An Unwilling Conquest (Regencies 7)

Lucinda blinked. “Ah…”

“I dare say your stepmother feels such decisions are a trifle premature,” Harry drawled.

Heather’s lips formed an innocent “O”—she seemed perfectly content to accept the uninformative statement.

Lucinda let out a slow breath.

Em found a place on a chaise with Lady Sherring-bourne; the two ladies promptly fell to exchanging revelations on the alliances forged that year.

Lucinda turned—to find herself all but engulfed by her court, who, as she was rapidly informed, had been awaiting her reappearance with bated breath.

“A whole week you’ve been away, m’dear. Quite desolate, we’ve been.” Mr Amberly smiled benignly.

“Not that I can’t understand it,” Mr Satterly remarked. “The crushes are becoming far too real for my liking. Drive anyone away.” His gaze rose to Harry’s face, his expression utterly bland. “Don’t you think so, Lester?”

“Indeed,” Harry replied, casting a steely glance about them. With him on one side and Ruthven, equally large, on the other, Lucinda was at least assured of space enough to breathe. The rest of her court gathered before them, creating an enclosure of relative sanity for which, he was sure, they were all rendering silent thanks.

“And where did you go to recoup, my dear Mrs Babbacombe? The country or the seaside?”

It was, predictably, Lord Ruthven who voiced the inevitable question. He smiled encouragingly down at Lucinda; she sensed the subtle teasing behind his smile.

“The country,” she vouchsafed. Then, prompted by some inner devil, released, she knew, by the repressive presence on her left, she added, “My stepdaughter and I accompanied Lady Hallows on a visit to Lester Hall.”

Ruthven blinked his eyes wide. “Lester Hall?” Slowly, he lifted his gaze to Harry’s face. Entirely straightfaced, his lordship raised his brows. “Noticed you were absent from town this week, Harry. Took some time from the frantic whirl to recuperate?”

“Naturally,” Harry drawled, clinging to his usual imperturbability, “I escorted my aunt and her guests on their visit.”

“Oh, naturally,” Ruthven agreed. He turned to Lucinda. “Did Harry show you the grotto by the lake?”

Lucinda regarded his lordship with as bland an expression as she could manage. “Indeed—and the folly on the hill. The views were quite lovely.”

“The views?” Lord Ruthven looked stunned. “Ah, yes. The views.”

Harry ground his teeth but was too wise to react—at least not verbally. But his glance promised retribution—only Ruthven, one of his oldest friends, was prepared to ignore it.

To Lucinda’s relief, his lordship’s teasing, although in no way openly indelicate, was cut short by the musicians. It took a moment or two before it became clear that Lady Mickleham had decided to open her ball with a waltz.

The realisation brought the usual clamour of offers. Lucinda smiled graciously—and hesitated. The room was very crowded, the dance floor would be worse. In cotillion or quadrille, with sets and steps fixed, demanding a certain space, there was little chance of unexpected intimacy. But the waltz? In such cramped conditions?

The thought brought in its wake a certainty that her circumstances had indeed changed. She did not wish to waltz close with anyone but Harry. Her senses reached for him; he was standing, very stiff, intensely contained, beside her.

Harry saw her glance up, unconscious appeal in her eyes. His reaction was immediate and quite impossible to restrain. His hand closed over hers; he lifted it to place her fingers on his sleeve. “My waltz, I believe, my dear.”

Relief flooded Lucinda; she remembered to incline her head, and smile fleetingly at her court as Harry led her from their midst.

On the ballroom floor, she relaxed into Harry’s arms, allowing him to draw her close with no attempt at dissimulation. She glanced up at him as they started to slowly twirl; his eyes met hers, his expression still aloof but somehow softer. Their gazes held; they communicated without words as they slowly revolved down the room.

Then Lucinda lowered her lashes; Harry’s arm tightened about her.

As she had foreseen, the floor was crowded, the dancers cramped. Harry kept her safe within the circle of his arms; she was very aware that if anything threatened, she had only to step closer and he would protect her. His hard body was no threat—she had never seen it as such. He was her guardian in the oldest sense of the word—he to whom she had entrusted her life.

The waltz ended too soon; Lucinda blinked as Harry’s arms fell from her. Reluctantly, she stepped away and placed her hand on his arm, then let him steer her back through the throng.

Harry glanced at her face, his features impassive, concern in his eyes. As they neared her court, he leaned closer to murmur, “If you don’t care to waltz, simply plead fatigue.” Lucinda glanced up at him; he felt his lips twist. “It’s the latest fashionable ploy.”

She nodded—and straigh

tened her shoulders as they rejoined her court.