An Unwilling Conquest (Regencies 7)

“Lestershall?”

His gaze growing distant, Harry nodded. “Lestershall Manor—my stud. It’s named after the village, which in turn derives its name from my family’s principal estate.” The old manor house was in dire need of repairs. Now he had the money, he would put it to rights. The rambling, half-timbered house had the potential to be a wonderfully comfortable home; when he married, he would live there.

When he married? Harry clenched his jaw and forced his gaze back to his partner’s face.

Lucinda captured it with a challenging glance. “Why, then, aren’t you there?”

Because it’s empty. Incomplete. The words leapt to Harry’s conscious mind before he could shut them out. Her misty blue eyes lured him to the brink; the words burned his tongue. Mentally gritting his teeth, he smiled one of his more practiced smiles. “Because I’m here, waltzing with you.”

There was nothing seductive in his tone. Lucinda kept her eyes innocently wide. “Dare I hope you’re enjoying it?”

Harry’s lips thinned. “My dear Mrs Babbacombe, waltzing with you is one of the few compensations my current lifestyle affords.”

Lucinda allowed herself a sceptical blink. “Is it such a grind, then, your current life?”

“Indeed.” Harry shot her a narrow glance. “My current round is one no rake should ever be forced to endure.”

Gently, her eyes on his, Lucinda raised her brows. “Then why are you enduring it?”

Harry heard the final bars of the waltz; automatically, he whirled them to a halt. Her question echoed in his ears; the ans

wer echoed deep within him. Her eyes, softly blue, held him, beckoning, inviting—open and reassuring. It took an effort of will to draw back, to find and cling to the cynicism which had kept him safe for so long. His features hardening, he released her and offered her his arm. “Why indeed, Mrs Babbacombe? I fear we’ll never know.”

Lucinda refrained from gnashing her teeth. She placed her hand on his sleeve, reflecting that a single waltz, which was all he ever claimed, was never long enough to press his defences. Why he was so intent on denying what they both knew to be fact was a point that increasingly bothered her. “Your aunt was quite surprised to see you in town—she said you would be…pursued by ladies wishful to have you marry their daughters.” Did he, perhaps, see marriage as a trap?

“I dare say,” Harry replied. “But London during the Season has never been safe for well-born, well-heeled gentlemen.” His eyes met hers. “Regardless of their reputations.”

Lucinda raised her brows. “So you view the…pursuit as nothing more than a fact of life?”

“As inescapable as spring, although a dashed sight more inconvenient.” Harry’s lips twisted; he gestured up the room. “Come—I’ll return you to Em.”

“Ah…” Lucinda glanced about—and saw the gently billowing drapes hanging beside the long windows open to the terrace. Beyond lay the garden, a world of shadow and starlight. “Actually,” she said, slanting a glance at him. “I feel rather warm.”

The lie brought a helpful blush to her cheeks.

Harry’s eyes narrowed as he studied hers. She was a hopeless liar; her eyes clouded over whenever she so much as prevaricated.

“Perhaps,” Lucinda continued, trying for an airy tone, “we could stroll the terrace for a while.” She pretended to peer through the windows. “There are some others outside—perhaps we could investigate the walks?”

It was at times like this that she most felt the deficiencies of her upbringing. Being married at sixteen had ensured she had not the smallest clue how to flirt or even encourage a man. When her escort made no response, she warily peeked up at him.

Harry was waiting to capture her attention, his expression that of a deeply irate man aware of the need to remain civil. “My dear Mrs Babbacombe, it would please me immensely if you could get it fixed in your pretty head that I am here, in London, braving all manner of dangers, for one—and only one—reason.”

Her eyes genuinely wide, Lucinda blinked at him. “Oh?”

“Indeed.” With restrained calm, Harry turned her up the room and started to stroll. His fingers, curled about her elbow, ensured she accompanied him. “I am here to ensure that, despite my inclinations, your inclinations and certainly despite those of your besotted court, you end this Season as you began it.” He turned his head to capture her gaze. “As a virtuous widow.”

Lucinda blinked again, then stiffened. “Indeed?” Looking forward, she lifted her chin “I wasn’t aware, Mr Lester, that I had appointed you to the post of protector of my virtue.”

“Ah—but you did, you see.”

She glanced at him, denial on her lips—and met his green gaze.

“When you took my hand and let me pull you out of your carriage on the Newmarket road.”

The moment leapt to her mind, that instant when she had knelt on the side of the carriage, locked in his arms. Lucinda quelled a shiver—and tilted her nose higher. “That’s nonsense.”

“On the contrary.” The rake beside her appeared unperturbed. “I recall reading somewhere that if a man rescues another, then he takes on the responsibility for that rescued life. Presumably the same holds true if the one saved is a woman.”