Rules of Engagement: The Reasons for Marriage. Stephanie Laurens

the large tea-trolley in, Lenore excused herself and crossed the room to perform her last duty of the evening. Rather than station the trolley by the fireplace, her normal habit, she had Smithers place it between two sets of long windows, presently open to the terrace. With Eversleigh still by her father’s chair, the area around the fireplace was likely to prove too hot for her sensibilities.

      She had no trouble distributing the teacups, commandeering gentlemen at will. However, she took Harriet’s cup herself, not liking to lumber anyone else with the task. One never knew how Harriet would react.

      “Thank you, dear,” Harriet boomed. Lenore winced and settled the cup on a small table by her aunt’s side, confident that by now most of the guests must have realised her aunt’s affliction. She turned to leave—and found herself face to face with His Grace of Eversleigh.

      “My dear Miss Lester—no teacup?” Jason smiled, pleased that his calculated wait by her father’s side had paid the desired dividend.

      Lenore told herself she had no reason to quiver like a schoolgirl. “I’ve already had a cup, Your Grace.”

      “Excellent. Then, as you’ve already dispensed enough cups to supply the company, perhaps you’ll consent to a stroll about the room?”

      The “with me” was said with his eyes. Lenore stared up into their grey depths and wished she could fathom why they were so hypnotic. Perhaps, if she understood their attraction, she would be better able to counter it?

      “Just like his father! Forever after lifting some woman’s skirts. Not that he’ll get any joy from Lenore. Far too knowing, she is.” Harriet snorted. “Too knowing for her own good, I sometimes think.”

      Lenore’s cheeks crimsoned with embarrassment. Glancing about, she saw that no one else was close, no one else had heard her aunt’s horrendous pronouncements. No one except their primary subject. Drawing a deep breath, she raised her eyes fleetingly to his. “Your Grace, I beg you’ll excuse my aunt. She’s …” She foundered to an awkward halt.

      A rumbling chuckle came from beside her.

      “My dear Miss Lester, I’m hardly the type to take offence over such a minor transgression.”

      Lenore could have wilted with relief.

      “However,” Jason continued, seizing the opportunity fate had so thoughtfully provided, “I suggest we quit this locality before your esteemed aunt is further stimulated by our presence.”

      Difficult to counter that argument, Lenore thought, giving conscious effort to maintaining her calm smile as she permitted Eversleigh to place her hand on his sleeve and lead her away from the fireplace. As she fell into step beside him, she saw her aunt’s maid Janet and her father’s valet Moreton slip into the room. As soon as her father and his sister had finished their tea, it was their invariable custom to retire. Mr. Pritchard would have already gone up. Given what she sensed of the mood of the guests, Lenore felt her own departure would not long be delayed. Catching sight of the Ladies Moffat and Harrison, still under the wing of Frederick Marshall, she decided to drop them a hint.

      She attempted to veer in their direction, but her escort prevented her, trapping her hand on his sleeve and raising his brows in mute question.

      “I should just like a word with Lady Harrison, Your Grace.” Lenore seasoned her request with a smile and was surprised to see her companion shake his head.

      “Not a good idea, I’m afraid.”

      When she stared blankly at him, Jason explained, “I fear I make Lady Harrison and Lady Moffat somewhat nervous.”

      Lenore decided she could hardly blame them. Waspishly, she replied, “If you were to suppress your tendency to flirt, my lord, I dare say they would manage.”

      “Flirt?” Jason turned his gaze full upon her. “My dear Miss Lester, you have that entirely wrong. Gentlemen such as I never flirt. The word suggests a frivolous intent. My intentions, I’ll have you know, are always deadly serious.”

      “Then you are at the wrong house, Your Grace. I have always considered the theme of my brothers’ parties to be entirely frivolous.” Lenore had had enough. If he was going to use her to sharpen his wit upon, then two could play at that game.

      “I see,” Jason replied, a smile hovering on his lips. He started to stroll again, Lenore perforce gliding beside him. “So you consider this week to have no purpose beyond the frivolous?”

      Lenore opened her eyes wide, gesturing at the throng about them. “My lord, you have visited here before.”

      Jason inclined his head. “Tell me, Miss Lester. Am I right in detecting a note of disdain, even censure, in your attitude to your brothers’ parties?”

      Catching the quizzical look in his eyes, Lenore chose her words carefully. “I see nothing wrong in my brothers’ pursuit of pleasure. They enjoy it and it causes no harm.”

      “But such pleasures are not for you?”

      “The frivolous is hardly my style, Your Grace.” Lenore delivered that statement with feeling.

      “Have you tried it?”

      Lenore blinked.

      “With the right companion, even frivolous pastimes can be enjoyable.”

      Lenore kept her expression blank. “Really? But no doubt you are an expert on the topic, Your Grace?”

      Jason laughed lightly, a smile of genuine appreciation curving his lips. “Touché, Miss Lester. Even I have my uses.”

      Oddly warmed by his smile, Lenore found herself smiling back. Before she could do more than register that fact, he was speaking again.

      “But tell me, given your antipathy for the frivolous, do you enjoy organising such events as these, or do you suffer it as a duty?”

      Try as she might, Lenore could see no hidden trap in that question. Tilting her head, she considered the point. “I rather think I enjoy it,” she eventually admitted. “These parties are something of a contrast to the others we have from time to time.”

      “Yet you take no part in your brothers’ entertainments?”

      “I fear my pursuits are in a more serious vein.”

      “My dear Lenore, whatever gave you the idea the pursuit of pleasure was not a serious enterprise?”

      Lenore stopped, jerked to awareness by his use of her name. She drew away and he let her, but the fingers of the hand that had rested on hers curled about her hand. “I have not made you a present of my name, Your Grace,” she protested, putting as much force into the rebuke as her sudden breathlessness allowed.

      Jason raised a laconic brow, his eyes steady on her. “Need we stand on such ceremony, my dear?”

      “Definitely,” Lenore replied. Eversleigh was too dangerous to encourage.

      With an oddly gentle smile, he inclined his head, accepting her verdict. Only then did Lenore look about her. They were no longer in the drawing-room but on the terrace. A darted glance added the shattering information that no one else had yet ventured forth. She was alone, with Eversleigh, with only the sunset for chaperon.

      Feeling a curious species of panic stir in her breast, Lenore looked up, but the grey gaze was veiled.

      “It seems somewhat odd that you should so willingly organise, yet remain so aloof from the fruits of your labour.”

      Eversleigh’s tone of polite banter recalled her to their conversation. Guardedly, Lenore responded, “The entertainments themselves are not my concern. My brothers organise the frivolity. I … merely provide the opportunity for our guests to enjoy themselves.” She looked away, across the rolling lawns, trying to concentrate on her words and deny the distraction assailing her senses. Her hand was still trapped in Eversleigh’s; his fingers, long and strong, gently, rhythmically stroked her palm. It was such an innocent