LUCINDA OPENED HER EYES the next morning to discover a dusky pink rose unfurling on her pillow. Enchanted, she took the delicate bloom into her hand, cradling it gently. The dew on the petals fractured the sunshine.
Her smile wondering, delighted, she sat up and pushed the covers back. Every morning she had spent at Lester Hall, she had woken to find just such a tribute waiting somewhere in her room.
But on her pillow…?
Still smiling, she rose.
Fifteen minutes later, her expression serene, she glided through the breakfast parlour doors, the rose between her fingers. As usual, Harry’s father was not present—he was a semi-invalid and did not stir before noon; Em adhered to town hours so would not rise until eleven. As for Heather and Gerald, they had the night before announced their intention of riding to a distant folly; they would, Lucinda judged, be well on their way by now. Which left Harry alone, seated at the table’s head, long legs stretched out before him, his fingers crooked about the handle of a cup.
Lucinda felt his gaze as she entered; with every appearance of unconsciousness, she considered her lover’s token, then, with a softly distant smile, tucked it lovingly into her cleavage, making great show of nestling the velvet petals against the curves of her breasts.
She looked up to see Harry transfixed. His fingers had tightened about the handle of his cup, a stillness, like that of a predator about to pounce, had settled over his long frame. His gaze was riveted on the rose.
“Good morning.” Lucinda smiled sunnily and went forward to take the seat the butler held for her.
Harry tried to speak, then had to clear his throat. “Good morning.” He forced his gaze to Lucinda’s; it sharpened as he read her expression. He shifted in his seat. “I’d thought to visit the stud before we head back to town. I wondered if you’d care to accompany me—and perhaps renew your acquaintance with Thistledown.”
Lucinda reached for the teapot. “Thistledown’s here?”
Harry nodded and took a long sip of coffee.
“Is it far?”
“Only a few miles.” He watched as Lucinda spread a muffin with jam. She leant both elbows on the table, the muffin held with both hands, and took a bite; a minute later, the tip of her tongue went the rounds of her lips. Harry blinked.
“Will we ride?” Lucinda didn’t think to voice her agreement formally; he had known from the first she would go.
Harry stared at the rose nestling between her breasts. “No—we’ll take the gig.”
Lucinda smiled at her muffin—and took another bite.
Twenty minutes later, still clad in her lilac walking dress, the dusky pink rose in pride of place, she sat beside Harry as he tooled the gig down a narrow lane. “So you don’t spend much time in London?”
Harry raised his brows, his attention on the bay between the shafts. “As little as possible.” He grimaced. “But with a venture like the stud, it’s necessary to remain visible amongst the cognescenti, which is to say, the gentlemen of the ton.”
“Ah—I see.” Lucinda nodded sagely, the wide brim of her villager hat framing her face. “Contrary to all appearances, you care nothing for the balls, the routs, the parti
es—and less for the good opinion of the feminine half of the ton. Indeed—” she opened her eyes wide “—I cannot understand how you have come by the reputation you bear. Unless—” She broke off to look enquiringly up at him. “Perhaps it’s all a hum?”
Harry’s attention had left the bay gelding; it was focused on Lucinda, the light in his eyes enough to make her shiver. “My reputation, my dear, was not gained in the ballrooms.”
Lucinda kept her gaze wide. “Oh?”
“No,” Harry stated—more in answer to the hopeful expression in her eyes than her question. His expression severely reproving, he clicked the reins, setting the horse to a trot.
Lucinda grinned.
The stud was soon reached. Harry tossed the reins of the gig to a groom, then lifted Lucinda down. “I need to talk to my head-stableman, Hamish MacDowell,” he said as they strolled towards the stable complex. “Thistledown should be in her box. It’s in the second yard.”
Lucinda nodded. “I’ll wait for you there.” The stables were a massive conglomerate of buildings—stables proper, as well as tackrooms and barns housing training gigs as well as what appeared to be quite enormous quantities of fodder. “Did you start it up—or was it already in existence?”
“My father established the stud in his youth. I took over after his accident—about eight years ago.” Harry’s gaze swept over the stud—the neat, cobbled yards and stone buildings before them, the fenced fields on either side. “Whenever I’m home I offer to drive him over—but he never comes.” He looked down, then added, “I think seeing it all—the horses—reminds him of his inability. He was a bruising rider until a fall put him in that chair of his.”
“So you’re the son who takes after him most in the matter of horses?”
Harry’s lips twitched. “In that regard—and, some might argue, his other most consuming passion.”
Lucinda glanced at him, then away. “I see,” she replied, her tone repressive. “So is this now all yours?” Her gesture took in the whole complex. “Or is it a family concern?”