perfectly content cataloguing her damned library. “My aunts asked after you,” he offered in explanation. “They believe you should come up to town and make your social début as my wife now rather than later. They were quite adamant on the matter and, having considered their arguments, I suspect they’re right.”
While listening to this cool recitation of his eminently sensible reasons for returning, Lenore shut the book in her lap and placed it aside. Taking the hand he offered, she rose and brushed down her skirts. “So you wish me to go back to town with you?”
To Jason, her reluctance was obvious. Slamming a door on his emotions to protect them from further hurt, he inclined his head coolly. “I believe it’ll be best for you to appear in town at least for the Little Season.”
Casting a last, resigned glance at her piles of musty tomes, Lenore allowed him to tuck her hand in his arm and lead her from her sanctuary. The idea of going to town with him—to have to watch from the sidelines as he enjoyed himself in the company of other women, all more attractive to a man of his tastes than she could ever be—filled her with dread. Her feelings, only just soothed after the trauma of his leaving, would be raked raw anew. How could she face it?
She would have to face it, her inner voice noted. He was not asking for anything outrageous; in fact, he was probably doing the right thing in insisting she go to London. If Agatha and the rest of his aunts thought she should, then they were probably right. And she could never explain why she was so very reluctant to leave the secure peace of the Abbey—not to anyone.
Leading her from the library, Jason felt a perverse pleasure in dragging her from her books. Immediately he acknowledged the feeling, he was appalled. What was this fascination of his reducing him to?
As it transpired, having accepted the inevitable, Lenore had too much to do to brood on the fact. On her discovering that her husband intended to dally no longer than was necessary for her to get herself organised, her hours were filled with giving orders—for the household in her absence, to Trencher over which gowns she wanted packed. They departed after luncheon the next day.
* * *
AS THE CARRIAGE rattled over the cobbles, Lenore put her head back on the squabs and sent up an urgent prayer for deliverance. She could not endure much more swaying. She had never before been so afflicted and suspected the cause was not far to seek. This was what happened to women with child, or so she had read.
The long journey had been uneventful enough. The first stage to Salisbury had not been that long; she had coped quite well, the carriage rattling along at a good pace over the uncrowded roads. They had spent the night with Jason’s uncle, taking to the road after breakfast. Breakfast had been a mistake. Luckily, Jason had spent much of the day on horseback. He had decided to take his favourite hunter to town, presumably, Lenore supposed, so that in November he could travel on direct to his hunting box in Leicestershire while she returned to the Abbey. He had elected to ride, allowing Trencher to travel in the carriage with her, leaving space for the groom beside the coachman on the box. Trencher, she had discovered, was a fount of wisdom on childbearing.
“Three of m’sisters have had six of ’em, my lady. Don’t you fret. This’ll only last a little while. Best try to get your mind off your stomach—think of something nice.”
Lenore thought of Jason, and the hours they had shared in her bed at the Abbey. Which had led to her present predicament, which in turn led her thoughts back to the nausea that threatened to overwhelm her.
By the time Jason had displaced Trencher on the outskirts of the capital, she had felt a lot better. As her husband had been unfailingly kind in a highly distant fashion, Lenore was reluctant to attract his somewhat unnerving attention; she had said nothing of her indisposition.
But the slow, rocking progress through the crowded streets of the capital had sorely tried her fortitude.
“We’re here.” Beside her, Jason sat up. As the carriage rocked to a final halt, he reached for the door. Alighting, he turned to hand her down. Lenore quit the coach with alacrity. As she walked up the steps by her husband’s side, she heaved a sigh of relief to have her feet on solid ground.
Jason heard her sigh but interpreted it quite differently.
Lenore had visited Eversleigh House but briefly in the weeks before their marriage, her only concern then to determine if she wished any of the chambers other than her own to be redecorated. She hadn’t. The current vogue for white and gilt had never found favour with her; the solid polished oak with which Jason had filled his house, the deep greens and reds and blues of the upholstery, were much more to her taste. There had been nothing to change; Jason had claimed as his prerogative the redecoration of her rooms. It was, therefore, with a sense of expectation that she allowed him to lead her up the stairs at the conclusion of the traditional servants’ welcome in the hall.
“These are your rooms.” Jason set the door wide and stood back, his eyes going to her face, keen, despite the continuing hurt that ate at his confidence, to see if she liked what he had had done.
Slowly, Lenore entered, eyes drawn immediately to the bed. Of pale polished oak, it was wide but not overly high, the mattress sunk into the base. High above its centre, a gold ball hung, suspended from where she could not tell. From it depended a tent of green silk, pegged out to the four corners of the bed where four slim columns of turned wood ran upwards to support it. It was an elegant bed of unusual design, the floral carvings that marked the headboard repeated on the footboard. Silks and satins in a melding of pale greens covered the expanse. It looked remarkably comfortable.
Turning, Lenore saw that all the furniture—the large dressing-table, an escritoire, two cheval glasses and three huge wardrobes—as well as a selection of occasional tables, sidetables, chairs and stools scattered about the large room, were all in the same fine wood upholstered in greens and soft golds.
Letting out a long sigh of pure appreciation, Lenore glanced about, locating her husband by the dressing-table. Meeting his watchful gaze, she smiled, utterly unaffected, her mask put aside. “It’s absolutely lovely, my lord. Just what I would have wished for.”
Her words, she was pleased to note, brought a slight smile to her husband’s lips. He had, she had noticed, been rather sombre of late.