Rules of Engagement: The Reasons for Marriage. Stephanie Laurens

Lady Agatha blinked. “I take it you are referring to Lenore Lester. To my knowledge, she has not married.”

      When his aunt preserved a stunned silence, Jason prompted, “In your opinion, is Miss Lester suitable as the next Duchess of Eversleigh?”

      Unable to resist, Lady Agatha blurted out the question sure to be on every lady’s lips once this titbit got about. “What of Lady Hetherington?”

      Instantly, she regretted the impulse. The very air about her seemed to freeze as her nephew brought his steely grey gaze to bear.

      Politely, Jason raised his brows. “Who?”

      Irritated by the very real intimidation she felt, Lady Agatha refused to retreat. “You know very well whom I mean, sir.”

      For a long moment, Jason held her challenging stare. Quite why his transient liaisons with well-born women evoked such interest in the breasts of righteous females he had never fathomed. However, he felt no real qualms in admitting to what was, after all, now little more than historical fact. Aurelia Hetherington had provided a momentary diversion, a fleeting passion that had rapidly been quenched. “If you must know, I’ve finished with la belle Hetherington.”

      “Indeed!” Lady Agatha stored that gem in her capacious memory.

      “However,” Jason added, his tone pointed, “I fail to see what that has to say to Lenore Lester’s suitability as my duchess.”

      Lady Agatha blinked. “Er … quite.” Faced with her nephew’s penetrating gaze, she rapidly marshalled her facts. “Her breeding, of course, is beyond question. The connection to the Rutlands, let alone the Havershams and Ranelaghs, would make it a most favourable match. Her dowry might leave something to be desired, but I suspect you’d know more of that than I.”

      Jason nodded. “That, however, is not a major consideration.”

      “Quite,” agreed her ladyship, wondering if, perhaps, Lenore Lester could indeed be a real possibility.

      “And the lady herself?”

      Lady Agatha spread her hands. “As you must be aware, she manages that great barn of a hall. Lester’s sister is there, of course, but Lenore’s always been mistress of the house. Lester himself is ageing. Never was an easygoing soul, but Lenore seems to cope very well.”

      “Why hasn’t she married?”

      Lady Agatha snorted. “Never been presented, for one thing. She must have been all of twelve when her mother died. Took over the household from then—no time to come to London and dance the nights away …”

      Jason’s gaze sharpened. “So she’s … unused to the amusements of town?”

      Reluctantly, Lady Agatha nodded. “Has to be. Stands to reason.”

      “Hold old is she?”

      Lady Agatha pursed her lips. “Twenty-four.”

      “And she’s presentable?”

      The question shook Lady Agatha to attention. “But …” she began, then frowned. “Haven’t you met her?”

      His eyes on hers, Jason shook his head. “But you have, haven’t you?”

      Under the concerted scrutiny of those perceptive silver eyes, Lady Agatha’s eyes glazed as memories of the last time she had met Lenore re-formed in her mind. “Good bone-structure,” she began weakly. “Should bear well. Good complexion, fair hair, green eyes, I think. Tallish, slim.” Nervous of saying too much, she shrugged and glanced at Jason. “What more do you need to know?”

      “Is she possessed of a reasonable understanding?”

      “Yes—oh, yes, I’m quite certain about that.” Lady Agatha drew a steadying breath and shut her lips.

      Jason’s sharp eyes had noted his aunt’s unease. “Yet you entertain reservations concerning Miss Lester?”

      Startled, Lady Agatha grimaced. “Not reservations. But if my opinion is to be of any real value, it would help if I knew why you have cast your eye in her direction.”

      Briefly, unemotionally, Jason recounted his reasons for marriage, his requirements of a bride. Concluding his recitation, he gave his aunt a moment to marshall her thoughts before saying, “So, dear aunt, we come to the crux. Will she do?”

      After a fractional hesitation, Lady Agatha nodded decisively. “I know of no reason why not.”

      “Good.” Jason stood. “And now, if you’ll forgive me, I must depart.”

      “Yes, of course.” Lady Agatha promptly held out her hand, too relieved to have escaped further inquisition to risk more questions of her own. She needed time away from her nephew’s far-sighted gaze to assess the true significance of his unexpected choice. “Dare say I’ll see you at the Marshams’ tonight.”

      Straightening from his bow, Jason allowed his brows to rise. “I think not.” Seeing the question in his aunt’s eyes, he smiled. “I expect to leave for the Abbey on the morrow. I’ll travel directly to Lester Hall from there.”

      A silent “oh” formed on Lady Agatha’s lips.

      With a final benevolent nod, Jason strolled from the room.

      Lady Agatha watched him go, her fertile brain seething with possibilities. That Jason should marry so cold-bloodedly surprised her not at all; that he should seek to marry Lenore Lester seemed incredible.

      “I SAY, Miss Lester. Ready for a jolly week,what?”

      Her smile serene, Lenore Lester bestowed her hand on Lord Quentin, a roué of middle age and less than inventive address. Like a general, she stood on the grand staircase in the entrance hall of her home and directed her troops. As her brothers’ guests appeared out of the fine June afternoon, bowling up to the door in their phaetons and curricles, she received them with a gracious welcome before passing them on to her minions to guide to their chambers. “Good afternoon, my lord. I hope the weather remains fine. So dampening, to have to cope with drizzle.”

      Disconcerted, his lordship nodded. “Er … just so.”

      Lenore turned to offer a welcoming word to Mrs. Cronwell, a blowsy blonde who had arrived immediately behind his lordship, before releasing the pair into her butler’s care. “The chambers in the west wing, Smithers.”

      As the sound of their footsteps and the shush of Mrs. Cronwell’s stiff skirts died away, Lenore glanced down at the list in her hand. Although this was the first of her brothers’ parties at which she had acted as hostess, she was accustomed to the role, having carried it with aplomb for some five years, ever since her aunt Harriet, her nominal chaperon, had been afflicted by deafness. Admittedly, it was usually her own and her aunt’s friends, a most select circle of acquaintances, as refined as they were reliable, that she welcomed to the rambling rooms of Lester Hall. Nevertheless, Lenore foresaw no difficulty in keeping her hands on the reins of her brothers’ more boisterous affair. Adjusting her gold-rimmed spectacles, she captured the pencil that hung in an ornate holder from a ribbon looped about her neck and marked off Lord Quentin and Mrs. Cronwell. Most of the guests were known to her, having visited the house before. The majority of those expected had arrived; only five gentlemen had yet to appear.

      Lenore looked up, across the length of the black-and-white-tiled hall. The huge oak doors were propped wide to reveal the paved portico before them, steps disappearing to left and right leading down to the gravelled drive.

      The clop of approaching hooves was followed by the scrunch of gravel.

      Smoothing back a few wisps of gold that had escaped her tight bun, Lenore tweaked out the heavy olive-green-twill pinafore she wore over her high-necked, long-sleeved gown.

      A deep male voice rumbled through the open doorway, carried on the light breeze.

      Lenore straightened, raising a finger to summon Harris, the senior footman,