The grey sidled, blowing steam from his great nostrils. Leaning forward to pull the horse’s ears, Jason looked down on his home, the grey stone pale in the weak morning light. A strange peace had enveloped him since returning to the Abbey, as if for years he had been on some journey and had finally found his way home. This, he now knew, was what he had searched for throughout the last decade, a decade filled with balls and parties and all manner of ton-ish pursuits. This was where he wished to remain, here, on his estates, at his home, with Lenore and their children. And he owed the discovery and his sense of deep content to Lenore.
However, no matter how hard he tried to show her, his stubborn wife refused to see. He loved her—how the devil was he to convince her of that?
Until he succeeded, she would continue as she was, eager for his company but never showing it, pleased as punch when he elected to stay by her side but frightened of suggesting it, even obliquely. No matter her task, she would never ask for his help, fearing to step over the line of what could reasonably be expected from a conventional spouse.
He had no intention of being a conventional spouse, nor of settling for a conventional marriage. Not now he knew he could have so much more. With a snort of derision Jason hauled on the grey’s reins and set the beast down the track for the stables. Agatha had been right—he was a fool beyond excuse for having recited his reasons for marriage. But that was the past; he needed to secure the future—their future.
Thwarted by her reticence, he had attempted, first to encourage, then to entrap her into admitting her love, hoping to use the opportunity to assure her of his. Remembering the scene, Jason grimaced. Unfortunately, his wife was one of those rare women who could, if pushed, out do him in sheer stubborn will. He was powerless to cajole, much less force her to reveal her secrets. She remained adamantly opposed to uttering the very words he dreamed of hearing her say—for the simple reason that he had led her to believe he would never want to hear them.
“Damn it—why is it that only women are allowed to change their minds?”
The grey tossed his head. With a frustrated sigh, Jason turned him on to the wide bridle path at the bottom of the hill and loosened the reins.
There was only one solution. He would have to convince her that, against all expectations, he did indeed love her. As the steep roof of the stables rose above the last trees, Jason acknowledged that mere words were unlikely to suffice. Actions, so the saying went, spoke louder.
* * *
MOONLIGHT STREAMED in through the long uncurtained windows, bathing Lenore’s bedroom in silvery light. Thoroughly exhausted, courtesy of her husband’s amorous games, Lenore lay deeply asleep. Beside her, Jason was wide awake, listening for the sounds that would herald Moggs and his surprise. A full week had passed since his visit to the escarpment. It had taken that long to devise, then execute his plan. Tonight was the final stage, for which he had had to enlist Moggs’s support.
Eyes wide in the dim light, Jason had time to pray that his valet would, as with most other matters, keep silent on this night’s doings. The notion of facing his servants after they had heard of his latest touch of idiocy did not appeal. Quite how he and Moggs were going to conceal the evidence afterwards, he had not yet considered but he would think of some ploy. Unbidden, Frederick Marshall’s image floated into his mind. Jason grinned wryly. If Frederick ever heard of this episode, he would cut him without compunction. Recalling his fr
iend’s absorption with Lady Wallace, Jason’s grin broadened. On the other hand, it was entirely possible that Frederick might need advice on a similar problem someday soon.
A soft click heralded Moggs’s arrival. Raising his head, Jason saw his valet’s diminutive form glide into the room. Moggs moved about the large chamber, arranging his surprise as directed. Keeping count as Moggs went back and forth, Jason slowly eased from the warmth of his wife’s bed and, finding his robe on the floor, shrugged into it. Padding noiselessly across the floor, he joined his redoubtable henchman as Moggs settled the last of his cargoes on the carpet.
“Thank you, Moggs.” Jason kept his words to a whisper.
Silent as ever, Moggs bowed deeply and withdrew, drawing the door shut behind him and easing the latch back so that it did not even click.
Alone with his sleeping wife, Jason turned and surveyed Moggs’s handiwork. Then, reaching into the deep pocket of his robe, he drew forth a stack of white cards. For a moment, he stood silently regarding them, and the words inscribed in his own strong hand upon their smooth surfaces. If this didn’t work, Lord only knew what else he could do.
Like a ghostly shadow, Jason circled his wife’s chamber, depositing the cards in their allotted places. Finally, with a sigh and a last prayer for success, he slid into bed beside his wife.
* * *
LENORE WOKE very early. The muted light of pre-dawn suffused the room, slanting in through the long windows on either side of the bed. It was, she was well aware, anticipation that brought her to her senses thus early in the day. She was facing away from Jason; without turning, she let her senses stretch. His body was relaxed and still, heavy in the bed behind her, his breathing deep and regular. Deciding she could do with a doze before he woke her up, she was about to snuggle deeper under the eiderdown when the outline of something caught her eye.
Something that should not have been there. Raising her head, Lenore blinked through the dimness, waiting for her eyes to adjust. In the grey light she made out the shape of a pedestal placed a few feet from the window, a vase of flowers—were they roses?—atop.
Frowning, she glanced to the right and saw another pedestal, the twin of the first. Slowly easing up until she was sitting, Lenore saw a third and a fourth—in fact, a large semi-circle of pedestals supporting vases of roses surrounded her bed.
They couldn’t be roses. It was November.
Propelled by curiosity, Lenore slipped from her bed, shivering as the chill air reminded her of her nakedness. Suppressing a curse, she grabbed up her nightgown from the floor where Jason had thrown it and dragged it over her head. Seconds later, she was standing by the first pedestal, staring through the poor light at the flowers in the vase. They looked like roses—perhaps made of silk? Lenore rubbed a velvety petal between two fingers. Real roses. As far as she could tell in the odd light, golden ones.
Turning to study the display, she counted fifteen pedestals, each vase sporting twenty or so beautiful blooms. Such extravagance would have cost a small fortune. No need to ask from whom they came.
Slanting a glance at the bed, she saw that the large lump that was her husband had not stirred. Looking back at the vase, she noticed a small card propped by the base, overhung by a spray of roses. Picking it up, she held it to the light. “Dear” was inscribed upon the pristine surface in her husband’s unmistakable scrawl. Nothing more.
Glancing at the next pedestal, Lenore saw it, too, held a card. That one said “Lenore”.
Faster and faster, Lenore flitted from vase to vase, collecting cards until she stood on the other side of the bed, by the other window and, hardly daring to believe the message they held, forced herself to shuffle them and read it again.
Dear Lenore, I had to do something to convince you I love you. Do you love me?
Her heart in her mouth, Lenore looked up, straight into her husband’s grey eyes. He was very much awake, propped on the pillows, his arms crossed, tense, behind his head, watching her. The shadows of the bed hid his expression.
When she simply stood, his painstakingly inscribed cards carrying a message he had sweated blood over in her hands, and said nothing, Jason inwardly grimaced. “Well, my dear?” he prompted, as gently as he was able.