“You’ll feel lots better after a bath, my lady,” said Trencher, echoing Lenore’s thoughts. “But rest awhile now. I’ll call you when ’tis time.”
Lenore did not even try to nod. Total immobility seemed the only defence against this particular illness. She drifted into a light doze but all too soon she heard the sounds of her bath being readied in the small bathing chamber next door. The splashing of the water as it poured into the tub pulled her mind back to full consciousness.
This afternoon’s near catastrophe could not be repeated—not if she wished to preserve her secret. Luckily, she had devised a plan. A plan that would, she fervently hoped, achieve her twin aims of concealing her indisposition while keeping the Duchess of Eversleigh circulating among the haut ton. A plan so simple, she was confident none would detect her sleight of hand.
With a deep sigh, Lenore removed the cloth from her forehead and slowly, gingerly, sat up. The room swayed gently before settling into its proper place. She grimaced. It was definitely time to put her plan into action.
CHAPTER TWELVE
WITH A PERFECTLY genuine smile on her lips, Lenore whirled down the long ballroom of Haddon House, laughing up at Lord Alvanley as that jovial peer partnered her in a vigorous country dance. It was a week since Lady Hartington’s luncheon and, Lenore reflected, her plan had worked wonders.
She lau
ghed at Lord Alvanley’s opinion of Lady Mott’s latest coiffure, her confidence waxing strong. She had become adept at this charade, projecting the image of blissful enjoyment expected of a new peeress. She could rattle along with the best of them, prattling on about nothing of more serious consequence than their latest bonnets or exclaiming over the monkey Lady Whatsit had got from her latest lover. A charade of the superficial, while beneath her rouge her cheeks were still pale and her mind longed for quieter surrounds and more meaningful pastimes.
But she was determined to preserve her disguise until the Little Season ended and she could retire with honour to Dorset. It was the least she could do to repay her husband’s generosity.
“An excellent measure, m’dear,” his lordship said as they came to a swirling stop. “Tell me, do you plan to open up that mansion of your lord’s down in Dorset?”
While she waxed lyrical about the Abbey and her future plans for its use, Lenore became aware of an odd tingling at her nape, a sensation she associated with her husband’s attention. Was he here? She had not seen him that day and was depressingly conscious of an urge to turn about and search the brightly dressed crowd for a glimpse of his elegant form.
Suppressing her highly unfashionable impulse, she nevertheless could not resist turning slightly, scanning the crowd while ostensibly discussing the most acceptable composition of house parties with his lordship.
From the corner of her eye she detected a movement, a black coat detaching itself from the brightly hued background. He was here—and was coming to speak with her. Desperately trying to dampen the excitement that swelled in her breast, Lenore realised Lord Alvanley was looking at her, an expectant expression on his good-natured face.
“Er…I do believe you’re right, my lord,” Lenore hazarded. She heaved an inward sigh when his lordship all but preened.
Then he glanced up. “Here—Eversleigh! I’ve just had a capital notion—your wife thinks it so, too.”
“Oh?” Jason strolled up, favouring Lenore with a nod and an appraising stare. He shook hands with the viscount. “Just what are you hatching, my friend?”
“Just a little party, don’t y’know. A convivial gathering—just the old crew, none of these hangers-on. At the Abbey, old man! Just what your lady wife needs to set her in full trim. We were thinking of just after Christmas—what d’you think?”
One look at Lenore’s face, at the way her eyes widened before she blinked, bringing her features under control, was enough to tell Jason the truth. “I think,” he replied, taking possession of one of her hands before she could commence wringing it and give herself away entirely, “that you have cast a glib spell over my susceptible wife.” Jason calmly switched his smile from his friend to Lenore. “However, we’ll certainly consider your ‘capital notion’, will we not, my dear?”
“Yes, of course.” Lenore felt a slight blush warm her cheeks. Glancing up, she met her husband’s grey gaze, warm and reassuring, and felt her heart tremble. Abruptly, she conjured a smile and trained it upon Lord Alvanley as he bowed before her.
“Farewell, my dear Duchess,” his lordship said, wagging a playful finger her way. “But a last warning. Don’t let your reprobate of a husband monopolise your time—not at all the thing, not at all.”
With a roguish smile, his lordship departed, merging into the crowd.
Jason quelled an impulse to grimace at his back. Monopolise his wife’s time? If only he could. He glanced down; when Lenore persisted in studying his shoes, he calmly raised the hand he was still holding to his lips. She immediately looked up. As his lips caressed the back of her fingers, he felt them tremble. Her eyes, firmly trapped in his gaze, widened. “I’m glad I caught you, my dear. You’ve been cutting such a swathe through the ballrooms I feared I might not catch you up.”
Struggling to keep her voice matter-of-fact, Lenore let her lashes hide her eyes. “Have you been looking for me, my lord?”
“After a fashion.” Realising that to remain stationary with his wife was to invite interruption, Jason tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow and steered her towards the side of the room. “I wondered if you might care to ride with me in the Park one morning. My hunters need exercise. I keep a number of mounts suitable for you here in town—you don’t need to fear to trust them. Given that you seem to have hit your straps with ton-ish entertainments, I thought you might like to savour yet another of London’s pleasures.”
The elation Lenore had felt on hearing he had been looking for her, and that for the express purpose of requesting her company, sagged dramatically. She could not—dared not—accept. No matter how much her heart longed to do so, her stomach would never permit it. Unconsciously, her fingers tightened on his sleeve. “I…that is…” Desperately, she sought for some acceptable white lie. She could not even get out of bed in the mornings, not at the time he rode. But she had not told him of her indisposition—after all her hard work to avoid doing so, to avoid any possibility of his feeling compelled to urge her to return to the Abbey before she had become established socially, she felt deeply reluctant to do so now. In desperation, she fell back on the fashionable excuse. “I’m afraid, my lord, that I would find it extremely difficult to meet with you at that hour.”
That was the literal truth, even though she knew he would interpret it in an altogether erroneous way. She was hardly surprised to feel his instant withdrawal, although none watching them would have seen anything amiss.
“I see—no need to say more.” Jason tried very hard not to feel rejected. He forced himself to smile down at her. “You’re bent on taking the ton by storm, my dear, making up for your years of absence with a vengeance.” Entirely against his will, his smile took on a wistful air. “Don’t burn the candle at both ends, Lenore. It never does work.”
For one heart-stopping moment Lenore stared up into his eyes, wondering what it was she had glimpsed there.
Simultaneously, both she and Jason became aware of another, hovering before them. She turned and beheld Lord Falkirk, he of the punt, eyeing her, and her husband, uneasily. Having gained their attention, he grew even more nervous.
“The cotillion,” he said, as if stating the obvious. When they both continued to stare uncomprehendingly, he blurted out, “My dance, y’know, Lady Eversleigh.”