“Craven?”
The single word had Craven lifting his head and looking wildly about just as Harry caught his shoulder, spinning him into a punishing left cross that lifted his lordship from his feet and left him sprawled in an untidy heap against the stone balustrade.
Lucinda, her hand at her breast, swallowed a sob—and flung herself into Harry’s arms. They closed about her; he hugged her fiercely; Lucinda felt his lips on her hair. His body was hard, rigid; she sensed the fury that possessed him. Then he shifted her to his side, keeping her within the protection of one arm. Her cheek against his coat, Lucinda glanced at Lord Craven.
Somewhat shakily, his lordship clambered to his feet. He worked his jaw, then, blinking, warily eyed Harry. When Harry made no move, Craven hesitated, then resettled his coat and straightened his cravat. His gaze shifted to Lucinda, then returned to Harry’s face. His features studiously impassive, he raised his brows. “I appear to have misread the situation.” He bowed to Lucinda. “My most humble apologies, Mrs Babbacombe—I pray you’ll accept them.”
Lucinda ducked her head, then hid her burning cheeks in Harry’s coat.
Lord Craven’s gaze returned to Harry’s face. Something not at all civilised stared back at him. “Lester.” With a curt nod, his lordship strolled carefully past and disappeared around the corner.
Leaving silence to enfold the two figures on the terrace.
Harry held himself rigid, every muscle clenched, his emotions warring within him. He could feel Lucinda trembling; the need to comfort her welled strong. He closed his eyes, willing himself to resistance, to impassivity. Every impulse he possessed impelled him to take her into his arms, to kiss her, possess her—to put an end to her silly game. A primitive male desire to brand her inescapably his rocked him to his core. Equally strong was his rage, his dislike of being so manipulated, so exposed by his own feelings, so vulnerable to hers.
Mentally cursing her for being the catalyst of such a scene, Harry struggled to suppress passions already too long denied.
The moment stretched, the tension palpable.
Trapped within it, Lucinda couldn’t breathe; she couldn’t move. The arm about her didn’t tighten, but it felt like iron, inflex
ible, unyielding. Then Harry’s chest swelled; he drew in an unsteady breath.
“Are you all right?”
His deep voice was flat, devoid of emotion. Lucinda forced herself to nod, then, drawing on her courage, stepped back. His arm fell from her. She drew in a deep breath and glanced up; one look at his face, at his utterly blank expression, was enough. His eyes showed evidence of some turbulent emotion, glittering in the green; what, she couldn’t tell but she sensed his accusation.
Her breath tangling in her throat, she glanced away. His arm appeared before her.
“Come. You must return to the ballroom.”
His face like stone, a graven façade masking turbulent feelings, Harry braced himself against the moment when her fingers settled on his sleeve.
Through the simple contact, Lucinda could sense his simmering anger, and the control that left his muscles twitching, shifting restlessly beneath her hand; for an instant, her feelings threatened to overwhelm her. She wanted him to comfort her, yearned to feel his arms about her once again. But she knew he was right—she had to reappear in the ballroom soon. Dragging in a shaking breath, she lifted her head. With the slightest of nods, she allowed him to lead her back, into the cacophany of conversation and laughter, back to the bright lights and bright smiles.
Her own smile appropriately bright if brittle, she gracefully inclined her head as, with a curt nod, Harry deposited her at the end of Em’s chaise. He immediately turned on his heel; Lucinda watched him stride away, into the crowd.
Chapter Eight
“Good afternoon, Fergus. Is Mrs Babbacombe in?”
Harry handed his gloves and cane to his aunt’s butler. His expression stonily impassive, he glanced towards the stairs.
“Mrs Babbacombe is in the upstairs parlour, sir—she uses it as her office. Her ladyship’s laid down upon her bed. These late nights are greatly tiring at her age.”
“I dare say.” With decisive stride, Harry headed for the stairs. “I won’t disturb her. You needn’t announce me.” His lips thinned. “I’m quite sure Mrs Babbacombe is expecting me.”
“Very good, sir.”
The upstairs parlour was a small room at the back of the house. Tall windows looked onto the garden at the rear; two armchairs and a chaise plus an assortment of side-tables graced the floral rug by the fireplace while a large daybed filled the space before the windows. An escritoire stood against one wall; Lucinda, a vision in soft blue muslin, was seated before it, pen in hand, when Harry opened the door.
She glanced around, an abstracted smile on her lips—and froze. Her smile faded, replaced by a polite mask.
Harry’s expression hardened. He stepped over the threshold and closed the door.
Lucinda rose. “I didn’t hear you announced.”
“Probably because I wasn’t.” Harry paused, his hand on the doorknob, and studied her haughty expression. She was going to hear him out, come what may; he wasn’t in the mood to tolerate interruptions. His fingers closed about the key; the lock slid noiselessly into place. “This isn’t a social call.”