Stephanie Laurens Rogues' Reform Bundle (80 page)

She shot him a warning glance but her smile didn't waver. “The tiles on the ceiling are quite splendid.”

“Oh?” Heather trod up the steps and into the temple without further encouragement.

Gerald, meanwhile, was staring, mesmerised, at Harry's gold acorn pin, the one his excessively precise brother used to anchor his cravat. The pin was askew. Blinking in bemusement, Gerald raised his eyes to Harry's, only to be met by a languid, distinctly bored green gaze—which he knew very well meant he'd be well advised to quit his brother's presence forthwith. “Ah—yes. We'll walk back.”

His expression studiously blank, Gerald nodded to Lucinda and hurried after Heather.

“Mrs Babbacombe?”

Lucinda turned to find Harry, the long pole in one hand, steadying the boat, as he held his other hand out to her. She put her fingers in his; he helped her into the punt. Once she had settled her skirts on the cushions in the prow, he stepped into the stern and poled off.

The dark water glided past the hull; reclining against the cushions, Lucinda trailed her fingertips in the lake—and filled her sight with Harry. He avoided her gaze, concentrating, to all appearances, on their surroundings.

With a small, disbelieving sniff, Lucinda switched her gaze to the shores slipping past.

The ends of Harry's lips lifted; his gaze, falling to her profile, was unusually soft but cynical, too. Hands on the pole, he propelled them through the water; not even the most inveterate rake could seduce a woman while poling a punt. He hadn't planned their recent close brush with intimacy—for once, he was truly grateful for his younger brother's interruption. He had reason enough to marry his siren, and too many excuses he had yet to convince her he no longer needed. Their night at Asterley had only added to the list, lending weight to the social pressures she might imagine had influenced him. Social pressures he himself had foolishly raised in order to hide the truth.

Harry lifted his gaze to the vista before them—the fa
ade of Lester Hall—Jack's home now, no longer his. His gaze grew distant; his jaw firmed.

She had made it plain that it was important for her to know the truth of why he wished to wed her; during the past days, he had realised it was important to him to know that she did. So before they were done, before he again asked her to be his bride, they would have it all clear between them.

His siren would know the truth—and believe it.

 

L
UCINDA OPENED HER EYES
the next morning to discover a dusky pink rose unfurling on her pillow. Enchanted, she took the delicate bloom into her hand, cradling it gently. The dew on the petals fractured the sunshine.

Her smile wondering, delighted, she sat up and pushed the covers back. Every morning she had spent at Lester Hall, she had woken to find just such a tribute waiting somewhere in her room.

But on her pillow…?

Still smiling, she rose.

Fifteen minutes later, her expression serene, she glided through the breakfast parlour doors, the rose between her fingers. As usual, Harry's father was not present—he was a semi-invalid and did not stir before noon; Em adhered to town hours so would not rise until eleven. As for Heather and Gerald, they had the night before announced their intention of riding to a distant folly; they would, Lucinda judged, be well on their way by now. Which left Harry alone, seated at the table's head, long legs stretched out before him, his fingers crooked about the handle of a cup.

Lucinda felt his gaze as she entered; with every appearance of unconsciousness, she considered her lover's token, then, with a softly distant smile, tucked it lovingly into her cleavage, making great show of nestling the velvet petals against the curves of her breasts.

She looked up to see Harry transfixed. His fingers had tightened about the handle of his cup, a stillness, like that of a predator about to pounce, had settled over his long frame. His gaze was riveted on the rose.

“Good morning.” Lucinda smiled sunnily and went forward to take the seat the butler held for her.

Harry tried to speak, then had to clear his throat. “Good morning.” He forced his gaze to Lucinda's; it sharpened as he read her expression. He shifted in his seat. “I'd thought to visit the stud before we head back to town. I wondered if you'd care to accompany me—and perhaps renew your acquaintance with Thistledown.”

Lucinda reached for the teapot. “Thistledown's here?”

Harry nodded and took a long sip of coffee.

“Is it far?”

“Only a few miles.” He watched as Lucinda spread a muffin with jam. She leant both elbows on the table, the muffin held with both hands, and took a bite; a minute later, the tip of her tongue went the rounds of her lips. Harry blinked.

“Will we ride?” Lucinda didn't think to voice her agreement formally; he had known from the first she would go.

Harry stared at the rose nestling between her breasts. “No—we'll take the gig.”

Lucinda smiled at her muffin—and took another bite.

Twenty minutes later, still clad in her lilac walking dress, the dusky pink rose in pride of place, she sat beside Harry as he tooled the gig down a narrow lane. “So you don't spend much time in London?”

Harry raised his brows, his attention on the bay between the shafts. “As little as possible.” He grimaced. “But with a venture like the stud, it's necessary to remain visible amongst the
cognescenti,
which is to say, the gentlemen of the
ton.
”

“Ah—I see.” Lucinda nodded sagely, the wide brim of her villager hat framing her face. “Contrary to all appearances, you care nothing for the balls, the routs, the parties—and less for the good opinion of the feminine half of the
ton.
Indeed—” she opened her eyes wide “—I cannot understand how you have come by the reputation you bear. Unless—” She broke off to look enquiringly up at him. “Perhaps it's all a hum?”

Harry's attention had left the bay gelding; it was focused on Lucinda, the light in his eyes enough to make her shiver. “My reputation, my dear, was not gained in the
ballrooms.
”

Lucinda kept her gaze wide. “Oh?”

“No,” Harry stated—more in answer to the hopeful expression in her eyes than her question. His expression severely reproving, he clicked the reins, setting the horse to a trot.

Lucinda grinned.

The stud was soon reached. Harry tossed the reins of the gig to a groom, then lifted Lucinda down. “I need to talk to my head-stableman, Hamish MacDowell,” he said as they strolled towards the stable complex. “Thistledown should be in her box. It's in the second yard.”

Lucinda nodded. “I'll wait for you there.” The stables were a massive conglomerate of buildings—stables proper, as well as tackrooms and barns housing training gigs as well as what appeared to be quite enormous quantities of fodder. “Did you start it up—or was it already in existence?”

“My father established the stud in his youth. I took over after his accident—about eight years ago.” Harry's gaze swept over the stud—the neat, cobbled yards and stone buildings before them, the fenced fields on either side. “Whenever I'm home I offer to drive him over—but he never comes.” He looked down, then added, “I think seeing it all—the horses—reminds him of his inability. He was a bruising rider until a fall put him in that chair of his.”

“So you're the son who takes after him most in the matter of horses?”

Harry's lips twitched. “In that regard—and, some might argue, his other most consuming passion.”

Lucinda glanced at him, then away. “I see,” she replied, her tone repressive. “So is this now all yours?” Her gesture took in the whole complex. “Or is it a family concern?”

She looked up at Harry, light colour in her cheeks, but made no attempt to excuse the question.

Harry smiled. “Legally, it's still my father's. Effectively—” He halted, lifting his head to sweep his surroundings, before looking down to meet her gaze. “I'm master of all I survey.”

Slowly, Lucinda raised her brows. “Indeed?” If he was her master, did that make her his mistress? But no—she knew very well that was not his aim. “I believe you said Thistledown was in the second yard?” When Harry nodded, she inclined her head regally. “I'll await you there.”

Nose in the air, she headed through the archway into the second yard. Inwardly, she humphed dejectedly. What
was
his reason for delay?

She located Thistledown by the simple expedient of standing in the middle of the square yard and looking about until an excitedly bobbing head caught her eye.

The mare seemed overjoyed to see her, pushing her nose against her skirts. Lucinda hunted in her pockets and located the sugar lumps she'd stolen from the breakfast table; her offering was accepted with every evidence of equine pleasure.

Folding her arms on the top of the stall door, Lucinda watched as the mare lapped water from a bucket. “Can it really be so very difficult to simply ask me again?”

Thistledown rolled a dark eye enquiringly.

Lucinda gestured. “Women are notoriously changeable—in all the novels
I've
ever read, the heroines always said no when first asked.”

Thistledown harrumphed and came to nudge her shoulder.

“Precisely.” Lucinda nodded and absent-mindedly stroked the mare's nose. “I'm entitled to a chance to change my mind.” After a moment, she wrinkled her nose. “Well—at least revise my decision in the light of fresh developments.”

For she very definitely hadn't changed her mind. She knew what she knew—and Harry knew it, too. It was simply a matter of the damned man admitting it.

Lucinda humphed; Thistledown whinnied softly.

From the shadows by the tack room, Harry watched the mare shake her head and nudge Lucinda. He smiled to himself—then turned as Dawlish came lumbering up.

“Seen Hamish, have you?”

“I have. That colt of Warlock's looks promising, I agree.”

“Aye—he'll win a pot before he's done, I reckon.” Dawlish followed Harry's gaze to Lucinda. He nodded in her direction. “P'raps you should introduce the lady to him—get her to have a little chat to him like she did with the mare?”

In mock surprise, Harry stared at his henchman. “Is that approval I detect? From you—the arch-misogynist?”

Dawlish frowned. “Don't know as how I know what a misogynist is, rightly, but at least you've had the sense to find one as the horses like—and who might actually come in handy to boot.” Dawlish snorted. “What I wants to know is why you can't get a move on—so's we can all get back to knowing where we are?”

Harry's gaze clouded. “There are a few loose ends I'm presently tying up.”

“Is that what you calls them these days?”

“Apropos of which,” Harry continued imperturbably, “Did you get that message to Lord Ruthven?”

“Aye—his lordship said as he'd see to it.”

“Good.” Harry's gaze had returned to Lucinda. “We'll leave about two. I'll take the curricle—you can go with Em.”

He didn't wait for Dawlish's grumbling grunt but sauntered after Lucinda. She had left the mare and wandered along the loose boxes to stop at the end where a grey head had come out to greet her.

She looked around as Harry drew near. “Did he win at Newmarket?”

Harry grinned and stroked Cribb's nose. “He did.” The horse nudged his pockets but Harry shook his head. “No apples today, I'm afraid.”

“When's he racing next?”

“Not this year.” Harry took Lucinda's arm and steered her towards the gate. “The Newmarket win took him to the top of his class; I've decided to retire him at his peak, so to speak. He'll stand for the rest of this season. I might give him a run next year, but if the present interest in him as a stud continues, I'd be a fool to let him waste his energies on the track.”

Lucinda's lips quirked; she struggled to suppress her grin.

Harry noticed. “What is it?”

Colouring slightly, Lucinda shot him a glance from beneath her lids.

Harry raised his brows higher.

Lucinda grimaced. “If you must know,” she said, switching her gaze to the horizon. “I was simply struck by the fact that managing a stud is a peculiarly apt enterprise for…er, one with your qualifications.”

Harry laughed, an entirely spontaneous sound Lucinda realised she had not before heard.

“My dear Mrs Babbacombe!” His green eyes quizzed her. “What a thoroughly shocking observation to make.”

Lucinda glared, then put her nose in the air.

Harry chuckled. Ignoring her blushes, he drew her closer. “Strangely enough,” he said, his lips distinctly curved, “you're the first to ever put it into words.”

Lucinda fell back on one of Em's snorts—the one that signified deep disapproval. Disapproval gave way to hope when she realised Harry was not leading her back to the gig but towards a small wood bordering the nearest field. A path led between the trees, cut back to permit easy strolling.