An Unwilling Conquest (Regencies 7)

Only to be thumped on the shoulder at the most critical moment.

Harry choked. Recovering his breath, he swung to face his assailant. “Damn it—I hope your wife aims to teach you some manners!”

Jack laughed. “Probably—but none, I suspect, that will apply to you.” Deep blue eyes twinkling, he raised his brows at Harry. “She thinks you’re dangerous. In severe need of the right woman to blunt your lethal edge.”

“Indeed?” Harry replied, repressively chill. He took another sip of his brandy and looked away.

Jack was undeterred. “As I live and breathe,” he affirmed. “But she’s of the opinion it’ll take a brave woman—a Boadicea, I gather—to successfully take you on.”

Harry rolled his eyes—but couldn’t stop his mind supplying an image of Lucinda, half-naked, bedaubed with blue paint, driving a chariot. “Your wife is clearly blessed with a typically extravagant feminine imagination.”

Jack chuckled. “I’ll let you know after the honeymoon. We’re off to Rawling’s Cottage for a week. Nice and quiet up in Leicestershire just now.”

Harry shook his head, a half-smile on his lips as he took in his brother’s bright eyes. “Just don’t lose anything vital—like your wits.”

Jack laughed. “I think I’ll manage—just.” His slow grin surfaced as his gaze found his wife at the centre of a crowd near the door. He turned to Harry and put out his hand. “Wish me luck?”

Harry met his gaze. He straightened—and took Jack’s hand. “You know I do. And your Golden Head as well.”

Jack grinned. “I’ll tell her.” Poised to leave, Jack slid Harry a sidelong glance. “Take care yourself.” With a last nod, he headed for his future.

Leaving Harry to wonder just how much of his current predicament showed in his face.

Fifteen minutes later, at the top of the steps outside the Webbs’ house, he watched as the carriage carrying Jack and his bride rounded the corner into South Audley Street and disappeared from view. The assembled throng turned with a sigh and shuffled back indoors. Harry hung back, avoiding Em and his father. He re-entered the hall at the rear of the crowd.

The butler had just returned with his gloves and cane when a cool, calm voice enquired, “But surely you’ll stay for just a little while, Mr Lester? I feel we’ve hardly had a chance to become acquainted.”

Harry turned to view Mrs Webb’s delicate features—and her silver-blue eyes which, he was quite positive, saw far too much for his comfort. “Thank you, ma’am, but I must away.” He bowed elegantly.

Only to hear her sigh as he straightened.

“I really do hope you make the right decision.”

To Harry’s intense discomfort, he found himself trapped in her silver-blue stare.

“It’s quite easy, you know—no great problem, even though it always feels as if it is. One just has to decide what one wants most of life. Take my word for it.” She patted his arm in a motherly fashion, quite at odds with her supremely elegant appearance. “It’s quite easy if you put your mind to it.”

For the first time in a very long while, Harry was rendered speechless.

Lucilla Webb smiled up at him, utterly ingenuous, then fluttered a delicate hand. “I must return to my guests. But do try hard to get it right, Mr Lester. And good luck.”

With an airy wave, she glided back to the drawing-room.

Harry escaped.

On reaching the pavement, he hesitated. His lodgings? Brook’s? Manton’s? Frowning, he shook his head and started walking.

Unsummoned, the image of Boadicea returned. Harry’s frown faded; his lips twitched, then curved. A fanciful notion. But was he really such a dangerous figure that a woman needs must put on armour to deal with him?

The rake within him was not averse to the analogy; the man wasn’t so sure of the compliment. He was sure, however, having had the point proved repeatedly, that Lucinda Babbacombe was not the sort of woman to recognise danger, much less actively consider it. She, he imagined, would simply have looked the Roman commanders in the eye and calmly pointed out that they were trespassers. Then waited, arms folded, toe tapping, for them to remove themselves from her land.

Very likely, they would have gone.

Just as he—

Abruptly, Harry shook himself free of his thoughts. Drawing in a breath, he lifted his head—and found he was nearing the end of South Audley Street. Ahead, the leafy precincts of Green Park beckoned.

Without allowing himself to consider, he strode on, then crossed Piccadilly to amble beneath the trees. There were few of the fashionable in sight—it was early yet and most would go to Hyde Park nearby. The gentle lawns about him played host to nursemaids and children, an odd couple or two strolling, like himself, aimlessly down the paths.