An Unwilling Conquest (Regencies 7)

“Indeed?” One brow rising, Lucinda lifted her chin. “To what, then, do I owe this honour, sir?”

Harry’s smile was a warning. “Lord Craven.”

As he stalked towards her, his eyes boring into hers, Lucinda had to quell a weak impulse to retreat behind her chair.

“I’ve come to demand an assurance from you, Mrs Babbacombe, that you will, as of this moment, cease and desist in this little game of yours.”

Lucinda stiffened. “I beg your pardon?”

“As well you might,” Harry growled, coming to a halt directly before her, his eyes, glittering green, holding hers. “That little scene on Lady Harcourt’s terrace was entirely your own fault. This ridiculous experiment of yours, this habit you’ve formed of encouraging rakes, has to stop.”

Lucinda summoned a haughty glance. “I don’t know what you mean. I’m merely doing what many ladies, situated similarly, would do—looking for congenial company.”

“Congenial?” Harry lifted a supercilious brow. “I would have thought last night would have been sufficient demonstration of how ‘congenial’ the company of rakes can be.”

Lucinda felt a blush tinge her cheeks. She shrugged and swung aside, stepping away from the desk. “Lord Craven was clearly a mistake.” She glanced back to add, “And I have to thank you most sincerely for your aid.” Deliberately, she met Harry’s gaze, then calmly turned and drifted towards the windows. “But I really must insist, Mr Lester, that my life is my own to live as I please. It’s no business of yours should I choose to develop a…” Lucinda gestured vaguely “…a relationship with Lord Craven or anyone else.”

A tense silence greeted her statement. Lucinda paused, fingers lightly trailing the high back of the daybed, her gaze fixed, unseeing, on the prospect beyond the windows.

Behind her, Harry closed his eyes. Fists clenched, his jaw rigid, he fought to shackle his response to what he knew to be deliberate provocation, to suppress the clamorous impulses her words had evoked. Behind his lids, a fleeting image took shape—of her, struggling in Lord Craven’s arms. Abruptly, Harry opened his eyes.

“My dear Mrs Babbacombe.” He bit the words out as he stalked after her. “It’s clearly time I took a hand in your education. No rake in his right mind is interested in a relationship—other than of an extremely limited sort.”

Lucinda glanced over her shoulder and saw him coming. She turned to meet him—and abruptly found herself backed against the wall.

Harry’s eyes trapped hers. “Do you know what we are interested in?”

Lucinda took in his predatory smile, his glittering eyes, heard the undercurrent in his silky voice. Deliberately, she tilted her chin. “I’m not a complete innocent.”

Even as the lie left her lips, her breathing seized. Harry moved closer, crowding her against the wall, stopping only when she could retreat no further, her soft skirts caressing his thighs, brushing his boots.

His lips, so fascinating, were very close. As Lucinda watched, they twisted.

“Perhaps not. But when it comes to the likes of Craven and the others—or me—you’re hardly experienced, my dear.”

Her expression intransigent, Lucinda met his gaze. “I’m more than capable of holding my own.”

His eyes flared. “Are you?”

Harry felt barely civilised. She kept prodding the demon within him; he felt barely sane. “Shall we put that to the test?”

He framed her face with his hands and deliberately moved one inch nearer, pressing her against the wall. He felt her draw in a quick breath; a quiver shivered through her. “Shall I show you what we are interested in, Lucinda?” He tilted her face to his. “Shall I show you what’s on our—” his lips twisted in self-mockery “—my mind every time I look at you? Waltz with you?”

Lucinda didn’t answer. Eyes wide, she stared into his, her breathing shallow and rapid, her pulse skittering wildly. His brows rose mockingly, inviting her comment; his eyes burned. Then his gaze dropped from hers; Lucinda watched as he focused on her lips. She couldn’t suppress the impulse to run the tip of her tongue over the smooth curves.

She felt the shudder that rippled through him, heard the groan he tried to suppress.

Then his head swooped and his lips found hers.

It was the caress she had longed for, planned for, plotted to attain—yet it was like nothing she had dreamed. His lips were hard, forceful, commanding. They captured hers, then tortured them with subtle pleasures, ravishing her senses until she submitted. The kiss caught her up, conquered and willing, and skilfully swept her free of reality, into a place where only his will prevailed. He demanded—she surrendered. Completely.

When he asked, she gave, when he wanted more, she unhesitatingly yielded. She sensed his need—and wanted, deeply desired, his satisfaction. She kissed him back, thrilled to feel the surge of unleashed passion that answered her. The kiss deepened, then deepened again, until she could sense nothing beyond it and the wild longing that swelled within her.

What deep-seated alarm it was that hauled Harry to his senses he did not know. Perhaps the urgent clamouring of rampant desires and the consequent need to arrange their fulfilment? Whatever it was, he suddenly realised the danger. It took every last ounce of his strength to draw back.

When he lifted his head, he was shaking.

Searching for sanity, he stared at her face—her lids slowly rose, revealing eyes so blue, so soft, so glowing with a siren’s allure that he couldn’t breathe. Her lips, kiss-bruised, gleaming red, ripe and, as he could now testify, so very sweet, drew his gaze. He felt himself falling under her spell again, leaning closer, his lips hungry for hers.