An Unwilling Conquest (Regencies 7)

“Is that why you did it—to convince me you loved me?” Lucinda felt as if her heart would burst. She had only to look into his eyes to know the truth.

Harry’s lips twisted in a self-deprecatory grin. “Why else?” He gestured expansively. “What else could move me to prostrate myself at your feet?” He glanced at them—and frowned. “Which, incidentally, are very wet.” He reached down and eased off her sodden boots. That done, he pushed up her wet skirts and started on her garters.

Lucinda smiled. “And you danced three waltzes with me—remember?”

“How could I forget?” Harry returned, busy rolling down her stockings. “A more public declaration I cannot imagine.”

Lucinda giggled and wriggled her chilled toes.

Harry straightened and met her eyes. “So, Mrs Lucinda Babbacombe—after all my sterling efforts—do you believe me when I say I love you?”

Lucinda’s smile lit her eyes. She reached up both hands to frame his face. “Silly man—you had only to say.” Gently, she touched her lips to his.

When she drew back, Harry snorted disbelievingly. “And you’d have believed me? Even after my faux pas that afternoon you seduced me?”

Lucinda’s smile was soft. “Oh, yes.” Her dimple came back. “Even then.”

Harry decided to leave it at that. “So you agree to marry me without further fuss?”

Lucinda nodded once, decisively.

“Thank heaven for that.” Harry closed his arms about her. “We’re getting married in two days at Lester Hall—it’s all arranged. I’ve got the licence in my pocket.” He glanced down and saw the damp patches on his coat, close about her. He frowned and lifted her back so she was once more sitting upright on his knee. “I hope you haven’t got it wet enough for the ink to run.” He undid the coat buttons and lifted the garment from her.

Lucinda laughed, so delirious with happiness she couldn’t contain it. She reached out and drew his head to hers and kissed him longingly. The kiss deepened, then Harry disengaged.

“You’re very wet. We should get you out of these things.”

Siren-like, Lucinda raised her brows, then obediently turned so he could undo her laces. He eased her from her gown, dropping it to the floor where it landed with a soft splat.

Her chemise, drenched and all but transparent, clung like a second skin. A soft blush rose beneath it; Lucinda let her lids veil her eyes, watching Harry’s hands from beneath her lashes as, gently yet deliberately, he peeled the delicate material from her.

Harry sensed the heat rising within her, heard the sudden shallow intake of her breath as he drew the last shred of concealment from her. She shivered—but he didn’t think it was due to being cold. Drawing in a deep breath, she raised her eyes to his.

Lucinda looked into eyes brilliantly green, screened by heavy lids; nothing could hide the desire that burned in their peridot depths.

She sat naked on his lap. His hands moved gently over her, over her back, over her arms, languidly stroking, caressing. He leaned forward and pressed kisses to the bruises Scrugthorpe had left on her shoulders. Lucinda shuddered. Unbidden, entirely unexpected, a long-for-gotten conversation drifted through her mind. Eyes agleam, she chuckled softly.

Harry stared at her hungrily, the siren who had lured him to his doom. Clinging to sanity, he raised a brow in the nearest he could get to languid enquiry.

Lucinda laughed. She caught his eyes with hers, then, leaning closer, let her lids screen her eyes. “Em once said,” she murmured, “that I should aim to get you on your knees.” Fleetingly, she lifted her eyes to his, her lips gently curved. “I don’t think she meant it in quite this way.”

The body beneath her was hard, rigid, powerful but harnessed.

“Ah, yes. An eminently wise old lady, my aunt.” Gently, Harry lifted Lucinda, settling her so she was straddling his knees, her knees on the seat on either side of his hips. “But she tends to forget that—sometimes—it’s very hard for a rake to—er—change his spots.”

Lucinda wasn’t at all sure about her change in position. “Ah, Harry?”

“Hmm?” Harry wasn’t interested in further conversation.

Lucinda realised as much when he urged her towards him and his lips closed gently about one tightly furled nipple. Her breath caught. “Harry—we’re in a carriage.”

Her protest was breathless. His lips left her; he put out his tongue and rasped her sensitised flesh. Lucinda shuddered and closed her eyes; his hands on her hips held her steady—every time she caught her breath, he stole it away. “You can’t be serious,” she eventually managed to gasp. She paused—then sucked in a quick breath. “Not here? In a moving carriage?” His answering chuckle sounded devilish. “Perfectly possible, I assure you.” His hands shifted. “The rocking’s part of the fun—you’ll see.”

Lucinda struggled to draw her mind from the sensual web he had so skilfully woven. “Yes, but—” Abruptly, her eyes flew open. “Dear heaven!” After a stunned moment, her lids fell. She whispered, a soft catch in her voice, “Harry?”

A long moment of breathy silence ensued, then Lucinda sighed—deeply. “Oh, Harry!”

AN HOUR LATER, as the carriage slowly rolled into the leafy streets of Mayfair, Harry looked down at the woman in his lap. She was curled snugly in his greatcoat, dry and warm—he was prepared to swear no chill could have survived the fire that had recently claimed them. Her clothes lay in a sodden heap on the floor; his coat and breeches would keep Dawlish occupied for hours. Harry didn’t care—he had all he most wanted of life.