An Unwilling Conquest (Regencies 7)

A deathly moment of awkward silence ensued.

Lucinda stiffened. With considerable effort, she kept her smile unaffected. She felt hollow inside but she had her pride. She forced herself to scan those desirous of partnering her. Her gaze came to rest on Lord Craven.

He had not appeared in her circle since that first evening two weeks ago. Tonight, he had been most assiduous.

Smiling brittlely, Lucinda held out her hand. “Lord Craven?”

Craven smiled, a coolly superior gesture, and bowed elegantly. “It will be a pleasure, my dear.” As he straightened, he met her eyes. “For us both.”

Lucinda barely heard; automatically, she inclined her head. With a gentle smile she acknowledged those she had disappointed but by not so much as a flicker of an eyelash did she acknowledge Harry. Outwardly serene, she allowed Lord Craven to lead her to the floor.

Behind her, she left an uncomfortable silence. After a moment, Lord Ruthven, cool and suddenly as remote as Harry, with no hint of his habitual good-humoured indolence in his eyes, lifted a brow. “I do hope, Lester, that you know what you’re about?”

His eyes like green ice, Harry met his lordship’s challenging stare and held it, then, without a word, looked away to where Lucinda was taking the floor in Lord Craven’s arms.

At first, his lordship tried to hold her too close; Lucinda frowned and he desisted. Thereafter, she paid him little heed, answering his polished sallies at random, their underlying tone barely registering. By the time the last chords sounded and his lordship whirled her to an elegant halt, her inner turmoil had calmed.

Enough to leave her prey to an enervating sense of defeat.

The emotion was not one she could approve. Straightening her shoulders and lifting her head, Lucinda reminded herself of Em’s words: Harry would be no easy conquest but she had to hold firm to her plan.

So…here she was at the far end of the ballroom on Lord Craven’s arm. His hand held hers trapped on his sleeve.

“Perhaps, Mrs Babbacombe, we should grasp the opportunity to become better acquainted?”

Lucinda blinked; his lordship gestured to a nearby door, set ajar.

“It’s so noisy in here. Perhaps we could stroll the corridor?”

Lucinda hesitated. A corridor did not sound particularly secluded—and it was certainly crowded in the ballroom; her temples were starting to ache. She glanced up—and met Lord Craven’s dark eyes and his faintly superior stare. She wasn’t entirely sure of him but he was here, offering yet another potential prod to Harry’s possessive nature.

She let her senses reach out, and felt the heat of Harry’s gaze. He was watching over her; she cast a glance about but, in the dense crowd, could not find him.

Turning back, she met his lordship’s gaze. Lucinda drew in a breath. She had told Em she was game. “Perhaps just a quick turn about the corridor, my lord.”

She was quite certain her strategy was sound.

Unfortunately, this time, she had chosen the wrong rake.

Unlike Lord Ruthven, Mr Amberly and Mr Satterly, Lord Craven was not a familiar of Harry’s and therefore lacked their insights into the game she was playing. They, one and all, had determined to assist her in whatever way they could, intrigued by the prospect of removing Harry from their paths. Lord Craven, however, had concluded that her flittering progress from rake to rake was merely a reflection of dissatisfaction with the distractions offered. Having seen how far the gentle touch had got his peers, he had determined on a more forceful approach.

With brisk efficiency, he whisked Lucinda through the doorway.

On the other side of the room, Harry swore, startling two dowagers gracing a nearby chaise. He wasted no time on apologies or speculation but started into the crowd. Aware of Craven’s reputation, he had kept a close watch on his lordship and his burden but had momentarily lost them at the end of the dance, sighting them again just before Lucinda cast a glance about—then allowed Craven to lead her from the room. Harry knew very well what that glance had signified. The damned woman had been looking for him—to him—for rescue.

This time, she might need it.

The crowd, dispersing after the dance, milled aimlessly. Harry had to fight an impulse to push people out of his way. He forced himself to rein in his strides; he didn’t want to focus any attention on his goal.

He finally broke free of the clinging crowd and gained the garden corridor. He didn’t pause but went straight to its end where a door gave onto the terrace. Lady Harcourt had frequently bemoaned the fact that her ballroom did not open onto terrace and gardens, as was the fashionable norm. Silently, Harry stepped onto the flagstones. The terrace was deserted. His features hardening, he reined in his building rage and, hands on hips, scanned the deeply shadowed garden.

Muffled sounds drifted to his ears.

He was running when he rounded the corner of the terrace.

Craven had Lucinda backed against the wall and was trying to kiss her. She had ducked her head, frustrating his lordship’s intent; her small hands on his chest, she was trying to push him away, incoherent in her distress.

Harry felt his rage claim him.