Stephanie Laurens Rogues' Reform Bundle (66 page)

Surprised, Lucinda watched as he swung up to the curricle's seat. “But won't you stay for luncheon? Your aunt would be delighted, I'm sure.”

The reins in his hands, Harry drew in a deep breath—and forced himself to meet her gaze. “No.”

The word hung between them—an unconditional denial. Harry saw the understanding in her eyes, sensed the sudden catch in her breathing as his rejection bit home. But it was better this way—to nip it in the bud before it could flower. Safer for her as well as for him.

But her eyes showed no comprehension of that, of the dangers he could see so clearly. Soft and luminous, they looked at him in hurt surprise.

He felt his lips twist in bitter self-mockery. “I can't.”

It was all the explanation he could give. With a crack of his whip, he set his horses down the drive—and drove away.

T
HREE DAYS LATER
, Lucinda was still not satisfied that she understood what had happened. Seated in a wicker chair in a patch of sunlight in the conservatory, she idly plied her needle while her thoughts went round and round. Heather was out riding with Gerald, Sim in close attendance; her hostess was somewhere in the gardens, supervising the planting of a new border. She was alone, free to pursue her thoughts—little good though that seemed to be doing her.

She knew she was inexperienced in such matters, yet deep within lay an unshakeable conviction that something—something eminently to be desired—had sprung to life between herself and Harry Lester.

He had almost kissed her in the winner's circle.

The moment was etched in her memories, frustratingly incomplete, yet she could hardly fault him for drawing back. But he had then retreated, so completely it had left her feeling unexpectedly vulnerable and inwardly bruised. His parting words confounded her. She could not misconstrue the implications of that “No”—it was his “I can't” that truly baffled her.

He had not appeared since; courtesy of Gerald, who now haunted the house, she had learned he was still in Newmarket. Presumably, she was supposed to believe he was so immensely busy with his racers that he had no time for her.

With an inward snort, Lucinda jabbed her needle into the canvas. She was, she supposed, now too much the businesswoman to enjoy being shortchanged. But time was slipping away; she couldn't remain at Hallows Hall forever. Clearly, if she wanted to know just what might be possible, she was going to have to take an active hand.

But how?

Five minutes later, Em entered through the garden door, the hem of her old gardening gown liberally splattered with earth, a pair of heavy gloves in one hand.

“Phoof!” Sinking into the other armchair, separated from Lucinda's by a small matching table, Em pushed back wisps of browny-grey hair. “That's done!” She slanted a glance at her guest. “You look very industrious—quite wifely, in fact.”

Lucinda smiled but did not look up.

“Tell me,” Em mused, her sharp gaze belying her idle tone. “Have you ever considered remarrying?”

Lucinda's needle halted; she looked up, not at her hostess but through the long windows at the garden. “Not until recently,” she eventually said. And returned to her needlework.

Em studied her downbent head, a definite glint in her eye. “Yes—well, it takes one like that. Suddenly pops into your mind—and then won't get out.” With an airy wave of her gardening gloves, she continued, “Still, with your qualifications I hardly think you need worry. When you get to London you'll have a goodly selection of beaux lining up to put a ring on your finger.”

Lucinda slanted her a glance. “My qualifications?”

Em's wave became a flourish. “Your breeding for one—nothing wrong with that, even if your parents were disowned. Your grandparents could hardly change the blood in their veins—as far as Society's concerned that's what counts.” As if just struck by the fact, Em added, “In fact, the Giffords are as well connected as the Lesters.”

“Indeed?” Lucinda eyed her warily.

Blithely, Em continued, “And there's your fortune, too—that legacy of yours would satisfy the most demanding. And you're hardly an antidote—you've got style, that indefinable something—noticed it straight off. Once the Bruton Street
mesdames
get a look at you they'll be vying for your custom, mark my words.”

“I am, however, twenty-eight.”

The blunt comment brought Em to a blinking halt. Turning her head, she stared at her guest. “So?”

Lucinda grimaced and looked down at her work. “Twenty-eight, I suspect, is somewhat long in the tooth to be attractive to town beaux.”

For an instant longer, Em stared at her, then hooted with laughter. “
Rubbish,
my dear! The
ton
's awash with gentlemen whose principal reason for avoiding matrimony is that they cannot stomach the bright-eyed young misses.” She snorted. “More hair than wit, most of them, believe me.” She paused to study Lucinda's face, half-averted, then added, “It's very common, my dear, for men to prefer more experienced women.”

Lucinda glanced up—and met Em's eye. A light blush slowly spread across her cheeks. “Yes, well—that's another thing.” Her gaze flicked to the green vistas beyond the window as she dragged in a determined breath. “I'm not. Experienced, I mean.”

Em stared. “Not?”

“My marriage wasn't really a marriage at all—it was a rescue.” Lucinda frowned, her gaze dropping to her tapestry. “You must remember I was only sixteen at the time—and Charles was nearing fifty. He was very kind—we were good friends.” Her voice low, she added, “Nothing more.” Straightening her shoulders, she reached for her scissors, “Life, I fear, has passed me by—I've been put back on the shelf without having been properly off it in the first place.”

“I…see.” Em blinked owlishly at the tips of her half-boots, peeking from beneath her dirtied hem. A broad smile slowly broke across her face. “You know—your…er, inexperience is not really a handicap, not in your case. In fact,” she continued, her old eyes lighting, “it could well be a positive advantage.”

It was Lucinda's turn to look puzzled.

“You see, you have to think of it from your prospective husband's point of view.” Eyes wide, Em turned to face her. “What
he
'll see is a mature and capable woman, one of superior sense who can manage his household and family while at the same time providing more—” she paused to gesture “—
satisfying
companionship than a young girl ever could. If you make no show of your innocence, but allow him to—” she gestured again as she groped for words “—
stumble
on it in good time, I'm sure you'll find he'll be only too delighted.” With a last shrewd glance at Lucinda's face, Em added, “I'm sure Harry would be.”

Lucinda's eyes narrowed. She favoured her impossible hostess with a long stare. Then, looking down to tidy her needlework, she asked, “Has he ever shown any interest in marrying?”

“Harry?” Em sat back, a smile on her lips. “Not that I ever heard. But then, he's never had need to—there's Jack before him and Gerald behind. Jack's about to marry—I just got a summons to the wedding. So Harry's thoughts are unlikely to turn to gold rings and white icing—not, that is, unless he's given an incentive to pursue the subject.”

“Incentive?”

“Hmm. Often the case with gentlemen in that particular mould—won't have a bar of marriage until the benefits become so blatantly obvious that even they, with their blinkered vision, can see it.” Em snorted. “It's all the fault of the light-skirts, of course. Lining up to give them anything they want—whatever their lusts desire—without any strings attached.”

“I suspect,” Lucinda said, her expression guarded, Harry's “No” echoing in her ears, “that it would take a fairly…powerful incentive to make Harry actively desire to be wed.”

“Naturally—Harry's all male to his toes. He'll be as reluctant as the best of them, I don't doubt. He's lived a life of unfettered hedonism—he's hardly likely to volunteer to change.” Em brought her gaze back to Lucinda's face. “Not, of course that that should deter
you.
”

Lucinda's head came up; she met Em's old eyes and saw in them a wealth of understanding. She hesitated for only a moment. “Why not?”

“Because, as I see it, you've got the most powerful weapon in your hands already—the only one that'll work.” Em sat back and shrewdly regarded Lucinda. “Question is, are you game enough to use it?”

For a long moment, Lucinda stared at her hostess—then shifted her gaze to the gardens. Em sat patiently watching her—slim, dark-haired, fingers clasped in her lap, her expression calm and uninformative, a faraway look in her soft blue eyes.

At length, the blue eyes slowly turned back to Em. “Yes,” Lucinda stated, calm and determined. “I'm game.”

Em grinned delightedly. “Good! The first thing you'll need to understand is that he'll resist for all he's worth. He'll not come to the idea meekly—you can't expect it of him.”

Lucinda frowned. “So I'll have to put up with more of this…” It was her turn to gesture as she sought for words. “This uncertainty?”

“Undoubtedly,” Em averred. “But you'll have to hold firm to your purpose. And your plan.”

Lucinda blinked. “Plan?”

Em nodded. “It'll take a subtle campaign to bring Harry to his knees.”

Lucinda couldn't help but smile. “His knees?”

Em gave her a haughty look. “Of course.”

Head on one side, Lucinda eyed her unpredictable hostess. “What do you mean by ‘subtle'?”

“Well.” Em settled in her chair. “For instance…”

 

“G
OOD EVENING
, Fergus.”

“Good evening, sir.”

Harry allowed his aunt's butler to relieve him of his greatcoat, then handed him his driving gloves. “Is my brother here?” Harry turned to the mirror hanging above the ormolu table.

“Master Gerald arrived half an hour ago. In his new phaeton.”

Harry's lips twitched. “Ah, yes—his latest achievement.” He made an almost imperceptible adjustment to the folds of his crisply white cravat.

“Your aunt will be delighted to see you, sir.”

Harry met Fergus's eyes in the mirror. “No doubt.” He let his lids fall, veiling his eyes. “Who else is here?”

“Sir Henry and Lady Dalrymple, Squire Moffat and Mrs Moffat, Mr Butterworth, Mr Hurst and the Misses Pinkerton.” When Harry stood stock still, green eyes hooded, his expression utterly blank, Fergus added, “And Mrs Babbacombe and Miss Babbacombe, of course.”

“Of course.” Regaining his equilibrium, momentarily shaken, Harry resettled the gold pin in his cravat. Then, turning, he strolled towards the drawing-room door. Fergus hurried to open it.

Announced, Harry entered.

Her eyes met his immediately—she wasn't experienced enough to cloak her spontaneous reaction. She'd been speaking with Mr Hurst, a gentleman farmer whom Em, Harry suspected, had long had in her matchmaking sights. Harry paused just inside the door.

Lucinda smiled across the room—an easy, politely welcoming smile—and turned back to Mr Hurst.

Harry hesitated, then, languidly urbane, strolled to where his aunt sat ensconced in regal purple on the end of the
chaise.
“Dear Aunt,” he said, bowing elegantly over her hand.

“Wondered if you'd come.” Em grinned her triumph.

Harry ignored it. He nodded to the lady sharing the
chaise.
“Mrs Moffat.” He was acquainted with all those Em had deigned to invite—he simply hadn't expected her to invite them. Tonight was the last night of the race-meet; tomorrow, after the final races in the morning, all the gentlemen would head back to town. His aunt's summons to dinner was not unusual, yet he had thought long and hard before accepting. Only the certainty that Mrs Babbacombe would shortly be returning to Yorkshire, well beyond his reach, while he intended to retire to Lester Hall in Berkshire, had persuaded him to do so. That, and the desire to see her again, to look into her misty blue eyes—one last time.

He had expected to share a table with his aunt, his brother, his aunt's houseguests—and no one else. Theoretically, the current situation, with so many distractions, should have reassured him. In fact, it did the opposite.

With a nod, and a swift glance at Mrs Babbacombe's dark head, he left the
chaise,
drifting to where Sir Henry Dalrymple stood chatting with Squire Moffat. Gerald was near the windows, Heather Babbacombe beside him, both conversing easily with Lady Dalrymple. The Misses Pinkerton, determined spinsters in their thirties, chatted with Mr Butterworth, Sir Henry's secretary.

Harry's gaze lingered on Lucinda, clad in delicate blue watered silk and talking animatedly with Mr Hurst; if she felt it, she gave no sign.

“Ah, Lester—up for the races, I presume?” Sir Henry beamed a welcome.

Squire Moffat snorted good-humouredly. “Precious little else to bring you this way.”

“Indeed.” Harry shook hands.

“Saw that filly of yours win in the second—great run.” Sir Henry's faraway gaze said he was reliving the moment. Then he abruptly refocused. “But tell me, what do you think about Grand Larrikin's chances in the Steeple?”

The ensuing discussion on the Duke of Rutland's latest acquisition took up no more than half of Harry's mind. The rest was centred on his siren, apparently oblivious on the other side of the room.

Lucinda, perfectly aware of the sideways glances he occasionally sent her way, doggedly adhered to Em's strictures and studiously ignored him, prattling on about she knew not what to the loquacious Mr Hurst. He, thankfully, seemed so taken with the sound of his voice—a soothing baritone—that he didn't notice her preoccupation.

Struggling to focus her mind on his words, Lucinda steadfastly denied the increasing compulsion to glance at Harry Lester. Since the moment he'd appeared in the doorway, clad in severe black and white, his hair gleaming guinea gold in the candlelight, every elegant, indolent line screaming his position in the
ton,
her senses had defied her.

Her heart had leapt—Em had warned her that her summons wouldn't bring him if he didn't want to come. But he had arrived; it felt like she'd won, if not the first battle, then at least the opening skirmish.

She was so excruciatingly aware of him that when he left Squire Moffat and Sir Henry to languidly stroll her way, she had to clench her fists hard to stop herself from turning to greet him.

Approaching from behind her, Harry saw the sudden tension in her shoulders, bared by her gown. Beneath his heavy lids, his green eyes glinted.