Silence filled the small pavilion. The breeze idly played with the honeysuckle, wafting perfume through the air; a drake hooted from some distant reed-fringed shore. The shadows shifted gently over the figures entwined in the pillar’s lee. S
pring had blossomed; summer stood in the wings, eager for its day.
“Oh! How lovely—a Grecian temple! Can we go and see?”
Heather’s high-pitched tones carried easily across the water, hauling Harry and Lucinda back to their senses. Harry’s chest swelled as he drew in a deep breath—then looked down. Lucinda’s eyes slowly filled with comprehension; Harry felt his lips firm as he saw his frustration mirrored in misty blue.
Muttering a curse, he bent his head to taste her lips one last time, then drew his hand from her breast and quickly, expertly, rearranged her bodice, doing up the tiny buttons with a dexterity equal to that with which he had undone them.
Blinking, struggling to subdue her harried breathing, Lucinda straightened his collar and brushed back the heavy lock of hair she’d disarranged. She had shifted his cravat; her hands fluttered uncertainly.
Harry abruptly stepped back, long fingers reaching for the starched folds. “Your skirts.”
Lucinda looked down—and swallowed a gasp. She shot an indignant glare at Harry, which he met with an arrogantly raised brow, then shook the clinging muslin down, smoothing the folds so that the skirts once more hung free. She spied her hat lying on the floor; she swiped it up and set it in place, tangling the ties in her haste.
“Here—let me.” Harry deftly separated the ribbons, then tied them in a neat bow.
Putting up a hand to check on his efforts, Lucinda threw him a haughty glance. “Your talents are quite astonishing.”
Harry’s smile was a touch grim. “And extremely useful, you’ll admit.”
Lucinda tilted her chin, then, turning, plastered a bright smile on her lips as Gerald’s voice floated up from the bottom of the steps.
“Take care! Wait till I make fast.”
Lucinda strolled forward into the sunshine at the top of the steps. “Hello—did you have a pleasant time on the lake?”
Gerald looked up at her and blinked. When Harry appeared from the shadows behind her, Gerald’s expression turned wary.
But Harry only smiled, albeit a touch coolly. “Just in time, Gerald. Now we can take the punt and you can show Miss Babbacombe around the temple then stroll back.”
“Oh, yes! Let’s do that.” Heather could barely wait for Gerald to assist her from the bobbing craft. “It’s such a lovely spot—so secluded.”
“Usually,” Harry murmured, so low only Lucinda heard.
She shot him a warning glance but her smile didn’t waver. “The tiles on the ceiling are quite splendid.”
“Oh?” Heather trod up the steps and into the temple without further encouragement.
Gerald, meanwhile, was staring, mesmerised, at Harry’s gold acorn pin, the one his excessively precise brother used to anchor his cravat. The pin was askew. Blinking in bemusement, Gerald raised his eyes to Harry’s, only to be met by a languid, distinctly bored green gaze—which he knew very well meant he’d be well advised to quit his brother’s presence forthwith. “Ah—yes. We’ll walk back.”
His expression studiously blank, Gerald nodded to Lucinda and hurried after Heather.
“Mrs Babbacombe?”
Lucinda turned to find Harry, the long pole in one hand, steadying the boat, as he held his other hand out to her. She put her fingers in his; he helped her into the punt. Once she had settled her skirts on the cushions in the prow, he stepped into the stern and poled off.
The dark water glided past the hull; reclining against the cushions, Lucinda trailed her fingertips in the lake—and filled her sight with Harry. He avoided her gaze, concentrating, to all appearances, on their surroundings.
With a small, disbelieving sniff, Lucinda switched her gaze to the shores slipping past.
The ends of Harry’s lips lifted; his gaze, falling to her profile, was unusually soft but cynical, too. Hands on the pole, he propelled them through the water; not even the most inveterate rake could seduce a woman while poling a punt. He hadn’t planned their recent close brush with intimacy—for once, he was truly grateful for his younger brother’s interruption. He had reason enough to marry his siren, and too many excuses he had yet to convince her he no longer needed. Their night at Asterley had only added to the list, lending weight to the social pressures she might imagine had influenced him. Social pressures he himself had foolishly raised in order to hide the truth.
Harry lifted his gaze to the vista before them—the façade of Lester Hall—Jack’s home now, no longer his. His gaze grew distant; his jaw firmed.
She had made it plain that it was important for her to know the truth of why he wished to wed her; during the past days, he had realised it was important to him to know that she did. So before they were done, before he again asked her to be his bride, they would have it all clear between them.
His siren would know the truth—and believe it.