Harry blinked—and took the cup, Em’s frown reflected in his eyes. “Are you contemplating going up to town, dear Aunt?”
“Not contemplating.” Em threw him a belligerent glance. “I’m going. As Lucinda and Heather are set to visit there, we’ve decided to go together. Much the best thing. I’ve sent for them to open Hallows House—Fergus is going up tomorrow. It’ll be wonderful, being in the swing again. I’ll introduce Lucinda and Heather to the ton. Marvellous distraction—just what I need to give me new life.”
She actually had the gall to smile at him.
Harry forced himself to utter the expected platitudes—under Lady Dalrymple’s mild gaze he could hardly give his aunt the benefit of his true conclusions.
After that he beat a hasty retreat—even Squire Moffat and the intricacies of the local drainage system were preferable to farther contemplation of the web he now found himself in. The only one he could be open with was his brother.
“Em’s insane. They all are,” he growled as he joined Gerald by the window. Heather Babbacombe was chatting to Mrs Moffat. Harry noticed Gerald’s smiling gaze rarely left the girl.
“Why? No harm in them going up to London. I’ll be able to show Heather all the sights.”
Harry snorted. “While London’s rakes are attempting to show Mrs Babbacombe their etchings, no doubt.”
Gerald grinned. “Well—you can take care of that. None of the others will come near if you hover at her shoulder.”
The look Harry bent on him spoke volumes. “In case it’s escaped your admittedly distracted intelligence, brother dear, I am currently the principal Lester target in the matchmakers’ sights. Having lost Jack to Miss Winterton, they’ll redouble their efforts and turn all their guns on yours truly.”
“I know.” Gerald shot him an insouciant grin. “You’ve no idea how grateful I am that you’re there for them to aim at—with any luck, they won’t remember me. Good thing—I haven’t a bean of your experience.”
He was clearly sincere. Harry swallowed the sharp words that rose to his tongue. Lips compressed, he retired to the safety of Sir Henry’s conversation, studiously avoiding any further contact with his fate. His siren. She who would lure him onto the rocks.
The guests left in concert. Harry and Gerald, as family, stood back to let the others take their leave. Em stepped onto the porch to wave farewell; Gerald and Heather were dallying by the drawing-room door. In the shadows by the front door, Harry found himself beside his temptation.
His aunt, he noticed, was in no rush to return.
“Will we see you in London, Mr Lester?”
She cast him an artless glance—Harry couldn’t decide whether it was real or not. He looked down at her face, upturned to his, blue eyes wide. “I have no plans to come up again this Season.”
“A pity,” she said, but her lips curved. “I had thought to repay my debt to you, as we’d agreed.”
It took him a moment to recall. “The waltz?”
Lucinda nodded. “Indeed. But if you will not be in town, then this is goodbye, sir.”
She held out her hand; Harry took it, shook it, but didn’t release it. Eyes narrowing, he studied her open expression, those eyes he would swear could not lie.
She was saying goodbye. Perhaps, after all, escape was still possible?
Then her lips curved slightly. “Rest assured I’ll think of you while waltzing through the London ballrooms.”
Harry’s fingers closed hard about hers—and clenched even harder about his gloves. The eruption that shook him—of anger, and sheer, possessive desire—very nearly broke his control. She looked up, eyes flaring, her lips slightly parted. It was no thanks to her, and the soft, tempting look in her eyes, that he managed to mask his reaction. He forced himself to release her hand; his face felt stiff as he bowed. “I will bid you good night, Mrs Babbacombe.”
With that, he walked out, missing the disappointment that clouded Lucinda’s gaze.
From the top of the steps, she watched him drive away—and prayed that Em was right.
Chapter Six
She was still praying ten days later when, flanked by Em and Heather, she strolled into Lady Haverbuck’s ballroom. Her ladyship’s ball was the first of the major gatherings they had attended. It had taken them four days to successfully transfer to Hallows House in Audley Street; the following days had been taken up with the necessary visits to modistes and the fashionable emporia. The previous evening, Em had hosted a select party to introduce both her guests to the ton. The acceptances had gratified Em; it had been many years since she had been in the capital. But there had been one who had not responded to the white, gilt-edged card.
Lucinda herself had penned it and directed it to Harry’s lodgings in Half Moon Street. But she had looked in vain for his golden head.
“You’ll have to let him go if you want him to come back,” Em had declared. “He’s like one of his horses—you can lead him to the pond but you can’t make him drink.”
So she had let him go—without a murmur, without the slightest hint that she wanted him.