An Unwilling Conquest (Regencies 7)

As she leaned back against Harry’s arm and let the magic of the moment take her, Lucinda knew that was true. Even while a small part of her sorrowed, she felt elation sweep her. He would ask her very soon—and she knew how she would answer. She loved him too much to deny him again, even should he deny her. Deep inside, her conviction that he loved her had never waned—it never would, she was sure. She could draw on that for strength as she had hoped to draw on his acknowledgement of his love. If it was not to be, it wasn’t; she was too prosaic a creature to rail against a much-desired fate.

With the last ringing chord of the waltz, the evening was declared over.

As family, Harry hung back, allowing the other g

uests to depart. Gerald finally headed downstairs, leaving Harry with Lucinda at their head. His hand found hers in the folds of her gown; twining his fingers through hers, he drew her to face him. Ignoring Em leaning against the balustrade on Lucinda’s other side, Harry raised Lucinda’s hand to brush a kiss across her knuckles, then shifting his hold, his gaze steady on hers, he tipped her fingers back to place a kiss on her inner wrist.

Lucinda, trapped in his gaze, suppressed a delicious shiver.

Harry smiled—and traced her cheek with one long finger. “We’ll talk tomorrow.”

The words were soft, low—they went straight to Lucinda’s heart. She smiled softly; Harry bowed, first to her, then to Em. Then, without a backward glance, he descended the stairs—to the very last, the very picture of the elegant rake.

Outside Hallows House, lurking in the shadows on the opposite side of the street, unremarkable amid the small gathering of urchins and inveterate watchers who congregated outside any ball or party, Scrugthorpe kept his eyes fixed on the lighted doorway and muttered beneath his breath.

“Just wait till I get my hands on you, bitch. Once I’m done with you, no high-stickler of a gentleman will want to sully himself with you. Damaged goods, you’ll be—well and truly damaged.” He cackled softly, gleefully and rubbed his hands. In the shadows, his eyes gleamed.

A link-boy, waiting to pick up any likely trade, strolled past, casting Scrugthorpe an incurious glance. A few paces on, the boy passed a street-sweeper, leaning on his broom, his face obscured by an ancient floppy hat. The link-boy grinned at the sweeper, then ambled on to prop against a nearby lamppost.

Scrugthorpe missed the exchange, intent on the last stragglers emerging from Hallows House.

“You’ll be mine very soon,” he leered. “Then I’ll teach you not to give a man lip. Too hoity by half.” His grin turned feral. “I’ll bring you back to earth right quick.”

A thin, tuneful whistle floated across Scrugthorpe’s senses, distracting him from his plotting. The tune continued—a popular air; Scrugthorpe stiffened. Alert, he scanned the shadows for the whistler. His gaze settled on the link-boy. The tune continued; Scrugthrope knew it well, even down to the curious lilting catch the whistler put at the end of each verse.

Scrugthorpe cast a last glance at the empty doorway across the road, then, with every evidence of unconcern, headed off down the street.

The sweeper and link-boy watched him go. Then the link-boy nodded to the sweeper and slipped into the shadows in Scrugthorpe’s wake.

Chapter Fifteen

The next morning, Harry was flat on his stomach deep in dreams, his arms wrapped about his pillow, when a large hand descended on his bare shoulder.

His response was instantaneous—half-rising, eyes wide, muscles tensed, fists clenching.

“Now, now!” Dawlish had wisely backed out of reach. “I wish as you’d get out of that habit—there ain’t no angry husbands ’round here.”

Eyes glittering, Harry hauled in a breath then expelled it irritably. Propping himself on one arm, he raked his hair out of his eyes. “What the devil’s the time?”

“Nine,” Dawlish replied, already at the wardrobe. “But you’ve got visitors.”

“At nine?” Harry turned over and sat up.

“Salter—and he’s brought that agent of the missus’s—Mr Mabberly.”

Harry blinked. Draping his arms over his knees, he stared at Dawlish. “I haven’t married the damned woman yet.”

“Just getting in some practice, like.” Dawlish turned from the robe with a grey coat over his arm. “This do?”

Ten minutes later, Harry descended the narrow staircase, wondering if Lucinda would prefer a grander place when they stayed in town. He hoped she wouldn’t—he’d been renting these rooms for the past ten years; they felt comfortable, like a well-worn coat.

He opened the door to his study and beheld his visitors, Salter standing by the desk, Mabberly, looking thoroughly uncomfortable, perched on the chair before it.

At sight of him, Mabberly rose.

“Good morning, Mabberly.” Harry nodded and shut the door. “Salter.”

Salter returned his nod but refrained from comment, his lips compressed as if holding the words back.