An Unwilling Conquest (Regencies 7)

Mr Jenkins preened. “Very kind of you to say so, ma’am. We do strive to please.”

With a gracious nod, Lucinda swept out. Once in the courtyard she paused. Harry stopped beside her; she looked up at his face. “Thank you for your escort, Mr Lester—I’m really most grateful considering the other demands on your time.”

Harry was too wise to attempt an answer to that.

Lucinda’s lips twitched; she looked quickly away. “Actually,” she mused, “I was considering viewing this race-meet.” She brought her eyes back to his face. “I’ve never been to one before.”

Harry looked down at her ingenuous expression. His eyes narrowed. “Newmarket race-track is no place for you.”

She blinked, taken aback—Harry glimpsed real disappointment in her eyes. Then she looked away. “Oh.”

The single syllable hung in the air, a potent testimony to crushed anticipation. Fleetingly, Harry closed his eyes, then opened them. “However, if you give me your word you will not stray from my side—not to admire some view, some horse or a lady’s bonnet—” He looked down at her, his jaw setting. “I will engage to escort you there.”

Her smile was triumphant. “Thank you. That would be very kind.”

Not kind—foolish. It was, Harry was already convinced, the most stupid move he’d ever made. An ostler came running in answer to his curt gesture. “I’ll have my curricle. You can tell Grimms to take Lady Hallows’s gig back; I’ll see Mrs Babbacombe home.”

“Yessir.”

Lucinda busied herself with the fit of her gloves, then meekly allowed herself to be lifted to the curricle’s seat. Settling her skirts, and her quivering senses, she smiled serenely as, with a deft flick of the reins, Harry took the greys onto the street.

The race-track lay west of the town on the flat, grassy, largely tree-less heath. Harry drove directly to the stables in which his string of racers were housed, a little way from the track proper, beyond the public precincts.

Lucinda, drinking in the sights, could not miss the glances thrown their way. Stableboy and gentleman alike seemed disposed to stare; she was unexpectedly grateful when the stable walls protected her from view.

The horses were a wonder. Lifted down from the curricle, Lucinda could not resist wandering down the row of loose boxes, patting the velvet noses that came out to greet her, admiring the sleek lines and rippling muscles of what, even to her untutored eyes, had to be some of the finest horses in England.

Engaged in a brisk discussion with Hamish, Harry followed her progress, insensibly buoyed by the awed appreciation he saw in her gaze. On reaching the end of the row, she turned and saw him watching her; her nose rose an inch but she came back, strolling towards him through the sunshine.

“So all’s right with entering the mare, then?”

Reluctantly, Harry shifted his gaze to Hamish’s face. His head-stableman was also watching Lucinda Babbacombe, not with the appreciation she deserved but with horrified fascination. As she drew nearer, Harry extended his arm; she placed her fingertips upon it without apparent thought. “Just as long as Thistledown’s fetlock’s fully healed.”

“Aye.” Hamish bobbed respectfully at Lucinda. “Seems to be. I told the boy to just let her run—no point marshalling her resources if it’s still weak. A good run’s the only way to tell.”

Harry nodded. “I’ll stop by and speak to him myself.”

Hamish nodded and effaced himself with the alacrity of a man nervous around females, at least those not equine in nature.

Suppressing a grin, Harry lifted a brow at his companion. “I thought you agreed not to be distracted by horses?”

The look she bent on him was confidently assured. “You shouldn’t have brought me to see yours, then. They are truly the most distractingly beautiful specimens I’ve ever seen.”

Harry couldn’t suppress his smile. “But you haven’t seen the best of them. Those on that side are two-and three-year-olds—for my money, the older ones are more gracious. Come, I’ll show you.”

She seemed only too ready to be led down the opposite row of boxes, dutifully admiring the geldings and mares. At the end of the row, a bay stallion reached confidently over the half-door to investigate Harry’s pockets.

“This is old Cribb—a persistent devil. Still runs with the best of them though he could retire gracefully on his accumulated winnings.” Leaving her patting the stallion’s nose, Harry went to a barrel by the wall. “Here,” he said, turning back. “Feed him these.”

Lucinda took the three dried apples he offered her, giggling as Cribb delicately lipped them from her palm.

Harry glanced up—and saw Dawlish outside the tack-room, standing stock-still, staring at him. Leaving Lucinda communing with Cribb, Harry strolled over. “What’s up?”

Now that he was beside him, it was clear Dawlish was staring at his companion, not him.

“Gawd’s truth—it’s happened.”

Harry frowned. “Don’t be ridiculous.”