An Unwilling Conquest (Regencies 7)

“Why, yes.” Calmly, Lucinda met his green gaze. “I have four more inns to inspect, remember?”

For a pregnant moment, Harry’s eyes held hers. “Which are?”

Again his voice was soft, steel cloaked in silk. Very thin silk.

“The Argyle Arms in Hammersmith, the Carringbush in Barnet, the Three Candles in Great Dover Street and the Bells at Wanstead.”

“What’s that about the Bells?”

Lucinda turned her head as Pelham Hurst butted in.

“An excellent inn—I can recommend it to you, Mrs Babbacombe. Often stay there myself. Don’t like to risk my cattle in town, don’t y’know.”

Harry ignored him completely. Luckily, as a large apple tart was placed in front of him at that moment, Pelham didn’t notice. Harry grasped the opportunity as the diners sat up and looked over the dessert course to lean closer to Lucinda. He spoke in a steely whisper. “You’re out of your senses! Those are four of the busiest inns in England—they’re all coaching inns on the major roads.”

Luc

inda reached for a jelly. “So I’ve been told.”

Harry gritted his teeth. “My dear Mrs Babbacombe, your little act of being an inspector might work in country inns—” he broke off to thank Lady Dalrymple for passing the cream which he immediately set down “—but it’ll get you nowhere in town. Aside from that, you cannot visit any of those inns alone.”

“My dear Mr Lester.” Lucinda turned to face him, her eyes wide. “Surely you’re not trying to tell me my inns are dangerous?”

He was trying to tell her just that.

But Pelham Hurst, hearing only snippets, put in his oar. “Dangerous? Not a bit of it! Why, you’ll be as safe as…as here, at the Bells. Highly recommend it, Mrs Babbacombe.”

Glimpsing the goaded expression in Harry’s green eyes, Lucinda kept her lips straight and made haste to assure Mr Hurst, “Indeed, sir. I’m sure that wasn’t what Mr Lester meant.”

“Mr Lester, as you well know, meant that you have as much experience as a green girl and rather less chance of surviving one of your ‘inspections’ at any of those inns without receiving at least three propositions and a carte blanche.” Having delivered this clarification through clenched teeth, Harry attacked the custard that had appeared before him.

“Would you care for some cream?” Lucinda, having helped herself to a generous dollop, caught a drip on her fingertip. Her eyes, innocently blue, met Harry’s as she lifted her finger to her lips.

For a blind instant, as she lowered her hand, Harry could see nothing beyond her lips, ripe and luscious, begging to be kissed. He heard nothing, was blissfully unaware of the gaggle of conversation about him. Abruptly, he grabbed hold of his reins, fast disappearing. He lifted his gaze and met hers. His eyes narrowed. “No, thank you.”

Lucinda simply smiled.

“It’s fattening,” Harry added but she only smiled more. She looked very like the cat who had found the right jug.

Stifling a curse, Harry applied himself to his dessert. It was no business of his if she insisted on swanning into danger. He’d warned her. “Why can’t Mabberly do those inns? Let him earn his keep.”

“As I told you before, Mr Mabberly does not have the right qualifications for conducting an inquisition.” Lucinda kept her voice low, grateful that Heather had distracted Mr Hurst.

She waited for the next comment—but her neighbour merely snorted and fell silent.

His disapproval lapped about her in waves.

Harry endured the rest of the evening outwardly urbane, inwardly brooding. The gentlemen did not linger over their port, which was just as well for he was no good company. But when they repaired to the drawing room, he discovered that, rather than the general chatty atmosphere which was the norm for Em’s dinners, and which he’d been determined to exploit for his own ends, tonight, they were to be entertained by the Babbacombes, Mrs and Miss.

With no good grace, Harry sat on a chair at the back of the room, unmoved by what he recognised as an exemplary performance. The tea trolley appeared as the applause died.

His temper sorely strained, he was one of the last to come forward for his cup.

“Yes, indeed,” Em said as he strolled up, nodding to Lady Dalrymple. “We’ll be there—I’ll look for you. It’s going to be such fun to go the rounds again.”

Harry froze, his hand half-outstretched.

Em looked up—and frowned. “Here you are!”