An Unwilling Conquest (Regencies 7)

As, without seeking any permission, Harry drew Lucinda, unresisting, into his arms, he arched a brow. “A novel arrangement.”

A gurgle of laughter came to his ears.

“She said,” Lucinda explained, “that she could see no point in wasting time with quadrilles and cotillions when what everyone really wanted was waltzes.”

Harry grinned. “Very Em.”

Lucinda smiled as he whirled her through the turn, her ease on the dance floor a far cry from her first excursion. She felt supple in his arms, fluidly matching her steps to his, following effortlessly, not, he suspected, even conscious that he held her so close. She would probably notice if he didn’t.

His lips curved; she noticed.

“Now why are you smiling?”

Harry couldn’t stop his slow smile from breaking. His eyes caught hers—he felt he could lose himself in the blue. “I was just thinking what a good job I’ve made of teaching you to waltz.”

Lucinda raised her brows. “Indeed? Can I not claim some small achievement for myself?”

Harry’s smile went crooked. He drew her a fraction closer, his eyes a brilliant green. “You’ve achieved a great deal, my dear. On the floor—and off.”

Her brows rose higher. She held his gaze, her expression serene, her smile soft, her lips eminently kissable. Then she lowered her lids and looked away, leaning her head fleetingly against his shoulder.

When they weren’t playing waltzes, the musicians had been instructed to entertain Em’s guests with gentle airs and sonatas, all pleasing to the ear. As they wandered the crowds, engaging in the usual banter and occasional repartee, without question or, indeed, thought, remaining by each other’s side, Harry realised that his siren was indeed calmer, more her usual self than she had been at Almack’s the night before.

His relief was telling; he had, he realised, been harbouring a deep concern. Presumably, last night, it had merely been the unexpected gush of semi-congratulations that had shaken her; tonight, she seemed at ease, assured, typically confident.

If he could only discover the cause of the strange hint of sorrow that lay, deep but present, beneath her serene veneer—and eradicate it—he’d be happier than any man, he felt, had any right to be.

She was perfect, she was his—as he had always sensed she could be. All he wanted of life was here, with her, within his grasp; time was all that now stood in his path.

But tomorrow would come—it wasn’t what he’d originally planned but he wasn’t going to wait any longer. He had completed all the important acts—she would simply have to believe him.

The supper waltz came and went, as did supper itself, an array of delicacies Em’s old cook had, Lucinda assured him, been up the past three nights producing. Filled with laughter and repartee, the hours fled past until, at the last, the musicians laid bow to string once more and the strains of the last waltz rose above the sea of glittering heads.

The third waltz.

Close by the edge of the floor, Harry and Ruthven were deep in discussions of a distinctly equine nature while beside them Mr Amberly and Lucinda pursued a shared interest in landscapes. As the music swelled, Harry turned to Lucinda—just as she turned to him. Their gazes locked; after a moment, Harry’s lips twisted wryly.

His eyes on hers, he offered her, not his arm but his hand.

Lucinda glanced at it, then looked into his green eyes. Her heart accelerated, pulsing in her throat.

Harry’s brows slowly rose. “Well, my dear?”

Her gaze steady on his, Lucinda drew in a breath. Her smile soft and oddly fragile, she placed her hand in his.

Harry’s fingers closed tight over hers. He bowed elegantly; Lucinda’s smile grew—she sank into a curtsy. Harry raised her, a light in his eyes she had not before seen. He drew her into his arms, then, with consummate skill, whirled them onto the floor.

Lucinda let herself flow with his stride. His strength surrounded her; he was protection and support, lover and master, helpmate and friend. She searched the hard planes of his face, chiselled, austere; with him, she could be what she wished—what she wanted to be. Her gaze softened, as did her lips. He noticed; his gaze fell to her lips, then rose again to capture hers, a subtle shift in the green raising a slow heat beneath her skin, a warmth that owed nothing to the crowds and everything to what lay between them.

With inherent grace, they swirled down the long room, seeing no one, aware of nothing beyond their shared existence, trapped by the waltz and the promise in each other’s eyes.

Lord Ruthven and Mr Amberly looked on, smugly satisfied smiles on their faces.

“Well—I think we can congratulate ourselves, Amberly.” Lord Ruthven turned and held out his hand.

“Indeed.” Mr Amberly beamed and shook it. “A job well done!” His eyes lifted to the couple circling the floor. His smile grew broader. “No doubt about it.”

Lord Ruthven followed his gaze—and grinned. “Not a one.”