Lady Moffat, blue eyes bright, positively bubbled with innocent enthusiasm.
“I’m delighted you found so much to entertain you,” Lenore replied. Lunch, an al fresco affair served beside the lake, had been voted a success by all who had attended. This had excluded the majority of the gentlemen, still busy at Harry’s stud. Unfortunately, instead of settling to a quiet afternoon, gossiping or punting on the lake, some of the younger ladies had spied the archery butts, stored in the boat-house. Nothing would do but to stage an impromptu archery contest; Lenore had not had a minute to spare.
“I was just explaining that the dancing this evening was to be entirely informal,” Amelia said.
Lenore smiled, feeling infinitely more experienced in the face of the younger ladies’ overt eagerness. “Just the house guests. The ball on Friday will be a much larger affair.”
“How positively exciting! We’ll both look forward to the event.” Lady Harrison exchanged a bright glance with her sister.
Amelia shot a glance of long-suffering at Lenore, severely trying her composure.
The clang of the dinner gong, and Smithers’s stentorian “Dinner is served” recalled Lenore to an unresolved dilemma. Would Eversleigh take advantage of country party informality to sit elsewhere at table, leaving her to claim whomever she chose for the seat on her right?
Casting a surreptitious glance across the room, she saw her answer crossing the floor, his stride determined, his eyes on her. Quelling a sudden inner flutter, Lenore raised her head. Eversleigh paused by her side, his grey eyes smiling. With a graceful gesture, he offered her his arm. “Shall we, Miss Lester?”
“Certainly, Your Grace.” Lenore placed her fingertips upon his dark sleeve. As they headed for the door, her entire concentration was turned inward, to the task of subduing her skittering nerves and overcoming the odd breathlessness that had seized her.
“Would it help if I promised not to bite?”
The soft words, little more than a whisper in her ear, had Lenore looking upward in surprise. The expression in Eversleigh’s eyes, a not ungentle amusement, shook her precarious equanimity even more. It was all she could do to return a haughty look, turning her eyes forward, determined not to give him the satisfaction of knowing how grateful she was for his reassurance.
He was as good as his word, conversing amiably with Mrs. Whitticombe, who had claimed the place on his right, encouraging Lord Farningham to such an extent that, to Lenore’s experienced gaze, something close to hero-worship glowed in that young man’s eyes. His Grace of Eversleigh could be utterly charming when he chose, but, to Lenore’s prickling senses, the powerful predator beneath the veneer, the presence that had made Lord Farningham so hesitant initially, was not asleep. He was merely in a benevolent mood, watching, patient behind his grey eyes.
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’s 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’s 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
