Stephanie Laurens Rogues' Reform Bundle (70 page)

The shudder his touch evoked in her reverberated deep in his marrow.

His breath caught; if he met her gaze, he would be lost.

Desire welled, unexpectedly strong; he fought to shackle it. He tried to draw breath, tried to step away, and could not.

Distant footsteps drew near; in the corridor a board creaked.

Swiftly, Harry bent his head and touched his lips to hers in a caress so brief he barely registered the gentle movement of her lips beneath his.

When the door opened and Honeywell came in, he was standing by the fireplace, some yards from Lucinda. The innkeeper noticed nothing amiss; he placed the heavy ledgers on the table and looked hopefully at Lucinda.

Harry glanced her way but her back was to the window, hiding her expression.

Lucinda hesitated, just long enough to marshall her thoroughly disordered wits. Then she swept forward, plastering an expression of such haughtiness on her face that Mr Honeywell blinked. “Just the figures for this year, I think, Mr Honeywell.”

The innkeeper hurried to do her bidding.

Immersed in figures, Lucinda struggled to soothe her tingling nerves, inflamed by that too-fleeting kiss and further abraded by Harry's lounging presence. For one instant, she had felt as if the world had spun wildly; determinedly, she put the memory aside and concentrated on Mr Honeywell's accounts. By the time she was satisfied, half an hour had passed, leaving her once more in control. Quite capable of maintaining a steady flow of artless prattle all the way back to Audley Street.

Other than bestowing on her one, long, unnervingly intent look, Harry made no particular comment, replying readily to any questions, but leaving the conversational reins in her hands. When they drew up at Em's steps, Lucinda felt she had handled them with laudable skill.

She chose the moment when Harry lifted her down to say, “I'm really most grateful for your escort, Mr Lester.” With what she considered commendable fortitude, she refrained from further comment.

“Indeed?” Harry arched one brow.

Lucinda fought against a frown. “Indeed,” she returned, meeting his gaze.

Harry looked down at her face, at her wonderfully blue eyes, gleaming with feminine defiance—and wondered how long he could hold her, his hands firm about her waist, before she became aware of it. “In that case, tell Fergus to inform me when you wish to inspect your next inn.” She felt warm, vibrant, supple and alive between his hands.

Lucinda knew perfectly well where his hands were; she could feel his fingers burning through her gown. But that kiss, so quick it was over almost before it had begun, had been her first intimation that victory was truly possible; despite the unnerving cascade of emotions the fleeting caress had evoked, she was determined not to back down. If she had, albeit unknowingly, breached his walls once, she could do it again. Battling breathlessness, she dropped her gaze to where her fingers rested against his coat. “But I couldn't so impose on your time, Mr Lester.”

Harry frowned. He could see her eyes glinting through her lashes. “Not at all.” He paused, then added, native caution returning, “As I told you before, given you're my aunt's guest, at my insistence, I feel it's the least I can do.”

He thought he heard a disgusted humph. Suppressing a smile, he glanced up—and met Dawlish's deeply commiserating gaze.

All expression draining from his face, Harry dropped his hands. Stepping back, he offered his aunt's guest his arm, then gallantly, in open contempt of his henchman's foreboding, escorted her up the steps.

While waiting for Fergus to open the door, Lucinda glanced up—and intercepted an exchange of glances between Harry and Dawlish. “Dawlish seems very dismal—is anything amiss?”

Harry's features hardened. “No. He's just unused to getting up so early.”

Lucinda blinked. “Oh?”

“Indeed.” The door opened; beaming, Fergus held it wide. Harry bowed. “
Au revoir,
Mrs Babbacombe.”

Crossing the threshold, Lucinda looked over her shoulder and threw him a smile—a soft, alluring, siren's smile. Then she turned and slowly headed for the stairs. Utterly mesmerised, Harry stood and watched her go, her hips swaying gently as she crossed the tiled hall.

“Sir?”

Harry came to himself with a start. With an abrupt nod to Fergus, he turned and descended the steps. Climbing into the curricle, he fixed Dawlish with a warning glance.

Then gave his attention to his horses.

A
WEEK LATER
, Harry sat at his desk in the small library of his lodgings. The window gave onto a leafy courtyard; outside, May bustled towards June while the
ton
worked itself into a frenzy of betrothals and weddings. Harry's lips twisted cynically;
he
was intent on other things.

A tap on the door brought his head up. The door opened; Dawlish looked in.

“Ah—there you be. Thought as how you'd want to know that they're bound for Lady Hemminghurst's this evening.”

“Damn!” Harry grimaced. Amelia Hemminghurst had a soft spot for rakes—the fraternity would be well represented amongst her guests. “I suppose I'll have to attend.”

“That's what I thought. You going to walk or should I bring the carriage around?”

Harry considered, then shook his head. “I'll walk.” It would be twilight by then; the short stroll to Grosvenor Square would help ease the restlessness his self-imposed restrictions seemed to be creating.

With a humph and a nod, Dawlish retreated.

Idly toying with a pen, Harry reviewed his strategy. On quitting Newmarket, he had stubbornly adhered to his plans and gone home to Lester Hall. There he had found his brother Jack, along with his soon-to-be bride, Miss Sophia Winterton and her guardians, her uncle and aunt, Mr and Mrs Webb. While he had nothing against Miss Winterton, with whom his brother was openly besotted, he had not appreciated the considering light that had lit Mrs Webb's silver blue eyes, nor the contemplative expression with which she had regarded him. Her interest had made him edgy. He had ultimately concluded that London, and the dragons he knew, might well be safer than Lester Hall.

He had arrived in town a day in advance of his aunt and her company. Knowing Em, reared in a more dangerous age, travelled nowhere without outriders, he couldn't conceive that Mrs Babbacombe might face any danger on the trip. Besides, the incident on the Newmarket road had to have been due to mere opportunism. Guarded by Em and her servants, Lucinda Babbacombe was safe enough.

Once they had settled in town, however, that had no longer been the case. He had laid low as long as he could, avoiding any unnecessary appearances, hoping thus to leave the dragons and the matchmakers in ignorance of his presence. By spending most of his days at his clubs, at Manton's or Jackson's or similar all-male venues, eschewing the Park during the fashionable hours and driving himself everywhere rather than risk strolling the pavements, a prey to dowagers and fond mamas, he had largely achieved his objective.

And with Dawlish spending most of his time in the kitchens at Hallows House, he had been able to emerge into the bright lights only when absolutely necessary.

Like tonight. He had thus far succeeded in protecting the damned woman from importunate inn-dwellers and rakes alike, to the total confusion of the
ton.
And with his appearances amongst their gilded flowers thus restricted, and so very patently centred on Lucinda Babbacombe, the dragons and matchmakers had had few opportunities to exploit.

Harry's lips twisted; he laid aside his pen. He knew better than to bask in triumph—the Season had yet to end. Rising, he frowned. He was, he hoped, as capable as the next of behaving like a gentleman until then.

He pondered the point, then grimaced. Squaring his shoulders, he went up to change.

 

“T
ELL ME
, Mr Lester—are you enjoying the Season's entertainments?”

The question took Harry by surprise. He glanced down at his partner's face, composed in polite enquiry, then looked up to whirl them around the end of Lady Hemminghurst's ballroom. He had arrived to find her already surrounded—by a crop of the most eligible rakes in town. He had wasted no time in extricating her and gathering her into his arms.

“No,” he answered. The realisation gave him mental pause.

“Then why are you here?” Lucinda kept her eyes on his face and hoped for a straight answer. The question had grown increasingly important as day followed day and he made not the smallest move to fix her interest. Em's likening him to a horse appeared increasingly apt—he might have followed her to London, but he seemed determined not to pursue her.

He had escorted her to all four Babbacombe inns, remaining by her side throughout her inspections, but he had thereafter shown no interest in driving her elsewhere. All comments about the Park, about the delights of Richmond or Merton, fell on studiously deaf ears. Talk of a visit to the theatre had simply made him tense.

As for his behaviour in the ballrooms, she could only describe it as dog-in-the-manger. Some, like Lord Ruthven, found the situation immensely amusing. Others, like herself, were beginning to lose patience.

Harry glanced down and met her unwavering gaze. He frowned intimidatingly.

Lucinda raised her brows. “Am I to take it you'd rather be with your horses?” she enquired sweetly.

Goaded, Harry narrowed his eyes. “Yes.” A mental picture leapt to mind. “I would infinitely prefer to be at Lestershall.”

“Lestershall?”

His gaze growing distant, Harry nodded. “Lestershall Manor—my stud. It's named after the village, which in turn derives its name from my family's principal estate.” The old manor house was in dire need of repairs. Now he had the money, he would put it to rights. The rambling, half-timbered house had the potential to be a wonderfully comfortable home; when he married, he would live there.

When he married?
Harry clenched his jaw and forced his gaze back to his partner's face.

Lucinda captured it with a challenging glance. “Why, then, aren't you there?”

Because it's empty. Incomplete. The words leapt to Harry's conscious mind before he could shut them out. Her misty blue eyes lured him to the brink; the words burned his tongue. Mentally gritting his teeth, he smiled one of his more practiced smiles. “Because I'm here, waltzing with you.”

There was nothing seductive in his tone. Lucinda kept her eyes innocently wide. “Dare I hope you're enjoying it?”

Harry's lips thinned. “My dear Mrs Babbacombe, waltzing with you is one of the few compensations my current lifestyle affords.”

Lucinda allowed herself a sceptical blink. “Is it such a grind, then, your current life?”

“Indeed.” Harry shot her a narrow glance. “My current round is one no rake should ever be forced to endure.”

Gently, her eyes on his, Lucinda raised her brows. “Then why are you enduring it?”

Harry heard the final bars of the waltz; automatically, he whirled them to a halt. Her question echoed in his ears; the answer echoed deep within him. Her eyes, softly blue, held him, beckoning, inviting—open and reassuring. It took an effort of will to draw back, to find and cling to the cynicism which had kept him safe for so long. His features hardening, he released her and offered her his arm. “Why indeed, Mrs Babbacombe? I fear we'll never know.”

Lucinda refrained from gnashing her teeth. She placed her hand on his sleeve, reflecting that a single waltz, which was all he ever claimed, was never long enough to press his defences. Why he was so intent on denying what they both knew to be fact was a point that increasingly bothered her. “Your aunt was quite surprised to see you in town—she said you would be…pursued by ladies wishful to have you marry their daughters.” Did he, perhaps, see marriage as a trap?

“I dare say,” Harry replied. “But London during the Season has never been safe for well-born, well-heeled gentlemen.” His eyes met hers. “Regardless of their reputations.”

Lucinda raised her brows. “So you view the…pursuit as nothing more than a fact of life?”

“As inescapable as spring, although a dashed sight more inconvenient.” Harry's lips twisted; he gestured up the room. “Come—I'll return you to Em.”

“Ah…” Lucinda glanced about—and saw the gently billowing drapes hanging beside the long windows open to the terrace. Beyond lay the garden, a world of shadow and starlight. “Actually,” she said, slanting a glance at him. “I feel rather warm.”

The lie brought a helpful blush to her cheeks.

Harry's eyes narrowed as he studied hers. She was a hopeless liar; her eyes clouded over whenever she so much as prevaricated.

“Perhaps,” Lucinda continued, trying for an airy tone, “we could stroll the terrace for a while.” She pretended to peer through the windows. “There are some others outside—perhaps we could investigate the walks?”

It was at times like this that she most felt the deficiencies of her upbringing. Being married at sixteen had ensured she had not the smallest clue how to flirt or even encourage a man. When her escort made no response, she warily peeked up at him.

Harry was waiting to capture her attention, his expression that of a deeply irate man aware of the need to remain civil. “My dear Mrs Babbacombe, it would please me immensely if you could get it fixed in your pretty head that I am here, in London, braving all manner of dangers, for one—and only one—reason.”

Her eyes genuinely wide, Lucinda blinked at him. “Oh?”

“Indeed.” With restrained calm, Harry turned her up the room and started to stroll. His fingers, curled about her elbow, ensured she accompanied him. “I am here to ensure that, despite my inclinations, your inclinations and certainly despite those of your besotted court, you end this Season as you began it.” He turned his head to capture her gaze. “As a virtuous widow.”

Lucinda blinked again, then stiffened. “Indeed?” Looking forward, she lifted her chin “I wasn't aware, Mr Lester, that I had appointed you to the post of protector of my virtue.”

“Ah—but you did, you see.”

She glanced at him, denial on her lips—and met his green gaze.

“When you took my hand and let me pull you out of your carriage on the Newmarket road.”

The moment leapt to her mind, that instant when she had knelt on the side of the carriage, locked in his arms. Lucinda quelled a shiver—and tilted her nose higher. “That's nonsense.”

“On the contrary.” The rake beside her appeared unperturbed. “I recall reading somewhere that if a man rescues another, then he takes on the responsibility for that rescued life. Presumably the same holds true if the one saved is a woman.”

Lucinda frowned. “That's an eastern philosophy. You're English to your bones.”

“Eastern?” Harry raised his brows. “From one of those countries where they cover their women in shrouds and keep them behind locked doors, no doubt. I've always put such eminently sensible notions down to the fact that such civilisations have apparently existed so much longer than ours.”

On the words, they reached her court. Lucinda fought the urge to grind her teeth. If she heard one more of his glib excuses for being by her side she would, she felt sure, embarrass herself and Em and everyone else by screaming in fury. She plastered a bright smile on her lips—and let the admiration of her court and their subtle compliments soothe her abraded pride.

Harry stood it for five minutes, then silently relinquished his position by her side. He prowled the room but at no great distance, exchanging a few words with a number of acquaintances before retreating to a convenient alcove from where he could keep his self-imposed burden in view.

His very presence in the room was enough to keep the dangerous blades from her skirts. Those about her were all gentlemen at heart—they wouldn't pounce without an invitation. His interest, of course, was an added deterrent; he was prepared to wager that not one soul amongst all the
ton
understood what he was about.

With a somewhat grim grin, he settled his shoulders against the wall and watched as Lucinda gave Frederick Amberly her hand.

Taking the floor in yet another waltz, an apparent fixation of Lady Hemminghurst's, Lucinda fitted her steps to Mr Amberly's strides, distinctly shorter than Harry's, and let the music take hold.

Three revolutions later, she met her partner's somewhat concerned expression—and sternly reminded herself to smile. Not a spontaneous gesture.

She was distinctly irritated.

Rakes were supposed to seduce women—widows, particularly. Was she really so hopeless she couldn't break down Harry's resistance? Not that she wished to be seduced but, given his natural flair—and her status—she had to face the fact that, for them, that might well be the most sensible first step. She prided herself on her pragmatism; there was no point in not being realistic.

He had come to London; he was dancing attendance on her. But that clearly wasn't enough. Something more was required.

They were coming up the room for the third time when Lucinda's gaze refocused on Mr Amberly. Presumably if, at her advanced age, she wanted to learn how to encourage a rake, she was going to have to arrange lessons.

The waltz, most conveniently, left them at the other end of the room. Lucinda grasped her fan, dangling by its ribbon from her wrist. Opening it, she waved it to and fro. “The room is quite warm, don't you think, Mr Amberly?”

“Indeed, dear lady.”

Lucinda watched as his gaze slid to the terrace windows. Hiding a smile, she gently suggested, “There's a chair over there. If I wait there, could you fetch me a glass of lemonade?”

Her cavalier blinked and hid his disappointment. “Of course.” He solicitously helped her to the chair, then, with an injunction not to move, disappeared into the crowd.

With an inward smile, Lucinda sat back, languidly waving her fan, and waited for her first lesson.

Mr Amberly duly reappeared, bearing two flutes of suspiciously tinted liquid. “Thought you'd prefer champagne.”

With an inward shrug, Lucinda accepted a glass and took a delicate sip. Harry usually brought her champagne with her supper; it didn't affect her faculties. “Thank you, sir.” She cast her escort a smile. “I was in dire need of refreshment.”