An Unwilling Conquest (Regencies 7)

“Excellent idea!” Beaming, Lord Norwich strode forward.

Shielded by her brimming happiness, the aftermath of fulfilled excitement, Lucinda had succeeded in blithely ignoring the avid interest of the spectators. Lord Norwich, however, was impossible to ignore. But Harry strolled forward to stand by their side, quieting her uncertainties.

Lord Norwich gave a

short speech, praising the mare and Harry’s stables, then gallantly presented the statuette—to her.

Surprised, Lucinda looked at Harry—he smiled and nodded.

Determined to rise to the occasion, she graciously thanked his lordship.

“Quite, quite.” His lordship was quite taken. “Need to see more game fillies at the track, what?”

Lucinda blinked at him.

Harry reached for her elbow and drew her to his side. He nodded at his strapper. “Take her back to the stables.”

With a last lingering look for Lucinda, Thistledown was led away. Lord Norwich and the rest of the crowd turned away, already intent on the next race.

Still conscious of the fading thrill, Lucinda looked around, then cast a glance upwards.

Harry smiled. “And you have my heartfelt thanks, too, my dear. For whatever magic you wove.”

Lucinda met his eyes—and stopped breathing. “There was no magic.” She felt his fingers on hers; she watched as he raised her hand and brushed his lips across the backs of her fingers. A long shiver traced its path down her spine, leaving an odd warmth in its wake. With an effort she veiled her eyes, breaking his spell. Catching her breath, she made a bid for her usual confidence; she raised the statuette and presented it to him, defiantly meeting his eyes.

He took it in his other hand, his gaze steady on hers.

Time lost its meaning; they stood, largely forgotten, in the centre of the winner’s circle. Men crowded about, jostling each other but not touching them. They stood close, so close the small ruffle on Lucinda’s bodice brushed the long lapel of Harry’s coat. He sensed its flutter as her breathing grew more rapid but he was lost in her eyes, in a world of misty blue. He watched them widen, darken. Her lips softened, parted. Her bodice made contact with his coat.

His head had begun its slow descent when sanity awoke—and frantically hauled on his reins.

Great heavens! They were in the winner’s circle at Newmarket!

Shaken to the depths of his soul, Harry dragged in a quick breath. He tore his gaze from her face, from the consternation that was filling her eyes, and the soft blush that had started to tinge her cheeks, and looked about them. No one, thank heaven, had seen.

His heart pounding, he took a firm grip of her elbow—and took refuge in action. “If you’ve seen enough of the racing, I should get you back to Em’s—she’ll be wondering where you are.”

Lucinda nodded—the faintly bored drawl left her no choice. She felt—she didn’t know what—shaken, certainly, but regretful, and resentful, too. But she couldn’t argue with his wish to be gone from here.

But they still had the gamut of well-wishers to run—they were stopped constantly, more than one gentleman wishing to make an offer for the mare.

Harry faced the hurdles with what patience he could, conscious that all he wished to do was escape. With her. But that was impossible—she was his danger, his Waterloo.

From now on, every time he looked into her face would be like looking down the barrel of a loaded gun. A weapon that could land him in painful slavery.

If he was wise, he wouldn’t look too frequently.

Lucinda sensed his withdrawal although he cloaked it well. His urbane charm came to the fore—but he would not meet her eyes, her puzzled glances.

They finally escaped the crowds and walked back, in silence, to the stables. He lifted her to his curricle and swung up beside her, his expression closed.

He drove back to Hallows Hall without a word, his apparent concentration on his horses a wall Lucinda made no attempt to breach.

But when he drew up before the steps and secured the reins, then came around and lifted her down, she held her position in front of him even though his hands fell immediately from her. “Thank you for a most…instructive morning, Mr Lester.”

His eyes flicked to hers; he took a step back. “A pleasure, Mrs Babbacombe.” He bowed with innate grace. “And now I must bid you adieu.”

Surprised, Lucinda watched as he swung up to the curricle’s seat. “But won’t you stay for luncheon? Your aunt would be delighted, I’m sure.”