An Unwilling Conquest

by Stephanie Laurens

  The door opened; Fergus appeared at Em’s side and presented a silver salver.

  “The mail, ma’am. And there’s a letter just hand-delivered for Mrs Babbacombe. The boy didn’t wait for a reply.”

  Em picked up the white, sealed packet, painfully aware of the sudden tension that had gripped Lucinda. One glance at the scrawled direction was enough to tell her it wasn’t from Harry. Helpless to do otherwise, she handed it over without comment, trying not to watch as, the seal broken, the expectation that had momentarily lit Lucinda’s face died.

  Lucinda frowned as she read the short missive, then, grimacing, laid it aside. She looked down at her toast, now stone-cold. With a tiny sigh, she reached for the teapot.

  Em was beyond social niceties. “Well?”

  Lucinda glanced at her, then shrugged. “It’s an invitation to some houseparty in the country.”

  “Whose?”

  Lucinda frowned. “I can’t immediately recall the lady.” She sipped her tea, glancing down at the note. “Lady Martindale of Asterley Place.”

  “Martindale?” Em started to frown, then her face cleared. “Oh—that’ll be Marguerite. She’s Elmira, Lady Asterley’s daughter. She must be helping out. But that’s wonderful!” Em turned to Lucinda. “Just the thing! Some fresh air and genteel fun is precisely what you need. Elmira is one of my oldest friends although we haven’t met in ages. She’ll be getting on, now. When’s this party to be?”

  Lucinda hesitated, then grimaced. “It starts later today—but the invitation’s just for me.”

  Em blinked. “Just for…?” Then she blinked again, her face clearing. “Ah—I see!”

  Lucinda looked up. “What is it?”

  Em straightened. “Just remembered. Harry’s a close friend of Elmira’s son—Alfred, Lord Asterley. Been thick as thieves since they were at Eton together.”

  She watched as Lucinda reached again for the note.

  “Oh?”

  “Indeed.” Em’s eyes glazed as she considered the possibilities. “Always hand-in-glove in mischief. Got sent down together any number of times.” For a moment, she remained sunk in thought, then flicked a glance at Lucinda, busy scrutinising the invitation. “You know,” Em said, sitting back in her chair, “it’s probably not surprising that the invitation’s just for you. I can see how it would have been—Elmira had a last-minute cancellation and asked Alfred if he could suggest someone suitable to fill the gap.” Em hesitated, then added, “And Alfred and Harry are very close.”

  The more Em thought of it, the more convinced she was that Harry was behind the unexpected invitation. It would be just like him to manoeuvre to get Lucinda into the country, free of mentors, admirers and stepdaughters, so he could make amends for his behaviour away from all interested eyes. Very Harry indeed.

  Em snorted.

  The atmosphere around the breakfast table had altered dramatically. Instead of resignation bordering on the morose, speculation now tinged the air. Varying degrees of calculation and decision were reflected in the ladies’ expressions.

  Pushing her plate aside, Heather put their thoughts into words. “You have to go.”

  “Absolutely,” Em agreed. “Heather and I are more than capable of entertaining each other for a few days.”

  Lucinda, reanimated but still frowning, looked up from the invitation. “You’re sure it’s acceptable for me to go alone?”

  “To Asterley Place? Of course!” Em dismissed the point with a wave. “It’s not as if you were a young girl making her come-out. And you’ll find plenty there you’ve already met, I don’t doubt. Very fashionable, Elmira’s parties.”

  “Do go.” Heather leaned over the table. “I’d love to hear all about it. Maybe we’ll all be invited next time.”

  Lucinda glanced at Heather’s eager young face. Her hesitation was pure prevarication; if there was any possibility Harry had organised the invitation then she had no choice but to go.

  She straightened and drew in a breath—a surge of revivifying hope came with it. “Very well. If you’re sure you can manage without me?”

  Em and Heather vociferously assured her they could.

  AFTER LUNCHEON, Em retired to the morning room, her mood one of pleasant expectation. Sinking onto the chaise, she cast a contented glance about her, then relaxed against the cushions and, slipping off her slippers, swung her feet up. Propping her head on a cushion, she closed her eyes and sighed deeply.

  And wondered if it was too early to feel smug.

  She was deep in dreams of white tulle and confetti when the click of the door latch had her blinking awake.

  What was Fergus thinking of?

  Prepared to take umbrage, she turned her head—and saw Harry enter.

  Em blinked again. She opened her mouth—then caught sight of the white flower in Harry’s buttonhole.

  He never wore buttonholes—except at weddings.

  Harry saw her arrested expression and inwardly grimaced; he should have left the buttonhole off. But he had dressed with inordinate care—it had seemed the right touch at the time.

  He was determined to do this right. If they’d had the sense to stay at home yesterday, the ordeal would be over by now. Reining in his impatience, he closed the door and turned to face his aunt just as she managed to catch her breath.

  “Ah…”

  “Precisely,” Harry said, no trace of the languid in his tones. “If you don’t mind, Aunt, I’d like to see Mrs Babbacombe.” He met Em’s slightly protruberant eyes. “Alone.”

  Em blinked. “But she’s left.”

  “Left?” All expression drained from Harry’s face. For a moment, he couldn’t breathe. “Left to where?”

  Em put a hand to her spinning head. “But…to Asterley, of course.” Eyes widening, she sat up. “Aren’t you going?”

  His wits reeling, Harry stared at her. “I’ve got an invitation,” he admitted, somewhat cautiously.

  Em flopped against the cushions, a hand at her breast. “Thank heaven for that. Only reason she went.” Recalling the point, she turned to glare at Harry. “Not, of course, that that’ll prove any use—it’s plain as a pikestaff you didn’t organise to have her invited.”

  “Organise…?” Harry stared at her as if she’d run mad. “Of course I didn’t!” He paused, then asked, “Why the devil did you think I did?”

  Lips prim, Em shrugged. “Well, there’s no reason you couldn’t have—I’m quite sure Alfred could have got another name on Elmira’s lists if you’d asked him.”

  “Elmira?”

  Em waved. “I know Marguerite issued the invitations but it’ll still be Elmira’s party.”

  Fists clenched, Harry closed his eyes—and stifled the explosive anger building within him. His father was older than Em—and suffered from the same, oddly selective memory. Em clearly recalled his connection with Alfred but had totally forgotten that his mother, Elmira, had been dead some eight years.

  The parties at Asterley Place were, these days, rather different from those Em recalled.

  Harry drew in a deep breath and opened his eyes. “When did she leave?”

  Em frowned somewhat petulantly. “About eleven.” She glanced at the clock on the mantelshelf. “She’ll be halfway there by now.”

  Grim-faced, Harry turned on his heel.

  Em stared. “Where are you going?”

  Harry glanced back, his hand on the knob, his expression hard and unyielding. “To rescue Boadicea from a gaggle of lecherous Romans.”

  With that, he departed, shutting the door behind him, leaving Em staring in bemusement at the uninformative panels.

  “Boadicea?”

  HARRY STRODE THROUGH the door of his lodgings, ripping the white gillyflower from his lapel and tossing it onto the hall table. “Dawlish! Where the devil are you?”

  “I’m right here,” came in mumbles from down the corridor. Dawlish appeared, an apron over his street clothes, silver spoons and a polishing rag in his hands. “Now what’s yer trouble? I
thought as how you’d gone to settle it?”

  Harry ground his teeth. “I had—but apparently I should have made an appointment. The damned woman’s gone off for a quiet sojourn in the country—to Asterley Place.”

  He had rarely seen Dawlish so dumbfounded.

  “Asterley?”

  “Precisely.” Harry shrugged off his greatcoat. “And, no, she hasn’t changed her lifestyle. The damned female has no idea what she’s blithely heading into.”

  Dawlish’s eyes grew round. “Gawd help her.” He took the coat from Harry.

  “I sincerely doubt he can.” Harry stripped off his gloves and threw them onto the table with the gillyflower, then turned to the stairs. “Come on—stop standing there like a gawp. We’ll need the greys—she’s got more than a two hours’ start on us.”

  As Harry pounded upstairs, Dawlish blinked, then shook himself. “With you fired up and the greys in their usual mood, we should be able to cut that in half easily.”

  Harry didn’t hear. He strode into his bedroom; it was the work of a few minutes to throw a selection of clothes into a bag. Dawlish came in as he was shrugging into a bottle-green coat; he had already changed his ivory inexpressibles for buckskin breeches.

  “No need to kill y’rself,” Dawlish advised, picking up the bag. “We’ll make it on her heels.”

  Frowning, Harry led the way out. “We’ll get there a full hour after her,” he growled.

  An hour in which she, a total innocent, would have to fend for herself in a house full of wolves, all of whom would assume she was willing prey.

  LUCINDA DESCENDED from her carriage before the steps of Asterley Place and looked around. The house bore a relatively recent façade, Ionic columns supporting the porch roof, classic geometric lines delineating the long windows. It stood in a large park, directly before a long sloping lawn leading down to the shores of a lake. Glimpses of gardens tantalised on both sides; the subtle scent of roses wafted over a brick wall. Wide stone steps led up to the porch; as footmen came running to assist with the baggage, Lucinda unhurriedly ascended to find her host, hostess and their major-domo waiting.

  “Welcome to Asterley Place, my dear Mrs Babbacombe. Can’t say how delighted I am to see you here.” Lord Asterley, a gentleman of average height with a tendency to corpulence, severely restrained, bowed, then shook Lucinda’s hand.

  Lucinda smiled in return, recalling now that she had met his lordship during her earlier weeks in the capital. “I must thank you for your invitation, my lord. It was most…opportune—and appreciated.” She couldn’t suppress the hope that welled within her; anticipation lit her eyes and her smile.

  Lord Asterley noticed—and was instantly smitten. “Indeed? Very pleased to hear it, m’dear.” He patted her hand, then turned to the lady beside him. “Allow me to present my sister, Lady Martindale. She acts as my hostess at these little gatherings, y’know.”

  Lucinda turned and was engulfed in a warm smile.

  Lady Martindale shook hands, a smile wreathing her pretty face. “Please call me Marguerite. Everyone else who stays does.” Her ladyship was some years Lucinda’s senior, a buxom blonde, as transparently good-natured as her brother. “I do hope you enjoy yourself whilst here—don’t hesitate to let me know if there’s anything the least amiss.”

  Lucinda could feel herself relaxing. “Thank you.”

  “The others are gathering in the conservatory—once you’ve had a chance to refresh yourself, do please join them.” Marguerite gestured to the house, gathering Lucinda as she turned towards it. “I dare say there are others you already know but we pride ourselves on informality here.” She leaned closer to add, “You may be sure there are none present who don’t know precisely how to behave, so you need have no worries other than deciding with whom you wish to pass the time.”

  Lucinda returned her smile.

  “Now then—we’ve put you in the Blue Room.” Her ladyship glanced at Lucinda’s cambric carriage dress. “Clearly an inspired choice. Melthorpe here will show you the way and see your maid and baggage sent up. We dine at six.”

  Lucinda thanked her again, then followed in the major-domo’s wake. He was a small man, shrunk within his dark clothes, his long nose and hunched shoulders giving him a crow-like appearance.

  As they gained the top of the wide main staircase, Lucinda caught his eye. He gestured along one corridor; she followed as he started down it. And inwardly frowned. Why on earth should Melthorpe regard her so severely? He stopped before a door at the end of the corridor, opening it and standing back so she could precede him; Lucinda took a closer look at his face as she passed.

  Casting a professionally assessing glance around the room, she approved it with a nod. “Thank you, Melthorpe. If you would send my maid up immediately?”

  “As you wish, ma’am.”

  She watched as, with a frigid air that barely avoided incivility, Melthorpe bowed and withdrew. Lucinda frowned at the door as it shut behind him.

  There was little possibility she had misread his manner—she had too many years’ experience of servants and underlings. The man had looked at her, treated her, as if…It was a moment before she could correctly place his behaviour. When she did, she was dumbstruck.

  The door opened and Agatha appeared, a footman with Lucinda’s case immediately behind. Lucinda watched as her maid, dourly severe as only she could be, instructed the footman to place the case by the dressing-table, then closed the door behind him.

  “Well!” Agatha turned to face her.

  Lucinda noted the speculation in Agatha’s old eyes, but did not respond. From experience, she knew she would get more information if she let Agatha deliver it in her own fashion. And she was suddenly very curious about Asterley Place.

  Stripping off her gloves, she threw them on the bed—a wide four-poster with a tasselled canopy. Her bonnet followed. Then she spread her skirts and considered them. “Hmm—too crushed. I’ll change into my new tea gown, just until dinner.”

  Agatha humphed as she bent to the case buckles. “I haven’t seen much of them yet, but they do seem a stylish lot. A goodly gaggle of snooty gentlemen’s gentlemen in the kitchens as I passed—and from the looks of some of the lady’s maids I reckon there’ll be fights over the curling tongs before nightfall. Best let me do your hair up, too.”

  “Later.” Lucinda glanced at her reflection in the mirror over the dressing table. “There’ll be time before dinner.”

  “Six, they said. Midway between country and town.” Agatha pulled an armful of dresses from the case. “Did hear one of them mention that they have it that way so there’ll be more of the evening for ‘their little games,’ whatever that might mean.”

  “Games?” Perhaps the Asterley household amused themselves with the usual country house parlour games? Lucinda frowned. The vision of Lord Asterley and the buxom Marguerite presiding over such entertainments wasn’t convincing. Lips firming, Lucinda stood. “Come—help me change. I want to meet the other guests before dinner.”

  As she’d been told, they were in the conservatory. It was an unusually large version built on at the back of the house and filled with potted palms to create a leafy grotto. There was a tiled pool at its centre; the guests were gathered about it, some in wicker chairs, others standing chatting in groups.

  One glance made Lucinda very glad she had changed. They were indeed a stylish lot, confident, gaily plumed birds nestling within the greenery. She nodded to Mrs Walker, an elegant widow, and Lady Morcombe, a dashing matron, both of whom she had met in town.

  “My dear Mrs Babbacombe.” Marguerite rustled forward. “Pray let me introduce you to Lord Dewhurst—he’s only just returned from Europe and so has yet to meet you.”

  Lucinda calmly returned Lord Dewhurst’s greetings while inwardly gauging her companions. She could detect nothing odd to account for her flickering nerves. “Indeed,” she replied to Lord Dewhurst’s query. “I’ve quite enjoyed my time in town. But the balls are becoming a trifle…” S
he gestured. “Overdone—don’t you find it so? So crowded one can hardly hear one’s self think. And as for breathing…”

  His lordship laughed, a smooth, suave sound. “Indeed, my dear. Little gatherings such as this are much more convenable.”

  The subtle emphasis he placed on the last word had Lucinda glancing up at him. His lordship looked down at her, a warm light in his eyes.

  “I’m sure you’ll discover, my dear, that at Asterley Place, it’s very easy to find both time and place to…think.”

  Lucinda stared at him. Before she could gather her wits, he took her hand and bowed low.

  “Should you find yourself wishful of company, my dear, pray don’t hesitate to call on me. I can be exceedingly thoughtful, I assure you.”

  “Ah—yes. That is,” desperate, Lucinda wrestled her wits into order, “I’ll bear your offer in mind, my lord.” She inclined her head, somewhat stiffly.

  She waited while his lordship bowed again then gracefully strolled away. Then dragged in a quick breath—and cast another, much more critical, look about her.

  And wondered how she could have been so blind. Every one of the ladies present was undoubtedly that, but they were all either widowed or married, all of unquestionable breeding yet of an age when, it might be imagined, they might have a very real interest in indulging in discreet liaisons.

  As for the gentlemen, they were each and every one of a type she recognised all too well.

  Before she had time to think further, Lord Asterley strolled up.

  “My dear Mrs Babbacombe—can’t tell you how thrilled I was to learn of your interest in our little gatherings.”

  “My interest?” Lucinda swallowed her amazement and politely if coolly raised her brows.

  Lord Asterley smiled knowingly; she half-expected him to wink and nudge her elbow. “Well—perhaps not especially in our gatherings, but in the type of entertainment we all find so…” his lordship gestured expansively “…fulfilling.” He looked down at her. “I do hope, my dear, that, should you feel so inclined, you won’t hesitate to call on me—to help enliven your stay here?”