An Unwilling Conquest

by Stephanie Laurens

  She got no chance to clarify the point—the mamas, the matrons and the dragons of the ton descended en masse.

  To Harry’s irritation, his evening at Almack’s proved even more trying than he had imagined. His transparent obsession with the woman on his arm, which he had been at such pains to advertise, had, as he had known it would, doused all hope that he might be struck by lightning and forget himself enough to smile on one of the matrons’ young darlings. They had got the point; unfortunately, they had all taken it into their heads to be first with their congratulations.

  The very first of these thinly veiled felicitations came from the indefatigable Lady Argyle, her pale, plain daughter still in tow. “I can’t say how pleased I’ve been to see you at our little entertainments again, Mr Lester.” She bestowed an arch glance before turning her gimlet gaze on Lucinda. “You must make sure he continues, my dear.” She tapped Lucinda’s arm with her fan. “Such a loss when the most handsome gentlemen cling to their clubs. Don’t let him backslide.”

  With another arch glance and a flutter of her fingers, her ladyship departed, silent daughter in her wake. Harry idly wondered if the girl actually spoke.

  Then he glanced down—and saw Lucinda’s face. No one else would have noticed anything amiss, but he was now too used to seeing her relaxed, happy. She was neither, now, her features tense, her lips without the full softness they normally displayed.

  They sustained two more delighted outpourings in rapid succession, then Lady Cowper caught them. Her ladyship was her usual, kind-hearted self, quite impossible to curtail. Harry bore her soft smiles and gentle words—but as soon as she released them, he took a firm grip on Lucinda’s arm and steered her towards the refreshment-room. “Come—I’ll get you a glass of champagne.”

  Lucinda glanced up at him. “This is Almack’s—they don’t serve champagne.”

  Harry looked his disgust. “I’d forgotten. Lemonade, then.” He looked down at her. “You must be parched.”

  She didn’t deny it or make any demur when he handed her a glass. But even in the refreshment-room the avalanche of felicitations he’d unwittingly triggered continued. There was, Harry quickly discovered, no escape.

  By the time the next dance, a waltz, the only one of the evening, let them seek refuge on the floor, he had realised his error. He grasped the moment as he drew Lucinda into his arms to apologise. “I’m afraid I miscalculated.” He smiled down into her eyes—and wished he could see in. They were more than misty, they were cloudy. The sight worried him. “I’d forgotten just how competitive the matrons are.” He couldn’t think of any acceptable way to explain that, when it came to a prize such as he now was, the matrons would rather accept someone like Lucinda, an outsider albeit one of their class, than see an archrival triumph.

  Lucinda smiled, apparently at ease, but her eyes did not lighten. Harry drew her closer and wished they were alone.

  When the dance ended, he looked down at her face, making no attempt to hide the frown in his eyes. “If you like we’ll go and find Em. I dare say she’ll have had enough of this.”

  Lucinda acquiesced with a nod, her expression rigidly serene.

  Harry’s prediction proved true—Em had also been beseiged. She was very ready to depart.

  “A bit like running under fire,” she grumpily informed Lucinda as Harry handed her into the carriage. “But it’s a dashed sight too much when they start angling for invitations to the wedding.” Her snort was eloquent.

  Harry glanced at Lucinda, already seated in the carriage; a shaft of light from the doorway illuminated her face. Her eyes were huge, her cheeks pale. She looked tired, worn down—almost defeated. Harry felt his heart lurch—and felt a pain more intense than any Millicent Pane had ever caused.

  “Now don’t forget!” Em tapped him on the sleeve. “Dinner’s at seven tomorrow—we’ll look to see you before that.”

  “Ah. Yes.” Harry blinked. “Of course.” With a last glance at Lucinda, he stepped back and closed the door. “I’ll be there.”

  He watched the carriage roll away, then, frowning, turned towards his club, just a few steps around the corner. But when he reached the lighted door he paused, then, still frowning, continued on to his rooms.

  An hour later, sunk in her feather mattress, Lucinda stared up at the canopy of her bed. Tonight had clarified matters—unequivocally, incontrovertibly. She’d been wrong—no other explanation existed for Harry’s actions, other than the obvious. The only thing she now needed to decide was what she was going to do about it.

  She watched the moonbeams cross her ceiling; it was dawn before she slept.

  HARRY DIDN’T LEAVE his rooms the next morning, alerted by a message from Salter and disappointing information from Dawlish.

  “They don’t know,” Dawlish repeated for Salter’s benefit when they gathered in Harry’s library at eleven. “Both are sure Mrs Babbacombe’s Miss Heather’s guardian but whether there’s another they can’t say either way.”

  “Hmm.” Salter frowned. He looked at Harry. “Word came in from some of my people. Joliffe’s hired a carriage with four strong horses. No particular destination and he didn’t hire any boys with it—paid a goodly deposit to take it without.”

  Harry’s fingers tightened about his pen. “I think we can conclude that Mrs Babbacombe is in danger.”

  Salter grimaced. “Perhaps—but I’ve been thinking about what your man here said. You can’t go watching them for forever—and if they don’t take one, they might take the other. The stepdaughter’s still their ultimate goal.”

  It was Harry’s turn to grimace. “True.” He stood poised to remove Lucinda from all danger but it was undoubtedly true that, if Joliffe was desperate enough, such a move would expose Heather as Joliffe’s next target.

  “I’ve been thinking,” Salter continued, “that this matter of the carriage is probably for the best. It means he’s planning a move soon. We’re alerted—something Joliffe doesn’t know. If we can sort out the facts about this guardianship, meanwhile keeping a close watch on Joliffe and his crew, then before they can make their move, we can tie them up with a warrant. My sources are sure Mortimer Babbacombe will talk readily enough. Seems he’s in over his head.”

  Harry drew his pen back and forth through his fingers, his gaze distant as he considered the next twenty-four hours. “If you need the information about the guardianship to obtain a warrant, then we’ll have to investigate further.” His gaze shifted to Dawlish. “Go and see Fergus—ask if he knows where to contact a Mr Mabberly of Babbacombe Inns.”

  “Ah—no need.” Salter held up a large finger. “Leave that to me. But what shall I tell Mr Mabberly?”

  Harry’s lips compressed. “He’s Mrs Babbacombe’s agent—she trusts him, I gather—so you may tell him whatever you must. But he’ll very likely know the answer. Or at least know who does.”

  “Still no thoughts of just asking the lady?”

  Slowly, Harry shook his head. “But if we haven’t got the answer by tomorrow evening, I’ll ask her.”

  Salter accepted the deadline without comment. “Need any help keeping an eye on the pair of them?”

  Again Harry shook his head. “They won’t be leaving Hallows House today or tonight.” He looked at Salter, his expression resigned. “My aunt is holding a soirée.”

  IT WAS THE BIGGEST SOIRÉE Em had held in years and she was determined to enjoy it to the full.

  Lucinda said as much as, side by side, she and Harry ascended the stairs to the ballroom. “She’s positively wound tight. You could almost believe it was she making her come-out.”

  Harry grinned. The exceedingly select dinner Em had organised to precede her “little entertainment” had been a decided success; the company had been such as to gratify the most ambitious hostess. “She’s enjoyed herself tremendously these last few months. Ever since you and Heather joined her.”

  Lucinda met his eyes briefly. “She’s been very good to us.”

  “And you’ve be
en very good for her,” Harry murmured as they reached the head of the staircase.

  Em was already there, taking up her position to greet the first of the guests who were even now milling in the hall.

  “Don’t forget to compliment her on the décor,” Lucinda whispered. “It’s all her own effort.”

  Harry nodded. When Em waved insistently, summoning Lucinda to her side, he bowed and strolled on into the ballroom. It was indeed a sight—garlanded with purple and gold—Em’s favourite colours—lightened here and there with a touch of blue. Cornflowers stood in urns on tables by the side of the room; blue bows tied back the curtains about the long windows. Harry smiled and paused to glance back at the trio at the door—Em in heavy purple silk, Heather in pale gold muslin with a hint of blue at neckline and hem, and Lucinda—his siren—stunning in a gown of sapphire silk trimmed with fine golden ribbons.

  Harry decided that sincerely complimenting his aunt would, in this instance, be easy. He strolled the room, chatting with acquaintances, even steeling himself to converse with the few ageing relatives Em had seen fit to invite. But he did not lose sight of the welcoming party; when Em finally quit her position, he was already at Lucinda’s side.

  She smiled up at him, unaffectedly open, the gesture warm yet with a lingering sense of…Harry gazed down into her softly blue eyes, even softer now, and realised with a jolt that what he could sense was melancholy.

  “If the crowds keep rolling in as they are, Em’s soirée will be declared the very worst crush of the Season.” Lucinda placed her hand on his arm and laughed up at him. “I might very well have to plead fatigue from the first.”

  Harry returned her smile but his gaze remained acute. “Lady Herscult is one of Em’s oldest friends; she’s charged me most straitly to bring you directly to her.”

  With a serene smile and an inclination of her head, Lucinda allowed him to lead her into the growing crowd.

  As they passed through the throng, people stopped them to chat, all beaming. They discovered Lady Herscult on a chaise; she twitted Harry and Lucinda both before letting them escape. Throughout, Harry watched Lucinda carefully; with unshakeable serenity, she turned aside any questions too probing, her smile calmly assured.

  The first waltz interrupted their meanderings—Em had chosen to enliven her soirée with three dances, all waltzes.

  As, without seeking any permission, Harry drew Lucinda, unresisting, into his arms, he arched a brow. “A novel arrangement.”

  A gurgle of laughter came to his ears.

  “She said,” Lucinda explained, “that she could see no point in wasting time with quadrilles and cotillions when what everyone really wanted was waltzes.”

  Harry grinned. “Very Em.”

  Lucinda smiled as he whirled her through the turn, her ease on the dance floor a far cry from her first excursion. She felt supple in his arms, fluidly matching her steps to his, following effortlessly, not, he suspected, even conscious that he held her so close. She would probably notice if he didn’t.

  His lips curved; she noticed.

  “Now why are you smiling?”

  Harry couldn’t stop his slow smile from breaking. His eyes caught hers—he felt he could lose himself in the blue. “I was just thinking what a good job I’ve made of teaching you to waltz.”

  Lucinda raised her brows. “Indeed? Can I not claim some small achievement for myself?”

  Harry’s smile went crooked. He drew her a fraction closer, his eyes a brilliant green. “You’ve achieved a great deal, my dear. On the floor—and off.”

  Her brows rose higher. She held his gaze, her expression serene, her smile soft, her lips eminently kissable. Then she lowered her lids and looked away, leaning her head fleetingly against his shoulder.

  When they weren’t playing waltzes, the musicians had been instructed to entertain Em’s guests with gentle airs and sonatas, all pleasing to the ear. As they wandered the crowds, engaging in the usual banter and occasional repartee, without question or, indeed, thought, remaining by each other’s side, Harry realised that his siren was indeed calmer, more her usual self than she had been at Almack’s the night before.

  His relief was telling; he had, he realised, been harbouring a deep concern. Presumably, last night, it had merely been the unexpected gush of semi-congratulations that had shaken her; tonight, she seemed at ease, assured, typically confident.

  If he could only discover the cause of the strange hint of sorrow that lay, deep but present, beneath her serene veneer—and eradicate it—he’d be happier than any man, he felt, had any right to be.

  She was perfect, she was his—as he had always sensed she could be. All he wanted of life was here, with her, within his grasp; time was all that now stood in his path.

  But tomorrow would come—it wasn’t what he’d originally planned but he wasn’t going to wait any longer. He had completed all the important acts—she would simply have to believe him.

  The supper waltz came and went, as did supper itself, an array of delicacies Em’s old cook had, Lucinda assured him, been up the past three nights producing. Filled with laughter and repartee, the hours fled past until, at the last, the musicians laid bow to string once more and the strains of the last waltz rose above the sea of glittering heads.

  The third waltz.

  Close by the edge of the floor, Harry and Ruthven were deep in discussions of a distinctly equine nature while beside them Mr Amberly and Lucinda pursued a shared interest in landscapes. As the music swelled, Harry turned to Lucinda—just as she turned to him. Their gazes locked; after a moment, Harry’s lips twisted wryly.

  His eyes on hers, he offered her, not his arm but his hand.

  Lucinda glanced at it, then looked into his green eyes. Her heart accelerated, pulsing in her throat.

  Harry’s brows slowly rose. “Well, my dear?”

  Her gaze steady on his, Lucinda drew in a breath. Her smile soft and oddly fragile, she placed her hand in his.

  Harry’s fingers closed tight over hers. He bowed elegantly; Lucinda’s smile grew—she sank into a curtsy. Harry raised her, a light in his eyes she had not before seen. He drew her into his arms, then, with consummate skill, whirled them onto the floor.

  Lucinda let herself flow with his stride. His strength surrounded her; he was protection and support, lover and master, helpmate and friend. She searched the hard planes of his face, chiselled, austere; with him, she could be what she wished—what she wanted to be. Her gaze softened, as did her lips. He noticed; his gaze fell to her lips, then rose again to capture hers, a subtle shift in the green raising a slow heat beneath her skin, a warmth that owed nothing to the crowds and everything to what lay between them.

  With inherent grace, they swirled down the long room, seeing no one, aware of nothing beyond their shared existence, trapped by the waltz and the promise in each other’s eyes.

  Lord Ruthven and Mr Amberly looked on, smugly satisfied smiles on their faces.

  “Well—I think we can congratulate ourselves, Amberly.” Lord Ruthven turned and held out his hand.

  “Indeed.” Mr Amberly beamed and shook it. “A job well done!” His eyes lifted to the couple circling the floor. His smile grew broader. “No doubt about it.”

  Lord Ruthven followed his gaze—and grinned. “Not a one.”

  As she leaned back against Harry’s arm and let the magic of the moment take her, Lucinda knew that was true. Even while a small part of her sorrowed, she felt elation sweep her. He would ask her very soon—and she knew how she would answer. She loved him too much to deny him again, even should he deny her. Deep inside, her conviction that he loved her had never waned—it never would, she was sure. She could draw on that for strength as she had hoped to draw on his acknowledgement of his love. If it was not to be, it wasn’t; she was too prosaic a creature to rail against a much-desired fate.

  With the last ringing chord of the waltz, the evening was declared over.

  As family, Harry hung back, allowing the other g
uests to depart. Gerald finally headed downstairs, leaving Harry with Lucinda at their head. His hand found hers in the folds of her gown; twining his fingers through hers, he drew her to face him. Ignoring Em leaning against the balustrade on Lucinda’s other side, Harry raised Lucinda’s hand to brush a kiss across her knuckles, then shifting his hold, his gaze steady on hers, he tipped her fingers back to place a kiss on her inner wrist.

  Lucinda, trapped in his gaze, suppressed a delicious shiver.

  Harry smiled—and traced her cheek with one long finger. “We’ll talk tomorrow.”

  The words were soft, low—they went straight to Lucinda’s heart. She smiled softly; Harry bowed, first to her, then to Em. Then, without a backward glance, he descended the stairs—to the very last, the very picture of the elegant rake.

  Outside Hallows House, lurking in the shadows on the opposite side of the street, unremarkable amid the small gathering of urchins and inveterate watchers who congregated outside any ball or party, Scrugthorpe kept his eyes fixed on the lighted doorway and muttered beneath his breath.

  “Just wait till I get my hands on you, bitch. Once I’m done with you, no high-stickler of a gentleman will want to sully himself with you. Damaged goods, you’ll be—well and truly damaged.” He cackled softly, gleefully and rubbed his hands. In the shadows, his eyes gleamed.

  A link-boy, waiting to pick up any likely trade, strolled past, casting Scrugthorpe an incurious glance. A few paces on, the boy passed a street-sweeper, leaning on his broom, his face obscured by an ancient floppy hat. The link-boy grinned at the sweeper, then ambled on to prop against a nearby lamppost.

  Scrugthorpe missed the exchange, intent on the last stragglers emerging from Hallows House.

  “You’ll be mine very soon,” he leered. “Then I’ll teach you not to give a man lip. Too hoity by half.” His grin turned feral. “I’ll bring you back to earth right quick.”

  A thin, tuneful whistle floated across Scrugthorpe’s senses, distracting him from his plotting. The tune continued—a popular air; Scrugthorpe stiffened. Alert, he scanned the shadows for the whistler. His gaze settled on the link-boy. The tune continued; Scrugthrope knew it well, even down to the curious lilting catch the whistler put at the end of each verse.