An Unwilling Conquest (Regencies 7)

Lucinda frowned. “That’s an eastern philosophy. You’re English to your bones.”

“Eastern?” Harry raised his brows. “From one of those countries where they cover their women in shrouds and keep them behind locked doors, no doubt. I’ve always put such eminently sensible notions down to the fact that such civilisations have apparently existed so much longer than ours.”

On the words, they reached her court. Lucinda fought the urge to grind her teeth. If she heard one more of his glib excuses for being by her side she would, she felt sure, embarrass herself and Em and everyone else by screaming in fury. She plastered a bright smile on her lips—and let the admiration of her court and their subtle compliments soothe her abraded pride.

Harry stood it for five minutes, then silently relinquished his position by her side. He prowled the room but at no great distance, exchanging a few words with a number of acquaintances before retreating to a convenient alcove from where he could keep his self-imposed burden in view.

His very presence in the room was enough to keep the dangerous blades from her skirts. Those about her were all gentlemen at heart—they wouldn’t pounce without an invitation. His interest, of course, was an added deterrent; he was prepared to wager that not one soul amongst all the ton understood what he was about.

With a somewhat grim grin, he settled his shoulders against the wall and watched as Lucinda gave Frederick Amberly her hand.

Taking the floor in yet another waltz, an apparent fixation of Lady Hemminghurst’s, Lucinda fitted her steps to Mr Amberly’s strides, distinctly shorter than Harry’s, and let the music take hold.

Three revolutions later, she met her partner’s somewhat concerned expression—and sternly reminded herself to smile. Not a spontaneous gesture.

She was distinctly irritated.

Rakes were supposed to seduce women—widows, particularly. Was she really so hopeless she couldn’t break down Harry’s resistance? Not that she wished to be seduced but, given his natural flair—and her status—she had to face the fact that, for them, that might well be the most sensible first step. She prided herself on her pragmatism; there was no point in not being realistic.

He had come to London; he was dancing attendance on her. But that clearly wasn’t enough. Something more was required.

They were coming up the room for the third time when Lucinda’s gaze refocused on Mr Amberly. Presumably if, at her advanced age, she wanted to learn how to encourage a rake, she was going to have to arrange lessons.

The waltz, most conveniently, left them at the other end of the room. Lucinda grasped her fan, dangling by its ribbon from her wrist. Opening it, she waved it to and fro. “The room is quite warm, don’t you think, Mr Amberly?”

“Indeed, dear lady.”

Lucinda watched as his gaze slid to the terrace windows. Hiding a smile, she gently suggested, “There’s a chair over there. If I wait there, could you fetch me a glass of lemonade?”

Her cavalier blinked and hid his disappointment. “Of course.” He solicitously helped her to the chair, then, with an injunction not to move, disappeared into the crowd.

With an inward smile, Lucinda sat back, languidly waving her fan, and waited for her first lesson.

Mr Amberly duly reappeared, bearing two flutes of suspiciously tinted liquid. “Thought you’d prefer champagne.”

With an inward shrug, Lucinda accepted a glass and took a delicate sip. Harry usually brought her champagne with her supper; it didn’t affect her faculties. “Thank you, sir.” She cast her escort a smile. “I was in dire need of refreshment.”

“Hardly to be wondered at, my dear Mrs Babbacombe. Yet another crush.” With an idle wave, Mr Amberly indicated the throng about them. “Don’t know what the hostesses see in it, myself.” His gaze dropped to Lucinda’s face. “Reduces the opportunities to chat, don’t y’know?”

Lucinda took due note of the gleam in Mr Amberly’s eyes and smiled again. “Indubitably, sir.”

Without further encouragement, Mr Amberly chatted on, interspersing remarks on the weather, the ton and events forthcoming with gently loaded comments. Lucinda found no difficulty in turning these aside. At the end of fifteen minutes, having politely declined an invitation to go driving to Richmond, she drained her glass and handed it to her escort. He placed it on a passing footman’s tray and turned back to help he

r to her feet.

“I’m desolated, dear lady, that my projected excursion fails to tempt you. Perhaps I might yet stumble on a destination that finds greater favour in your eyes?”

Lucinda’s lips twitched. She stifled a giggle. “Perhaps.” Her smile felt oddly wide. She took a step, leaning heavily on Mr Amberly’s arm. Suddenly, she felt distinctly flushed. Far warmer than she had before her drink.

“Ah…” Mr Amberly’s eyes sharpened. “Perhaps, my dear Mrs Babbacombe, a breath of fresh air might be wise?”

Lucinda turned her head to consider the long windows—and forced herself to straighten. “I think not.” She might wish to learn a few tricks but she had no intention of damaging her reputation. Turning back, she blinked as a glass appeared before her.

“I suggest you drink this, Mrs Babbacombe,” came in clipped accents.

The tone suggested she had better do so if she knew what was good for her.

Obligingly, Lucinda took the glass and raised it to her lips, simultaneously raising her eyes to Harry’s face. “What is it?”