Stephanie Laurens Rogues' Reform Bundle (71 page)

“Hardly to be wondered at, my dear Mrs Babbacombe. Yet another crush.” With an idle wave, Mr Amberly indicated the throng about them. “Don't know what the hostesses see in it, myself.” His gaze dropped to Lucinda's face. “Reduces the opportunities to chat, don't y'know?”

Lucinda took due note of the gleam in Mr Amberly's eyes and smiled again. “Indubitably, sir.”

Without further encouragement, Mr Amberly chatted on, interspersing remarks on the weather, the
ton
and events forthcoming with gently loaded comments. Lucinda found no difficulty in turning these aside. At the end of fifteen minutes, having politely declined an invitation to go driving to Richmond, she drained her glass and handed it to her escort. He placed it on a passing footman's tray and turned back to help her to her feet.

“I'm desolated, dear lady, that my projected excursion fails to tempt you. Perhaps I might yet stumble on a destination that finds greater favour in your eyes?”

Lucinda's lips twitched. She stifled a giggle. “Perhaps.” Her smile felt oddly wide. She took a step, leaning heavily on Mr Amberly's arm. Suddenly, she felt distinctly flushed. Far warmer than she had before her drink.

“Ah…” Mr Amberly's eyes sharpened. “Perhaps, my dear Mrs Babbacombe, a breath of fresh air might be wise?”

Lucinda turned her head to consider the long windows—and forced herself to straighten. “I think not.” She might wish to learn a few tricks but she had no intention of damaging her reputation. Turning back, she blinked as a glass appeared before her.

“I suggest you drink this, Mrs Babbacombe,” came in clipped accents.

The tone suggested she had better do so if she knew what was good for her.

Obligingly, Lucinda took the glass and raised it to her lips, simultaneously raising her eyes to Harry's face. “What is it?”

“Iced water,” Harry replied. He transferred his gaze to Frederick Amberly's innocent visage. “You needn't linger, Amberly. I'll escort Mrs Babbacombe back to my aunt.”

Mr Amberly's brows rose, but he merely smiled gently. “If you insist, Lester.” Lucinda held out her hand and he took it, bowing elegantly. “Your servant always, Mrs Babbacombe.”

Lucinda bestowed a perfectly genuine smile. “Thank you for a most…delightful interlude, sir.”

Mr Amberly's departing look suggested she was learning.

Then she glanced up at Harry's face. He was eyeing her narrowly.

“My dear Mrs Babbacombe, has anyone ever explained to you that remaining a virtuous widow is conditional on not encouraging rakes?”

Lucinda opened her eyes wide. “Encouraging rakes? My dear Mr Lester, whatever do you mean?”

Harry returned no answer but his lips thinned.

Lucinda grinned. “If you mean Mr Amberly,” she continued ingenuously, “we were just chatting. Indeed,” she went on, her smile widening again, “I have it on excellent authority that I'm
incapable
of encouraging rakes.”

Harry snorted. “Rubbish.” After a moment, he asked, “Who told you that?”

Lucinda's smile lit up the room. “Why, you did—don't you remember?”

Looking down into her very bright eyes, Harry inwardly groaned. And hoped Amberly hadn't noticed just how thin the lovely Mrs Babbacombe's skull was. Taking the empty glass from her fingers, he deposited it on a passing tray, then took her hand and placed it on his sleeve. “And now, Mrs Babbacombe, we are going to perambulate, very slowly, around the room.”

Bright blue eyes quizzed him. “Very slowly? Why?”

Harry gritted his teeth. “So you don't stumble.” Into another rake's arms.

“Ah.” Lucinda nodded sagely. A delighted, distinctly satisfied smile on her lips, she let him lead her, very slowly, into the crowd.

 

L
UCINDA'S HEAD
was throbbing when she followed Em into the carriage. Heather tumbled in after them and promptly curled up on the opposite seat.

Settling her skirts, Lucinda decided that, despite her minor discomfort, her evening had been a success.

“Damned if I know what Harry's about,” Em stated as soon as Heather's breathing subsided into the soft cadence of sleep. “Have you made any headway with him yet?”

Lucinda smiled into the gloom. “Actually, I think I've at last found a chink in his armour.”

Em snorted. “'Bout time. The boy's too damned stubborn for his own good.”

“Indeed.” Lucinda settled her head against the squabs. “However, I'm unsure how long this chink might take to develop into a breach, nor yet how potentially difficult it might prove to pursue. I don't even know whether, ultimately, it will work.”

Em's next snort was one of pure frustration. “Anything's worth a try.”

“Hmm.” Lucinda closed her eyes. “So I think.”

 

O
N
M
ONDAY
, she danced twice with Lord Ruthven.

On Tuesday, she went driving in the Park with Mr Amberly.

On Wednesday, she strolled the length of Bond Street on Mr Satterly's arm.

By Thursday, Harry was ready to wring her pretty neck.

“I suppose this campaign has your blessing?” Harry looked down at Em, settled in majestic splendour on a
chaise
in Lady Harcourt's ballroom. He made no attempt to hide his barely restrained ire.

“Campaign?” Em opened her eyes wide. “What campaign?”

Harry gave her one of her own snorts—the one that signified incredulous disbelief. “Permit me to inform you, dear Aunt, that your protégée has developed a potentially unhealthy taste for living dangerously.”

Having delivered himself of that warning, he stalked away. Not, however, to join the crowd about Lucinda Babbacombe. He propped the wall nearby, far enough away so that she wasn't likely to see him, and, eyes glittering greenly, watched her.

He was thus engaged when a hearty clap on the shoulder very nearly sent him sprawling.

“There you are, brother mine! Been looking all over. Didn't think to see you here.”

Resuming his languid pose, Harry studied Jack's blue eyes; he decided his brother had yet to hear of his preoccupation. “It passes the time. But why are you back in town?”

“The arrangements, of course. All set now.” Jack's blue gaze, which had been idly drifting the room, returned to Harry's face. “Next Wednesday at eleven at St. George's.” Jack's slow grin surfaced. “I'm counting on your support.”

Harry's lips twisted in a reluctant grin. “I'll be there.”

“Good. Gerald, too—I haven't found him yet.”

Harry looked over the sea of heads. “He's over there—beside the blonde ringlets.”

“Ah, yes. I'll catch him in a minute.”

Harry noted that his brother's eyes, glowing warmly, rarely left the slender blonde dancing with Lord Harcourt. Their host appeared captivated. “How's Pater?”

“Fine. He'll live to be eighty. Or at least long enough to see us all wed.”

Harry bit back his instinctive response; Jack had heard him disparage marriage often enough. But not even his brother knew the reason for his vehemence;
that
had always remained his secret.

Following Jack's gaze, Harry studied his elder brother's chosen bride. Sophia Winterton was a charming, utterly open and honest woman whom Harry was certain Jack could trust. Harry switched his gaze to Lucinda's dark head; his lips twisted. She might serve him some tricks, as she was presently doing, but her motives would always be transparent. She was open and direct, uncommonly so; she would never seriously lie or cheat—she simply wasn't that sort of woman.

A sudden longing welled within him, followed immediately by the old uncertainty. Harry shifted his gaze, looking once more at Jack. Once he had found his particular Golden Head, Jack had moved very swiftly to claim her. As usual, his brother had been totally confident, assured in his decision. Studying Jack's smile, Harry felt an unexpected twinge of emotion—and recognized it as jealousy.

He straightened from the wall. “Have you seen Em?”

“No.” Jack glanced about. “Is she here?”

Harry strolled with him through the crowd until he could point out their aunt, then left Jack to forge his way to her. Then, shackling his temper, he let his feet have their way. They took him to Lucinda's side.

From the opposite side of the large ballroom, Earle Joliffe watched Harry take his place in the select circle about Lucinda. “Odd. Very odd,” was his judgement.

“What's odd?” Beside him, Mortimer Babbacombe inserted a pudgy finger beneath his neckcloth and eased the stiff folds. “Dashed warm in here.”

Joliffe's glance was contemptuous. “What's odd, my dear Mortimer, is that, if there was ever a rake guaranteed to gain the entrée into your aunt-by-marriage's boudoir, it would be Harry Lester.” Joliffe glanced again across the room. “But as I read it, he's holding off. That's what's odd.”

After a moment, Joliffe went on, “A disappointment, Mortimer. But it seems he's disappointed her, too—she's looking over the field, no doubt about that.” Joliffe's gaze grew distant. “Which means that all we have to do is wait for the first whispers—these things always percolate from under even the most tightly closed doors. Then we'll get a little hard proof—it shouldn't be too difficult. A few eye-witnesses of comings and goings. Then we'll have your sweet cousin—and her even sweeter legacy—in our hands.”

It was a reassuring prospect. Joliffe was over his ears in debt, although he'd been careful to conceal his desperation from Mortimer. His erstwhile friend was reduced to a shivering jelly just knowing he owed Joliffe five thousand pounds. The fact that Joliffe had pledged the money on, with interest, and to one against whom it was never wise to default, would turn Mortimer to a quivering wreck. And Joliffe needed Mortimer, hale and hearty, sound in mind and reputation, if he was ever to save his neck.

If he failed to help Mortimer to Heather Babbacombe's legacy, he, Earle Joliffe, man about town, would end life as a beggar in the Spitalfield slums. If he was lucky.

Joliffe's gaze rested on Lucinda's dark head. Once he had seen her, he had felt a great deal more confident. She was precisely the sort of widow who attracted the most dangerous of rakes. His hard eyes lighting, Joliffe squared his shoulders and turned to Mortimer. “Mind you, Scrugthorpe will have to forgo his revenge.” Joliffe's lips lifted. “But then, nothing in life is ever quite perfect. Don't you agree, Mortimer?”

“Er—ah—yes.”

With a last worried glance at his aunt-by-marriage, Mortimer reluctantly followed Joliffe into the crowd.

At that moment, the opening strains of a waltz percolated through the room. Lucinda heard it; her nerves, already taut, quivered. It was the third waltz of the evening, almost certainly the last. Relief had swept her when, only moments ago, Harry had, at last, materialised by her side. She had not seen him until then although she had felt his gaze. Breath bated, she had welcomed him with a soft smile. As usual, he had not joined in the conversation but had stood, his features hard, his expression remote, beside her. She had slanted a glance up at him; he had met it with an impenetrable look. Now, a smile on her lips as she graciously acknowledged the usual clamour of offers for the dance, she waited, buoyed with anticipation, to hear Harry's softly drawled invitation.

In vain.

The still silence on her left was absolute.

A deathly moment of awkward silence ensued.

Lucinda stiffened. With considerable effort, she kept her smile unaffected. She felt hollow inside but she had her pride. She forced herself to scan those desirous of partnering her. Her gaze came to rest on Lord Craven.

He had not appeared in her circle since that first evening two weeks ago. Tonight, he had been most assiduous.

Smiling brittlely, Lucinda held out her hand. “Lord Craven?”

Craven smiled, a coolly superior gesture, and bowed elegantly. “It will be a pleasure, my dear.” As he straightened, he met her eyes. “For us both.”

Lucinda barely heard; automatically, she inclined her head. With a gentle smile she acknowledged those she had disappointed but by not so much as a flicker of an eyelash did she acknowledge Harry. Outwardly serene, she allowed Lord Craven to lead her to the floor.

Behind her, she left an uncomfortable silence. After a moment, Lord Ruthven, cool and suddenly as remote as Harry, with no hint of his habitual good-humoured indolence in his eyes, lifted a brow. “I do hope, Lester, that you know what you're about?”

His eyes like green ice, Harry met his lordship's challenging stare and held it, then, without a word, looked away to where Lucinda was taking the floor in Lord Craven's arms.

At first, his lordship tried to hold her too close; Lucinda frowned and he desisted. Thereafter, she paid him little heed, answering his polished sallies at random, their underlying tone barely registering. By the time the last chords sounded and his lordship whirled her to an elegant halt, her inner turmoil had calmed.

Enough to leave her prey to an enervating sense of defeat.

The emotion was not one she could approve. Straightening her shoulders and lifting her head, Lucinda reminded herself of Em's words: Harry would be no easy conquest but she had to hold firm to her plan.

So…here she was at the far end of the ballroom on Lord Craven's arm. His hand held hers trapped on his sleeve.

“Perhaps, Mrs Babbacombe, we should grasp the opportunity to become better acquainted?”

Lucinda blinked; his lordship gestured to a nearby door, set ajar.

“It's so noisy in here. Perhaps we could stroll the corridor?”

Lucinda hesitated. A corridor did not sound particularly secluded—and it was certainly crowded in the ballroom; her temples were starting to ache. She glanced up—and met Lord Craven's dark eyes and his faintly superior stare. She wasn't entirely sure of him but he was here, offering yet another potential prod to Harry's possessive nature.