An Unwilling Conquest (Regencies 7)

Amberly laughed and spoke, bending closer so she did not have to strain to hear.

Abruptly, Harry swung his gaze to the other members of the party. Satterly was chatting to Em, who had taken the seat beside Lucinda. Heather Babbacombe plumped down in the seat beyond Em; Harry spied Gerald standing behind her, his stance clearly proclaiming how he viewed his fair charge.

Momentarily taken aback, Harry frowned. Gerald’s expression was easy for him to read, even at this distance. His brother looked far too intent. He was midway through making a mental note to have a quiet word in his baby brother’s ear, when he pulled himself up short. Heather Babbacombe might be young but she was, to his reading, an intensely carefree and honest young girl. Who was he to speak against her?

His gaze drifted back to Lucinda. His lips twisted, more in self-mockery than in humour.

Who was he to argue with love?

What other reason could he give for being here—other than a deep need for reassurance? Even Dawlish had taken to eyeing him with something perilously close to pity. When he had, somewhat irritably, demanded, “What the devil’s the matter?” his dour henchman had rubbed his chin, then opined, “It’s just that you don’t exactly seem to be enjoying yourself—if you know what I mean.”

He had glared and stalked into the library—but he knew very well what Dawlish had meant. The last week had been sheer hell. He had thought that cutting Lucinda Babbacombe out of his life, given she had only just entered it, would be easy enough. He was, after all, a past master at leaving women behind him; avoiding relationships was part of a rake’s stock-in-trade.

But putting the lovely Mrs Babbacombe out of his thoughts had proved impossible.

Which left him with only one alternative.

As Mrs Webb had so succinctly put it—what he wanted most.

But did she still want him?

Harry watched as Amberly rattled on, gesticulating elegantly. He was a wit of sorts, and a polished raconteur. The possibility that Lucinda, having rejected his proposal, might have set him aside in her heart, decided he was not worth the trouble and turned instead to someone else for comfort, was not a particularly reassuring thought.

Even less reassuring was the realisation that, if she had, he would get no second chance—had no right to demand another, nor to interfere with his friend’s pursuit.

A vice closed around Harry’s chest. Amberly gesticulated again and Em laughed. Lucinda looked up at him, a smile on her lips. Harry squinted, desperate to see the expression in her eyes.

But she was too far away; when she turned back to the front of the box, her lids veiled her eyes.

The fanfare sounded, erupting from the musician’s pit before the stage. It was greeted with noisy catcalls from the pit and polite applause from the boxes. The house lamps were doused as the stage lamps flared. The performers in the farce made their entrance; all eyes were riveted on the stage.

All except Lucinda’s.

Eyes adjusting to the darkness, Harry saw she was looking down, not at the stage, apparently staring at her hands, possibly playing with her fan. She kept her head up, so no one in the box behind her would suspect her attention was not focused on the play, as was theirs. The flickering light played over her features, calm but hauntingly sad, reserved but eloquently expressive.

Harry drew in a deep breath and straightened away from the wall. Some of the tightness in his chest melted away.

Abruptly, Lucinda lifted her head and looked around—not at the stage but at the audience, uncaring of who might notice her distraction. Harry froze as her gaze scanned the boxes above him, then shifted further along.

Even in the poor light, he could see the hope that lit her face, that invested her whole body with sudden animation.

He watched it slowly fade.

She blinked, then slowly settled back in her chair, her face composed yet inexpressibly sadder than before.

Harry’s heart twisted painfully. This time, he didn’t try to shut it away, to blot out the emotion. But as he turned and moved silently to the door along the wall, he acknowledged the joy that came in its wake.

He hadn’t been wrong about Lucinda Babbacombe. The damned woman was so ridiculously sure of herself she hadn’t even considered the danger in loving him.

Stepping out of the darkness of the pit, he smiled.

Two floors above, in the crowded gallery, Earle Joliffe was very far from smiling. In fact, he was scowling—at Lucinda, and the party in Amberly’s box.

“Deuce take it! What the devil’s going on?” he hissed.

Beside him, Mortimer Babbacombe returned an uncomprehending look.

Disgusted, Joliffe gestured at the box opposite. “What’s she doing to them? She’s turned a whole gaggle of the worst wolves in London into pussycats!”