Stephanie Laurens Rogues' Reform Bundle (72 page)

She let her senses reach out, and felt the heat of Harry's gaze. He was watching over her; she cast a glance about but, in the dense crowd, could not find him.

Turning back, she met his lordship's gaze. Lucinda drew in a breath. She had told Em she was game. “Perhaps just a quick turn about the corridor, my lord.”

She was quite certain her strategy was sound.

Unfortunately, this time, she had chosen the wrong rake.

Unlike Lord Ruthven, Mr Amberly and Mr Satterly, Lord Craven was not a familiar of Harry's and therefore lacked their insights into the game she was playing. They, one and all, had determined to assist her in whatever way they could, intrigued by the prospect of removing Harry from their paths. Lord Craven, however, had concluded that her flittering progress from rake to rake was merely a reflection of dissatisfaction with the distractions offered. Having seen how far the gentle touch had got his peers, he had determined on a more forceful approach.

With brisk efficiency, he whisked Lucinda through the doorway.

On the other side of the room, Harry swore, startling two dowagers gracing a nearby
chaise.
He wasted no time on apologies or speculation but started into the crowd. Aware of Craven's reputation, he had kept a close watch on his lordship and his burden but had momentarily lost them at the end of the dance, sighting them again just before Lucinda cast a glance about—then allowed Craven to lead her from the room. Harry knew very well what that glance had signified. The damned woman had been looking for him—to him—for rescue.

This time, she might need it.

The crowd, dispersing after the dance, milled aimlessly. Harry had to fight an impulse to push people out of his way. He forced himself to rein in his strides; he didn't want to focus any attention on his goal.

He finally broke free of the clinging crowd and gained the garden corridor. He didn't pause but went straight to its end where a door gave onto the terrace. Lady Harcourt had frequently bemoaned the fact that her ballroom did not open onto terrace and gardens, as was the fashionable norm. Silently, Harry stepped onto the flagstones. The terrace was deserted. His features hardening, he reined in his building rage and, hands on hips, scanned the deeply shadowed garden.

Muffled sounds drifted to his ears.

He was running when he rounded the corner of the terrace.

Craven had Lucinda backed against the wall and was trying to kiss her. She had ducked her head, frustrating his lordship's intent; her small hands on his chest, she was trying to push him away, incoherent in her distress.

Harry felt his rage claim him.

“Craven?”

The single word had Craven lifting his head and looking wildly about just as Harry caught his shoulder, spinning him into a punishing left cross that lifted his lordship from his feet and left him sprawled in an untidy heap against the stone balustrade.

Lucinda, her hand at her breast, swallowed a sob—and flung herself into Harry's arms. They closed about her; he hugged her fiercely; Lucinda felt his lips on her hair. His body was hard, rigid; she sensed the fury that possessed him. Then he shifted her to his side, keeping her within the protection of one arm. Her cheek against his coat, Lucinda glanced at Lord Craven.

Somewhat shakily, his lordship clambered to his feet. He worked his jaw, then, blinking, warily eyed Harry. When Harry made no move, Craven hesitated, then resettled his coat and straightened his cravat. His gaze shifted to Lucinda, then returned to Harry's face. His features studiously impassive, he raised his brows. “I appear to have misread the situation.” He bowed to Lucinda. “My most humble apologies, Mrs Babbacombe—I pray you'll accept them.”

Lucinda ducked her head, then hid her burning cheeks in Harry's coat.

Lord Craven's gaze returned to Harry's face. Something not at all civilised stared back at him. “Lester.” With a curt nod, his lordship strolled carefully past and disappeared around the corner.

Leaving silence to enfold the two figures on the terrace.

Harry held himself rigid, every muscle clenched, his emotions warring within him. He could feel Lucinda trembling; the need to comfort her welled strong. He closed his eyes, willing himself to resistance, to impassivity. Every impulse he possessed impelled him to take her into his arms, to kiss her, possess her—to put an end to her silly game. A primitive male desire to brand her inescapably his rocked him to his core. Equally strong was his rage, his dislike of being so manipulated, so exposed by his own feelings, so vulnerable to hers.

Mentally cursing her for being the catalyst of such a scene, Harry struggled to suppress passions already too long denied.

The moment stretched, the tension palpable.

Trapped within it, Lucinda couldn't breathe; she couldn't move. The arm about her didn't tighten, but it felt like iron, inflexible, unyielding. Then Harry's chest swelled; he drew in an unsteady breath.

“Are you all right?”

His deep voice was flat, devoid of emotion. Lucinda forced herself to nod, then, drawing on her courage, stepped back. His arm fell from her. She drew in a deep breath and glanced up; one look at his face, at his utterly blank expression, was enough. His eyes showed evidence of some turbulent emotion, glittering in the green; what, she couldn't tell but she sensed his accusation.

Her breath tangling in her throat, she glanced away. His arm appeared before her.

“Come. You must return to the ballroom.”

His face like stone, a graven fa
ade masking turbulent feelings, Harry braced himself against the moment when her fingers settled on his sleeve.

Through the simple contact, Lucinda could sense his simmering anger, and the control that left his muscles twitching, shifting restlessly beneath her hand; for an instant, her feelings threatened to overwhelm her. She wanted him to comfort her, yearned to feel his arms about her once again. But she knew he was right—she had to reappear in the ballroom soon. Dragging in a shaking breath, she lifted her head. With the slightest of nods, she allowed him to lead her back, into the cacophany of conversation and laughter, back to the bright lights and bright smiles.

Her own smile appropriately bright if brittle, she gracefully inclined her head as, with a curt nod, Harry deposited her at the end of Em's
chaise.
He immediately turned on his heel; Lucinda watched him stride away, into the crowd.

“G
OOD AFTERNOON
, Fergus. Is Mrs Babbacombe in?”

Harry handed his gloves and cane to his aunt's butler. His expression stonily impassive, he glanced towards the stairs.

“Mrs Babbacombe is in the upstairs parlour, sir—she uses it as her office. Her ladyship's laid down upon her bed. These late nights are greatly tiring at her age.”

“I dare say.” With decisive stride, Harry headed for the stairs. “I won't disturb her. You needn't announce me.” His lips thinned. “I'm quite sure Mrs Babbacombe is expecting me.”

“Very good, sir.”

The upstairs parlour was a small room at the back of the house. Tall windows looked onto the garden at the rear; two armchairs and a
chaise
plus an assortment of side-tables graced the floral rug by the fireplace while a large daybed filled the space before the windows. An escritoire stood against one wall; Lucinda, a vision in soft blue muslin, was seated before it, pen in hand, when Harry opened the door.

She glanced around, an abstracted smile on her lips—and froze. Her smile faded, replaced by a polite mask.

Harry's expression hardened. He stepped over the threshold and closed the door.

Lucinda rose. “I didn't hear you announced.”

“Probably because I wasn't.” Harry paused, his hand on the doorknob, and studied her haughty expression. She was going to hear him out, come what may; he wasn't in the mood to tolerate interruptions. His fingers closed about the key; the lock slid noiselessly into place. “This isn't a social call.”

“Indeed?” One brow rising, Lucinda lifted her chin. “To what, then, do I owe this honour, sir?”

Harry's smile was a warning. “Lord Craven.”

As he stalked towards her, his eyes boring into hers, Lucinda had to quell a weak impulse to retreat behind her chair.

“I've come to demand an assurance from you, Mrs Babbacombe, that you will, as of this moment, cease and desist in this little game of yours.”

Lucinda stiffened. “I beg your pardon?”

“As well you might,” Harry growled, coming to a halt directly before her, his eyes, glittering green, holding hers. “That little scene on Lady Harcourt's terrace was entirely your own fault. This ridiculous experiment of yours, this habit you've formed of encouraging rakes, has to stop.”

Lucinda summoned a haughty glance. “I don't know what you mean. I'm merely doing what many ladies, situated similarly, would do—looking for congenial company.”

“Congenial?” Harry lifted a supercilious brow. “I would have thought last night would have been sufficient demonstration of how ‘congenial' the company of rakes can be.”

Lucinda felt a blush tinge her cheeks. She shrugged and swung aside, stepping away from the desk. “Lord Craven was clearly a mistake.” She glanced back to add, “And I have to thank you most sincerely for your aid.” Deliberately, she met Harry's gaze, then calmly turned and drifted towards the windows. “But I really must insist, Mr Lester, that my life is my own to live as I please. It's no business of yours should I choose to develop a…” Lucinda gestured vaguely “…a relationship with Lord Craven or anyone else.”

A tense silence greeted her statement. Lucinda paused, fingers lightly trailing the high back of the daybed, her gaze fixed, unseeing, on the prospect beyond the windows.

Behind her, Harry closed his eyes. Fists clenched, his jaw rigid, he fought to shackle his response to what he knew to be deliberate provocation, to suppress the clamorous impulses her words had evoked. Behind his lids, a fleeting image took shape—of her, struggling in Lord Craven's arms. Abruptly, Harry opened his eyes.

“My dear Mrs Babbacombe.” He bit the words out as he stalked after her. “It's clearly time I took a hand in your education. No rake in his right mind is interested in a relationship—other than of an extremely limited sort.”

Lucinda glanced over her shoulder and saw him coming. She turned to meet him—and abruptly found herself backed against the wall.

Harry's eyes trapped hers. “Do you know what we are interested in?”

Lucinda took in his predatory smile, his glittering eyes, heard the undercurrent in his silky voice. Deliberately, she tilted her chin. “I'm not a complete innocent.”

Even as the lie left her lips, her breathing seized. Harry moved closer, crowding her against the wall, stopping only when she could retreat no further, her soft skirts caressing his thighs, brushing his boots.

His lips, so fascinating, were very close. As Lucinda watched, they twisted.

“Perhaps not. But when it comes to the likes of Craven and the others—or me—you're hardly experienced, my dear.”

Her expression intransigent, Lucinda met his gaze. “I'm more than capable of holding my own.”

His eyes flared. “Are you?”

Harry felt barely civilised. She kept prodding the demon within him; he felt barely sane. “Shall we put that to the test?”

He framed her face with his hands and deliberately moved one inch nearer, pressing her against the wall. He felt her draw in a quick breath; a quiver shivered through her. “Shall I show you what we
are
interested in, Lucinda?” He tilted her face to his. “Shall I show you what's on our—” his lips twisted in self-mockery “—
my
mind every time I look at you? Waltz with you?”

Lucinda didn't answer. Eyes wide, she stared into his, her breathing shallow and rapid, her pulse skittering wildly. His brows rose mockingly, inviting her comment; his eyes burned. Then his gaze dropped from hers; Lucinda watched as he focused on her lips. She couldn't suppress the impulse to run the tip of her tongue over the smooth curves.

She felt the shudder that rippled through him, heard the groan he tried to suppress.

Then his head swooped and his lips found hers.

It was the caress she had longed for, planned for, plotted to attain—yet it was like nothing she had dreamed. His lips were hard, forceful, commanding. They captured hers, then tortured them with subtle pleasures, ravishing her senses until she submitted. The kiss caught her up, conquered and willing, and skilfully swept her free of reality, into a place where only his will prevailed. He demanded—she surrendered. Completely.

When he asked, she gave, when he wanted more, she unhesitatingly yielded. She sensed his need—and wanted, deeply desired, his satisfaction. She kissed him back, thrilled to feel the surge of unleashed passion that answered her. The kiss deepened, then deepened again, until she could sense nothing beyond it and the wild longing that swelled within her.

What deep-seated alarm it was that hauled Harry to his senses he did not know. Perhaps the urgent clamouring of rampant desires and the consequent need to arrange their fulfilment? Whatever it was, he suddenly realised the danger. It took every last ounce of his strength to draw back.

When he lifted his head, he was shaking.

Searching for sanity, he stared at her face—her lids slowly rose, revealing eyes so blue, so soft, so glowing with a siren's allure that he couldn't breathe. Her lips, kiss-bruised, gleaming red, ripe and, as he could now testify, so very sweet, drew his gaze. He felt himself falling under her spell again, leaning closer, his lips hungry for hers.

He dragged in a painful breath—and lifted his gaze to her eyes.

Only to see, in the soft blue depths, an awakening intelligence, superseded by a very feminine consideration.

The sight shook him to the core.

Her gaze dropped to his lips.

Harry shuddered; fleetingly, he closed his eyes. “Don't.”

It was the plea of a defeated man.

Lucinda heard and understood. But if she didn't press her advantage now, she would lose it. Em had said he'd be thrilled—but he was so stubborn, if she didn't play that card now, he might not give her another chance.

She lifted her gaze to his. Slowly, she drew her hands from between them and pushed them up over his shoulders. She saw the consternation that filled his eyes; his muscles were locked tight, paralysed. He was unable to deny her.

Harry knew it; restraining his all-but-overpowering desire took all his strength. He couldn't move, could only watch his fate draw near as her arms tightened about his neck and she stretched upwards against him.

When her lips were an inch from his, she raised her eyes and met his tortured gaze. Then her lids fell and she pressed her lips to his.

His resistance lasted all of two heartbeats, as long as it took for desire, shackled, suppressed for so long it had grown to ungovernable proportions, to sear through him, cindering every last one of his good intentions, his rational reasons, his logical excuses.

With a groan that was ripped from deep within him, he drew her into his arms and engulfed her in his embrace.

With all restraint shattered, he kissed her deeply, caressed her, let his desire ignite and set fire to them both. She kissed him back, her hands clinging, her body wantonly enticing.

Desire rose between them, wild and strong; Lucinda abandoned herself to it, to the deep surge of their passions, fervently hoping to thus disguise any false move, any too-tentative response. If he sensed her innocence, all would come to nought—of that she was sure.

His caresses were magic, the response they drew so shattering she would be shocked—if she let herself think. Luckily, coherent thought was beyond her, blocked out by heated clouds of desire. Her senses whirled. His hands on her breasts provoked an urgent, building compulsion unlike any she'd ever experienced.

When one hand dropped low and he drew her hips hard against him, moulding her to him, flagrantly demonstrating his desire, Lucinda moaned softly and pressed closer.

Burgeoning passion left them frantic, hungry for each other, so desperate Harry's head was spinning as he backed her to the daybed. He refocused his will on salvaging some modicum of his customary expertise, bringing it to bear as he divested her of her gown and petticoats, brushing her fluttering hands aside, content enough that she was too befuddled to sensibly assist. Desire urged them on, riding them both; clad only in her chemise, Lucinda flung his cravat to the floor, then fell on the buttons of his shirt with a singlemindedness as complete as his. She seemed fascinated by his chest; he had to pick her up and put her on the daybed so he could sit and tug off his boots.

Lucinda was fascinated—by him, by the sense of rightness that gripped her, by the warm desire flowing in her veins. She felt free, unrestrained by any tenets of modesty or decorum, sure that this was how it should be. He stripped and turned towards her; she wrapped her arms about him, revelling in the feel of his warm skin, burning to her touch. Their lips met; urgency welled, heating her through and through. He drew off her chemise; as their bodies met, she shivered and closed her eyes. They kissed deeply, then Harry pressed her back against the soft cushions. Caught up in the spring tide of their loving, Lucinda lay back and drew him to her.

He lay beside her and loved her but their spiralling need soon spelled an end to such play. Eyes closed, Lucinda knew nothing beyond a deep and aching emptiness, the overwhelming need he had brought to life and only he could assuage. Relief and expectation flooded her when he shifted and his weight pinned her to the bed. She tried to draw breath, to steel herself; his hand slipped beneath her hips and steadied her—with one smooth flexion of his powerful body he joined them.

Her soft gasp echoed in the room. Neither of them moved, both stunned to stillness.

Slowly, his heart thudding in his ears, Harry raised his head and looked down at her face. Her eyes were shut, a frown tangling her brows, her lower lip caught between her teeth. Even as he watched, she relaxed a little beneath him, her features easing.

He waited for his emotions to catch up with the facts. He expected to feel angry, tricked, deceived.

Instead, a shattering feeling of possessiveness, untouched by lust, driven by some far more powerful emotion, welled within him, thrusting out all regrets. The sensation grew, joyously swelling, strong and sure.

Harry didn't question it—or how it made him feel.

Lowering his head, he brushed her lips with his. “Lucinda?”

She snatched in a breath then her lips clung to his. Her fingers fluttered against his jaw.

Harry brought up a hand to gently smooth away clinging tendrils of her hair from her face.

Then, with infinite tenderness, he taught her how to love.

 

S
OME CONSIDERABLE TIME LATER
, when Lucinda again made contact with reality, she discovered herself wrapped in Harry's arms, her back against his chest as he half-sat, propped against the raised head of the daybed. She sighed long and lingeringly, the glory dimming yet still glowing within her.

Harry bent over her; she felt his lips at her temple.

“Tell me of your marriage.”

Lucinda's brows half-rose. With one fingertip, she drew whorls in the hair on his forearm. “To understand, you need to realise that I was orphaned at fourteen. Both my parents had been disowned by their families.” Using the minimum of words, she explained her past history, one hand moving slowly back and forth along Harry's arm, snug about her, all the while. “So, you see, my marriage was never consummated. Charles and I were close, but he didn't love me in that way.”

Harry kept his doubts to himself, rendering silent thanks to Charles Babbacombe for keeping her safe, for loving her enough to leave her untouched. His lips in her hair, the subtle scent of her filling him, Harry made a silent vow to her late husband's shade that, as the recipient of his legacy, he would keep her safe for evermore.

“You'll have to marry me.” He spoke the words as they occurred to him, thinking aloud.

Lucinda blinked. The joy that had filled her faded. After a quiet moment, she asked, “
Have
to marry you?”

She felt Harry straighten as he looked down at her.