Her expression serene, Lucinda raised her brows. “I’ll bear the point in mind, ma’am.”
With a regal nod, Sally Jersey swept on.
“Don’t you dare,” Harry murmured as they strolled on, his drawl instantly evaporating. His hand rose to cover hers where it lay on his sleeve. “You couldn’t be so hard-hearted.”
Again Lucinda lifted her brows; her eyes, no longer laughing, met his. “No?”
Harry’s eyes searched hers; Lucinda saw them narrow slightly.
Suddenly breathless, she squeezed his arm and forced a smile to her lips. “But you hardly need me to protect you.”
Determinedly, she looked ahead, still smiling, her expression as serene as before.
A short silence ensued, then Harry’s voice sounded in her ear, low and completely expressionless, “You’re wrong, my dear. I need you—very much.”
Lucinda couldn’t risk looking at him; she blinked rapidly and nodded to Lady Cowper, beaming from a nearby chaise. Were they talking of protection from the matchmaking mamas—or something else?
She got no chance to clarify the point—the mamas, the matrons and the dragons of the ton descended en masse.
To Harry’s irritation, his evening at Almack’s proved even more trying than he had imagined. His transparent obsession with the woman on his arm, which he had been at such pains to advertise, had, as he had known it would, doused all hope that he might be struck by lightning and forget himself enough to smile on one of the matrons’ young darlings. They had got the point; unfortunately, they had all taken it into their heads to be first with their congratulations.
The very first of these thinly veiled felicitations came from the indefatigable Lady Argyle, her pale, plain daughter still in tow. “I can’t say how pleased I’ve been to see you at our little entertainments again, Mr Lester.” She bestowed an arch glance before turning her gimlet gaze on Lucinda. “You must make sure he continues, my dear.” She tapped Lucinda’s arm with her fan. “Such a loss when the most handsome gentlemen cling to their clubs. Don’t let him backslide.”
With another arch glance and a flutter of her fingers, her ladyship departed, silent daughter in her wake. Harry idly wondered if the girl actually spoke.
Then he glanced down—and saw Lucinda’s face. No one else would have noticed anything amiss, but he was now too used to seeing her relaxed, happy. She was neither, now, her features tense, her lips without the full softness they normally displayed.
They sustained two more delighted outpourings in rapid succession, then Lady Cowper caught them. Her ladyship was her usual, kind-hearted self, quite impossible to curtail. Harry bore her soft smiles and gentle words—but as soon as she released them, he took a firm grip on Lucinda’s arm and steered her towards the refreshment-room. “Come—I’ll get you a glass of champagne.”
Lucinda glanced up at him. “This is Almack’s—they don’t serve champagne.”
Harry looked his disgust. “I’d forgotten. Lemonade, then.” He looked down at her. “You must be parched.”
She didn’t deny it or make any demur when he handed her a glass. But even in the refreshment-room the avalanche of felicitations he’d unwittingly triggered continued. There was, Harry quickly discovered, no escape.
By the time the next dance, a waltz, the only one of the evening, let them seek refuge on the floor, he had realised his error. He grasped the moment as he drew Lucinda into his arms to apologise. “I’m afraid I miscalculated.” He smiled down into her eyes—and wished he could see in. They were more than misty, they were cloudy. The sight worried him. “I’d forgotten just how competitive the matrons are.” He couldn’t think of any acceptable way to explain that, when it came to a prize such as he now was, the matrons would rather accept someone like Lucinda, an outsider albeit one of their class, than see an archrival triumph.
Lucinda smiled, apparently at ease, but her eyes did not lighten. Harry drew her closer and wished they were alone.
When the dance ended, he looked down at her face, making no attempt to hide the frown in his eyes. “If you like we’ll go and find Em. I dare say she’ll have had enough of this.”
Lucinda acquiesced with a nod, her expression rigidly serene.
Harry’s prediction proved true—Em had also been beseiged. She was very ready to depart.
“A bit like running under fire,” she grumpily informed Lucinda as Harry handed her into the carriage. “But it’s a dashed sight too much when they start angling for invitations to the wedding.” Her snort was eloquent.
Harry glanced at Lucinda, already seated in the carriage; a shaft of light from the doorway illuminated her face. Her eyes were huge, her cheeks pale. She looked tired, worn down—almost defeated. Harry felt his heart lurch—and felt a pain more intense than any Millicent Pane had ever caused.
“Now don’t forget!” Em tapped him on the sleeve. “Dinner’s at seven tomorrow—we’ll look to see you before that.”
“Ah. Yes.” Harry blinked. “Of course.” With a last glance at Lucinda, he stepped back and closed the door. “I’ll be there.”
He watched the carriage roll away, then, frowning, turned towards his club, just a few steps around the corner. But when he reached the lighted door he paused, then, still frowning, continued on to his rooms.
An hour later, sunk in her feather mattress, Lucinda stared up at the canopy of her bed. Tonight had clarified matters—unequivocally, incontrovertibly. She’d been wrong—no other explanation existed for Harry’s actions, other than the obvious. The only thing she now needed to decide was what she was going to do about it.
She watched the moonbeams cross her ceiling; it was dawn before she slept.