An Unwilling Conquest (Regencies 7)

river valley, meadows giving way to marshland, water glinting in the sun. Roads meandered through the marshes, leading to Walthamstow, just beyond the valley. Oaks and beeches at their backs shielded them from the sun; the haze of a glorious afternoon surrounded them. Bees buzzed, flitting from fieldflower to hedgerow bloom; doves cooed overhead.

Harry drew in a deep breath—and shot a considering glance at Lucinda, stretched out beside him. Beyond her reclined Em, her hat over her face. On a neighbouring rug sat Heather and Gerald, engrossed in animated discourse. Beyond them, at a suitable distance, perched on and about a collection of fallen logs, sat Agatha and Em’s even more severe dresser, together with Em’s coachman, Dawlish, Joshua, Sim and the little maid Amy. In their dark clothes, they looked like so many crows.

Harry grimaced and looked away. Fate had chosen a fine moment to turn fickle.

The instant he had realised that it was Heather’s guardianship that was Joliffe and Mortimer Babbacombe’s goal, he had determined to come between them and Lucinda with all possible speed. By marrying her, he would assume legal responsibility in all such matters—automatically, without question. It was the one, absolutely guaranteed way of protecting her, of shielding her from their machinations.

But her yesterday had been filled with preparations for the soirée; the household had been at sixes and sevens. He hadn’t liked his prospects of finding a quiet moment, let alone a quiet corner to propose.

As for today, they had organised this outing a week ago as a quiet relaxation away from the ton after the excitement of the soirée. They had come in two carriages, Em’s and Lucinda’s, the menservants riding atop; Agatha and Amy had shared Lucinda’s carriage with their mistress and himself. They had lunched surrounded by sunshine and peace. Now Em looked set for her postprandial nap; it would probably be at least an hour before hunger again prodded Heather and Gerald to a more general awareness.

So, since learning of her danger, this was his first chance to remove her from it. Hiding his determination behind an easy expression, Harry got to his feet. Lucinda looked up, putting up her hand to shield her eyes. Harry smiled reassuringly down at her before lifting his gaze to her drab watchdogs. With a slight movement of his head, he summoned Dawlish, then strolled back towards the trees. When he was out of earshot of his intended and his aunt, he stopped and waited for Dawlish to reach him.

“Something wrong?”

Harry smiled politely. “No. I just thought I’d let it be known that, when I take Mrs Babbacombe for a stroll in a few moments, we won’t need an escort.” When Dawlish screwed up his eyes, as if considering arguing, Harry continued, his tone growing steely, “She’ll be perfectly safe with me.”

Dawlish humphed. “Can’t say as I blame you. Cramp anyone’s style, it would, having to go down on your knees before an audience.”

Harry raised his eyes heavenwards in a mute gesture of appeal.

“I’ll tell the others.”

Harry hurriedly lowered his gaze but Dawlish was already stomping back through the trees. Muttering a curse, Harry did the same, returning to the rugs on the grass.

“Come for a walk.”

Lucinda glanced up at the soft words—which cloaked what sounded like a command. Beside her, Em was gently snoring; Heather and Gerald were in a world of their own. She met Harry’s eyes, very green; he raised a brow and held out his hand. Lucinda studied it for an instant, savouring the thrill of anticipation that shot through her, then, with studied calm, laid her fingers in his.

Harry drew her to her feet. Tucking her hand in his arm, he turned her towards the leafy woods.

The woods were not extensive, merely stands of trees separating fields and meadows. They strolled without words, leaving the others behind, until they came to a large field left fallow. The meadow grasses and flowers had taken over; the ground was carpeted in a shifting sea of small bright blooms.

Lucinda sighed. “How lovely.” She smiled up at Harry.

Engaged in scanning their surroundings, he glanced back at her in time to return her smile. The trees screened them from their companions and any others strolling the river banks; they were not isolated but as private as, in the circumstances, it was probably wise to be. He gestured ahead; by unvoiced agreement, they strolled to the centre of the field where a large rock, weathered to smoothness, created a natural seat.

With a swirl of her blue muslin skirts, Lucinda sat. Harry noticed that her gown matched the cornflowers scattered through the grass. She had worn a new bonnet but had let it fall to dangle by its ribbons on her back, leaving her face unshadowed. She lifted her head and her gaze met his.

Stillness held them, then her delicate brows arched slightly, in query, in invitation.

Harry scanned her face, then drew in a deep breath.

“Ah-hem!”

They both turned to see Dawlish striding across the field. Harry bit back a curse. “What now?”

Dawlish cast him a sympathetic glance. “There’s a messenger come—’bout that business this morning.”

Harry groaned. “Now?”

Dawlish met his eye. “Thought as how you might think it better to get that matter all tied and tight—before you get…distracted, like.”

Harry grimaced—Dawlish had a point.

“Set on seeing you specifically, this messenger—said as that was his orders.” Dawlish nodded back at the trees. “Said he’d wait by the stile yonder.”

Swallowing his irritation, Harry shot a considering glance at Lucinda; she met it with an affectionate smile. Spending five minutes to acknowledge the end of Joliffe’s threat would leave him free to concentrate on her—wholly, fully, without reservation. Without further interruption. Harry looked at Dawlish. “Which stile?”