IT WAS PRECISELY three weeks after Lady Attlebridge’s ball. In the dim light of a crescent moon, Jason strolled the balcony of the Bishop of Salisbury’s palace, looking back over the days of his betrothal, very thankful they were about to end. He would be glad to leave behind the unexpected uncertainty which had prompted him to keep Lenore close, spending as much time with her as propriety allowed. The endeavour had stretched his talents to the full. He had even sent Moggs out for a guide-book.
His admiration for his betrothed had increased dramatically. He was reasonably sure she did not enjoy life in London—she had been right in predicting her dislike. Her transparent enjoyment of the days they had spent out of the capital or in pursuits outside the ton had contrasted with her considered appreciation of their evenings’ entertainments. However, not even his sharp eyes had detected the slightest crack in the smoothly serene façade she showed to the world. Her performance had been faultless. The subtle change when, alone with him, she laid aside her social mask, was one he had learned to savour.
Smiling, Jason looked up at the stars, diamonds scattered in the black velvet sky. He owed Agatha a debt, not least for refraining from comment on his unfashionable predilection for his fiancée’s company. Needless to say, Frederick thought he had run daft.
The end of the balcony rose out of the dark. Jason leaned on the railing and breathed deeply. Away to the left, beyond the glow of the town’s street-lamps, he could see the pinpricks of light that marked Ashby Lodge, the home of his cousin Cyril. The Lester Hall household had been quartered here; Lenore had returned to spend the last night before her wedding under the same roof as her father.
Tomorrow, they would wed amid the pomp and ceremony traditional in his family. The town was crammed with members of the ton who, as Agatha had predicted, had returned from all corners of the land to attend. The wedding breakfast would be held here, under Henry’s auspices, after which he and Lenore would depart for the Abbey.
Straightening, his lips curving, Jason considered the future, conscious of nothing more than keen anticipation. No sense of mourning for his hedonistic freedom, no last-minute hesitations. Casting one last look across the treetops to where his betrothed was no doubt sound asleep in a high-necked, long-sleeved nightgown, quite unlike the one she would wear tomorrow night, he grinned and turned back towards the house.
He was well satisfied with the way things had fallen out. Not just as he had hoped but rather more than he had expected.
* * *
REPLETE, lulled into a pleasant daze by the steady rocking of the coach, Lenore reviewed her wedding with sleepy content. The event had been remarkable if for no other reason than that she had had no hand in organising it. Her opinions, certainly, had been solicited—by Agatha, by Jack and even by Eversleigh, the latter with a pointed care which had set her lips twitching. Agatha and the reliable Compton, a neat, very serious man of middle age who hid his capabilities behind gold-rimmed glasses, had borne the brunt of the task; from beginning to end, all she had to do was follow instructions—a novel and oddly agreeable experience. She had been free to enjoy her wedding, to savour to the full the fluttering nerves that had assailed her as she had walked down the aisle, her hand on Jack’s sleeve. Muted whispers over her gown had rippled through the congregation, bringing a thin frown to the Bishop’s face. She had hardly noticed, her attention commanded by her husband-to-be, standing tall and straight before the steps. Frederick Marshall had stood beside him, a happy coincidence given Amelia’s role. When Jack gave her hand into Eversleigh’s care, her fingers had shaken; his hand had closed firmly over hers, stilling the movement, steadying her nerves. From that moment on, all had flowed smoothly.
Happily content, Lenore yawned. The only action she had been responsible for that day was the careful aim she had taken when she had paused on the steps of the carriage, surrounded by well-wishers, and thrown her bouquet. If she had not caught it, the large posy of rosebuds and hothouse blooms would have hit Amelia in the face. The memory of Amelia blushing delightfully with Frederick Marshall by her side, his dark head bent as he congratulated her, brought a satisfied smile to Lenore’s face.
As the carriage rolled on, the regular beat of the hooves of the four chestnuts drawing it caught her attention. Both horses and carriage were a wedding gift from her husband. She slanted a glance at him, seated beside her on the pale green leather, his long legs stretched out, his hands folded over his waist, his chin sunk in his cravat, his eyes shut. Lenore grinned. Allowing her gaze to roam the carriage, noting the bright brass fittings and velvet cushions and hangings, she recalled the looks of envy it had elicited from the belles of the ton. Few could boast husbands who thought of such extravagant gifts; diamonds were easy, individualised carriages and horses required rather more thought. Casting an affectionate glance at her sleeping spouse, Lenore smiled.
Turning her gaze once more to the scenery flashing past, she wondered how long it would be before they reached the Abbey. Already the sun was starting to slip from its zenith.
“You should try to get some sleep.” Jason, far from sleep himself, opened his eyes. “We’re still hours from the Abbey.”
“Oh?” Lenore swung to face him. “Will it be dark when we get there?”
“Close. But I told Horton to stop at the top of the drive—from there, you can see the house clearly. There should be light enough to view it.”
Lenore mouthed an, “Oh,” noting that her husband’s eyes were once more shut. His words focused her mind on the evening, a subject she had thus far avoided. She considered the likely schedule, too nervous to ask for confirmation. She would have to meet the servants, and have a quick look about the main rooms before supervising her unpacking. After that would come dinner. Determined not to let her imagination undermine her confidence, Lenore firmly stopped her thoughts at that point. Eversleigh—Jason—was probably right. A nap would not go amiss. Settling into her corner, warm in her sleek velvet carriage dress, she closed her eyes. Gradually, the excitement of the day fell away. Lulled by the gentle swaying of the carriage, she slept.
She half awoke when a particularly deep rut sent her sliding into Jason. His arms closed about her, stopping her fall. Instead of releasing her, he shifted her, pulling her into a more comfortable position against him, her head on his shoulder. Sleep-fogged, Lenore saw no reason to protest. His body provided a firm cushion against which she could rest, his arms about her ensured her safety. Lenore drifted back into slumber, entirely content in her husband’s arms.
Jason was far less satisfied with her position, wondering what form of temporary insanity had prompted him to draw her so close. But he could not bring himself to push her away. She shifted in her sleep, snuggling her cheek into his shoulder, one small hand slipping beneath his coat to rest against the fine linen covering his chest. Jason closed his eyes, willing away his reaction. After a long moment, he squinted down at her, shaking his head in resignation. Then, settling his chin on her coiled braids, he closed his eyes and, fully awake, indulged his dreams.
He shook her gently awake as the carriage rocked to a halt just beyond the main gates of his principal estate. “The light’s fading but I think we’re in time.”
Blinking, Lenore followed as he descended from the carriage, turning to hand her down. Directly before them, the sun was dying in a cloud of bright purple and rose, sinking behind the opposite rim of the valley. Below, gentle slopes surrounded enormous gardens, laid out about a massive pile of stone—Eversleigh Abbey. Stepping to the lip of the bank, Lenore recalled her husband had described his home as Gothic. Towering turrets stood at the four points of the main building, smaller ones marked the ends of the wings. A dome rose from somewhere behind the main entrance, itself an arched and heavily ornamented structure. The broad sweep of the façade faced the drive, the wings at right angles to the main building, enclosed more gardens. Cast in grey stone, Eversleigh Abbey dominated its landscape yet seemed curiously a part of it, as if the stone had grown roots. Her home, Lenore thought, and felt a shivery surge of excitement grip her.
“There used to be a fourth side to the courtyard, of course,” Jason said from beside her. “There are cloisters around the inner side of the east and west wings.”
“From when it was a monastery?”
He nodded.
“Where is the library housed?”
Jason raised his brows.
Ignoring his supercilious expression, Lenore pointedly lifted one brow and waited.
With a reluctant smile, Jason capitulated. “The main building, west corner.” He pointed to two huge arched windows set into the façade. “There are more windows on the west.”
As they watched, lights started to appear in the house. Two large lamps were carried out and set in brackets to light the front steps.
“Come. They’ll be waiting. We should go down.”
Jason took her arm and Lenore turned, consumed by an almost childish eagerness to see her new home.