Throughout their drive, she had kept her eyes glued to his secretary’s scrawl and bombarded him with questions. Despite a certain reluctance, she had wrung from him enough answers to satisfy.
The bright lights of Piccadilly swung into view. Lenore quelled a shiver of expectation, drawing her cloak closer.
Ten minutes later, they pulled up outside Attlebridge House in Berkeley Square. Jason descended then turned to assist first his aunt, then his fiancée to the pavement. As Lenore stepped down from the carriage, her cloak parted slightly, affording his sharp eyes a glimpse of silver-green. His lips twitched. Inwardly he sent up a prayer that Lafarge had adhered to her usual standards. After his gaffe over the guest-list, he did not feel sufficiently secure to object even had Lenore donned a pinafore.
Trapping her hand on his sleeve, he detected the tremor in her fingers. Capturing her wide gaze, he smiled encouragingly, trying to banish the lingering memory of the feelings that had swamped him in the Park the day before. The feelings that had sent him home in a savage mood, to give Moggs a most peculiar set of orders. Typically, Moggs had achieved the desired result quietly and efficiently. Yet the fact that he had felt such a compelling urge to prove to his wife-to-be that he was not an ogre was disturbing. She was an intelligent woman—there should be no need to go to such lengths.
As he waited beside her for his aunt’s door to swing open, he recalled Lenore’s thanks, tendered with a smile of rare sweetness. He had been decidedly brusque, thrown off-balance by the sudden thought that, while he had frequently showered diamonds on his mistresses, he wooed his bride with boots.
And then they were inside the hall, and the moment of revelation was upon them.
Gripped by sudden shyness, Lenore allowed Jason to remove the velvet cloak from her shoulders. Trying for an air of sophisticated confidence, she twitched her skirts straight, then, her head high, fixed her eyes on Agatha’s face.
Warm approval shone in Agatha’s black eyes. “You look absolutely splendid, my dear.” Her peacock feather bobbed with her nod. “Doesn’t she, Eversleigh?” This last was uttered pointedly in an attempt to prod her nephew to speech. Agatha glared at him but his eyes were fixed on Lenore.
Lenore knew it. The silence from beside her was complete, but she could feel his gaze roving over her shoulders, bared by the wide neckline of her gown, then moving down, over her breasts, outlined by the high waist, then down, down the long length of her filmy skirts, cut narrow to emphasise her height and slenderness. A slow blush rose to her cheeks. In desperation, she tweaked the delicate cuffs of the long, fitted sleeves over her wrists.
Becoming aware of how long he had stood, gawking like a schoolboy, Jason tried to speak, but had to pause and clear his throat before he could do so. “You look… exquisite, my dear.”
At the deep, strangely raspy words, Lenore glanced up, into his eyes—and was content. Then he smiled and she felt a quiver ripple from the top of her head all the way to her toes.
“Shall we go in?” Smoothly, Jason offered her his arm, unable, for the life of him, to take his eyes from her. The silver-green silk clung and slid over her curves as she moved to his side. The gown was more concealing than any he had ordered yet, oddly, it was far more alluring to have such promise so tantalisingly withheld.
Success, Lenore found, was a heady potion. As she placed her fingertips on his silk sleeve her entire body tingled with the thrill of conquest, of having brought the silver light to his eyes. The sensation left her breathless. Side by side, both so tall, she a graceful counterpoint to his strength, they strolled into the large drawing-room.
All conversation halted.
Wide-eyed stares rained upon them; the entire company followed their stately progress to Lady Attlebridge, an imposing figure standing before the fireplace. There was not a shred of doubt who the focus of interest was that night.
And so it proved. To Lenore’s abiding relief, Eversleigh remained firmly entrenched by her side, resisting any number of attempts, some subtle, others less so, to either distract him, or displace him. When her memory failed, he prompted or, as happened more frequently, when her memory was blank, because neither he nor Agatha had recalled certain of his connections, he duly filled her in, his charming smile warming her all the while.
From his sudden stiffness when they hove near, she deduced his aunts were his greatest concern, an observation she found particularly interesting. When the fact that she knew them finally registered as they were leaving Lady Eckington, the most redoubtable and unpredictable of the six, he murmured, “They know you, don’t they?”
Lenore opened her eyes wide. “I thought you knew,” she murmured, turning to smile as one of his cousins passed by. “They often visit Lester Hall. They’re all friends of Harriet’s. I’ve known most of your aunts since I was—oh, twelve or so.”
Jason raised his brows, surprised yet cynical as realisation dawned. Given the favour of his formidable aunts, Lenore would have no need of his support in establishing her social position. Which was a relief. Nevertheless, his voice held a disgruntled note when he said, “I had thought to have to protect you from them. The next time they come calling with me in their sights, I’ll know who to hide behind.”
Lenore’s eyes widened but she laughed the comment aside. “Never mind that—just tell me who the lady in the atrocious purple turban is. She’s been trying to attract our attention for ages. On the sofa by the wall.”
Obediently, Jason slowly turned. “That, dear Lenore, is Cousin Hetty. Come. I’ll introduce you.”
And so it went on. The dinner proved no greater ordeal than the drawing-room; by the end of it, Lenore felt entirely at home among the Montgomerys. An official announcement of their engagement was made at the end of the meal, and their healths drunk in the finest champagne before the company moved to the ballroom, keen to meet the incoming guests and spread the news.
Lenore glided through the throng on Jason’s arm, smiling and nodding, her head in a whirl. She was thankful the long windows to the terrace were open, allowing a gentle breeze to cool the heated room. Despite the time of year, Lady Attlebridge’s rooms were full. Bodies hemmed her in, the colours of coats and gowns blending like an artist’s palette. As she clung to Jason’s arm, grateful for the reassuring pressure of his fingers on hers, her responses to the introductions and congratulations became automatic.
Then the musicians struck up.
“Come, my dear.”
As if he had been waiting for the signal, Eversleigh drew her away from the crowd, into the area miraculously clearing in the middle of the floor. As she felt his arm go around her, Lenore remembered. The waltz—their engagement waltz. “Ah,” she said, relaxing into his arms. “I’d forgotten about this.”
“Had you?” Jason raised one arrogant brow. “I hadn’t.”
/> He watched her eyes cloud with delicious confusion.
Lenore blinked, the only way to break free of his spell. Fixing her gaze in convenient space, she prayed he could not hear her thudding heart. “Tell me, my lord. Is Lord Alvanley an accomplished dancer?”
“Accomplished enough,” Jason returned, quelling his grin. “But Alvanley’s claim to fame is his wits, rather than his grace. Furthermore, given he’s half a head shorter than you, I would not, if I was you, favour him with a waltz.” He considered the matter gravely. “A cotillion, perhaps. Or a quandrille.”