“Oh…yes, of course.” With an effort, Lenore gathered her wandering wits. She turned, with the greatest reluctance, to her husband. “If you’ll excuse me, my lord?”
“Of course.” With consummate grace, Jason bowed over her hand. As she disappeared in the direction of the dance-floor, her hand on Lord Falkirk’s arm, he had to fight an almost overwhelming urge to remove her forthwith from this ballroom, London and the ton and take her back to the Abbey with all speed. His inexperienced wife had certainly overcome her dislike of ton-ish entertainments. In fact, he would not wager a groat she had not changed her opinion entirely on such pastimes. Her enjoyment of the balls and parties seemed all too genuine.
As he settled his cuffs and looked about for the refreshment-room, Jason admitted that he did not wish that last to be so. An unnerving fear that he was losing his wife—the Lenore he had married, the Lenore he now wanted beyond all reason—had started to prey on his mind.
He was turning aside to hunt up a footman when his sleeve was twitched.
“Good evening, Your Grace. Tell me, are you finding this singularly pretentious ball as boring as I am?”
Closing his eyes, Jason prayed for patience. Where were they coming from? It was as if the bored wives of the ton had declared open season—on him. Smoothly turning to bow over Eugenia, Lady Hamilton’s hand, he allowed his brows to rise. “Do you find this boring, Eugenia?” As if seeing the thronging guests for the first time, Jason lifted his quizzing glass, rarely if ever used except in instances such as this, and scanned the multitude. “Dear me. I believe you may well be rig
ht.” The glass swung about to focus on Lady Hamilton. For a pregnant instant, Jason viewed her through it, as if examining the pale blonde curls clustered about her sharp face and the voluptuous curves daringly revealed for all to see, before letting the weapon fall. “There do seem to be an enormous number of boring people present. I fear I’ve been so engrossed in conversation I had failed to remark the fact.”
“You were talking to your wife!” Lady Hamilton snapped.
Jason’s grey eyes, cold and hard, swung down to impale her. “Precisely.” He let a measured period elapse, to make sure that barb struck home, before, with the slightest of polite nods, he said, “If you’ll excuse me, Eugenia. I’m thirsty.”
From her position in the cotillion Lenore saw him turn away and let out the breath she had been holding. They were shameless, every last one. Even had she not come to London with a very accurate idea of her husband’s past history, the blatant advances made to him by certain of the so-called ladies of the ton would have made all clear to a novice. And she was no novice. She knew all too well what they were offering—it was a wonder he had not yet taken any of them up on their invitations.
As she obediently twirled through the next figure, the idea that he had, but she did not know of it, arose to torment her. In an effort to hold back the tide of sheer misery that welled at the thought, Lenore forced her mind to another puzzling point. What did that odd look mean, the softer light she had seen, quite clearly, just for a moment, in his eyes?
“Lady Eversleigh!”
Just in time, Lenore avoided a collision. Whispering her apologies to Lord Falkirk, she sternly warned herself to keep her mind on the business at hand. That her husband felt some degree of affection for her was no great discovery—witness his many kindnesses. The gentle expression in his eyes owed its existence to that—and nothing more. And his words of concern might just as well stem from an entirely proprietorial interest in her health—and that of his heir. No need to puzzle any longer—there was no mystery there.
She would have to stop her silly yearnings—they could only cause her grief.
“Thank you, my lord.” Lenore rose from her final curtsy and gifted Lord Falkirk with a brilliant smile. “Perhaps you could escort me to Lady Agatha?” she suggested. “I think she’s near the door.”
Perfectly willing to be seen with one of the brightest lights in the ton on his arm, Lord Falkirk readily agreed.
Fixing a suitable smile on her lips, Lenore glided graciously by her escort’s side, sternly reminding herself of her purpose. She could not simply go home—the night was yet young. But at least she could gain a respite by Agatha’s side, before she threw herself once more into the fray—the hurly-burly of being the Duchess of Eversleigh.
It was a difficult task, constantly to perform as if her whole existence revolved about the glib conversations, the innuendo and cynical laughter, the glittering carousel of the ton at play. Particularly when her eyes kept straying out over the pomaded heads, searching for elegantly waving chestnut locks atop a tall frame. Now and again, he hove into view, always in the distance. Lenore struggled to shackle her jealousy for those unsighted women who stood before him, warmed by his slow smile.
“I vow and declare, my dear, it’s all becoming far too heated—this argument between Lennox and Croxforth. And all over a horse, would you believe it?”
Nodding her head at Lady Morecambe’s assessment, Lenore tried to keep from yawning. She had left Agatha to join her little clique—Lady Morecambe and Mrs. Athelbury, Mr. Merryweather, Lord Selkirk and Mr. Lawton. Miss Dalney, on the arm of Lord Moresby, had just come up. On the outskirts of this inner group, Lord Rodley, Mr. Hemminghurst, Lord Jerry Penshaw and a few other younger gentlemen hung, hopeful of gaining recognition but unsure how to most acceptably make their presence felt. Within the protective confines of her little circle, Lenore knew she would meet no challenge to her equanimity. “Perhaps they should simply sell the poor animal and halve the proceeds?”
Barely listening to the laughs this produced, Lenore allowed her mind to slide away. Having contributed her mite to keep the conversation flowing, she was woolgathering, her gaze idly scanning the crowd, when her husband again hove into view—but this time much nearer, approaching rapidly and, quite possibly, with intent.
Immediately, Lenore brightened, consciously infusing enthusiasm into her expression, a smile of dazzling brilliance on her lips. “Will you be attending Lady Halifax’s drum tomorrow, my lord?” With a show of eagerness, she quizzed Lord Moresby. From the corner of her eye, she saw her husband’s progress slow. “I’ve heard that her gatherings are always a sad crush.”
“Indeed, yes,” his lordship replied.
“I heard,” said Miss Dalney, leaning forward to speak across his lordship, “that at her last ball, part of the balustrade on her stairs was dislodged by the crowd trying to ascend.”
Lenore looked suitably impressed, mentally making a note to put Lady Halifax’s affair at the bottom of her list. Lady Morecambe made a comment and Lenore took the chance to cast a surreptitious glance her husband’s way. To her relief, he was deep in conversation with Lord Carnaby and seemed no longer interested in her.
In thinking so, she was wrong. While trading information on horseflesh with Lord Carnaby, another amateur of equine bloodlines, a large part of Jason’s mind was absorbed in noting how scintillating his wife appeared. She was bright-eyed, radiant. She needed no help in braving the world of the ton—she had it at her pretty feet.
“I’ll let you know if I hear any more about that bay of Salisbury’s.” With a nod, Lord Carnaby moved on, leaving Jason to his musings.
They weren’t pleasant. A niggle of an entirely unexpected sort had inserted itself into his brain. Was Lenore’s effervescent charm, the bloom in her cheeks, the wide starry gaze merely brought on by enjoyment of the ton’s offerings? Or was there more to it than that? Could it be that some gentleman, perhaps, was responsible for the transformation in his wife?
Suppressing a low growl, Jason shook off his unsettling thoughts and headed for the card-room. He could not believe Lenore had found a lover—would not believe it. Not Lenore—his Lenore.
Yet such things happened. Every day. None knew that better than he.