Lucinda sniffed and dabbed her eyes with a lace-edged square. “I don’t know.” She felt like wailing. Her lips set in a mulish line. “But I won’t have it.”
“Quite right, too!” Em snorted. “Don’t worry—he’ll come about. Probably just took him by surprise.”
Lucinda considered, then wearily shrugged.
“Seems to me that there must be something we don’t know,” Em mused. “Known him all his life—he’s always the predictable one—always good reasons and logical arguments behind his actions—he’s not an impulsive man.” She grinned, her gaze distant. “Quite the opposite—Jack’s impulsive. Harry’s cautious.” A frown slowly settled over her face. “Has been for a long time, now I think of it.”
Lucinda waited, hoping for some reassuring insight, but her hostess remained sunk in thought.
Then Em snorted and shook herself, her stiff bombazine rustling. “Whatever it is, he’ll just have to come to terms with it and offer for you properly.”
Lucinda swallowed and nodded. “Properly”—by which she meant he would have to tell her he loved her. After today, and all they had shared, she would settle for nothing less.
THAT EVENING, Em took charge and insisted Lucinda remain at home, there to have an early night and recover her composure and her looks.
“The last thing you want to do is show him or the ton a face like that.”
Having thus overcome Lucinda’s half-hearted resistance, Em left the redoubtable Agatha ministering with cold cucumber compresses and, with the effervescent Heather under her wing, strode forth to do battle at Lady Caldecott’s ball.
She spied Harry in the throng, but was not the least surprised when her errant nephew showed no disposition to come within firing range. But it was not him she had come to see.
“Indisposed?” Lord Ruthven’s cool grey eyes reflected honest concern. “I do hope it’s nothing serious?”
Well—it is and it isn’t.” Em lifted a brow at him. “You’re one who’s far more awake than you appear, so I dare say you’ve noticed that she’s been endeavouring to bring a certain recalcitrant to heel. Never an easy task, of course. A difficult road to travel—prone to find potholes in one’s path. She’s a bit moped at present.” Em paused to glance again at his lordship. “Dare say, when she reappears tomorrow, she could do with a little encouragement, don’t y’know?”
Lord Ruthven studied Harry’s aunt with wary fascination. “Ah—indeed.” After a moment, in which he recalled the numerous times Harry had cut him out when they’d both had the same ladybird in their sights, he said, “Pray convey my most earnest wishes for a speedy recovery to Mrs Babbacombe. I will, of course, be delighted to welcome her back to our midst—I look forward to her return with uncommon anticipation.”
Em grinned. “Dare say you do.”
With a regal wave, she dismissed him. Lord Ruthven bowed gracefully and withdrew.
Fifteen minutes later, Mr Amberly stopped by her chaise. The instant the formalities were over, he asked, “Wondered if you’d be so good as to convey my regards to Mrs Babbacombe? Understand she’s under the weather tonight. She’s a distraction sorely missed by us poor bachelors. Wanted to assure her of my continuing support when she once again graces our halls.”
Em smiled her approval. “I’ll make certain to pass your kind words on, sir.”
Mr Amberly bowed and drifted away.
To Em’s satisfaction, her evening was punctuated by a succession of similar encounters as, one after another, Harry’s close friends stopped by to pledge their aid in furthering Lucinda’s cause.
Chapter Nine
Lady Mott’s drum bade fair to being the most horrendous crush of the Season. Or so Lucinda thought as she inched through the crowd on Lord Sommerville’s arm. About them, the ton milled en masse; it was difficult to see more than five feet in any direction.
“Phew!” Lord Sommerville threw her an apologetic glance. “Pity the dance landed us so far from your companions. Normally enjoy wandering the room—but not like this.”
“Indeed.” Lucinda tried to keep her smile bright, no mean effort when she felt like wilting. The heat was rising about them; bodies hemmed them in. “I must confess that I’ve yet to divine why such a crowd, beyond the bounds of sense, should be considered so desirable.”
Lord Sommerville nodded sagely.
Lucinda hid a weak grin. His lordship was close to her own age, yet she felt immeasurably older. He was still striving for a position amongst the rakes of the ton; in her opinion, he had some developing yet to do before he would rival some she could name.
Harry’s image rose in her mind; with an effort, she banished it. There was no point in bemoaning what was well and truly spilt milk.
Ever since she had flung his offer in his teeth, she’d been plagued by doubts—doubts she did not wish to countenance. She hadn’t seen him since; he had not returned to go down on bended knee. Presumably, he had yet to see the error of his ways. Or else, despite her firm conviction—and what did she know of the matter, after all?—he did not truly love her.
She kept telling herself that if that was so, then it was all for the best—when he had forced her to put her thoughts into words, she had realised just how much a marriage built on love now meant to her. She had everything else she could want of life—except that—a loving husband with whom she could build a future. And what use was all the rest without that?
She’d been right—but her heart refused to lift, hanging like a leaden weight in her breast.