Her fate remained in the hands of the gods—and those of His Grace of Eversleigh.

* * *

“THAT ONE GOES OVER there.” Lenore pointed at a stack of leather-bound tomes, precariously balanced near the window.

“How the devil can you tell?” Jason muttered as he lugged an eight-inch-thick, gold-embossed red-calf bound volume to the pile, one of thirty dotted about the library.

Without looking up from the book open in her lap, Lenore explained, “Your father had all of Plutarch’s works covered in that style. Unfortunately, he then deposited them randomly through the shelves.” Closing the book she had been studying, she looked up at her husband. “This one had best go with the medicinal works. That group by the sofa table.”

She smiled as Jason came up and squatted to lift the heavy book from her lap. Catching her eye, he grimaced as he hefted the volume. “It escapes my comprehension why you cannot work at a desk like any reasonable being.”

Having already won this argument the previous day, Lenore smiled up at him. “I’m much more comfortable down here,” she said, reclining against the cushions piled at her back. “Besides, the light is much better here than at the desk.” She had made a thick Aubusson rug just inside one of the long windows her area of operations, lounging on its thick pile to examine the books as each section of the library shelves was emptied. Given that many of the volumes were ancient and heavy, her “office” in the gallery was out of the question. Until yesterday, Melrose, a young footman, had helped her unload and sort the tomes. Yesterday morning, after his ride, her husband had arrived and, dismissing Melrose, had offered himself as substitute.

“I’ll move your damned desk.” Jason grumbled, turning to do her bidding.

Her lips twisting in an affectionate smile, Lenore watched as he duly delivered the book on herbs to its fellows. His sudden interest in her endeavours was disarming. Despite being excessively well-read, he did not share her love of books. Quite what his present purpose was, she had yet to divine. She watched him return to her side, his expression easy, his long limbed body relaxed. He carried a small volume bound in red leather in his hand.

Before she could point out the next book she wished to examine, Jason sat down on the rug beside her. Reclining so that his shoulder pressed against the cushions at her back, he propped on one elbow and, stretching his long legs before him, opened the red book. “I found this amid your stacks. It must have fallen and been forgotten.”

“Oh?” Lenore leaned closer to see. “What is it?”

“A collection of love sonnets.”

Lenore sat back. Her heart started to thud. Drawing her lists towards her, she pretended to check them.

Jason frowned, flicking through the pages. Every now and then, he stopped to read a few lines. When he paused on one page, clearly reading the verse, Lenore risked a glance through her lashes.

And very nearly laughed aloud. Her husband’s features were contorted in a grimace which left very little doubt as to his opinion of the unknown poet.

Abruptly, Jason shut the book and laid it aside. “Definitely not my style.”

Turning to Lenore, he reached one large hand to her hip and drew her down, her morning gown slipping easily over the silk cushions and soft carpet.

“Jason!” Lenore managed to mute her surprised squeal. One look at her husband’s face, grey eyes shimmering, was enough to inform her he had lost interest in books. Eyes wide, she glanced over his shoulder at the door.

Jason smiled wickedly. “It’s locked.”

Lenore was caught between scandalised disapproval and insidious temptation. But her fear of revealing the depths of her feelings while making love had receded. She had discovered that her husband was as prone to losing himself in her every bit as much as she lost herself in him. But in the library? “This is not—” she got out before he kissed her “—what you are supposed—” another kiss punctuated her admonition “—to be helping me with.”

Having completed her protest, Lenore wriggled her arms free and draped them about his neck. Without further objection, she suffered a long-drawn-out kiss that made her toes curl and the lacings of her bodice seem far too tight. Her husband, luckily, seemed aware of her difficulties.

Raising his head to concentrate on the laces of her gown, Jason’s eyes held hers. “I’m sick of handling dusty tomes. I’d rather handle you—for an hour or two.”

The laces gave way. His fingers came up to caress her shoulders, slipping her gown over and down. As his head bent, Lenore let her lids fall. An hour or two?

With a shuddering sigh, she decided she could spare him the time.

* * *

IN THE DAYS that followed their return to the Abbey, Jason tried by every means possible to break down the constraint, subtle but still real, that existed between himself and his wife. The last barrier. He had come a long way since propounding his “reasons for marriage”. Not only could he now acknowledge to himself that he was deeply in love with Lenore, but he wanted their love to be recognised and openly accepted by them both.

And that was the point where he continued to stumble.

Seated astride his grey hunter, he surveyed the vale of Eversleigh, his fields laid like a giant patchwork quilt over the low hills. He had come to the vantage point on the escarpment in the hope that the distance and early morning peace would give him a clearer perspective on his problem.

He had joined in his wife’s pastimes, as far as could be excused, working in the library by her side, taking her for gentle walks about the rambling gardens and nearby woods. Mrs. Potts now looked on him with firm approval. And Lenore gladly accepted his escort, his help, his loving whenever it was offered. But she made no demands, no indication that she desired his attentions.

Yet she did. Of that he was convinced. No woman could pretend to the depths of loving intimacy, the heights of passion that Lenore effortlessly attained—not for so long. No woman could conjure without fail the welcoming smiles she treated him to every time he approached. Her reactions came from her heart, he was sure.

Tags: Stephanie Laurens Regencies Historical
Source: readsnovelonline.net