An Unwilling Conquest

by Stephanie Laurens

  Anabelle Burnham blinked, then her teasing smile brightened. “Oh, definitely, my dear Mrs Babbacombe. Definitely!”

  She bestowed another arch glance on Lord Ruthven, then turned her sights on Mr Amberly.

  Lucinda didn’t notice—she was trapped in Harry’s green gaze. The planes of his face were hard, sculpted, his expression impassive yet growing more forbidding by the second. She saw his eyes narrow slightly; his lips were a thin line. Breathing was suddenly very difficult.

  The squeak of the violins saved her—she didn’t know from what.

  “Mrs Babbacombe—I declare you must, positively you must, bestow this quadrille on my poor self.”

  With a mental curse, Lucinda glanced to where Mr Amberly stood watching her, entreaty in his eyes. She blinked—and realized that he was begging her to rescue him. She couldn’t help but smile.

  She glanced up at Harry; gently she withdrew her hand from under his. For an instant, his fingers tensed—then he released her. “I haven’t thanked you for my waltz, sir.” Lucinda lifted her eyes to his. “It was most enjoyable.”

  His features were granite. He said nothing but bowed, effortlessly elegant in his severe black and white.

  With an inclination of her head, Lucinda turned away and placed her hand on Mr Amberly’s sleeve.

  To her intense disappointment, Harry was no longer present when, at the conclusion of the quadrille, Mr Amberly returned her to the small group close by Em’s chaise. Under cover of the conversation, Lucinda scanned the surrounding shoulders but could not find the ones she sought. She saw Heather, bright-eyed and clearly enjoying herself hugely. Her stepdaughter waved, then turned back to her set—Gerald Lester, the Morley sisters and two other young gentlemen. Feeling distinctly deflated, Lucinda forced herself to pay attention to her cavaliers. The circle around her, which had earlier thinned, now pressed in on her. She could understand why these events were labelled crushes. At least Mrs Burnham hadn’t deserted her.

  But her enjoyment in the evening had waned; it was an effort to conjure a bright smile and a witty response to the constant flow of repartee.

  Somewhat later, the lilting strains of another waltz drifted from the musicians’ dais at the other end of the room. Lucinda blinked. She had already danced with all those of her court she considered reasonably safe—she hadn’t anticipated another waltz.

  She glanced up—to find Lord Ruthven’s eyes upon her, a curious glint in their depths. “Well, my dear?” he drawled. “Which one of us will you favour with a second dance?”

  Lucinda raised her brows haughtily. And scanned those she had yet to favour at all. Three promptly pressed their claims—one, a rakish dandy a few years older than herself but infinitely more experienced, held the greatest promise. He might have impropriety on his mind but he was, Lucinda judged, manageable. With a serene smile, and a cool glance for Ruthven, she extended her hand. “Mr Ellerby?”

  To give him his due, Mr Ellerby behaved with all due decorum on the dance floor. By the end of the dance, Lucinda was congratulating herself, not only on her increasing confidence in the waltz itself but on her accurate assessment of her partner, when Mr Ellerby abruptly reverted to type.

  “Quite stuffy in here, don’t you find, Mrs Babbacombe?”

  Lucinda glanced up and smiled. “Indeed—one could hardly find it not. The room is certainly very crowded.”

  So crowded she could no longer see Em’s chaise, concealed by the milling throng. The waltz had landed them at the other end of the room.

  “This window leads to the terrace. And Lady Haverbuck’s gardens are extensive. Perhaps a stroll through them would cool your cheeks, Mrs Babbacombe?”

  Lucinda turned to stare at her erstwhile partner. The gleam in his eyes was unmistakable.

  “Wouldn’t want you to feel faint, would we?” Mr Ellerby leaned closer on the words, pressing her fingers meaningfully.

  Lucinda stiffened. She drew a steady breath and opened her lips, fully intending to advise her importunate partner that her temper rarely induced faintness, when she was saved the necessity.

  “I don’t think Mrs Babbacombe needs a stroll on the terrace just now, Ellerby.”

  The drawled yet steely words sent a frisson of excitement through Lucinda; they turned Mr Ellerby sulky.

  “Just a suggestion.” He waved the point aside, then offered Lucinda his arm, all but glowering at Harry. “It’s suppertime, Mrs Babbacombe.”

  “Indeed,” came from beside her.

  Lucinda glanced up and saw Harry’s green gaze grow coldly challenging. His fingers feathered down her arm, then firmed about her wrist. She quelled a shiver.

  Harry looked down at her. “If you wish, Mrs Babbacombe, I’ll escort you in.”

  He lifted her hand and settled it on his sleeve. Lucinda met his eyes—then turned to coolly dismiss Mr Ellerby. “Thank you for an enjoyable waltz, sir.”

  Mr Ellerby looked as if he wished to argue—then he met Harry’s gaze. With a grumpy air, he bowed. “My pleasure, ma’am.”

  “I’m sure it was,” Harry muttered beneath his breath as he turned Lucinda towards the supper room.

  “I beg your pardon?” Lucinda blinked up at him.

  “Nothing.” Harry’s lips compressed. “Couldn’t you chose a more suitable partner than Ellerby? You had enough real gentlemen about you—or can’t you tell the difference?”

  “Of course I can.” Suppressing her smile, Lucinda put her nose in the air. “But I’d already danced with all of them. I didn’t want to appear to be encouraging them.”

  Harry resisted the urge to grind his teeth. “Believe me, Mrs Babbacombe, you would do better to encourage the gentlemen and avoid the rakes altogether.”

  Lucinda copied one of Em’s snorts. “Nonsense. I was in no danger.”

  She glanced up to see Harry’s face turn to stone.

  “Mrs Babbacombe, I have severe difficulty believing you would recognise danger if you fell over it.”

  Lucinda had to purse her lips to stop her smile. “Bosh!” she eventually returned.

  Harry sent her a severe glance—and determinedly steered her to a table. Not one of the small, intimate tables for two in the corners of the large supper-room, but a table to accommodate a small army set close to the buffet in the room’s centre. Taking the seat he held for her, Lucinda cast him a puzzled glance.

  She was even more puzzled when her court tentatively descended, and Harry forbore to bite. He sat beside her, leaning back in the chair, a champagne flute in one long-fingered hand, and silently monitored the conversation. His brooding presence acted as a most efficient damper, ensuring the jocularity remained strictly within acceptable bounds. Anabelle Burnham, joining them, cast one awed glance at Harry, then caught Lucinda’s eye and raised her glass in a silent toast. Lucinda risked a quick grin, then let her gaze slide to Harry’s face.

  He was watching her, not the others, his lips set in a line she was coming to know well, his green gaze jewel-like and impenetrable.

  Lucinda quelled a shiver. Turning back to the table, she forced herself to focus on her less interesting admirers.

  AS HE HAD PROMISED, Harry was waiting for her in the hall of Hallows House at precisely nine o’clock the next morning.

  Descending the stairs with a dark blue half-cape draped over her bluebell-hued carriage dress, Lucinda watched as his gaze skimmed knowledgeably over her. When she reached the hall and came forward, her hand extended, his gaze lifted to her face.

  Harry saw the feminine smugness in her eyes—and frowned. “At least you shouldn’t freeze.” He took her hand and bowed over it—then considered the sight of her small, slim hand nestling in his much larger one. “Don’t forget your gloves.”

  Lucinda lifted a brow—and drew her gloves from her reticule. “I’ll be back for luncheon, Fergus.” Dutifully drawing on her gloves, she glanced at Harry. “Will you join us, Mr Lester?”

  “No—please convey my regrets to my aunt.” Harry grasped her arm and
steered her to the door. Em’s house was probably safe enough but his clubs would be safer; he no longer trusted his aunt. “I have other engagements.”

  Lucinda stopped on the top of the steps and glanced up at him. “I do hope I’m not inconveniencing you by claiming your escort to my inns?”

  Harry looked down at her, his eyes narrowing. She was an inconvenience unlike any he’d ever encountered. “Not at all, my dear. If you recall, I wished this on myself.” Why, he refused to consider. “But it’s time we were away.”

  He led her down the steps, then lifted her to his curricle’s seat. Avoiding Dawlish’s eye, he retrieved the reins. He waited only until his henchman’s weight tipped the carriage before giving his horses the office.

  Lucinda thoroughly enjoyed her drive through the morning streets, not yet crowded. She saw orange-sellers plying their wares; she heard strawberry girls calling housewives to their doors. The city seemed different, clean and pristine beneath the morning’s dew, the dust yet to be stirred by the traffic. The varied greens of the trees in the Park shifted like a kaleidoscope. Harry drove them briskly along the gravelled carriageway, then out of a distant gate. Once they were bowling along the road to Hammersmith, Lucinda turned her mind to business. Harry answered her questions on the inns they passed, occasionally referring to Dawlish. Lucinda noted that Harry’s groom seemed uncommonly morose; his dour tones suggested a death in the family.

  But she forgot Dawlish and his patent misery when they pulled into the yard of the Argyle Arms.

  The Argyle Arms proved to have much in common with the Barbican Arms. The innkeeper, a Mr Honeywell, after one glance at Harry, deferentially escorted her over the large inn, which extended over three interconnecting wings. They were on the ground floor of one of the wings heading back towards the main entrance when Lucinda heard laughter behind a door she had assumed led to a bedchamber.

  Visions of the Green Goose flitted through her mind. It had, however, been male laughter. She halted. “What’s behind that door?”

  Mr Honeywell remained impassive. “A parlour, ma’am.”

  “A parlour?” Lucinda frowned and looked about her. “Ah, yes—this was a separate house at one time, wasn’t it?”

  Mr Honeywell nodded and gestured for her to proceed.

  Lucinda stood stock-still and stared at the closed parlour door. “That makes four parlours—does the inn’s custom necessitate so many?”

  “Not directly,” Mr Honeywell admitted. “But we’re so near town we often rent rooms to groups for meetings.”

  Lucinda pursed her lips. “I would like to inspect this extra parlour, Honeywell.”

  Mr Honeywell’s expression grew wary. “Ah—this one’s currently occupied, ma’am, but there’s another just like it in the other wing. If you’d like to see that?”

  “Indeed.” Lucinda nodded but her eyes remained on the closed door. “Who is currently using this one?”

  “Er…a group of gentlemen, ma’am.”

  Lucinda’s brows rose; she opened her mouth.

  “But—” Mr Honeywell smoothly interposed his stout frame between Lucinda and the door “—I really wouldn’t advise you to interrupt them, ma’am.”

  Taken aback, Lucinda allowed her brows to rise higher; for a silent moment, she looked down on Mr Honeywell. When she spoke, her tone was chilly. “My dear Mr Honeywell—”

  “Who’s in there, Honeywell?”

  Lucinda blinked. It was the first time in an hour that Harry had spoken.

  Mr Honeywell cast an imploring glance at him. “Just a group of young bloods, sir. You’ll know the sort.”

  “Indeed.” Harry turned to Lucinda. “You can’t go in.”

  As frigidly imperious as any dowager, Lucinda slowly turned and met his gaze. “I beg your pardon?”

  Harry’s lips twisted slightly but his gaze did not waver. “Let me put it this way.” His tone was peculiarly soft, silky, with an undercurrent that threatened all manner of danger. “You’re not going in there.”

  If Lucinda had had any doubt as to the reality behind the unsubtle threat, it was laid to rest by the look in his eyes, the set of his jaw and the tension that slowly infused his large frame. Despite her rising temper, she was assailed by an instinctive urge to step back—and a totally maniacal impulse to call his bluff just to see what he would do. Ignoring the shiver that squirmed down her spine, she sent him a seething glance, then transferred her gaze, now icy, to Mr Honeywell. “Perhaps you could show me this other parlour?”

  The innkeeper’s sigh was almost audible.

  Shown the second parlour, repeatedly assured that it was virtually identical to the other, Lucinda gave her haughty approval. Stripping off her gloves, she nodded at Honeywell. “I’ll examine the books now. You may bring them in here.”

  Honeywell departed to fetch his ledgers.

  Leaving her gloves and reticule on the table, Lucinda slowly walked down the room. Halting by the window, she drew in a steadying breath and swung to face Harry. He had followed in her wake; she watched as he drew near, stopping directly before her, one brow lifting, a challenging look in his eye.

  Lucinda returned it in full measure. “It may interest you to know, Mr Lester, that I had no intention of—” she gestured dismissively “—barging into a private meeting. A fact I was about to make clear to Mr Honeywell when you chose to intervene.”

  The arrested, suddenly defensive expression that flickered in Harry’s eyes was balm to Lucinda’s temper. She immediately pressed her advantage. “I merely wished to enquire as to the bona fides of the customers using my inn—a right I’m sure even you will agree is mine.” She waggled a finger under his nose. “Neither you nor Mr Honeywell had any justification for jumping to such a conclusion—as if I was a child unaware of the proprieties! And you, sir, had no right to threaten me as you did.” Turning aside and folding her arms, Lucinda elevated her chin. “I wish to hear an apology, sir, for your ungentlemanly behaviour.”

  Silence greeted her demand. Harry studied her face, his gaze clear and steady. Then his lips twisted. “I suggest, my dear, that you refrain from holding your breath. My behaviour throughout this morning has been gentlemanly in the extreme.”

  Lucinda’s eyes flew wide. “Gentlemanly?” Her arms dropped as she rounded on him.

  Harry held up a hand. “I’ll admit that both Honeywell and I might have jumped to unwarranted conclusions.” His eyes met hers, his expression fleetingly rueful. “For myself, for that, I apologise unequivocally. For the rest, however…” His face hardened. “I fear you must excuse it on the grounds of extreme provocation.”

  “Provocation?” Lucinda stared at him. “What provocation was that, pray tell?”

  The provocation of keeping her safe, shielded, the undeniable, instinctive impulse that had him in its grip. The truth echoed in Harry’s head; he struggled to shut his mind against it. He looked into her eyes; softly blue, they searched his, then widened. He dropped his gaze to her lips, full, blush red—a potent temptation. As he watched, they parted fractionally. About them, silence reigned; between them, the tension grew. Compelled, as aware of her increased breathing as he was of the deepening thud in his veins, Harry lifted a finger and, with the lightest of touches, traced her lower lip.

  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 bac
k 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.”