An Unwilling Conquest (Regencies 7)

“Oh.” Lucinda blinked, then, drawing in a breath, squared her shoulders. “Well—tonight can’t be helped—but we’ll be leaving tomorrow.”

“Aye—so I thought.”

Lucinda heard the relief in Agatha’s voice. She hid an affectionate grin. “Don’t worry—despite all indications to the contrary, they are entirely gentlemen at heart.”

Agatha humphed. “So you say—but gentlemen can be very persuasive at times.”

Lucinda rose and let her gown fall to the floor. Stepping out of it, she allowed Agatha to help her into the sheath of shimmering blue silk. Only when she was finally ready to descend to the drawing-room did she deign to acknowledge Agatha’s last comment.

“As I should hope you know by now,” she said, fixing Agatha with a haughty glance, “I’m more than capable of managing any gentleman who might darken my horizon. So just tidy up in here—and let Joshua know that we’ll be departing in the morning.” Lucinda glided to the door—then paused to look back at her maid. “And don’t worry, you old curmudgeon!”

With that, she turned and, a scintillating vision in shimmering silver blue, glided out of the door.

The drawing-room quickly filled, the guests eager for each other’s company. Now sure of her footing, Lucinda found no difficulty in strolling through the crowd, acknowledging the compliments and the open admiration in the gentlemen’s eyes, artfully turning aside their subtle suggestions. She was once more in control—but her nerves were taut, her whole being on edge.

The moment she’d been waiting for finally arrived.

Harry walked into the room, creating, she noticed, an immediate stir. He must have arrived while they were changing; he was dressed in his usual severe black and white, his fair hair gleaming in the candlelight. Marguerite broke off her conversation to sweep forward and greet him—with a peck on the cheek, Lucinda noted. Lord Asterley came up to wring his hand. Other gentlemen nodded and called greetings; many of the ladies prinked and preened, smiling in gracious welcome.

Abruptly finding herself the object of a piercing green stare, Lucinda didn’t smile at all. Her heart stuttered, then accelerated; a vice slowly closed about her chest. Her expression studiously remote, she inclined her head fractionally and turned back to Mr Ormesby and Lady Morcombe.

And waited for him to come to her.

He didn’t—nor was he about to. That much was made plain within ten minutes. Excruciatingly aware of his gaze, dwelling on her shoulders, bare above the abbreviated neckline of her gown, and on her upper breasts, l

ikewise revealed, Lucinda gritted her teeth and inwardly cursed. What the devil was he up to now?

Cursing her, as it happened—Harry could barely restrain the urge to cross the room, lay hold of one delicate wrist and haul her away. What the deuce did she mean by appearing in such a gown? Of the sheerest silk gauze, it shimmered and glimmered, tantalised and teased. The soft material clung wherever it touched, outlining then concealing her slender form, artfully displaying the graceful curves of hips and thighs and the smooth planes of her back. As for her breasts, they were barely concealed at all—the square neckline had been cut by a miser. Gritting his teeth, he forced his feet to remain still. As all the gentleman were openly captivated, at least he didn’t need to disguise his interest.

“Harry, old chap! Didn’t think to see you here. Thought you might be looking to take a leaf out of Jack’s book, what?”

Harry bent a look of intense irritation on Lord Cranbourne. “Not my style, Bentley. But who have you got your eye on?”

Lord Cranbourne grinned. “Lady Morcombe. She’s a ripe little plum—that old codger of a husband of hers doesn’t appreciate her as he ought.”

“Hmm.” Harry sent another penetrating glance about the room. “Just the usual crowd, is it?”

“All except the lovely Mrs Babbacombe—but you know all about her, as I recall?”

“Indeed.” Harry’s gaze rested again on Lucinda. Again he quelled the urge to go to her side.

“Your interest lie that way this evening?”

Harry shot Lord Cranbourne a quick glance, but his lordship’s question was clearly an idle one. “Not as you mean it.”

With a nod, he strolled away—before a puzzled Lord Cranbourne could ask for clarification.

With studied nonchalance, Harry circled the room, watching, assessing. His interest was certainly centred on Lucinda—but his first concern was to determine who had placed her name on the invitation list.

He’d been halfway to Asterley before his mind had cleared enough to see the point. He hadn’t suggested her—so who had? And why?

He prowled the room, carefully studying, not only Lucinda, but all who approached her, intent on discovering which, of his fellow rakes, felt he had first claim.

By the time dinner was announced, by Melthorpe in sepulchural vein, Lucinda had come to the conclusion that Harry was waiting for something—presumably disaster—to befall her, so that he could come to her aid and take charge of her again. Vowing it would never be so, she smiled graciously on Mr Ormesby as he offered her his arm. “Do you come here often, sir?”

Mr Ormesby gesticulated airily. “Now and then. A peaceful interlude away from the bustle of town, what?”

“Indeed.” From the corner of her eye, Lucinda saw Harry frown. Then Marguerite stopped beside him and claimed his arm. Lucinda turned a bright smile on Mr Ormesby. “I will rely on you, sir, if I may, to guide me in Asterley’s ways.”