Harry momentarily closed his eyes, then, opening them, forced himself to step back to allow Gerald and Nicholas Butterworth to make their bows. Together with Heather Babbacombe they joined their circle.
Any chance of detaching his quarry was lost.
Mentally gritting his teeth, Harry held to his position by her side. He knew he should go and chat to the Misses Pinkerton; he excused his lapse on the grounds that, being what he was, he made them nervous.
The thought gave him pause.
Lucinda felt very like Daniel in the lion’s den—not at all sure of her safety. When the first trickle of heat slid down her nape, she didn’t immediately register its cause. But when, but moments later, she felt the skin above her breasts tingle, she shot a frowning glance sideways.
Harry met it with a blank green stare—slightly questioning, all innocence. Lucinda raised her brows and pointedly turned back to the conversation. Thereafter, she steadfastly ignored all her senses—as best she could. She greeted Fergus’s arrival and his stately pronouncement that dinner was served with considerable relief.
“If you would allow me to escort you in, Mrs Babbacombe?” Pelham Hurst, ineradicably convinced of his self-worth, offered a heavily creased sleeve.
Lucinda smiled and was about to accept when a drawling voice cut off her escape.
“I’m afraid, Hurst, that I’m before you.” Harry smiled at his childhood acquaintance, the gesture in no way softening the expression in his eyes. “By days.”
On the words, Harry shifted his green gaze to Lucinda’s face—and dared her to contradict him.
Lucinda merely threw him an equable smile. “Indeed.” She gave Harry her hand and allowed him to place it on his sleeve, turning as he did so to inform Mr Hurst, “Mr Lester has been of great assistance while we’ve been in Newmarket. I don’t know how we would have escaped our upturned carriage if he hadn’t happened along.”
The remark, of course, led Pelham to enquire in deeply solicitous vein as to their accident. As the Misses Pinkerton had already wandered into the dining-room eschewing all male escort, Hurst was free to stroll on Lucinda’s other side as Harry guided her into the dining-room.
By the time he took his seat beside the lovely Mrs Babbacombe, Harry’s temper was straining at its leash.
But there were more trials in store. Lady Dalrymple, a motherly soul who had long deplored his unmarried state, took the seat to his left. Even worse, the Pinkerton sisters settled in opposite, warily eyeing him as if he was some potentially dangerous beast.
Harry wasn’t sure they were wrong.
Ignoring all distractions, he turned to his fair companion. “Dare I hope you’re satisfied with the outcome of your visit to Newmarket, Mrs Babbacombe?”
Lucinda fleetingly met his eyes, confirming that the question was, indeed, loaded. “Not entirely, Mr Lester. I can’t help but feel that certain interests must regrettably be classed as unfinished business.” Again she met his gaze and allowed her lips to curve. “But I dare say Mr Blount will manage.”
Harry blinked, breaking the intensity of his gaze.
With a gentle smile, Lucinda turned away as Mr Hurst claimed her attention. She resisted the compulsion to glance to her right until the second course was being removed. Ineffably elegant, apparently relaxed, Harry was engaged in idly entertaining Lady Dalrymple.
At that moment, Mrs Moffat called upon Lady Dalrymple to confirm some report. Harry turned his head—and met Lucinda’s determinedly mild gaze.
Resigned, he lifted a brow at her. “Well, my dear—what’s it to be? The weather is singularly boring, you know nothing about horses and as for what I’d prefer to discuss with you—I’m quite certain you’d rather I didn’t.”
Attack—with a vengeance. There was no mistaking the light in his eyes. Lucinda inwardly quivered—outwardly she smiled. “Now there you are wrong, Mr Lester.” She paused for an artful second before continuing, her gaze holding his, “I’m definitely interested in hearing about Thistledown. Is she still in town?”
He sat so perfectly still Lucinda found she couldn’t breathe. Then one brow slowly rose; his eyes were jewel-like, crystalline and hard, sharp and brilliant. “No—she’s on her way back to my stud.”
“Ah, yes—that’s in Berkshire, is it not?”
Harry inclined his head, not entirely trusting himself to speak. At the edge of his vision, the Pinkertons, oddly sensitive to atmospherics, were tensing, casting glances at each other, frowning at him.
Lady Dalrymple leaned forward to speak around him. “I’m so sorry you won’t be here for my little gathering next week, Mrs Babbacombe. Still, I dare say you’re quite right in heading to town. So much to do, so much to see—and you’re young enough to enjoy the social whirl. Will you be bringing your stepdaughter out?”
“Possibly,” Lucinda answered, ignoring the sudden tension that had laid hold of the body between them. “We’ll make the decision once we’re in town.”
“Very wise.” Lady Dalrymple nodded and turned back to Em.
“London?”
The question was quiet, his tone flat.