pproaching at a sedate walk. She promptly sat bolt upright.
“Merciful heavens!” she declared, her strident tones dramatic. “I never thought to see the day!”
Harry shot her a malevolent glance but deigned to incline his head. “I believe you are acquainted with Mrs Babbacombe?”
“Indeed!” Lady Jersey waved a hand at Lucinda. “I’ll catch up with you next Wednesday, my dear.”
Her ladyship’s glance promised she would. Lucinda kept her smile gracious but was relieved when they passed on.
She slanted a glance at Harry to discover his face set in uncompromising lines. As soon as the traffic thinned, he clicked the reins.
“That was a very short drive,” Lucinda murmured as the gates of the Park hove in sight.
“Short, perhaps, but quite long enough for our purposes.”
The words were clipped, his accents unencouraging. Lucinda’s inner frown deepened. “Our purposes.” What, precisely, were they?
SHE WAS STILL WONDERING when, gowned in hyacinth-blue watered silk, she descended the stairs that evening, ready for Lady Mickleham’s ball. Being in constant expectation of an offer was slowly sapping her patience; there was no doubt in her mind that Harry intended making her another, but the when and the why of his reticence were matters that increasingly worried her. She descended most of the stairs in an abstracted daze, glancing up only as she neared their foot. To have her gaze lock with one of clear green.
Eyes widening, Lucinda blinked. “What are you doing here?”
Her astonished gaze took in his severely, almost austerely cut evening clothes, black and stark white as always. The gold acorn pin in his cravat winked wickedly.
She watched his lips twist in a wry grimace.
“I’m here,” Harry informed her, his accents severely restrained, “to escort you—and Em and Heather—to Lady Mickleham’s ball.” He strolled to the end of the stairs and held out a commanding hand.
Lucinda looked at it, a light blush staining her cheeks. She was glad there were no servants about to witness this exchange. As her fingers, of their own volition, slid into his, she raised her eyes to his face. “I wasn’t aware you considered it necessary to escort us to such affairs.”
His features remained impassive, his eyes hooded, as he drew her down to stand before him.
The door at the end of the hall swung open; Agatha strode through, Lucinda’s evening cloak over her arm. She checked when she saw Harry, then merely nodded at him, severe as ever but with less hostility than was her wont, and came on. Harry held out a hand; Agatha readily surrendered the cloak, then turned on her heel and retraced her steps.
Lucinda turned; Harry placed the velvet cloak about her shoulders. Raising her head, she met his gaze in the mirror on the wall. In the corridor above a door opened and shut; Heather’s voice drifted down, calling to Em.
If she clung to polite phrases, he would fence and win. Lucinda drew in a quick breath. “Why?”
For a moment, his gaze remained on hers, then dropped to her throat. She saw his lips quirk, in smile or grimace she couldn’t tell.
“Circumstances,” he began, his voice low, “have changed.” He raised his head and his eyes met hers. His brows rose, faintly challenging. “Haven’t they?”
Lucinda stared into his eyes and said nothing at all; she wasn’t about to gainsay him. But had things truly changed? She was no longer so sure of that.
Heather came skipping down the stairs, followed, more circumspectly, by Em. Amid the bustle of finding cloaks and gloves, Lucinda had no further chance to question Harry’s new tack. The short trip to Mickleham House in Berkeley Square was filled with Heather’s bright prattle and Em’s reminiscences. Lucinda remained silent; Harry sat in the shadows opposite, equally quiet.
The ordeal of the crowded stairway left no opportunity for private converse. Lucinda smiled and nodded to those about them, aware of the curious glances thrown their escort. For his part, Harry remained impassively urbane but as they neared their host and hostess, he bent his head to murmur, very softly, in her ear, “I’ll take the supper waltz—and I’ll escort you into supper.”
Her lips setting, Lucinda shot him a speaking glance. Take the supper waltz, indeed! She inwardly humphed, then turned to greet Lady Mickleham.
As Harry had foretold, her ladyship’s rooms were full to overflowing.
“This is ridiculous,” Lucinda muttered as they forged a path towards one side of the ballroom, hoping to find a chaise for Em.
“It’s always this bad at the end of the Season,” Em returned. “As if building to a frenzy before summer sends everyone home to the country.”
Lucinda stifled a sigh as thoughts of the country—the grotto by the Lester Hall lake, the peace and serenity of Lestershall Manor—returned to her.
“Well—there’s only a few weeks left to go,” put in Heather. “So I suppose we should make the most of them.” She glanced at Lucinda. “Have you decided where we’ll spend the summer?”