An Unwilling Conquest (Regencies 7)

Lucinda smiled, a trifle wearily. “Em, then. What’s it a contraction for? Emma?”

Em wrinkled her nose. “Ermyntrude.”

Lucinda managed to keep her lips straight. “Oh?” she said weakly.

“Indeed. My brothers delighted in calling me all the contractions you might imagine. When my nephews came along, I declared it was Em and nothing else.”

“Very wise.” A companionable silence settled as they savoured their tea. Lucinda broke it to ask, “Do you have many nephews?”

From under heavy lids, Em’s eyes glinted. “Quite a few. But it was Harry and his brothers I had to guard against. A rapscallion lot.”

Lucinda shifted. “He has a lot of brothers?”

“Only two—but that’s quite enough. Jack’s the eldest,” Em blithely rattled on. “He’s—let me see—thirty-six now. Then comes Harry, two years younger. Then there’s quite a gap to their sister Lenore—she married Eversleigh some years back—she must be twenty-six now, which makes Gerald twenty-four. Their mother died years ago but my brother still hangs on.” Em grinned. “Dare say he’ll manage to cling to life long enough to see a grandson to carry on the name, the cantankerous old fool.” The last was said affectionately. “But it was the boys I had most to do with—and Harry was always my favourite. Blessed by the angels and the devil both, of course, but such a good boy.” Em blinked, then amended, “Well—a good boy at heart. They all were—are. I see most of Harry and Gerald these days—what with Newmarket so close. Harry runs the Lester stud which, even if ’tis I who say so—and Heaven knows I know next to nothing about horses—such a boring subject—is hailed as one of the premier studs in the land.”

“Really?” There was not the slightest trace of boredom in Lucinda’s face.

“Indeed.” Em nodded. “Harry usually comes to watch his runners perform. Dare say I’ll see Gerald this week, too. Doubtless he’ll want to show off his new phaeton. Told me when last he was up that he was going to buy one, now the family coffers are full and overflowing.”

Lucinda blinked.

Em didn’t wait for her to find a subtle way to ask. One hand waving, she airly explained, “The Lesters have traditionally been strapped for cash—good estates, good breeding, but no money. The present generation, however, invested in some shipping venture last year and now the whole family’s rolling in an abundance of the ready.”

“Oh.” Lucinda readily recalled Harry Lester’s expensive elegance. She couldn’t imagine him any other way. Indeed, his image seemed to have fixed in her mind, oddly vivid, strangely enthralling. Shaking her head to dispel it, she delicately smothered a yawn. “I’m afraid I’m not very good company, Lady—Em.” She smiled. “I suspect I’d better follow Heather.”

Em merely nodded. “I’ll see you in the morning, m’dear.”

Lucinda left her hostess staring into the fire.

Ten minutes later, her head pillowed in down, Lucinda closed her eyes—only to find Harry Lester on her mind. Tired, adrift, her memories of the day replayed, her interactions with him claiming centre stage. Until she came to their parting—which left one question to plague her. How would it feel to waltz with Harry Lester?

A MILE AWAY, in the tap of the Barbican Arms, Harry sat elegantly sprawled behind a corner table, moodily surveying the room. A smoky haze wreathed a forest of shoulders; gentlemen mingled freely with grooms and stablemen, tipsters wrangled with bookmakers. The tap was all business this evening; the first races, those for non-bloodstock, would commence the next day.

A barmaid came up, hips swaying. She set a tankard of the inn’s finest on the table, smiling coyly, one brow rising as Harry flipped a coin onto

her tray.

Harry caught her eye; his lips curved but he shook his head. Disappointed, the girl turned away. Harry lifted the foaming tankard and took a long sip. He’d abandoned the snug, his habitual refuge, where only the cognescenti were permitted, driven forth by the all-but-incessant questioning as to his delectable companion of the afternoon.

It seemed as if all in Newmarket had seen them.

Certainly all his friends and acquaintances were keen to learn her name. And her direction.

He’d given them neither, steadfastly returning their bright-eyed enquiries with a blank look and the information that the lady was an acquaintance of his aunt’s he’d simply been escorting to her door.

Those facts proved sufficient to dampen the interest of most; the majority who frequented Newmarket knew of his aunt.

But he was definitely tired of covering the lovely Mrs Babbacombe’s tracks, particularly as he was trying his damnedest to forget her. And her loveliness.

With an inward growl, Harry immersed himself in his tankard and tried to focus his mind on his horses—usually an enthralling subject.

“There you are! Been looking all over. What’re you doing out here?” Dawlish slumped into the chair beside him.

“Don’t ask,” Harry advised. He waited while the barmaid, with a fine show of indifference, served Dawlish before asking, “What’s the verdict?”

Dawlish shot him a glance over the rim of his tankard. “Odd,” came mumbling from behind it.

Brows lifting, Harry turned his head to stare at his henchman. “Odd?” Dawlish had gone with the coachman, Joshua, to fetch the wainwright to the carriage.