An Unwilling Conquest Page 9

  She waited for the next comment—but her neighbour merely snorted and fell silent.

  His disapproval lapped about her in waves.

  Harry endured the rest of the evening outwardly urbane, inwardly brooding. The gentlemen did not linger over their port, which was just as well for he was no good company. But when they repaired to the drawing room, he discovered that, rather than the general chatty atmosphere which was the norm for Em’s dinners, and which he’d been determined to exploit for his own ends, tonight, they were to be entertained by the Babbacombes, Mrs and Miss.

  With no good grace, Harry sat on a chair at the back of the room, unmoved by what he recognised as an exemplary performance. The tea trolley appeared as the applause died.

  His temper sorely strained, he was one of the last to come forward for his cup.

  “Yes, indeed,” Em said as he strolled up, nodding to Lady Dalrymple. “We’ll be there—I’ll look for you. It’s going to be such fun to go the rounds again.”

  Harry froze, his hand half-outstretched.

  Em looked up—and frowned. “Here you are!”

  Harry blinked—and took the cup, Em’s frown reflected in his eyes. “Are you contemplating going up to town, dear Aunt?”

  “Not contemplating.” Em threw him a belligerent glance. “I’m going. As Lucinda and Heather are set to visit there, we’ve decided to go together. Much the best thing. I’ve sent for them to open Hallows House—Fergus is going up tomorrow. It’ll be wonderful, being in the swing again. I’ll introduce Lucinda and Heather to the ton. Marvellous distraction—just what I need to give me new life.”

  She actually had the gall to smile at him.

  Harry forced himself to utter the expected platitudes—under Lady Dalrymple’s mild gaze he could hardly give his aunt the benefit of his true conclusions.

  After that he beat a hasty retreat—even Squire Moffat and the intricacies of the local drainage system were preferable to farther contemplation of the web he now found himself in. The only one he could be open with was his brother.

  “Em’s insane. They all are,” he growled as he joined Gerald by the window. Heather Babbacombe was chatting to Mrs Moffat. Harry noticed Gerald’s smiling gaze rarely left the girl.

  “Why? No harm in them going up to London. I’ll be able to show Heather all the sights.”

  Harry snorted. “While London’s rakes are attempting to show Mrs Babbacombe their etchings, no doubt.”

  Gerald grinned. “Well—you can take care of that. None of the others will come near if you hover at her shoulder.”

  The look Harry bent on him spoke volumes. “In case it’s escaped your admittedly distracted intelligence, brother dear, I am currently the principal Lester target in the matchmakers’ sights. Having lost Jack to Miss Winterton, they’ll redouble their efforts and turn all their guns on yours truly.”

  “I know.” Gerald shot him an insouciant grin. “You’ve no idea how grateful I am that you’re there for them to aim at—with any luck, they won’t remember me. Good thing—I haven’t a bean of your experience.”

  He was clearly sincere. Harry swallowed the sharp words that rose to his tongue. Lips compressed, he retired to the safety of Sir Henry’s conversation, studiously avoiding any further contact with his fate. His siren. She who would lure him onto the rocks.

  The guests left in concert. Harry and Gerald, as family, stood back to let the others take their leave. Em stepped onto the porch to wave farewell; Gerald and Heather were dallying by the drawing-room door. In the shadows by the front door, Harry found himself beside his temptation.

  His aunt, he noticed, was in no rush to return.

  “Will we see you in London, Mr Lester?”

  She cast him an artless glance—Harry couldn’t decide whether it was real or not. He looked down at her face, upturned to his, blue eyes wide. “I have no plans to come up again this Season.”

  “A pity,” she said, but her lips curved. “I had thought to repay my debt to you, as we’d agreed.”

  It took him a moment to recall. “The waltz?”

  Lucinda nodded. “Indeed. But if you will not be in town, then this is goodbye, sir.”

  She held out her hand; Harry took it, shook it, but didn’t release it. Eyes narrowing, he studied her open expression, those eyes he would swear could not lie.

  She was saying goodbye. Perhaps, after all, escape was still possible?

  Then her lips curved slightly. “Rest assured I’ll think of you while waltzing through the London ballrooms.”

  Harry’s fingers closed hard about hers—and clenched even harder about his gloves. The eruption that shook him—of anger, and sheer, possessive desire—very nearly broke his control. She looked up, eyes flaring, her lips slightly parted. It was no thanks to her, and the soft, tempting look in her eyes, that he managed to mask his reaction. He forced himself to release her hand; his face felt stiff as he bowed. “I will bid you good night, Mrs Babbacombe.”

  With that, he walked out, missing the disappointment that clouded Lucinda’s gaze.

  From the top of the steps, she watched him drive away—and prayed that Em was right.

  Chapter Six

  She was still praying ten days later when, flanked by Em and Heather, she strolled into Lady Haverbuck’s ballroom. Her ladyship’s ball was the first of the major gatherings they had attended. It had taken them four days to successfully transfer to Hallows House in Audley Street; the following days had been taken up with the necessary visits to modistes and the fashionable emporia. The previous evening, Em had hosted a select party to introduce both her guests to the ton. The acceptances had gratified Em; it had been many years since she had been in the capital. But there had been one who had not responded to the white, gilt-edged card.

  Lucinda herself had penned it and directed it to Harry’s lodgings in Half Moon Street. But she had looked in vain for his golden head.

  “You’ll have to let him go if you want him to come back,” Em had declared. “He’s like one of his horses—you can lead him to the pond but you can’t make him drink.”

  So she had let him go—without a murmur, without the slightest hint that she wanted him.

  He had yet to return.

  Now, elegantly clad in shimmering blue silk the colour of cornflowers, her dark hair artfully coiffed to fall in soft curls about her brow and temples, Lucinda stood on the edge of the ballroom floor and looked about her.

  They were neither early nor late; the room was already well filled but not yet crowded. Elegant gentlemen conversed with fashionable matrons; dowagers and chaperons lined the walls. Their charges, mostly young girls making their come-out, were readily identified by the pale pastel hues of their gowns. They were everywhere, the bolder ones chatting with youthful swains, others, more bashful, clinging to each other’s company.

  “Oh—look!” Heather clutched Lucinda’s gloved arm. “There’s Miss Morley and her sister.” Heather glanced up at Lucinda. “May I join them?”

  Lucinda smiled across the room at the cheery Misses Morley. “Certainly. But look for us when you’ve done.”

  Heather flashed her an excited smile.

  Em snorted. “We’ll be over there.” Wielding a lorgnette, she pointed to a chaise by the wall.

  With a bob, Heather slipped away, a vision in palest turquoise muslin, her golden curls dressed high.

  “A most fetching gown—even if ’twas I who chose it,” Em declared. She led the way to the chaise.

  Lucinda followed. She was about to copy Em’s descent onto the brocaded seat when young Mr Hollingsworth appeared by her elbow, an older, infinitely more elegant gentleman beside him.

  “I say, Mrs Babbacombe—delighted to see you again.” Mr Hollingsworth all but jigged with excitement.

  Lucinda murmured a polite greeting; they had met Mr Hollingsworth at Hatchard’s the day before.

  “Beg you’ll allow me to present my cousin, Lord Ruthven.”

  The elegant gentleman, dark-ha
ired and handsome, bowed gracefully. “I am indeed honoured to make your acquaintance, Mrs Babbacombe.”

  Curtsying, Lucinda glanced up and met his eye; she suppressed a grimace as she recognised the speculative glint therein.

  “A rose amongst so many peonies, my dear.” With a languid wave, Ruthven dismissed the youthful beauties about them.

  “Indeed?” Lucinda raised her brows sceptically.

  Lord Ruthven was undeterred. And, as she quickly discovered, his lordship was not the only gentleman desirous of more mature company. Others, largely of similar ilk, strolled up, unhesitatingly claiming Ruthven’s good offices to perform the introductions. His lordship, indolently amused, obliged. Remembering her duties, Lucinda tried to retreat, only to have Em snort—indulgently amused—and wave her away.

  “I’ll keep an eye on Heather. You go and enjoy yourself—that’s what ton balls are for.”

  Thus adjured, and reflecting that Em knew rather more about watching over young girls at ton balls than she did, Lucinda inwardly shrugged and smiled on her would-be court. In a very short time, she found herself surrounded—by a collection of gentlemen she mentally categorised as Harry Lester’s contemporaries. They were, one and all, ineffably charming; she could see no harm in enjoying their company.

  Then the music started, lilting strains wafting over the bright heads.

  “Dare I claim your first cotillion in the capital, my dear?”

  Lucinda turned to find Lord Ruthven’s arm before her. “Indeed, sir. I would be delighted.”

  A smile curved his lips. “No, my dear—it is I who am delighted. You will have to find another adjective.”

  Lucinda met his eyes. She raised her brows. “My mind is a blank, sir. What would you suggest?”

  His lordship was perfectly prepared to oblige. “Devastated with joy? In alt? Over the moon with happiness?”

  Lucinda laughed. As they took their places in the set, she arched a brow at him. “How about—‘so impressed I am unable to find words to express it’?”

  Lord Ruthven grimaced.

  As the evening progressed, Lucinda found herself much in demand. As she was ranked among the matrons, she did not have a dance-card but was free to bestow her hand on whomever she chose from amongst her assiduous court. Indeed, their assiduousness triggered her innate caution; while Ruthven appeared too good-humoured and indolent to be dangerous, there were others whose eyes held a more intent gleam.

  One such was Lord Craven, who strolled into the ballroom late, surveyed the field from the top of the steps, then beat a disguised but determined path to her side. Dragooning Mr Satterly into providing an introduction, his lordship was bowing over Lucinda’s hand when the unmistakable strains of a waltz filled the room.

  “My dear Mrs Babbacombe, dare I hope you’ll take pity on a latecomer and grant me the honour of this waltz?”

  Lucinda met Lord Craven’s dark hooded eyes—and decided her pity would be more wisely bestowed elsewhere. She let her eyes widen and swept a questioning glance at the gentlemen surrounding her.

  They instantly came to her rescue, dismissing Lord Craven’s claim as outrageous, presumptuous and unfair and plying her with any number of alternatives. Laughing lightly, Lucinda withdrew her fingers from Lord Craven’s clasp. “I fear you must take your chance amongst the competition, my lord.”

  His lordship’s expression turned distinctly stiff.

  “Now, let’s see.” Lucinda smiled at her cavaliers and was about to bestow her favour upon Mr Amberly, who, despite the appreciation in his eyes, was another more inclined to amusement than seduction, when she felt a stir beside her.

  Long, strong fingers encircled her arm, sliding over the bare skin just above her glove.

  “My waltz, I believe, Mrs Babbacombe.”

  Lucinda’s breath caught. She swung to face Harry; their eyes met—his were very green, his gaze sharp, oddly intent. Elation swept Lucinda. She struggled to hide it.

  Harry’s lips curved, their ends lifting in a smile, which turned to a grimace, hidden as he bowed.

  When he straightened, his features were impassive.

  “I say, Lester! This is dashed unfair.” Mr Amberly all but pouted. Others muttered in similar vein.

  Harry merely lifted a supercilious brow, his now-hooded glance shifting to rest on Lucinda’s face. “As I recall, my dear, you owe me a waltz. I’ve come to claim it.”

  “Indeed, sir.” Savouring the sound of his deep drawl, Lucinda gave up her fight and smiled her delight. “I always pay my debts. My first waltz in the capital is yours.”

  Harry’s lips twitched but he stilled them. With an elegant gesture he claimed her hand and settled it on his sleeve.

  Lucinda slanted a quick, triumphant glance at Em, but her mentor was hidden by her court. “Gentlemen.” With a sunny smile and a nod for her disappointed cavaliers, who were shooting disgruntled glances at her unexpected partner, she allowed him to lead her to the floor.

  Harry held his tongue until they reached the dance floor but as soon as he had whirled them into the swirling throng, he looked down and trapped Lucinda’s blue gaze. “I realise, Mrs Babbacombe, that your experience does not extend to the vagaries of the ton. I fear I should warn you that many of the gentlemen presently intent on your smiles should be treated with extreme caution.”

  More concerned with adequately following his assured lead than with her redundant court, Lucinda frowned. “That’s obvious.”

  Harry’s brows slowly rose.

  Lucinda’s frown grew distracted. “I’m rather more than seven, you know. As far as I can see, there’s no reason I shouldn’t enjoy myself in their company—I’m hardly so green as to be taken in by their charms.”

  At that, Harry snorted. For a full minute, he considered the possibility of scaring her with a more explicit warning, then mentally shook his head. She wasn’t, he realised, recalling Jake Blount and the Green Goose, easily scared. But he could hardly countenance her court.

  Glancing down at her face, he saw she was still frowning, but in an abstracted way. “What’s wrong?”

  She started—and cast an irritated glance up at him.

  “Well?”

  “If you must know,” Lucinda said. “I’m not terribly experienced at waltzing. Charles didn’t, of course. I’ve had lessons—but it’s rather different on a crowded floor.”

  Harry couldn’t stop his slow grin. “Just relax.”

  The look she sent him suggested that she found his humour ill-conceived.

  Harry chuckled—and drew her closer, tightening his arm about her so she could more easily sense his intentions.

  Lucinda held her breath—then slowly let it out. Their new positions were just this side of decent but she felt immeasurably more secure. When Harry twirled her through a complicated set of turns as they negotiated the end of the room, she followed without faltering. Reassured, she relaxed—only to find her wits almost overwhelmed by her senses. His hard thighs brushed hers as they progressed down the room; she could feel the heat of his large body reaching for her, enveloping her, his strength effortlessly whirling her about. A strange tension gripped her, making breathing difficult. It was matched by the tension in the arm locked about her. From beneath her lashes, Lucinda glanced up. Her gaze found his lips. As she watched, they firmed into a straight line.

  It was an uphill battle but Harry strove to push aside all distractions—like the enthralling curves encased in blue silk nestling in his arms, the womanly softness of those curves and the supple planes of her back, like the subtle scent of her that rose to tease his senses, and the graceful curve of her neck exposed by her new hairstyle—and remind his wandering wits just why he had returned to London. “When are you planning to visit your inns?”

  Lucinda blinked, and shifted her gaze to his eyes. “Actually, I’d thought to start with the Argyle Arms at Hammersmith tomorrow.”

  Harry didn’t bother asking if she’d arranged a suitable escort. The damned woman was so irra
tionally sure of herself, so ignorant of the true dangers, so determinedly wilful…His lips thinned. “I’ll call for you at nine.”

  Lucinda’s eyes opened wide.

  Harry noticed—and frowned at her. “You needn’t fear—we’ll go in my curricle and I’ll have Dawlish along. Perfectly proper, I assure you.”

  Lucinda swallowed her happy laugh. Em’s strictures replayed in her head. She eyed him consideringly, then gracefully acquiesced. “Thank you, sir. Your company will, I’m sure, make the drive more interesting.”

  Harry narrowed his eyes, but could make nothing of her serene expression. Stifling a humph, he drew her a fraction closer—and set his mind to enjoying the rest of the waltz.

  At its end, he strolled back with her to where her court waited, impatient and eager. Harry read the anticipation in their eyes. He stiffened. Instead of yielding his fair partner up with a flourish and an elegant bow, the prescribed procedure, he covered her hand, resting on his sleeve, with his. And remained, thus anchored, by her side.

  Lucinda pretended not to notice. She chatted gaily, ignoring the intrigued glint in Lord Ruthven’s perceptive eye and Mr Amberly’s disapproving expression. Harry, she noted, made no attempt whatever to contribute to the conversation; she longed to look at him but standing so close, she could not. Not without making her interest obvious. She was somewhat relieved when Mrs Anabelle Burnham, a young matron ambling past on the arm of Mr Courtney, decided to join them.

  “I declare, it’s going to be yet another crush.” Mrs Burnham fluttered her lashes at Lord Ruthven before turning her laughing brown eyes on Lucinda. “You’ll grow used to them, my dear. And you have to admit these larger gatherings are…entertaining.”

  Another laughing glance went Lord Ruthven’s way.

  Lucinda struggled to keep her lips straight. “Indeed.” Nothing loath, she slanted a glance up at her silent partner. “And the entertainment takes so many varied forms, too. Don’t you find it so?”