“Heavens, no! Poor as church mice, the Lesters. Or they were. Mind you…” a speculative glint lit her ladyship’s brown eyes “…now that Coleby’s dead and gone and the Lesters have suffered a windfall—” Lady Coleby broke off to state, “Positively enormous, my dear, so I’ve heard. Well—” she turned back to survey Harry, anticipation lighting her face “—I really do believe I should renew old acquaintances.”
At that moment, Harry and Mr Harding parted. Harry directed a piercing glance across the room.
Her ladyship smiled delightedly and rose, laying aside her teacup. “And it appears there’ll be no better time. Do excuse me, my dear.”
Lucinda forced herself to incline her head. Picking up both cups, she carried them to where Marguerite sat by the tea trolley, all the while keeping her gaze firmly fixed on her hostess.
Harry’s gaze was fixed on her. He hesitated, frowning, his lips set in a firm line. No gentlemen had pressed her; none had displayed any proprietary interest. Three, if not four, were seriously enamoured; another few were watching closely. But none seemed to consider they had first claim—they were all vying for her favours as if she had swanned into their orbit on her own account.
Which left him with the puzzle unsolved. With an inward grimace, he put it aside until the morning. He was about to cross the room, to head off what he knew would be an embarrassing and confusing confrontation, when he felt a touch on his sleeve.
“Harry!” Millicent, Lady Coleby, uttered the word on a long breathy exhalation. She opened wide brown eyes at him, her delicately tinted cheeks aglow.
Briefly, Harry nodded. “Millie.” His head rose again as he looked for Lucinda; she was still chatting to Marguerite.
“Dear Harry.” Engrossed in artlessly studying his cravat, Millie didn’t notice his interest was elsewhere. “I’ve always carried a torch for you—you do know that, don’t you? I had to marry Coleby—you must see that. You’re so much older now—you understand the ways of our world.” Millie let a knowing smile curve her lips. “I’ve heard you understand the ways very well, Harry. Perhaps we might…travel a few avenues together tonight?”
Millie glanced up—just as Lucinda nodded to Marguerite and headed for the door. Harry, about to move, was forced to focus on Millie, standing directly in front of him.
“Excuse me, Millie. I’ve business elsewhere.”
With that, he nodded and sidestepped, then halted, his gaze on Lucinda—and the three gentlemen who had intercepted her. Concentrating, he could just make out their words.
“My dear Mrs Babbacombe.” Alfred was the first to gain her side. “Dare I hope you’ve found the evening to your taste?”
“You’ve proved a most welcome addition to our ranks, ma’am.” Ormesby was close behind. “I do hope we can entice you to spend more time with us—I, for one, can think of little I’d like better.”
Lucinda blinked; before she could answer, Lord Dewhurst joined them.
He took her hand and bowed low. “Enchanted, my dear. Dare I hope for some time to further our acquaintance?”
Lucinda met his lordship’s calm but distinctly warm gaze—and wished herself elsewhere. Heat tinged her cheeks—then, from the corner of her eye, she saw Harry. Watching.
Drawing in a steadying breath, Lucinda smiled at her three would-be cicisbei. With what she hoped they understood as a pointed disregard for all they had hinted at, if not said, she calmly stated, “If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, I believe I will retire early.”
With a benedictory smile, she swept them a curtsy; they immediately bowed low. Rising, Lucinda headed straight for the door. Confident she had avoided a potential quagmire, head high, she glided from the room.
Harry stared after her.
Then uttered a single, pungent expletive and spun on his heel. He exited the room by the windows to the terrace. At speed.
Millie simply stared—then lifted her shoulders in a baffled shrug—and glided after Mr Harding.
Lucinda climbed the stairs and traversed the corridors, engrossed, not with the details of her imminent departure nor yet imaginings of what she had escaped. Lady Coleby’s revelations of Harry’s long-ago disappointment filled her mind.
She could imagine, very clearly, how it must have been, how, with the impetuosity of youth, he had laid his love at his chosen one’s feet, only to see it spurned. It must have hurt. A great deal. The fact explained many things—why he was now so cynical of love, not marriage itself, but the love needed to support it, the intensity he now harnessed, that certain something which made so many women view him as dangerous—excitingly but definitely so—and his emotionally cautious nature.
Reaching her room, Lucinda shut the door firmly behind her. She looked for a key, grimacing resignedly when she discovered there wasn’t one.
Thanks to Lady Coleby, and her lack of what Lucinda felt was any proper feeling, she could now understand why Harry was as he was. That, however, did not excuse his behaviour in engineering her present predicament.
Eyes narrowing as she considered his perfidy, Lucinda glided across the room, lit by a single candelabra on the dressing table, and gave the bell pull a definite tug.
The door opened. Her hand still clutching the embroidered pull, Lucinda turned.
To see Harry slip around the door.
He scanned the room and found her. “There’s no point ringing for your maid—the house rules forbid servants the upper corridors after ten.”