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  That evening, the gentlemen quit their port with alacrity, drawn to the drawing-room by the scrape of the violins, bows wielded with enthusiasm by five musicians installed in an alcove. Lenore was constantly on the move, encouraging the more timid of the ladies to join in, ensuring none of the gentlemen hung back. Despite her real liking for the pastime, she rarely danced herself, knowing how awkward most gentlemen found the exercise. She was too tall for even her brothers, only as tall as herself, to partner adequately in any measure beyond the formal quadrilles or cotillions. She was chatting to Mrs. Whitticombe, slightly flushed after a hectic boulanger, when she felt hard fingers close about her elbow.

  A frisson of awareness informed her of who stood beside her even before she turned to meet his grey eyes.

  Bestowing a charming if fleeting smile on Mrs. Whitticombe, Jason turned his gaze upon his hostess. “You’re not dancing, Miss Lester. Can I tempt you to honour me with this waltz?”

  The invitation was uttered so smoothly that Lenore had smiled her acquiescence before her mind had analysed his words. Reasoning that dancing with Eversleigh, so tall, was too tempting a proposition to have passed up anyway, she allowed him to lead her to the cleared area of the floor.

  “Do you encounter much difficulty finding musicians hereabouts?”

  Effortlessly he swept her into the midst of the couples swirling under the light of the chandelier. “N-no. Not usually.” With an effort, Lenore focused her wayward wits. Dragging in a calming breath, she added, “There are two market towns nearby. Both have musical societies, so we are rarely at a loss.”

  After a few revolutions, Lenore became reconciled to the sensation of floating. It was, she realised, simply because Eversleigh was so tall and so strong. As she relaxed, the joy of the dance took hold.

  Watching her face, Jason had no need of words. “You dance very well, Miss Lester,” he eventually said, struck by the fact. She felt as light as thistledown in his arms, an ethereal sprite. The candlelight set gold winking in her hair; even her odd gown seemed part of the magic.

  “Thank you, Your Grace.” Lenore kept her lids lowered, her eyes fixed on a point beyond his right shoulder, content to let the dance blunt her senses. Even so, she was supremely conscious of the strength in the arm circling her waist, of the firm clasp of his fingers on hers. “Did you enjoy your tour of Harry’s little enterprise?”

  “Your brother keeps an excellent stud.”

  “He has told me your own horses are very fine.” Glancing up through her lashes, Lenore watched as a small contented smile softened the lines about her partner’s mouth. Then the arm around her waist tightened. The area near the door was congested with couples. As Eversleigh drew her more firmly to him before embarking on the tight turn, Lenore forced her mind to the music, letting it soothe her, blocking out the barrage of unnerving reactions assailing her senses. Only thus could she countenance such unlooked-for delight.

  She was thoroughly disappointed when the dance came to an end.

  Jason’s smile was a little crooked as he looked down at her, her hand still clasped in his. “I feel I should return you to your chaperon, my dear, but I’m not sure I dare.”

  Recalling Harriet’s behaviour of the previous evening, Lenore had no hesitation in stating, “I doubt that would be wise, Your Grace. Luckily, I’m far beyond the age of having to bow to such altars.”

  To her surprise, Eversleigh’s gaze became sharper, his expression more hard. “You are in error, Miss Lester. You may not be a débutante but you are a very long way from being on the shelf.”

  Lenore would have frowned and taken issue, assuming the comment to relate to their morning’s discussion, but to her amazement Mr. Peters materialised before her.

  “If you would do me the honour, Miss Lester, I believe they’re starting up a country dance.”

  In consternation, Lenore stared at Mr. Peters’ bowing form. Eversleigh’s invitation had taken her by surprise; she had accepted without thought for the potential ramifications. As Mr. Peters straightened, a hopeful light in his eyes, the full weight of her role settled on Lenore’s shoulders. Pinning a smile to her lips, she looked over Mr. Peters’ head to where the sets were forming. With determination, she extended her hand. “It would be a pleasure, sir.”

  A single glance to her left was sufficient to discern the amused glint in Eversleigh’s eyes. “If you’ll excuse me, Your Grace?”

  As she straightened from her curtsy, Eversleigh’s gaze was on her face. He smiled; Lenore felt her heart quiver.

  Hand over heart, Jason bowed elegantly. “I wish you nothing but pleasure, my dear Miss Lester.” His lips curving in appreciation, he watched as, head high, she glided away.

  It was some hours later when he ran Frederick Marshall to earth. To Jason’s shrewd gaze, his friend had developed a predilection for Lady Wallace’s company.

  “Do you plan to remain for the entire week, Your Grace?” Reassured by the presence of Mr. Marshall beside her, Amelia advanced her query, an expression of open innocence on her face.

  Dispassionately, Jason studied the fair features turned up to him. Languidly, he raised one brow. “That is my intention.” Lifting his gaze to his friend’s face, he allowed his expression to relax. “What say you, Frederick? Do you expect to find sufficient here to fix your peripatetic interest?”

  Frederick shot him a glare before Amelia turned her questioning face to him. “I see no reason why we should not be tolerably amused for the duration.”

  “Excellent.” Having gained the declaration she sought, Amelia was all smiles. “I’ll look forward to your company, sirs. But I really must have a word to Lady Henslaw—if you’ll excuse me, Mr. Marshall? Your Grace?” With an artful nod, Amelia left them.

  Jason followed her progress towards Lady Henslaw, then turned to see Frederick, similarly engaged. “Let us hope Lady Wallace does not favour purple.”

  “What?” Frederick turned to him, then glared as his meaning became clear. “Dash it, Jason. It’s no such thing. Lady Wallace is merely a means to pass the time—a sensible woman with whom one may have a conversation without being expected to sweep her off her feet.”

  “Ah.” Jason nodded sagely. “I see.”

  Frederick ignored him. “Speaking of sweeping women off their feet—that waltz you so obviously enjoyed with Miss Lester? Permit me to tell you, not that you don’t already know, that it fell just short of indecent.”

  A subtle smile curved Jason’s lips as he stood, looking out over the dancers. “My only defence is the obvious—she enjoyed it, too. She’s unquestionably the most graceful woman I’ve ever partnered.”

  “Yes, and now the whole company knows it. Do you think she’ll thank you for the rest of her evening?”

  “That, I had not anticipated.” Jason glanced at Frederick, a glint in his eye. “Fear not. I shall come about. Apropos of which, I wanted to ask if you have heard any whispers of my impending fate?”

  “I have, as a matter of fact.” Frederick continued to study the dancers, his gaze following Lady Wallace’s bright curls. “From what I can gather, most who have come direct from town have heard something of your intentions.”

  Beneath his breath, Jason swore.

  Frederick turned, surprise in his eyes. “Does that concern you? It was inevitable, after all.”

  Grimacing, Jason replied, “I would rather it was not common knowledge but I doubt it’ll seriously affect the outcome.” Narrowing his eyes, he mused, “However, I will, I suspect, have to expend rather more thought on the correct approach to my problem.”

  Noting the direction of his friend’s gaze, Frederick asked, “I take it you have fixed on Miss Lester?”

  “Does that surprise you?” Jason murmured, his attention still on her fair head.

  Considering that waltz, and all that it had revealed, Frederick shrugged. “Not entirely. But where lies your problem?”

  “The lady has set her mind against marriage.”

  A paroxysm of
coughing had Frederick turning aside. “I beg your pardon?” he asked, as soon as he was able.

  Jason’s eyes narrowed. “You heard. But if you imagine I’ll pass over the only woman I’ve ever met who meets my stringent criteria, you and Miss Lester will have to think again.”

  A MILL IN THE neighbourhood combined with the after-effects of the evening before relieved Lenore of many of her charges for much of the next day. With the gentlemen absent, the ladies were content to rest and recuperate. After officiating at a light luncheon, Lenore found her afternoon loomed blissfully free. She decided to devote the time to her neglected studies.

  The library was a haven of peace in the large house. Located in the oldest wing, the stone flag kept the temperature pleasant even in the hottest of weather. Finding the room empty, Lenore threw open the heavy diamond-paned windows, and let the warm breeze, laden with the scents of summer, dance in. Her large desk, set between two windows, faced the door. Dragging in an invigorating breath, Lenore sat down and drew the tome she had been studying towards her. Hands clasped on the leather cover, she paused, eyes fixed, unseeing, on the far wall.

  Ten minutes later, with no wish to examine the thoughts that had held her so easily, Lenore determinedly shook them aside. She opened her book. It took fifteen minutes to find her place. Determined to force her mind to her task, Lenore read three paragraphs. Then, she read them again.

  With an exasperated sigh, she gave up. Shutting her book with a snap, she pushed back her chair.

  She would go and find Amelia, for she was serving no purpose here.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  BY THE TIME Lenore learned of her brothers’ plans for that evening it was too late to circumvent them. She entered the drawing-room, her usual serenity under threat by the thought of what might occur once the assembled company, growing hourly more relaxed, embarked on an impromptu programme of musical events. Her brothers, she was well aware, could draw upon a large stock of ribald ditties; quite how she was to keep them sufficiently in line cast the shadow of a frown on her face.

  Eversleigh noticed. When he came to claim her for dinner, Lenore detected the ghost of a smile and a faint questioning lift to his brows.

  “I confess to being curious, Miss Lester, as to what fell occurrence has succeeded in marring your calm.”

  “It is nothing, Your Grace. Pray disregard my megrims.”

  Jason threw her a glance of haughty superiority. “Permit me to inform you, my dear, that I have no wish whatever to overlook anything that brings a frown to your fair face.”

  His bombastic tone had the desired effect. Lenore’s lips twitched. “If you must know, I am not entirely at ease over my brothers’ plans for us to entertain ourselves with musical renderings.”

  A chuckle greeted her admission. “Confess that it is not our talents that concern you so much as the possible choice of subject and I’ll undertake to quell the high spirits of those of the company inclined to excess. Or,” he amended, as they came to a halt beside her chair, “at least keep them within the pale.”

  Frowning openly, Lenore looked into his eyes, remembering her last bargain with him. “I am not sure that you can do so, Your Grace.”

  “Doubts, Miss Lester?” Jason allowed his brows to rise in mock offence. Then he smiled. “Relax, my dear, and let me handle the matter.” When the footman drew out her chair, Lenore sat and settled her skirts, casting a puzzled glance at Eversleigh. As he moved to take his own seat on her right, Jason cocked a brow at her, his smile impossible to deny. “If you want to muzzle licentious behaviour, who better to turn to than a rake?”

  Unable to find an acceptable answer, Lenore gave her attention to her soup.

  When the company adjourned en masse to the music-room, set at the rear of the house, Lenore found Eversleigh by her side. “Invite the Melton sisters to play.” Together, they strolled into the large room. “I take it you play the pianoforte yourself?”

  “Yes,” Lenore replied, wariness echoing in her voice. “But I don’t sing.” Her escort merely smiled his charming smile and escorted her to a seat in the front row. To her surprise, he sat beside her, stretching his long legs before him, giving every evidence of honouring the proceeding with his full attention. Lenore eyed him suspiciously.

  His plan turned out to be simplicity itself. At his urging, Lenore invited one after another of the more youthful of the ladies to play or sing. Lady Henslaw, a matron with a distinctly racy reputation, followed Lady Hattersley. Under Eversleigh’s gaze, Lady Henslaw preened, then gave a surprisingly pure rendition of an old country air. The applause, led by Eversleigh, left her ladyship with a smile on her face. Mrs. Ellis followed, with a predictably innocent song. She was supplanted by Mrs. Cronwell, who, not to be outdone in maidenly accomplishment, played a stately minuet with real flair.

  From the corner of her eye, Lenore saw her brother Harry shift in his seat. Jason saw it too. “Harry next.”

  Lenore turned to him, consternation in her eyes. “I do not think that would be wise, Your Grace.”

  Jason dropped his gaze to her face. He smiled, confidence lighting his eyes. “Trust me, Miss Lester.”

  With a sigh, Lenore turned and summoned Harry. Her brother stood and strolled forward, his walk just short of a swagger. Taking his stance in front of the audience, he drew breath, his eyes scanning the expectant faces before him. Harry blinked. Shifting his stance, he swept the audience again, then, with a slight frown, he waved at Amelia. “Come accompany me, coz.”

  Without fuss, Amelia went to the piano stool. The song Harry chose was a jaunty shanty, boisterous but in no way ineligible.

  To Lenore’s relief, her brother appeared gratified by the thunderous applause that crowned his performance.

  “Ask Frederick Marshall.” Lenore turned at the whispered command. Raising her brows in question, she was treated to a look of bland innocence. “He sings very well,” was all the explanation she received.

  That proved to be no more than the truth. With Amelia at the keys, Mr. Marshall’s light baritone wended its harmonious way through one of the bardic tales, holding the audience enthralled. The tumultuous applause at the end of the piece was entirely spontaneous. The performers exchanged a delighted smile.

  “Try Miss Whitticombe next.”

  Lenore reacted immediately, no longer doubting her mentor’s wisdom. Miss Whitticombe held the dubious distinction of being the only unmarried female guest. A plain girl, she had accompanied her mother, a dashing widow. Miss Whitticombe opted for the harp, proving to be more competent than inspired. Nevertheless, her effort was well received.

  “Now Jack.”

  Lenore had to turn in her seat to locate her eldest brother. He stood at the back of the room, shoulders propped against the wall, a look of thinly disguised boredom on his face. Lenore waved to attract his attention. “Jack?” Even from across the room, she saw his eyes narrow as he straightened, then flick from her to Eversleigh and back again.

  “No, no, my dear. It’s you who should do the honours of the house.” A smile Lenore knew boded her no good appeared on her sibling’s face. “I suggest a duet. The gentleman beside you will no doubt be happy to join you.”

  Stunned but far too experienced to show it, Lenore turned to Eversleigh. He met her wide eyes with a charming smile and a graceful gesture to the piano. “Are you game, Miss Lester?”

  There was no escape, Lenore saw that instantly. Not sure whose neck she wished to wring, Eversleigh’s or Jack’s, she allowed Eversleigh to draw her to her feet and escort her to the instrument. A sotto voce conference decided the piece, a gentle ballad she felt confident she could manage. Fingers nimble on the keys, Lenore commenced the introduction, distractedly aware of the odd beat of her heart and of Eversleigh standing close behind her.

  Afterwards, she could remember little of their performance, but she knew she sang well, her voice lifting easily over Eversleigh’s bass. Her contralto was not as well tutored as Amelia’s sweet soprano, but, against Ev
ersleigh’s powerful voice, it struck the right chord. The final note resonated through the room, their voices in perfect harmony. Clapping burst forth. Eversleigh’s fingers closed about her hand. He raised her to stand beside him, his eyes, clear grey, smiling into hers.

  “A most memorable moment, my dear. Thank you.”

  For one long instant, Lenore stared up into his eyes, sure he was going to kiss her fingertips, as he had once before. Instead, his gaze shifted to the watching crowd. Still smiling, he placed her hand on his sleeve.

  Deflated, then troubled by the sudden sinking of her spirits, Lenore sighted Smithers with the tea-trolley. She excused herself to Eversleigh, murmuring her thanks for her relief, then forged a determined path through her guests to the relative safety of the teacups. She was grateful to Eversleigh for his assistance, but, in the interests of her own peace of mind, she would be wise to spend much less time in his company.

  THE NEXT DAY, Wednesday, dawned bright and clear, with just a touch of mist about the lake. To Lenore’s surprise the mild entertainment of the previous evening had engendered a milder attitude among the guests. Everyone seemed more relaxed, ready to trade easy smiles and light conversation in place of the artfully pointed banter and arch looks of the preceding days.

  The majority of the ladies had made a pact to attend breakfast in the sunny downstairs parlour. While their appearance initially raised a good many male brows, surprise rapidly faded as the company settled into informal groups about the long board, the ladies, sipping tea and nibbling thin slices of toast, interspersed with the gentlemen, most of whom had made extensive forays among the covered dishes on the sideboard. The talk revolved around possible excursions to fill the afternoon. The gentlemen had already decided on an inspection of the Hall’s closer coverts while the morning air was still crisp.