Stephanie Laurens Rogues' Reform Bundle (82 page)

Lucinda regarded him closely. When he offered not a word, she ventured, “Not since Lady Coleby?”

He looked at her then, his green glance filled with dire warning, his lips a severe line. Then he looked back at his horses. After a moment, he said, his tone exceedingly grudging, “She was Millicent Pane then.”

Harry's memory flitted back through the years; “Millicent Lester” was what he'd been thinking then. His lips twisted wrily; he should have noticed that didn't sound right. He glanced down at the woman beside him, in blue, as usual, her dark hair framing her pale face in soft curls, the whole enchanting picture framed by the rim of her modish bonnet. “Lucinda Lester” had a certain balance, a certain ring.

His lips curved but, her gaze abstracted, she didn't see. She was, he noted, looking decidedly pensive.

The drive ahead cleared as they left the area favoured by the
ton.
Harry reined in and joined the line of carriages waiting to turn back. “Once more through the gauntlet, then I'll take you home.”

Lucinda shot him a puzzled glance but said nothing, straightening and summoning a smile as they headed back into the fray.

This time, heading in the opposite direction, they saw different faces—many, Lucinda noted, looked surprised. But they were constantly moving; she got no chance to analyse the reactions the sight of them seemed to be provoking. Lady Jersey's reaction, however, needed no analysis.

Her ladyship was in her barouche, languidly draped over the cushions, when her gimlet gaze fell on Harry's curricle, approaching at a sedate walk. She promptly sat bolt upright.

“Merciful heavens!” she declared, her strident tones dramatic. “I never thought to see the day!”

Harry shot her a malevolent glance but deigned to incline his head. “I believe you are acquainted with Mrs Babbacombe?”

“Indeed!” Lady Jersey waved a hand at Lucinda. “I'll catch up with you next Wednesday, my dear.”

Her ladyship's glance promised she would. Lucinda kept her smile gracious but was relieved when they passed on.

She slanted a glance at Harry to discover his face set in uncompromising lines. As soon as the traffic thinned, he clicked the reins.

“That was a very short drive,” Lucinda murmured as the gates of the Park hove in sight.

“Short, perhaps, but quite long enough for our purposes.”

The words were clipped, his accents unencouraging. Lucinda's inner frown deepened. “Our purposes”. What, precisely, were they?

 

S
HE WAS STILL WONDERING WHEN
, gowned in hyacinth-blue watered silk, she descended the stairs that evening, ready for Lady Mickleham's ball. Being in constant expectation of an offer was slowly sapping her patience; there was no doubt in her mind that Harry intended making her another, but the when and the why of his reticence were matters that increasingly worried her. She descended most of the stairs in an abstracted daze, glancing up only as she neared their foot. To have her gaze lock with one of clear green.

Eyes widening, Lucinda blinked. “What are you doing here?”

Her astonished gaze took in his severely, almost austerely cut evening clothes, black and stark white as always. The gold acorn pin in his cravat winked wickedly.

She watched his lips twist in a wry grimace.

“I'm here,” Harry informed her, his accents severely restrained, “to escort you—and Em and Heather—to Lady Mickleham's ball.” He strolled to the end of the stairs and held out a commanding hand.

Lucinda looked at it, a light blush staining her cheeks. She was glad there were no servants about to witness this exchange. As her fingers, of their own volition, slid into his, she raised her eyes to his face. “I wasn't aware you considered it necessary to escort us to such affairs.”

His features remained impassive, his eyes hooded, as he drew her down to stand before him.

The door at the end of the hall swung open; Agatha strode through, Lucinda's evening cloak over her arm. She checked when she saw Harry, then merely nodded at him, severe as ever but with less hostility than was her wont, and came on. Harry held out a hand; Agatha readily surrendered the cloak, then turned on her heel and retraced her steps.

Lucinda turned; Harry placed the velvet cloak about her shoulders. Raising her head, she met his gaze in the mirror on the wall. In the corridor above a door opened and shut; Heather's voice drifted down, calling to Em.

If she clung to polite phrases, he would fence and win. Lucinda drew in a quick breath. “Why?”

For a moment, his gaze remained on hers, then dropped to her throat. She saw his lips quirk, in smile or grimace she couldn't tell.

“Circumstances,” he began, his voice low, “have changed.” He raised his head and his eyes met hers. His brows rose, faintly challenging. “Haven't they?”

Lucinda stared into his eyes and said nothing at all; she wasn't about to gainsay him. But had things truly changed? She was no longer so sure of that.

Heather came skipping down the stairs, followed, more circumspectly, by Em. Amid the bustle of finding cloaks and gloves, Lucinda had no further chance to question Harry's new tack. The short trip to Mickleham House in Berkeley Square was filled with Heather's bright prattle and Em's reminiscences. Lucinda remained silent; Harry sat in the shadows opposite, equally quiet.

The ordeal of the crowded stairway left no opportunity for private converse. Lucinda smiled and nodded to those about them, aware of the curious glances thrown their escort. For his part, Harry remained impassively urbane but as they neared their host and hostess, he bent his head to murmur, very softly, in her ear, “I'll take the supper waltz—and I'll escort you into supper.”

Her lips setting, Lucinda shot him a speaking glance.
Take
the supper waltz, indeed! She inwardly humphed, then turned to greet Lady Mickleham.

As Harry had foretold, her ladyship's rooms were full to overflowing.

“This is ridiculous,” Lucinda muttered as they forged a path towards one side of the ballroom, hoping to find a
chaise
for Em.

“It's always this bad at the end of the Season,” Em returned. “As if building to a frenzy before summer sends everyone home to the country.”

Lucinda stifled a sigh as thoughts of the country—the grotto by the Lester Hall lake, the peace and serenity of Lestershall Manor—returned to her.

“Well—there's only a few weeks left to go,” put in Heather. “So I suppose we should make the most of them.” She glanced at Lucinda. “Have you decided where we'll spend the summer?”

Lucinda blinked. “Ah…”

“I dare say your stepmother feels such decisions are a trifle premature,” Harry drawled.

Heather's lips formed an innocent “O”—she seemed perfectly content to accept the uninformative statement.

Lucinda let out a slow breath.

Em found a place on a
chaise
with Lady Sherringbourne; the two ladies promptly fell to exchanging revelations on the alliances forged that year.

Lucinda turned—to find herself all but engulfed by her court, who, as she was rapidly informed, had been awaiting her reappearance with bated breath.

“A whole week you've been away, m'dear. Quite desolate, we've been.” Mr Amberly smiled benignly.

“Not that I can't understand it,” Mr Satterly remarked. “The crushes are becoming far too real for my liking. Drive anyone away.” His gaze rose to Harry's face, his expression utterly bland. “Don't you think so, Lester?”

“Indeed,” Harry replied, casting a steely glance about them. With him on one side and Ruthven, equally large, on the other, Lucinda was at least assured of space enough to breathe. The rest of her court gathered before them, creating an enclosure of relative sanity for which, he was sure, they were all rendering silent thanks.

“And where did you go to recoup, my dear Mrs Babbacombe? The country or the seaside?”

It was, predictably, Lord Ruthven who voiced the inevitable question. He smiled encouragingly down at Lucinda; she sensed the subtle teasing behind his smile.

“The country,” she vouchsafed. Then, prompted by some inner devil, released, she knew, by the repressive presence on her left, she added, “My stepdaughter and I accompanied Lady Hallows on a visit to Lester Hall.”

Ruthven blinked his eyes wide. “Lester Hall?” Slowly, he lifted his gaze to Harry's face. Entirely straightfaced, his lordship raised his brows. “Noticed you were absent from town this week, Harry. Took some time from the frantic whirl to recuperate?”

“Naturally,” Harry drawled, clinging to his usual imperturbability, “I escorted my aunt and her guests on their visit.”

“Oh, naturally,” Ruthven agreed. He turned to Lucinda. “Did Harry show you the grotto by the lake?”

Lucinda regarded his lordship with as bland an expression as she could manage. “Indeed—and the folly on the hill. The views were quite lovely.”

“The views?” Lord Ruthven looked stunned. “Ah, yes. The views.”

Harry ground his teeth but was too wise to react—at least not verbally. But his glance promised retribution—only Ruthven, one of his oldest friends, was prepared to ignore it.

To Lucinda's relief, his lordship's teasing, although in no way openly indelicate, was cut short by the musicians. It took a moment or two before it became clear that Lady Mickleham had decided to open her ball with a waltz.

The realisation brought the usual clamour of offers. Lucinda smiled graciously—and hesitated. The room was very crowded, the dance floor would be worse. In cotillion or quadrille, with sets and steps fixed, demanding a certain space, there was little chance of unexpected intimacy. But the waltz? In such cramped conditions?

The thought brought in its wake a certainty that her circumstances had indeed changed. She did not wish to waltz close with anyone but Harry. Her senses reached for him; he was standing, very stiff, intensely contained, beside her.

Harry saw her glance up, unconscious appeal in her eyes. His reaction was immediate and quite impossible to restrain. His hand closed over hers; he lifted it to place her fingers on his sleeve. “My waltz, I believe, my dear.”

Relief flooded Lucinda; she remembered to incline her head, and smile fleetingly at her court as Harry led her from their midst.

On the ballroom floor, she relaxed into Harry's arms, allowing him to draw her close with no attempt at dissimulation. She glanced up at him as they started to slowly twirl; his eyes met hers, his expression still aloof but somehow softer. Their gazes held; they communicated without words as they slowly revolved down the room.

Then Lucinda lowered her lashes; Harry's arm tightened about her.

As she had foreseen, the floor was crowded, the dancers cramped. Harry kept her safe within the circle of his arms; she was very aware that if anything threatened, she had only to step closer and he would protect her. His hard body was no threat—she had never seen it as such. He was her guardian in the oldest sense of the word—he to whom she had entrusted her life.

The waltz ended too soon; Lucinda blinked as Harry's arms fell from her. Reluctantly, she stepped away and placed her hand on his arm, then let him steer her back through the throng.

Harry glanced at her face, his features impassive, concern in his eyes. As they neared her court, he leaned closer to murmur, “If you don't care to waltz, simply plead fatigue.” Lucinda glanced up at him; he felt his lips twist. “It's the latest fashionable ploy.”

She nodded—and straightened her shoulders as they rejoined her court.

Lucinda was inexpressibly grateful for that piece of advice—her supposed fatigue was accepted without a blink; as the evening wore on, she began to suspect that her earnest court were no more enamoured of dancing in such cramped surrounds than she.

Immovable, repressively silent, Harry remained by her side throughout the long evening. Lucinda greeted the supper waltz with a certain measure of relief. “I understand Mr Amberly, Mr Satterly and Lord Ruthven are particular friends of yours?”

Harry glanced fleetingly down at her. “Of a sorts,” he reluctantly conceded.

“I would never have guessed.” Lucinda met his sharp glance with wide eyes. Harry studied her innocent expression, then humphed and drew her closer.

At the end of the waltz, he led her directly to the supper room. Before she could gather her wits, Lucinda found herself installed at a secluded table for two, shaded from much of the room by two potted palms. A glass of champagne and a plate piled high with delicacies appeared before her; Harry lounged gracefully in the seat opposite.

His eyes on hers, he took a bite of a lobster patty. “Did you notice Lady Waldron's wig?”

Lucinda giggled. “It nearly fell off.” She took a sip of champagne, her eyes sparkling. “Mr Anstey had to catch it and jiggle it back into place.”

To Lucinda's delight, Harry spent the entire half-hour regaling her with anecdotes,
on dits
and the occasional dry observation. It was the first time she had had him to herself in such a mood; she gave herself up to enjoying the interlude.

Only when it ended and he led her back to the ballroom did it occur to her to wonder what had brought it on.

Or, more specifically, why he had put himself out to so captivate her.

“Still here, Ruthven?” Harry's drawl hauled her back to the present. He was eyeing his friend with a certain, challenging gleam in his eye. “Nothing else here to interest you?”

“Nothing, I fear.” Lord Ruthven put his hand over his heart and quizzed Lucinda. “Nothing as compares with the joys of conversing with Mrs Babbacombe.”

Lucinda had to laugh. Harry, of course, did not. His drawl very much in evidence, he took charge of the conversation. As the languid, distinctly bored accents fell on her ear, Lucinda realised that he never, normally, drawled at her. Nor Em. When he spoke to them, his accents were clipped. Apparently, he reserved the fashionable affectation for those he kept at a distance.