An Unwilling Conquest (Regencies 7)

Lord Sommerville craned his neck to peer forward. “Looks like the crowd thins just ahead.”

Her smile growing weaker, Lucinda nodded. The couple immediately in front of them paused to acknowledge an introduction. Trapped, they halted. Lucinda glanced to her left—directly at a gold pin in the shape of an acorn, nestling in the snowy folds of a cravat tied with mathematical precision. She knew that pin—she had pulled it free a little over twenty-four hours before.

A vice tightened about Lucinda’s chest. She looked up.

Clear green eyes, the colour of a storm-tossed sea, met hers. Her heart in her mouth, Lucinda searched but could read nothing in his shadowed gaze. His expression was hard, impassive, the planes of his face an impenetrable mask. Defeated there, Lucinda looked at his lips.

Only to see them firm, thinning into a severe line.

Puzzled, she glanced up—and caught a fleeting glimpse of uncertainty in his eyes. She sensed his hesitation.

Five feet and two pairs of shoulders separated them.

His eyes returned to hers; their gazes locked. He shifted, his lips twisted, quirking up at the ends.

“Ah—there we are. At last!” Lord Sommerville turned and bowed, gesturing before them.

Distracted, Lucinda looked ahead and discovered the crowd had eased, leaving a path forward. “Ah—yes.”

She glanced at Harry.

Only to see him turn aside to greet an imposing matron with a simpering young girl in tow. He acknowledged the introduction to the chit with a restrained bow.

Battling the constriction in her chest, Lucinda drew in a deep breath and turned away, forcing herself to listen to Lord Sommerville’s patter with some semblance of interest.

From the corner of his eye, Harry watched her move away; he clung to the sight of her until she was swallowed up by the crowd. Only then did he give his attention to Lady Argyle.

“Just a little soirée—a select few only.” Lady Argyle beamed. “So you younger folk can chat and get to know each other better. Not something one can readily accomplish in this crowd, is it?”

Her ladyship’s protruberant eyes invited him to agree. Harry was far too old a hand to fall for the trick. His expression coldly impassive, he looked down on her from a very great distance. “I’m afraid, Lady Argyle, that I’m otherwise engaged. Indeed,” he continued, languid boredom threatening, “I don’t look to spend much time in the ballrooms this Season.” He caught her ladyship’s suspicious eye. “Pressing matters elsewhere,” he murmured. With a smooth bow, he took advantage of a break in the surrounding throng to slip away, leaving Lady Argyle unsure just what, exactly, he had been telling her.

Once free, Harry hesitated, then followed in Lucinda’s wake. His declaration that he was finished with her rang mockingly in his ears; he shut off the sound. After trying a number of tacks, he finally located her, at the centre of her inevitable court. Ruthven was there, as were Amberly and Satterly. Harry’s eyes narrowed.

Amberly was at Lucinda’s side, chatting with his usual facility; he gestured hugely and everyone laughed, Lucinda included. Then it was Satterly’s turn; Hugo leaned forward and smiled, clearly retelling some on dit or recounting some incident. Ruthven, on Lucinda’s other side, glanced down at her. He was watching her face closely. Harry’s lips compressed.

Concealed by the crowd, he focused on Lucinda. She smiled at Satterly’s tale yet the gesture lacked the warmth Harry knew it could hold. The conversation became general; she laughed and returned some comment but without the assured gaiety she normally displayed. The dangerous tension that had gripped him eased.

She was subdued—very possibly unhappy beneath her calm veneer.

Guilt welled; ruthlessly, Harry stifled it. Serve the damned woman right—he’d offered; she’d refused.

He’d escaped a dangerous situation. Logic suggested he remove himself from further temptation. Harry hesitated, and saw Ruthven offer Lucinda his arm.

“Might I suggest a short stroll about the terrace, m’dear?” Concerned by the wan, haunted look in Lucinda’s eyes, Ruthven could think of nothing else that might bring her some ease. Her gaze, dark and shadowed, constantly roamed the crowd. “Some fresh air will help you forget this stuffy ballroom.”

Lucinda smiled, aware her brightness had dimmed. “Indeed,” she said, glancing around. “The atmosphere is too close for my comfort, but…” She hesitated, then glanced up at his lordship. “I’m really not sure…”

She let the words trail away, unable to put her uncertainty into words.

“Oh—don’t worry about that.” Mr Amberly waved expansively. “Tell you what—we’ll all go.” He smiled encouragingly at Lucinda. “Nothing anyone could make of that, what?”

Lucinda blinked—and glanced at Lord Ruthven and Mr Satterly.

“Capital notion, Amberly.” His lordship again offered her his arm, this time with a gallant flourish.

“Just the ticket.” Mr Satterly nodded and stepped back, waving her on.

Lucinda blinked again. Then, realising they were all watching her, waiting, genuine thoughtfulness their only motivation, she smiled gratefully, and even more gratefully relaxed. “Thank you, gentlemen, that would indeed be most kind of you.”