An Unwilling Conquest (Regencies 7)

“Only too happy,” came from Mr Satterly.

“A pleasure, m’dear,” from Mr Amberly.

Lucinda glanced up and found Lord Ruthven’s eyes ruefully twinkling. His lips twisted in a wry smile.

“Nothing too good for a friend, you know.”

More reassured than she had been all evening, Lucinda smiled back.

From the depths of the crowd, Harry watched the little cavalcade head off, Ruthven steering Lucinda in Satterly and Amberly’s wake. As the realisation that Ruthven’s goal was one of the long windows opening onto the terrace crystallised in his brain, tension gripped Harry anew. He took a step forward—then stopped short.

She was no longer any business of his.

Satterly and Amberly stood aside for Lucinda and Ruthven to pass through the window—then followed. Harry blinked. For an instant, he stared, eyes slowly narrowing, at the gently billowing drapes through which all four had disappeared.

Then his lips curved cynically. With such cavaliers, the lovely Mrs Babbacombe had no need of further protection.

Somewhat stiffly, he turned on his heel and headed for the cardroom.

“AURELIA WILCOX ALWAYS did give the best parties.” Em rustled her silks in the dark of the carriage as it rolled down Highgate Hill. After a moment, she diffidently added, “Didn’t see Harry tonight.”

“He wasn’t there.” Lucinda heard the weariness in her voice and was glad Heather, curled on the seat opposite, wasn’t awake to hear it. Her stepdaughter was thoroughly enjoying her taste of the ton in a wholly innocuous, innocent way. If it hadn’t been for Heather’s undoubted enjoyment, she would be seriously considering removing from the capital, regardless of the fact that such a move would clearly signal defeat.

She felt defeated. Tuesday night had just come and gone, with no sign of Harry. She hadn’t seen him since Lady Mott’s ball on Saturday evening; since then, he had not even been present at the balls and parties they had attended. His presence was not something she would miss—his gaze had always triggered a certain sensation, quite unique, within her.

A sensation she now missed—dreadfully.

“Perhaps he’s already left London?” Her tone was uninflected, yet the words embodied her deepest fear. She had played her cards and lost.

“No.” Em stirred on the seat beside her. “Fergus mentioned that Dawlish is still haunting the kitchens.” Softly, Em snorted. “The Almighty only knows to what purpose.”

After a moment, Em went on, her voice low, “It was never going to be easy, y’know. He’s as stubborn as a mule—most men are over matters like this. You have to give him time to get used to the idea—to let his resistance wear itself out. He’ll come around in the end—just wait and see.”

Wait and see. As the carriage rattled on over the cobbles, Lucinda laid her head back against the squabs and reviewed her recent actions. No matter how she tried, she could not regret any of them—faced with the same situation, she would act as she had again. But neither dwelling on the past—nor idling through the present—was advancing her cause. But she could hardly seduce Harry again if he didn’t come near her.

Worse—he was no longer concerned for her safety, even though Lord Ruthven, Mr Amberly and Mr Satterly had been particularly assiduous in their attentions. Indeed, if it hadn’t been for their enthusiastic if totally platonic support, she doubted she could have held her head up over these past nights. The balls, which she had initially found fascinating, had lost their attraction. The dances were boring, the waltzes trials. As for the promenading, the incessant visiting, the constant appearances demanded by the ton, she increasingly saw them as a waste of time; her business persona re-emerging, no doubt. If she told true, she now viewed the time she spent in tonnish endeavours as a very poor investment.

It w

as unlikely to render her the return she sought.

Unfortunately, she had no idea what new tack to take, how to realign her strategies to bring her goal back in sight.

Her goal, in this case unfortunately not inanimate, had taken matters into his own hands—which left her with nothing to do but wait—a scenario she found intensely irksome.

Lucinda stifled a snort—Em’s habit was catching.

But Em was very likely right—again. She would have to wait—she had played her cards.

It was Harry’s turn now.

SOME TWELVE HOURS LATER, Harry lounged in his customary pose, propping the wall in the long ballroom of the Webb residence in Mount Street, idly watching the crowd gathered to celebrate his brother’s nuptials. His father, of course, was there, sitting in his chair at the other end of the room. Beside him sat Em, resplendent in deep blue silk. Her principal houseguest had not attended.

Not, of course, that he needed to worry his head over where she was or what she was doing. Not with the way his friends were behaving. Over the past five days, they had taken to squiring her everywhere while coolly regarding him with a pointedly critical air. Ruthven, indeed, with a sublime disregard for the cryptic, had felt moved to tell him he was “being a damned fool”. Ruthven—who was six months older than Harry, but had yet to show the slightest sign of bestirring himself enough to find a wife. Ruthven—who had a title to keep in the family. Disgusted, Harry had snorted—and informed his erstwhile friend that if he was so enamoured of the lady then he could pay her price.

Ruthven had blinked, then had looked a trifle abashed.

Eyes hooded, Harry took a soothing sip of brandy, the glass cradled in one hand.