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  “The sister.” Jason’s frown deepened. “There was a sister. Younger than Jack or Harry, but, if I recall aright, older than Gerald.”

  Frederick frowned, too. “That’s right,” he eventually conceded. “Haven’t sighted her since the last time we were at Lester Hall—which must be all of six years ago. Slip of a thing, if I’m thinking of the right one. Tended to hug the shadows.”

  Jason’s brows rose. “Hardly surprising given the usual tone of entertainments at Lester Hall. I don’t believe I’ve ever met her.”

  When he made no further remark, Frederick turned to stare at him, eyes widening as he took in Jason’s pensive expression. “You aren’t thinking…?”

  “Why not?” Jason looked up. “Jack Lester’s sister might suit me very well.”

  “Jack and Harry as brothers-in-law? Good God! The Montgomerys will never be the same.”

  “The Montgomerys are liable to be only too thankful to see me wed regardless.” Jason tapped the crisp parchment with a manicured fingernail. “Aside from anything else, at least the Lester men won’t expect me to turn myself into a monk if I marry their sister.”

  Frederick shifted. “Perhaps she’s already married.”

  “Perhaps,” Jason conceded. “But somehow I think not. I rather suspect it is she who runs Lester Hall.”

  “Oh? Why so?”

  “Because,” Jason said, reaching over to drop the invitation into Frederick’s hand, “some woman penned this invitation. Not an older woman, and not a schoolgirl but yet a lady bred. And, as we know, neither Jack, Harry nor Gerald has yet been caught in parson’s mousetrap. So what other young lady would reside at Lester Hall?”

  Reluctantly, Frederick acknowledged the likely truth of his friend’s deduction. “So you plan to go down?”

  “I rather think I will,” Jason mused. “However,” he added, “I intend to consult the oracle before we commit ourselves.”

  “Oracle?” asked Frederick, then, rather more forcefully. “We?”

  “The oracle that masquerades as my aunt Agatha,” Jason replied. “She’s sure to know if the Lester chit is unwed and suitable—she knows damned near everything else in this world.” He turned to study Frederick, grey eyes glinting steel. “And as for the ‘we’, my friend, having thrust my duty upon me, you can hardly deny me your support in this, my greatest travail.”

  Frederick squirmed. “Dash it, Jason—you hardly need me to hold your hand. You’ve had more experience in successfully hunting women than any man I know.”

  “True,” declared His Grace of Eversleigh, unperturbed. “But this is different. I’ve had women aplenty—this time, I want wife.”

  “WELL, EVERSLEIGH?” Straight as a poker, Lady Agatha Colebatch sat like an empress giving audience from the middle of her chaise. An intimidating turban of deepest purple crowned aristocratic features beset by fashionable boredom, although her beaked nose fairly quivered with curiosity. Extending one hand, she watched with impatience as her nephew strolled languidly forward to take it, bowing gracefully before her. “I assume this visit signifies that you have come to a better understanding of your responsibilities and have decided to seek a bride?”

  Jason’s brows rose haughtily. Instead of answering the abrupt query, he took advantage of his aunt’s waved offer of a seat, elegantly disposing his long limbs in a chair.

  Watching this performance through narrowed eyes, Lady Agatha possessed her soul with what patience she could. From experience she knew studying Eversleigh’s expression would yield nothing; the strong, patrician features were impassive, his light grey eyes shuttered. He was dressed for a morning about town, his tautly muscled frame displayed to advantage in a coat of Bath superfine, his long legs immaculately clad in ivory inexpressibles which disappeared into the tops of glossy tasselled Hessians.

  “As it happens, Aunt, you are right.”

  Lady Agatha inclined her turbaned head regally. “Have you any particular female in mind?”

  “I do.” Jason paused to enjoy the ripple of astonishment that passed over his aunt’s features. “The lady at present at the top of my list is one of the Lesters, of Lester Hall in Berkshire. However, I’m unsure if she remains unwed.”

  Dazed, Lady Agatha blinked. “I take it you are referring to Lenore Lester. To my knowledge, she has not married.”

  When his aunt preserved a stunned silence, Jason prompted, “In your opinion, is Miss Lester suitable as the next Duchess of Eversleigh?”

  Unable to resist, Lady Agatha blurted out the question sure to be on every lady’s lips once this titbit got about. “What of Lady Hetherington?”

  Instantly, she regretted the impulse. The very air about her seemed to freeze as her nephew brought his steely grey gaze to bear.

  Politely, Jason raised his brows. “Who?”

  Irritated by the very real intimidation she felt, Lady Agatha refused to retreat. “You know very well whom I mean, sir.”

  For a long moment, Jason held her challenging stare. Quite why his transient liaisons with well-born women evoked such interest in the breasts of righteous females he had never fathomed. However, he felt no real qualms in admitting to what was, after all, now little more than historical fact. Aurelia Hetherington had provided a momentary diversion, a fleeting passion that had rapidly been quenched. “If you must know, I’ve finished with la belle Hetherington.”

  “Indeed!” Lady Agatha stored that gem in her capacious memory.

  “However,” Jason added, his tone pointed, “I fail to see what that has to say to Lenore Lester’s suitability as my duchess.”

  Lady Agatha blinked. “Er…quite.” Faced with her nephew’s penetrating gaze, she rapidly marshalled her facts. “Her breeding, of course, is beyond question. The connection to the Rutlands, let alone the Havershams and Ranelaghs, would make it a most favourable match. Her dowry might leave something to be desired, but I suspect you’d know more of that than I.”

  Jason nodded. “That, however, is not a major consideration.”

  “Quite,” agreed her ladyship, wondering if, perhaps, Lenore Lester could indeed be a real possibility.

  “And the lady herself?”

  Lady Agatha spread her hands. “As you must be aware, she manages that great barn of a hall. Lester’s sister is there, of course, but Lenore’s always been mistress of the house. Lester himself is ageing. Never was an easygoing soul, but Lenore seems to cope very well.”

  “Why hasn’t she married?”

  Lady Agatha snorted. “Never been presented, for one thing. She must have been all of twelve when her mother died. Took over the household from then—no time to come to London and dance the nights away…”

  Jason’s gaze sharpened. “So she’s…unused to the amusements of town?”

  Reluctantly, Lady Agatha nodded. “Has to be. Stands to reason.”

  “Hold old is she?”

  Lady Agatha pursed her lips. “Twenty-four.”

  “And she’s presentable?”

  The question shook Lady Agatha to attention. “But…” she began, then frowned. “Haven’t you met her?”

  His eyes on hers, Jason shook his head. “But you have, haven’t you?”

  Under the concerted scrutiny of those perceptive silver eyes, Lady Agatha’s eyes glazed as memories of the last time she had met Lenore re-formed in her mind. “Good bone-structure,” she began weakly. “Should bear well. Good complexion, fair hair, green eyes, I think. Tallish, slim.” Nervous of saying too much, she shrugged and glanced at Jason. “What more do you need to know?”

  “Is she possessed of a reasonable understanding?”

  “Yes—oh, yes, I’m quite certain about that.” Lady Agatha drew a steadying breath and shut her lips.

  Jason’s sharp eyes had noted his aunt’s unease. “Yet you entertain reservations concerning Miss Lester?”

  Startled, Lady Agatha grimaced. “Not reservations. But if my opinion is to be of any real value, it would help if I knew why you have cast your eye in he
r direction.”

  Briefly, unemotionally, Jason recounted his reasons for marriage, his requirements of a bride. Concluding his recitation, he gave his aunt a moment to marshall her thoughts before saying, “So, dear aunt, we come to the crux. Will she do?”

  After a fractional hesitation, Lady Agatha nodded decisively. “I know of no reason why not.”

  “Good.” Jason stood. “And now, if you’ll forgive me, I must depart.”

  “Yes, of course.” Lady Agatha promptly held out her hand, too relieved to have escaped further inquisition to risk more questions of her own. She needed time away from her nephew’s far-sighted gaze to assess the true significance of his unexpected choice. “Dare say I’ll see you at the Marshams’ tonight.”

  Straightening from his bow, Jason allowed his brows to rise. “I think not.” Seeing the question in his aunt’s eyes, he smiled. “I expect to leave for the Abbey on the morrow. I’ll travel directly to Lester Hall from there.”

  A silent “oh” formed on Lady Agatha’s lips.

  With a final benevolent nod, Jason strolled from the room.

  Lady Agatha watched him go, her fertile brain seething with possibilities. That Jason should marry so cold-bloodedly surprised her not at all; that he should seek to marry Lenore Lester seemed incredible.

  “ISAY, Miss Lester. Ready for a jolly week, what?”

  Her smile serene, Lenore Lester bestowed her hand on Lord Quentin, a roué of middle age and less than inventive address. Like a general, she stood on the grand staircase in the entrance hall of her home and directed her troops. As her brothers’ guests appeared out of the fine June afternoon, bowling up to the door in their phaetons and curricles, she received them with a gracious welcome before passing them on to her minions to guide to their chambers. “Good afternoon, my lord. I hope the weather remains fine. So dampening, to have to cope with drizzle.”

  Disconcerted, his lordship nodded. “Er…just so.”

  Lenore turned to offer a welcoming word to Mrs. Cronwell, a blowsy blonde who had arrived immediately behind his lordship, before releasing the pair into her butler’s care. “The chambers in the west wing, Smithers.”

  As the sound of their footsteps and the shush of Mrs. Cronwell’s stiff skirts died away, Lenore glanced down at the list in her hand. Although this was the first of her brothers’ parties at which she had acted as hostess, she was accustomed to the role, having carried it with aplomb for some five years, ever since her aunt Harriet, her nominal chaperon, had been afflicted by deafness. Admittedly, it was usually her own and her aunt’s friends, a most select circle of acquaintances, as refined as they were reliable, that she welcomed to the rambling rooms of Lester Hall. Nevertheless, Lenore foresaw no difficulty in keeping her hands on the reins of her brothers’ more boisterous affair. Adjusting her gold-rimmed spectacles, she captured the pencil that hung in an ornate holder from a ribbon looped about her neck and marked off Lord Quentin and Mrs. Cronwell. Most of the guests were known to her, having visited the house before. The majority of those expected had arrived; only five gentlemen had yet to appear.

  Lenore looked up, across the length of the black and white tiled hall. The huge oak doors were propped wide to reveal the paved portico before them, steps disappearing to left and right leading down to the gravelled drive.

  The clop of approaching hooves was followed by the scrunch of gravel.

  Smoothing back a few wisps of gold that had escaped her tight bun, Lenore tweaked out the heavy olive green twill pinafore she wore over her high-necked, long-sleeved gown.

  A deep male voice rumbled through the open doorway, carried on the light breeze.

  Lenore straightened, rising a finger to summon Harris, the senior footman, to her side.

  “Oh, Miss Lester! Could you tell us the way to the lake?”

  Lenore turned as two beauties, scantily clad in fine muslins, came bustling out of the morning-room at the back of the hall. Lady Harrison and Lady Moffat, young matrons and sisters, had accepted her brothers’ invitation, each relying on the other to lend them countenance. “Down that corridor, left through the garden hall. The door to the conservatory should be open. Straight through, down the steps and straight ahead—you can’t miss it.”

  As the ladies smiled their thanks and, whispering avidly, went on their way, Lenore turned towards the front door, murmuring to Harris, “If they don’t return in an hour, send someone to check they haven’t fallen in.” The sound of booted feet purposefully ascending the long stone steps came clearly to her ears.

  “Miss Lester!”

  Lenore turned as Lord Holyoake and Mr. Peters descended the stairs.

  “Can you point us in the direction of the action, m’dear?”

  Unperturbed by his lordship’s wink, Lenore replied, “My brothers and some of the guests are in the billiard-room, I believe. Timms?”

  Instantly, another footman peeled from the ranks hidden by the shadows of the main doors. “If you’ll follow me, my lord?”

  The sound of the trio’s footsteps retreating down the hallway was overridden by the ring of boot heels on the portico flags. With a mental “at last”, Lenore lifted her head and composed her features.

  Two gentlemen entered the hall.

  Poised to greet them, Lenore was struck by the aura of ineffable elegance that clung to the pair. There was little to choose between them, but her attention was drawn to the larger figure, insensibly convinced of his pre-eminence. A many-caped greatcoat of dark grey drab fell in long folds to brush calves clad in mirror-glossed Hessians. His hat was in his hands, revealing a wealth of wavy chestnut locks. The newcomers paused just inside the door as footmen scurried to relieve them of hats, coats and gloves. As she watched, the taller man turned to survey the hall. His gaze scanned the area, then came to rest with unwavering intensity upon her.

  With a jolt, Lenore felt a comprehensive glance rake her, from the top of her tight bun to the tips of her serviceable slippers, then slowly, studiously return, coming at last to rest on her face.

  Outrage blossomed in her breast, along with a jumble of other, less well-defined emotions.

  The man started towards her, his companion falling in beside him. Summoning her wits to battle, Lenore drew herself up, her gaze bordering on the glacial, her expression one of icy civility.

  Unheralded, the hall before her erupted into chaos. Within seconds, the black and white tiled expanse had filled with a seething mass of humanity. Her brother Gerald had come in from the garden, a small crowd of bucks and belles in tow. Simultaneously, a bevy of jovial gentlemen, led by her brother Harry, had erupted from the billiard-room, apparently in search of like-minded souls for some complicated game they had in hand. The two groups collided in the hall and immediately emerged into a chattering, laughing, giggling mass.

  Lenore looked down upon the sea of heads, impatient to have the perpetrator of that disturbing glance before her. She intended making it quite clear from the outset that she did not appreciate being treated with anything less than her due. The mêlée before her was deafening but she disregarded it, her eyes fixed upon the recent arrival, easy to discern given his height. Despite the press of people, he was making remarkably swift progress towards her. As she watched, he encountered her brother Harry in the throng and stopped to exchange greetings. Then he made some comment and Harry laughed, waving him towards her with some jovial remark. Lenore resisted the urge to inspect her list, determined to give the newcomer no chance to find her cribbing. Her excellent memory was no aid; she had not met this gentleman before.

  Reaching the stairs in advance of his companion, he halted before her. Confidently, Lenore allowed her eyes to meet his, pale grey under dark brows. Abruptly, all thought of upbraiding him, however subtly, vanished. The face before her did not belong to a man amenable to feminine castigation. Strong, clean, angular planes, almost harsh in their severity, framed features both hard and dictatorial. Only his eyes, faultless light grey, and the clean sweep of his winged brows s
aved the whole from the epithet of “austere”.

  Quelling an odd shiver, Lenore imperiously extended her hand. “Welcome, to Lester Hall, sir.”

  Her fingers were trapped in a warm clasp. To her annoyance, Lenore felt them quiver. As the gentleman bowed gracefully, she scanned his elegant frame. He was clad in a coat of sober brown, his cravat and breeches immaculate ivory, his Hessians gleaming black. He was, however, too tall. Too tall, too large, altogether too overwhelming.

  She reached this conclusion in a state bordering on the distracted. Despite standing on the step below her, despite the fact that she was unfashionably tall, she still felt as if she risked a crick in her neck as she endeavoured to meet her disturbing guest eye-to-eye. For the first time in living memory, maintaining her mask of calm detachment, her shield, honed over the years to deflect any attack, became a major effort.

  Blinking aside her momentary fascination, Lenore detected a glimmer of amused understanding in the grey eyes watching her. Her chin went up, her eyes flashed in unmistakable warning, but the gentleman seemed unperturbed.

  “I am Eversleigh, Miss Lester. I don’t believe we’ve previously met.”

  “Unfortunately not, Your Grace,” Lenore promptly responded, her tone calculated to depress any pretension, leaving a vague, perfectly accurate suggestion that she was not entirely sure she approved of their meeting now. Eversleigh! She should have guessed. Curtsying, she tried to ignore the reverberations of the duke’s deep voice. She could feel it, buried in her chest, a curious chord, thrumming distractingly.

  Attention riveted by a welcome entirely out of the ordinary, Jason’s gaze was intent as he studied the woman before him. She was long past girlhood, but still slender, supple, with the natural grace of a feline. Her features, fine-drawn and delicate in her pale, heart-shaped face, he could not fault. Fine brown brows arched above large, lucent eyes of palest green, edged by a feathering of long brown lashes. A flawless complexion of creamy ivory set off her small straight nose and determinedly pointed chin and the rich promise of her lips. Her eyes met his squarely, her expression of implacable resistance framed by her gilded spectacles.