Lucinda blinked, and shifted her gaze to his eyes. “Actually, I’d thought to start with the Argyle Arms at Hammersmith tomorrow.”
Harry didn’t bother asking if she’d arranged a suitable escort. The damned woman was so irra
tionally sure of herself, so ignorant of the true dangers, so determinedly wilful…His lips thinned. “I’ll call for you at nine.”
Lucinda’s eyes opened wide.
Harry noticed—and frowned at her. “You needn’t fear—we’ll go in my curricle and I’ll have Dawlish along. Perfectly proper, I assure you.”
Lucinda swallowed her happy laugh. Em’s strictures replayed in her head. She eyed him consideringly, then gracefully acquiesced. “Thank you, sir. Your company will, I’m sure, make the drive more interesting.”
Harry narrowed his eyes, but could make nothing of her serene expression. Stifling a humph, he drew her a fraction closer—and set his mind to enjoying the rest of the waltz.
At its end, he strolled back with her to where her court waited, impatient and eager. Harry read the anticipation in their eyes. He stiffened. Instead of yielding his fair partner up with a flourish and an elegant bow, the prescribed procedure, he covered her hand, resting on his sleeve, with his. And remained, thus anchored, by her side.
Lucinda pretended not to notice. She chatted gaily, ignoring the intrigued glint in Lord Ruthven’s perceptive eye and Mr Amberly’s disapproving expression. Harry, she noted, made no attempt whatever to contribute to the conversation; she longed to look at him but standing so close, she could not. Not without making her interest obvious. She was somewhat relieved when Mrs Anabelle Burnham, a young matron ambling past on the arm of Mr Courtney, decided to join them.
“I declare, it’s going to be yet another crush.” Mrs Burnham fluttered her lashes at Lord Ruthven before turning her laughing brown eyes on Lucinda. “You’ll grow used to them, my dear. And you have to admit these larger gatherings are…entertaining.”
Another laughing glance went Lord Ruthven’s way.
Lucinda struggled to keep her lips straight. “Indeed.” Nothing loath, she slanted a glance up at her silent partner. “And the entertainment takes so many varied forms, too. Don’t you find it so?”
Anabelle Burnham blinked, then her teasing smile brightened. “Oh, definitely, my dear Mrs Babbacombe. Definitely!”
She bestowed another arch glance on Lord Ruthven, then turned her sights on Mr Amberly.
Lucinda didn’t notice—she was trapped in Harry’s green gaze. The planes of his face were hard, sculpted, his expression impassive yet growing more forbidding by the second. She saw his eyes narrow slightly; his lips were a thin line. Breathing was suddenly very difficult.
The squeak of the violins saved her—she didn’t know from what.
“Mrs Babbacombe—I declare you must, positively you must, bestow this quadrille on my poor self.”
With a mental curse, Lucinda glanced to where Mr Amberly stood watching her, entreaty in his eyes. She blinked—and realized that he was begging her to rescue him. She couldn’t help but smile.
She glanced up at Harry; gently she withdrew her hand from under his. For an instant, his fingers tensed—then he released her. “I haven’t thanked you for my waltz, sir.” Lucinda lifted her eyes to his. “It was most enjoyable.”
His features were granite. He said nothing but bowed, effortlessly elegant in his severe black and white.
With an inclination of her head, Lucinda turned away and placed her hand on Mr Amberly’s sleeve.
To her intense disappointment, Harry was no longer present when, at the conclusion of the quadrille, Mr Amberly returned her to the small group close by Em’s chaise. Under cover of the conversation, Lucinda scanned the surrounding shoulders but could not find the ones she sought. She saw Heather, bright-eyed and clearly enjoying herself hugely. Her stepdaughter waved, then turned back to her set—Gerald Lester, the Morley sisters and two other young gentlemen. Feeling distinctly deflated, Lucinda forced herself to pay attention to her cavaliers. The circle around her, which had earlier thinned, now pressed in on her. She could understand why these events were labelled crushes. At least Mrs Burnham hadn’t deserted her.
But her enjoyment in the evening had waned; it was an effort to conjure a bright smile and a witty response to the constant flow of repartee.
Somewhat later, the lilting strains of another waltz drifted from the musicians’ dais at the other end of the room. Lucinda blinked. She had already danced with all those of her court she considered reasonably safe—she hadn’t anticipated another waltz.
She glanced up—to find Lord Ruthven’s eyes upon her, a curious glint in their depths. “Well, my dear?” he drawled. “Which one of us will you favour with a second dance?”
Lucinda raised her brows haughtily. And scanned those she had yet to favour at all. Three promptly pressed their claims—one, a rakish dandy a few years older than herself but infinitely more experienced, held the greatest promise. He might have impropriety on his mind but he was, Lucinda judged, manageable. With a serene smile, and a cool glance for Ruthven, she extended her hand. “Mr Ellerby?”
To give him his due, Mr Ellerby behaved with all due decorum on the dance floor. By the end of the dance, Lucinda was congratulating herself, not only on her increasing confidence in the waltz itself but on her accurate assessment of her partner, when Mr Ellerby abruptly reverted to type.
“Quite stuffy in here, don’t you find, Mrs Babbacombe?”
Lucinda glanced up and smiled. “Indeed—one could hardly find it not. The room is certainly very crowded.”
So crowded she could no longer see Em’s chaise, concealed by the milling throng. The waltz had landed them at the other end of the room.