An Unwilling Conquest (Regencies 7)

Harry bent over her; she felt his lips at her temple.

“Tell me of your marriage.”

Lucinda’s brows half-rose. With one fingertip, she drew whorls in the hair on his forearm. “To understand, you need to realise that I was orphaned at fourteen. Both my parents had been disowned by their families.” Using the minimum of words, she explained her past history, one hand moving slowly back and forth along Harry’s arm, snug about her, all the while. “So, you see, my marriage was never consummated. Charles and I were close, but he didn’t love me in that way.”

Harry kept his doubts to himself, rendering silent thanks to Charles Babbacombe for keeping her safe, for loving her enough to leave her untouched. His lips in her hair, the subtle scent of her filling him, Harry made a silent vow to her late husband’s shade that, as the recipient of his legacy, he would keep her safe for evermore.

“You’ll have to marry me.” He spoke the words as they occurred to him, thinking aloud.

Lucinda blinked. The joy that had filled her faded. After a quiet moment, she asked, “Have to marry you?”

She felt Harry straighten as he looked down at her.

“You were a virgin. I’m a gentleman. The prescribed outcome of our recent activity is a wedding.”

His words were definite, his accents clipped. Lucinda closed her eyes; she didn’t want to believe her ears. The last vestige of lingering afterglow evaporated, the promise of the long, inexpressibly tender moments they had shared vanished.

Lucinda stifled a sigh; her lips firmed into a determined line. Opening her eyes, she turned in Harry’s arms and looked him straight in the eye. “You want to marry me because I was a virgin—is that correct?”

Harry frowned. “It’s what’s expected.”

“But is it what you want?”

“It doesn’t matter what I want,” Harry growled, his eyes narrowing. “The matter, thank heaven, is simple enough. Society has rules—we’ll follow them—to the general satisfaction of all concerned.”

For a long moment, Lucinda studied him, her thoughts chaotic. It was an offer—of sorts—from the man she wanted.

But it wasn’t good enough. She didn’t just want him to marry her.

“No.”

Stunned, Harry watched as she scrambled out of his arms and off the daybed. She found her chemise and pulled it on.

He sat up. “What do you mean—‘No’?”

“No—I will not marry you.” Lucinda struggled into her petticoats.

Harry stared at her. “Why not, for heaven’s sake?” She started towards her gown and nearly tripped over his breeches. He heard a stifled curse as she bent to untangle her feet. Then she flung the breeches at him and continued towards her gown.

With a muttered curse of his own, Harry grabbed the breeches and hauled them on, then pulled on his boots. He stood and stalked over to where Lucinda was pushing her arms through the sleeves of her gown.

Hands on hips, he towered over her. “Damn it—I seduced you! You have to marry me.”

Eyes ablaze, Lucinda shot him a furious glance. “I seduced you, if you recall. And I most certainly do not ‘have to marry you’!”

“What about your reputation?”

“What of it?” Lucinda tugged her gown up over her shoulders. Turning to face him, she jabbed a finger in his chest. “No one would ever believe that Mrs Lucinda Babbacombe, widow, had been a virgin until you came along. You’ve got no lever to use against me.”

Looking up, she met his eyes.

And abruptly changed tack. “Besides,” she said, looking down to do up the buttons of her bodice, “I’m sure it’s not accepted practice for rakes to offer marriage to every woman they seduce.”

Harry ground his teeth. “Lucinda…”

“And I have not made you free of my name!” Lucinda glared at him. She wouldn’t let him use it—he’d whispered it, coupled with every conceivable end

earment, as he’d made love to her.