Lucinda blinked. “Oh?”
“Indeed.” The door opened; beaming, Fergus held it wide. Harry bowed. “Au revoir, Mrs Babbacombe.”
Crossing the threshold, Lucinda looked over her shoulder and threw him a smile—a soft, alluring, siren’s smile. Then she turned and slowly headed for the stairs. Utterly mesmerised, Harry stood and watched her go, her hips swaying gently as she crossed the tiled hall.
“Sir?”
Harry came to himself with a start. With an abrupt nod to Fergus, he turned and descended the steps. Climbing into the curricle, he fixed Dawlish with a warning glance.
Then gave his attention to his horses.
Chapter Seven
A week later, Harry sat at his desk in the small library of his lodgings. The window gave onto a leafy courtyard; outside, May bustled towards June while the ton worked itself into a frenzy of betrothals and weddings. Harry’s lips twisted cynically; he was intent on other things.
A tap on the door brought his head up. The door opened; Dawlish looked in.
“Ah—there you be. Thought as how you’d want to know that they’re bound for Lady Hemminghurst’s this evening.”
“Damn!” Harry grimaced. Amelia Hemminghurst had a soft spot for rakes—the fraternity would be well represented amongst her guests. “I suppose I’ll have to attend.”
“That’s what I thought. You going to walk or should I bring the carriage around?”
Harry considered, then shook his head. “I’ll walk.” It would be twilight by then; the short stroll to Grosvenor Square would help ease the restlessness his self-imposed restrictions seemed to be creating.
With a humph and a nod, Dawlish retreated.
Idly toying with a pen, Harry reviewed his strategy. On quitting Newmarket, he had stubbornly adhered to his plans and gone home to Lester Hall. There he had found his brother Jack, along with his soon-to-be bride, Miss Sophia Winterton and her guardians, her uncle and aunt, Mr and Mrs Webb. While he had nothing against Miss Winterton, with whom his brother was openly besotted, he had not appreciated the considering light that had lit Mrs Webb’s silver blue eyes, nor the contemplative expression with which she had regarded him. Her interest had made him edgy. He had ultimately concluded that London, and the dragons he knew, might well be safer than Lester Hall.
He had arrived in town a day in advance of his aunt and her company. Knowing Em, reared in a more dangerous age, travelled nowhere without outriders, he couldn’t conceive that Mrs Babbacombe might face any danger on the trip. Besides, the incident on the Newmarket road had to have been due to mere opportunism. Guarded by Em and her servants, Lucinda Babbacombe was safe enough.
Once they had settled in town, however, that had no longer been the case. He had laid low as long as he could, avoiding any unnecessary appearances, hoping thus to leave the dragons and the matchmakers in ignorance of his presence. By spending most of his days at his clubs, at Manton’s or Jackson’s or similar all-male venues, eschewing the Park during the fashionable hours and driving himself everywhere rather than risk strolling the pavements, a prey to dowagers and fond mamas, he had largely achieved his objective.
And with Dawlish spending most of his time in the kitchens at Hallows House, he had been able to emerge into the bright lights only when absolutely necessary.
Like tonight. He had thus far succeeded in protecting the damned woman from importunate inn-dwellers and rakes alike, to the total confusion of the ton. And with his appearances amongst their gilded flowers thus restricted, and so very patently centred on Lucinda Babbacombe, the dragons and matchmakers had had few opportunities to exploit.
Harry’s lips twisted; he laid aside his pen. He knew better than to bask in triumph—the Season had yet to end. Rising, he frowned. He was, he hoped, as capable as the next of behaving like a gentleman until then.
He pondered the point, then grimaced. Squaring his shoulders, he went up to change.
“TELL ME, Mr Lester—are you enjoying the Season’s entertainments?”
The question took Harry by surprise. He glanced down at his partner’s face, composed in polite enquiry, then looked up to whirl them around the end of Lady Hemminghurst’s ballroom. He had arrived to find her already surrounded—by a crop of the most eligible rakes in town. He had wasted no time in extricating her and gathering her into his arms.
“No,” he answered. The realisation gave him mental pause.
“Then why are you here?” Lucinda kept her eyes on his face and hoped for a straight answer. The question had grown increasingly important as day followed day and he made not the smallest move to fix her interest. Em’s likening him to a horse appeared increasingly apt—he might have followed her to London, but he seemed determined not to pursue her.
He had escorted her to all four Babbacombe inns, remaining by her side throughout her inspections, but he had thereafter shown no interest in driving her elsewhere. All comments about the Park, about the delights of Richmond or Merton, fell on studiously deaf ears. Talk of a visit to the theatre had simply made him tense.
As for his behaviour in the ballrooms, she could only describe it as dog-in-the-manger. Some, like Lord Ruthven, found the situation immensely amusing. Others, like herself, were beginning to lose patience.
Harry glanced down and met her unwavering gaze. He frowned intimidatingly.
Lucinda raised her brows. “Am I to take it you’d rather be with your horses?” she enquired sweetly.
Goaded, Harry narrowed his eyes. “Yes.” A mental picture leapt to mind. “I would infinitely prefer to be at Lestershall.”