An Unwilling Conquest (Regencies 7)

“Sir Henry and Lady Dalrymple, Squire Moffat and Mrs Moffat, Mr Butterworth, Mr Hurst and the Misses Pinkerton.” When Harry stood stock still, green eyes hooded, his expression utterly blank, Fergus added, “And Mrs Babbacombe and Miss Babbacombe, of course.”

“Of course.” Regaining his equilibrium, momentarily shaken, Harry resettled the gold pin in his cravat. Then, turning, he strolled towards the drawing-room door. Fergus hurried to open it.

Announced, Harry entered.

Her eyes met his immediately—she wasn’t experienced enough to cloak her spontaneous reaction. She’d been speaking with Mr Hurst, a gentleman farmer whom Em, Harry suspected, had long had in her matchmaking sights. Harry paused just inside the door.

Lucinda smiled across the room—an easy, politely welcoming smile—and turned back to Mr Hurst.

Harry hesitated, then, languidly urbane, strolled to where his aunt sat ensconced in regal purple on the end of the chaise. “Dear Aunt,” he said, bowing elegantly over her hand.

“Wondered if you’d come.” Em grinned her triumph.

Harry ignored it. He nodded to the lady sharing the chaise. “Mrs Moffat.” He was acquainted with all those Em had deigned to invite—he simply hadn’t expected her to invite them. Tonight was the last night of the race-meet; tomorrow, after the final races in the morning, all the gentlemen would head back to town. His aunt’s summons to dinner was not unusual, yet he had thought long and hard before accepting. Only the certainty that Mrs Babbacombe would shortly be returning to Yorkshire, well beyond his reach, while he intended to retire to Lester Hall in Berkshire, had persuaded him to do so. That, and the desire to see her again, to look into her misty blue eyes—one last time.

He had expected to share a table with his aunt, his brother, his aunt’s houseguests—and no one else. Theoretically, the current situation, with so many distractions, should have reassured him. In fact, it did the opposite.

With a nod, and a swift glance at Mrs Babbacombe’s dark head, he left the chaise, drifting to where Sir Henry Dalrymple stood chatting with Squire Moffat. Gerald was near the windows, Heather Babbacombe beside him, both conversing easily with Lady Dalrymple. The Misses Pinkerton, determined spinsters in their thirties, chatted with Mr Butterworth, Sir Henry’s secretary.

Harry’s gaze lingered on Lucinda, clad in delicate blue watered silk and talking animatedly with Mr Hurst; if she felt it, she gave no sign.

“Ah, Lester—up for the races, I presume?” Sir Henry beamed a welcome.

Squire Moffat snorted good-humouredly. “Precious little else to bring you this way.”

“Indeed.” Harry shook hands.

“Saw that filly of yours win in the second—great run.” Sir Henry’s faraway gaze said he was reliving the moment. Then he abruptly refocused. “But tell me, what do you think about Grand Larrikin’s chances in the Steeple?”

The ensuing discussion on the Duke of Rutland’s latest acquisition took up no more than half of Harry’s mind. The rest was centred on his siren, apparently oblivious on the other side of the room.

Lucinda, perfectly aware of the sideways glances he occasionally sent her way, doggedly adhered to Em’s strictures and studiously ignored him, prattling on about she knew not what to the loquacious Mr Hurst. He, thankfully, seemed so taken with the sound of his voice—a soothing baritone—that he didn’t notice her preoccupation.

Struggling to focus her mind on his words, Lucinda steadfastly denied the increasing compulsion to glance at Harry Lester. Since the moment he’d appeared in the doorway, clad in severe black and white, his hair gleaming guinea gold in the candlelight, every elegant, indolent line screaming his position in the ton, her senses had defied her.

Her heart had leapt—Em had warned her that her summons wouldn’t bring him if

he didn’t want to come. But he had arrived; it felt like she’d won, if not the first battle, then at least the opening skirmish.

She was so excruciatingly aware of him that when he left Squire Moffat and Sir Henry to languidly stroll her way, she had to clench her fists hard to stop herself from turning to greet him.

Approaching from behind her, Harry saw the sudden tension in her shoulders, bared by her gown. Beneath his heavy lids, his green eyes glinted.

As he drew abreast of her, he ran his fingertips down her bare forearm to capture her hand. Her eyes widened, but when she turned to smile at him there was no hint of perturbation in her face.

“Good evening, Mr Lester.”

Harry smiled down into her eyes—and slowly raised her hand to his lips. Her fingers quivered, then lay passive. “I sincerely hope so, Mrs Babbacombe.”

Lucinda accepted the salute with stalwart calm but withdrew her tingling fingers the instant he eased his grip. “I believe you’re acquainted with Mr Hurst?”

“Indeed. Hurst.” Harry exchanged nods with Pelham Hurst, who he privately considered a pompous ass. Hurst was a year older than he; they’d known each other since childhood but mixed as much as oil and water. As if to confirm he’d changed little with the years, Hurst launched into a recital of the improvements he had made to his fields; Harry dimly wondered why, with a vision like Lucinda Babbacombe in the vicinity, Pelham thought he’d be interested.

But Pelham rambled on.

Harry frowned. It was wellnigh impossible to keep his gaze on Lucinda Babbacombe’s face while Hurst kept bombarding him with the details of crop rotation. Grasping a rare moment when Pelham paused for breath, he turned to Lucinda. “Mrs Babbacombe—”

Her blue eyes came his way—only to slide past him. She smiled in welcome. “Good evening, Mr Lester. Mr Butterworth.”