Stephanie Laurens Rogues' Reform Bundle (78 page)

Drawing in a steadying breath, Lucinda smiled at her three would-be
cicisbei.
With what she hoped they understood as a pointed disregard for all they had hinted at, if not said, she calmly stated, “If you'll excuse me, gentlemen, I believe I will retire early.”

With a benedictory smile, she swept them a curtsy; they immediately bowed low. Rising, Lucinda headed straight for the door. Confident she had avoided a potential quagmire, head high, she glided from the room.

Harry stared after her.

Then uttered a single, pungent expletive and spun on his heel. He exited the room by the windows to the terrace. At speed.

Millie simply stared—then lifted her shoulders in a baffled shrug—and glided after Mr Harding.

Lucinda climbed the stairs and traversed the corridors, engrossed, not with the details of her imminent departure nor yet imaginings of what she had escaped. Lady Coleby's revelations of Harry's long-ago disappointment filled her mind.

She could imagine, very clearly, how it must have been, how, with the impetuosity of youth, he had laid his love at his chosen one's feet, only to see it spurned. It must have hurt. A great deal. The fact explained many things—why he was now so cynical of love, not marriage itself, but the love needed to support it, the intensity he now harnessed, that certain something which made so many women view him as dangerous—excitingly but definitely so—and his emotionally cautious nature.

Reaching her room, Lucinda shut the door firmly behind her. She looked for a key, grimacing resignedly when she discovered there wasn't one.

Thanks to Lady Coleby, and her lack of what Lucinda felt was any proper feeling, she could now understand why Harry was as he was. That, however, did not excuse his behaviour in engineering her present predicament.

Eyes narrowing as she considered his perfidy, Lucinda glided across the room, lit by a single candelabra on the dressing table, and gave the bell pull a definite tug.

The door opened. Her hand still clutching the embroidered pull, Lucinda turned.

To see Harry slip around the door.

He scanned the room and found her. “There's no point ringing for your maid—the house rules forbid servants the upper corridors after ten.”

“What?” Lucinda stared. “But what are you doing here?”

Harry closed the door and looked around again.

Lucinda had had enough. Eyes narrowing, she sailed across the room to confront him. “However, as you
are
here, I have a bone to pick with you!”

Reassured they were alone, Harry brought his gaze to her face as she halted, slender and straight, before him. “Indeed?”

“As you well know!” Lucinda glared up at him. “How
dare
you organise to have me invited to such a gathering as this? I realise you might be somewhat irritated because I did not accept your proposal—” She broke off as the thought occurred that she, like Lady Coleby, might be said to have rejected him. “But the circumstances were nothing like those of Lady Coleby. Or whoever she was then.” With an irritated wave, she dismissed Lady Coleby. “Whatever your feelings in the matter, I have to tell you that I view your behaviour in this instance as
reprehensible!
Utterly callous and without justification! It is totally inconceivable to me why you—”

“I didn't.”

The steel beneath the words cut through her denunciation.

Arrested in mid-tirade, Lucinda blinked up at him. “You didn't?”

His jaw set, his lips a thin line, Harry regarded her through narrowed eyes. “For a woman of superior sense, you frequently indulge the most remarkable notions.
I
didn't arrange to have you invited. On the contrary.” His tone turned conversational, his accents remained clipped; the undercurrent was positively lethal. “When I discover who did, I'm going to wring his neck.”

“Oh.” Lucinda backed a step as he closed the distance between them. Her eyes met his; abruptly, she stiffened and stood her ground. “That's all very well—but what are you doing here now?”

“Protecting you from your latest folly.”

“Folly?” Lucinda coolly raised her brows—and her chin. “What folly?”

“The folly of the invitation you just, all unwittingly, issued.” Harry glanced at the bed, then the fireplace. The fire was lit, a smallish blaze but there was plenty of wood by the hearth. An armchair sat before it.

Lucinda frowned. “What invitation?”

Harry's gaze came back to her face; he merely raised his brows at her.

Lucinda snorted. “Nonsense. You're imagining things. I issued no invitation—I did nothing of the sort.”

Harry gestured to the armchair. “Let's just wait and see, shall we?”

“No—I want you out of here.” Lucinda couldn't tilt her chin any higher. “Your presence is totally improper.”

Harry's eyes glittered. “Naturally—that's the purpose of these parties, in case you hadn't realised.” His gaze fell to her breasts. “And speaking of improper—who the devil told you that gown was decent?”

“A whole
host
of appreciative gentlemen,” Lucinda informed him, belligerently planting her hands on her hips. “And I hardly need you to tell me what the purpose of this little gathering is
but,
for your information, I plan to have nothing to do with it.”

“Good—we agree on that much.”

Lucinda narrowed her eyes. Harry met her gaze with a stubbornness as unwavering as her own.

A knock came on the door.

Harry smiled coldly. He pointed a finger at Lucinda's nose. “Wait here.”

Without waiting for any agreement, he swung on his heel and retraced his steps. He opened the door. “Yes?”

Alfred jumped. “Oh—ah!” He blinked wildly. “Oh—it's you, Harry. Er—I didn't realise.”

“Obviously.”

Alfred shifted his weight from one foot to the other, then gestured vaguely. “Right-ho! Er…I'll call later, then.”

“Don't bother—the reception will be the same.”

The words were a dire warning. Harry shut the door on his old schoolfriend's face, before he could think of doing anything else with the vacuously good-natured features.

He swung back—to find Lucinda staring at the door in utter disbelief. “
Well!
What cheek!”

Harry smiled. “I'm so glad you now see my point.”

Lucinda blinked, then gestured at the door. “But he's gone now. You told him not to come back.” When Harry merely raised his brows, she folded her arms and lifted her chin. “There's no reason you can't leave now.”

Harry's smile turned feral. “I can give you two very good reasons.”

They came knocking an hour or so apart.

Lucinda gave up blushing after the first.

She also stopped urging Harry to leave; this was not the sort of houseparty at which she felt comfortable.

When the hour after midnight passed and no one else came creeping to knock on the panels of her door, Lucinda finally relaxed. Curled up against the pillows on her bed, she looked across at Harry, eyes closed, head back, sprawled in the big armchair before the fire.

She didn't want him to go.

“Get into bed—I'll stay here.”

He hadn't moved or opened his eyes. Lucinda could feel her heart thudding. “There?”

His lips twisted. “I'm perfectly capable of spending a night in a chair for a good cause.” He shifted, stretching his legs out before him. “It's not too uncomfortable.”

Lucinda considered, then nodded. His eyes looked closed.

“Do you need any help with your lacings?”

She shook her head—then realised and answered, “No.”

“Good.” Harry relaxed. “Good night, then.”

“Good night.”

Lucinda watched him for a moment, then settled down amid the covers, drawing them over her. Although it was a four-poster, there were no hangings on the bed; there was no screen behind which she could change. She lay back against the pillows; when Harry made no sound, did not move, she shifted onto her side.

The soft flickering firelight touched his face, lighting the hollows, throwing the strong bone structure into relief, shading his heavy lids, etching the firm contours of his lips.

Lucinda's eyes slowly closed and she drifted into sleep.

W
HEN SHE AWOKE
the next morning, the fire had died. The chair before it was empty.

Lucinda let her lids fall and snuggled down beneath the covers. Her lips curved in a lazy smile; a deep contentment pervaded her. Idly, she searched for the cause—and remembered her dream.

The time, as she recalled, had been very late, deep in the long watches of the night. The house had been silent when she'd supposedly woken—and seen Harry sprawled in the chair before the dying fire. He had shifted restlessly and she had remembered the blanket left on a chair by the bed. She had slipped from beneath the covers, her shimmering gown slithering over her limbs. On silent feet, she had retrieved the blanket and approached the chair by the fire.

She had halted six feet away, stopped by some sixth sense. His eyes had been closed, long brown lashes gilded at the tips almost brushing his high cheekbones. She had studied his face, the angles and planes, austere in repose, the carved jaw and sculpted lips. Her gaze had travelled on, down his long, graceful body, loose-limbed in sleep, the subtle tension that normally invested it in abeyance.

A little sigh had caught in her throat.

And she had felt the touch of his gaze.

Raising her eyes, she had seen his were open, his gaze, heavy-lidded, on her face. He had studied her, not broodingly but with a gentle pensiveness that had held her still.

She had sensed his hesitation, and the instant he put it aside. Lifting one hand, he had held it out, palm upwards, to her.

Indecision had held her, poised, quivering. He said nothing; his hand hadn't moved. She had drawn in a long, deep breath—and placed her hand in his. His fingers had closed gently but firmly about hers, then he had drawn her slowly towards him.

The blanket had fallen from her grasp to lie on the floor, forgotten. He had drawn her nearer, then reached for her, pulling her gently onto his lap.

She had gone very readily, her heart soaring as she felt his heat enfold her, his thighs hard beneath hers. Then his arms had closed about her and she had raised her face for his kiss.

When they had first come together, desire had propelled them into intimacy, leaving no time for the gentler side of passion. In her dream last night they had explored that aspect fully, spending hours before the fire, wrapped in passion's web.

Beneath the covers, Lucinda closed her eyes tight; a long delicious shiver rippled through her.

In her imagination, she could feel Harry's hands upon her, the long fingers experienced, so knowing, his palms hard and calloused from frequent handling of the reins. He had opened the door to a wonderland of sensation—and conducted her through it, educating her senses until they had been filled with pleasure—and him.

He had stripped her gown from her in tantalising stages after his lips, artfully following the neckline, had made her long to rid herself of it. He had gently eased it down, revealing her breasts, on which he had lavished untold attention. In her mind, she felt again the touch of his hair, soft as silk on her heated skin.

How long she had lain, naked in his arms as he loved her, the dying firelight gilding her in bronze and gold, she couldn't recall. But it had felt like hours before he had lifted her and carried her to the bed.

He had drawn down the covers and laid her on the sheets, then rekindled the candles in the candelabra and placed it on the table by the bed. She had blushed and reached for the covers.

“No. Let me look at you.”

His voice had been low, soft and deep. Deep currents, indeed, but these weren't turbulent, dangerous, but deeper still, slow, steady and infinitely strong. They had swept aside her inhibitions, leaving her with no reservations; held in his green gaze, she had lain as he had left her and watched while he undressed.

Then he had joined her on the bed and desire had flared; this time, he had held it harnessed and showed her how to manage the reins. The power was no less strong but, this time, she had appreciated it fully, felt its quality in each long-drawn moment, in each subtle movement, each lingering caress.

The end had been just as glorious but had left a deeper sense of peace, a more shattering realisation of how strong the power that held them now was.

There had been tears in her eyes when, after it was over, she had lifted her lids and looked up into his face.

And had seen therein what she had almost given up hope of ever seeing—resignation, perhaps, but acceptance, too. It had been there in his eyes, glowing beneath his heavy lids, there in the gentler cast of his features. And there most especially in his mobile lips, no longer so hard and severe, but softer, more pliable. He had met her gaze—and hadn't tried to hide his reaction, nor draw back from the reality.

Instead, he had lowered his head and kissed her, long, deeply, lingeringly, then lifted from her and wrapped her in his arms.

A dream—nothing more, her dream, the embodiment of all her hopes, her deepest desires, the answer to her most secret needs.

Lucinda shut her eyes tight, clinging to the deep sense of peace and contentment, even if it was only illusory.

But the day had dawned; light, streaming through the open shutters, played on her lids. Reluctantly, she lifted them—and saw the blanket, half-folded still, sitting on the floor before the hearth.

Her eyes widened. Blinking, she noted the candelabra—on the table beside the bed. Slowly, hardly daring to breathe, she started to turn over. She only got halfway onto her back before she registered the chaos of the covers. Lucinda swallowed, and turned flat on her back. She slanted a glance sideways—and let out the breath she'd been holding. The bed beside her was empty. But the pillow beside hers was deeply dented.

As a final, incontrovertible piece of evidence, a sunbeam, bobbing in, highlighted two fine gold hairs, reposing on the white lawn of the pillowcase.

Lucinda groaned and shut her eyes.

The next instant, she sat bolt upright and flung the covers from her. Only then did she recall she was naked. Grabbing the covers back, she rummaged amid their confusion and discovered the nightgown Agatha had laid out the night before. Muttering curses, Lucinda struggled into it, then leapt from the bed.

She crossed the room with determined strides and yanked violently on the bell pull.

She was leaving. Now.

 

I
N THE LIBRARY
on the ground floor, Harry paced back and forth before the windows. He had dispatched an intrigued Melthorpe to rout out his master, wherever he might be, with a message that his presence was urgently required.

The door latch clicked; Harry swung about as Alfred entered, nattily attired in a check coat over country breeches and high boots. Harry himself was dressed for travelling in his bottle-green coat and buckskins.

“There you are!” With a smile unimpaired by having been summarily summoned from someone else's bed, Alfred strolled forward. “Melthorpe didn't say what the problem was, but you look in fine fettle. Dare say your night was a great deal more exciting than mine, what? Mrs Babbacombe looks set to take the title of most delectable widow of the year—particularly if she can keep
you
entertained, happy as a grig, all night long—”

The last word ended on a strangled note as Harry's fist made contact with Alfred's face.

Harry groaned and put a hand to his brow. “Sorry—sorry.” His expression openly apologetic, he extended his hand to Alfred, who was now measuring his length on the rug. “I didn't
mean
to hit you.” Harry's jaw hardened. “But you'd be well advised to mute your comments on the subject of Mrs Babbacombe.”

Alfred made no move to take his hand, or get up. “Oh?” He was clearly intrigued.

Disgusted with himself, Harry waved him up. “It was just instinctive. I won't hit you again.”

“Ah, well.” Alfred sat up and gingerly felt his left cheekbone. “I know you didn't
mean
to hit me—nothing's broken, so you must've pulled the punch. Very grateful you did, mind—but if it's all the same to you, I'll just remain here until you tell me what this is all about—just in case, with my usual babble, I inadvertently trigger any more of your instincts.”

Harry grimaced. Hands on hips, he looked down at Alfred. “I think someone's been using us.” He gestured about him. “The Asterley Place house-parties.”

Unexpected intelligence seeped into Alfred's eyes. “How?”

Harry compressed his lips, then stated, “Lucinda Babbacombe should never have been invited. She's a thoroughly virtuous female—take it from me.”

Alfred's brows rose. “I see.” Then he frowned. “No, I don't.”

“What I want to know is who suggested you invite her?”

Alfred sat up and draped his arms over his knees. He blinked up at Harry. “You know, I don't think I like being used. It was a chap named Joliffe—brushed up against him a couple of times at some hell or other but he's generally about town—Ernest, Earle, something like that. Ran across him on Wednesday night at that hell in Sussex Place. He happened to mention that Mrs Babbacombe was looking for a little entertainment and he'd promised he'd mention her to me.”

Harry was frowning. “Joliffe?” He shook his head. “Can't say I've had the pleasure.”

Alfred snorted. “Wouldn't exactly call it a pleasure. Bit of a loose fish.”

Harry's gaze abruptly focused. “You took the word of a loose fish on the subject of a lady's reputation?”

“Of course not.” Alfred hurriedly leaned back out of reach, his expression distinctly injured. “I checked—you know I always do.”

“Who with?” Harry asked. “Em?”

“
Em?
Your aunt Em?” Alfred blinked. “What's she got to do with it? Old tartar she is—was. Used to pinch my cheeks every time she came visiting.”

Harry snorted. “She'll do more than pinch your cheeks if she finds out what you invited her protégée to.”

“Her protégée?”
Alfred looked horrified.

“You obviously didn't check too hard,” Harry growled, swinging away to pace once more.

Alfred squirmed. “Well, you see, time was tight. We had this vacancy; Lady Callan's husband came back from Vienna sooner than she'd expected.”

Harry humphed. “So who
did
you check with?”

“The lady's cousin or something by marriage. Mortimer Babbacombe.”

Harry frowned and stopped pacing. The name came floating back to him from his first memories of Lucinda. “Mortimer Babbacombe?”

Alfred shrugged. “Innocuous sort, a bit weak, but can't say I've heard anything against him—other than that he's a friend of Joliffe's.”

Harry prowled over to stand directly before Alfred. “Let me get this straight—Joliffe suggested Mrs Babbacombe was looking for an invitation to the entertainment here and Mortimer Babbacombe confirmed she liked living life on the racy side?”

“Well, not in so many words. Couldn't expect him to come right out and
say
such a thing of a female relative, what? But you know how it goes—I made the suggestions and gave him plenty of time to deny them. He didn't. Seemed clear enough to me.”

Harry grimaced. Then nodded. “All right.” He looked down at Alfred. “But she's leaving.”

“When?” Alfred struggled to his feet.

“Now. As soon as possible. Furthermore, she's never been here.”

Alfred shrugged. “Naturally.
None
of the ladies are here.”

Harry nodded, grateful for his own past deviousness. It was his fertile mind that had devised these parties, where married ladies and widows of the
ton
could enjoy a little illicit dalliance without running the risk of any social repercussions. Total discretion was an absolute requirement—all the ladies who attended had the same secret to hide. As for the gentlemen, honour and their peers—and the likelihood of future invitations—were more than sufficient to ensure their silence.

So the damned woman, despite all, was safe—yet again.

Harry frowned.

“Come on—let's have breakfast.” Alfred turned towards the door. “Might as well reap the rewards of being so early—we can snaffle two helpings of kedgeree.”

Still frowning, Harry followed him to the door.

An hour later, Lucinda swept down the main staircase, Agatha, dourly protective, three steps behind. An incipient frown tangled Lucinda's brows, put there by Melthorpe, who had knocked on her door while they had been packing with a breakfast tray and a message that his lordship would hold himself in readiness to take leave of her whenever she was ready. Then, a few minutes ago, when Agatha had opened her door, it was to discover a footman patiently waiting to carry her bag to the carriage.

For the life of her, she couldn't understand how they had known she was leaving.

It was all most confusing, a situation not helped by the skittering, totally uncharacteristic panic that had laid siege to her confidence.

As she set foot on the last flight of stairs, Lord Asterley strolled out of the dining-room. Harry followed in his wake, a sight that made Lucinda inwardly curse. She switched her gaze to her gloves, tugging them on; when she lifted her face, it was set in determined lines. “Good morning, my lord. I'm afraid I must depart immediately.”

“Yes, of course—I quite understand.” Alfred waited by the bottom of the stairs, his most charming smile in place.

Lucinda struggled not to frown. “I'm so glad. I have enjoyed my stay, but I'm sure it's for the best if I leave this morning.” She avoided looking at Harry, standing behind his host.

Alfred offered her his arm. “We're quite devastated to have you leave, of course, but I've had your carriage brought around.”

Beginning to feel distinctly distracted, Lucinda put her hand on his sleeve. “How kind of you,” she murmured. From beneath her lashes, she glanced at Harry but could make nothing of his urbane expression.