A travelling carriage lay on its side, not in the ditch but blocking most of the road. It looked as if one of the back wheels had disintegrated; the ponderous contraption, top-heavy with luggage, had toppled sideways. The accident had only just occurred—the upper wheels of the carriage were still slowly rotating. Harry blinked. A young lad, a groom presumably, was struggling to haul a hysterical girl from the ditch. An older man, the coachman from his attire, was hovering anxiously over a thin grey-haired woman, laid out on the ground.
The coach team was in a flat panic.
Without a word, Harry and Dawlish leapt to the ground and ran to calm the horses.
It took a good five minutes to soothe the brutes, good, strong coach horses with the full stubbornness and dim wits of their breed. With the traces finally untangled, Harry left the team in Dawlish’s hands; the young groom was still helplessly pleading with the tearful girl while the coachman dithered over the older woman, clearly caught between duty and a wish to lend succour, if he only knew how.
The woman groaned as Harry walked up. Her eyes were closed; she lay straight and rigid on the ground, her hands crossed over her flat chest.
“My ankle—!” A spasm of pain twisted her angular features, tight under an iron-grey bun. “Damn you, Joshua—when I get back on my feet I’ll have your hide for a footstool, I will.” She drew her breath in in a painful hiss. ‘’If I ever get back on my feet.”
Harry blinked; the woman’s tones were startlingly reminiscent of Dawlish in complaining mode. He raised his brows as the coachman lumbered to his feet and touched his forehead. “Is there anyone in the carriage?”
The coachman’s face blanked in shock.
“Oh my God!” Her eyes snapping open, the woman sat bolt upright. “The mistress and Miss Heather!” Her startled gaze fell on the carriage. “Damn you, Joshua—what are you doing, mooning over me when the mistress is likely lying in a heap?” Frantically, she hit at the coachman’s legs, pushing him towards the carriage.
“Don’t panic.”
The injunction floated up out of the carriage, calm and assured.
“We’re perfectly all right—just a bit shaken.” The clear, very feminine voice paused before adding, a touch hesitantly, “But we can’t get out.”
With a muttered curse, Harry strode to the carriage, pausing only to shrug out of his greatcoat and fling it into the curricle. Reaching up to the back wheel, he hauled himself onto the body. Standing on the coach’s now horizontal side, he bent and, grasping the handle, hauled the door open.
Planting one booted foot on either side of the coach step, he looked down into the dimness within. And blinked.
The sight that met his eyes was momentarily dazzling. A woman stood in the shaft of sunshine pouring through the doorway. Her face, upturned, was heart-shaped; a broad forehead was set beneath dark hair pulled severely back. Her features were well defined; a straight nose and full, well-curved lips above a delicate but determined chin.
Her skin was the palest ivory, the colour of priceless pearls; beyond his control, Harry’s gaze skimmed her cheeks and the graceful curve of her slender neck before coming to rest on the ripe swell of her breasts. Standing over her as he was, they were amply exposed to his sight even though her modish carriage dress was in no way indecorous.
Harry’s palms tingled.
Large blue eyes fringed with long black lashes blinked up at him.
For an instant, Lucinda Babbacombe was not entirely sure she hadn’t sustained a blow on the head—what else could excuse this vision, conjured from her deepest dreams?
Tall and lean, broad-shouldered, slim-hipped, he towered above her, long, sleekly muscled legs braced on either side of the door. Sunlight haloed his golden locks; with the light behind him she could not make out his features yet she sensed the tension that held him.
Lucinda blinked rapidly. A light blush tinged her cheeks; she looked away—but not before she registered the subdued elegance of his garments—the tightly-fitting grey coat, superbly cut, style in every line, worn over clinging ivory inexpressibles, which clearly revealed the long muscles of his thighs. His calves were encased in gleaming Hessians; his linen was crisp and white. There were, she noted, no fobs or seals hanging at his waist, only a single gold pin in his cravat.
Prevailing opinion suggested such severe attire should render a gentleman uninteresting. Unremarkable. Prevailing opinion was wrong.
He shifted—and a large, long-fingered, extremely elegant hand reached down to her.
“Take my hand—I’ll pull you up. One of the wheels is shattered—it’s impossible to right the carriage.”
His voice was deep, drawling, an undercurrent Lucinda couldn’t identify sliding beneath the silken tones. She glanced up through her lashes. He had moved to the side of the door and had gone down on one knee. The light now reached his face, illuminating features that seemed to harden as her gaze touched them. His hand moved impatiently; a black sapphire set in a gold signet glimmered darkly. He would need to be very strong to lift her out with one arm. Subduing the thought that her rescue might well prove a greater threat than her plight, Lucinda reached for his hand.
Their palms met; long fingers curled about her wrist. Lucinda brought her other hand up and clasped it about his—and she was airborne.
She drew in a swift breath—an arm of steel wrapped about her waist; her diaphragm seized. She blinked—and found herself on her knees, held fast in his embrace, locked breast to chest with her unnerving rescuer.
Her eyes were on a level with his lips. They were as severe as his clothes, chiselled and firm. His jaw was distinctly squared, the patrician line of his nose a testimony to his antecedents. The planes of his face were hard, as hard as the body steadying hers, holding her balanced on the edge of the carriage doorframe. He had released her hands; they had fallen to lie against his chest. One of her hips was pressed against his, the other against his muscled thigh. Lucinda forgot about breathing.
Cautiously, she lifted her eyes to his—and saw the sea, calm and clear, a cool, crystalline pale green.
Their gazes locked.
Mesmerised, Lucinda drowned in the green sea, her skin lapped by waves of warmth, her mind suborned to sensation. She felt her lips soften, felt herself lean into him—and blinked wildly.
A tremor shook her. The muscles surrounding her twitched, then stilled.
She felt him draw breath.
“Careful,” was all he said as he slowly rose, drawing her up with him, holding her steady until her feet could find purchase on the carriage.
Lucinda wondered just what danger he was warning her against.
Forcing his arms from her, Harry struggled to shackle his impulses, straining at their leash. “I’ll have to lower you to the ground.”
Peering over the carriage side, Lucinda could only nod. The drop was six feet and more. She felt him shift behind her; she jumped as his hands slipped beneath her arms.
“Don’t wriggle or try to jump. I’ll let go when your coachman has hold of you.”
Joshua was waiting below. Lucinda nodded; speech was beyond her.
Harry gripped her firmly and swung her over the edge. The coachman quickly grasped her legs; Harry let go—but could not prevent his fingers from brushing the soft sides of her breasts. He clenched his jaw and tried to eradicate the memory but his fingertips burned.
Once on terra firma, Lucinda was pleased to discover her wits once more at her command. Whatever curious influence had befuddled her faculties was, thank Heaven, purely transitory.
A quick glance upwards confirmed that her rescuer had turned back to render a like service to her stepdaughter. Reflecting that at barely seventeen Heather’s susceptibility to his particular brand of wizardry was probably a good deal less than her own, Lucinda left him to it.
After one comprehensive glance about the scene, she marched across to the ditch, leaned over and dealt Amy, the tweeny, a sharp slap. “Enough,” she declared, as if she was speaking o
f nothing more than kneading dough. “Now come and help with Agatha.”
Amy’s tear-drenched eyes opened wide, then blinked. “Yes, mum.” She sniffed—then shot a watery smile at Sim, the groom, and struggled up out of the thankfully dry ditch.
Lucinda was already on her way to Agatha, prone in the road. “Sim—help with the horses. Oh—and do get these stones out of the road.” She pointed a toe at the collection of large, jagged rocks littering the highway. “I dare say it was one of these that caused our wheel to break. And I expect you’d better start unloading the carriage.”
“Aye, mum.”
Halting by Agatha’s side, Lucinda bent to look down at her. “What is it and how bad?”
Lips compressed, Agatha opened iron-grey eyes and squinted up at her. “It’s just my ankle—it’ll be better directly.”
“Indeed,” Lucinda remarked, getting down on her knees to examine the injured limb. “That’s no doubt why you’re white as a sheet.”
“Nonsense—oooh!” Agatha sucked in a quick breath and closed her eyes.
“Stop fussing and let me bind it.” Lucinda bade Amy tear strips from her petticoat, then proceeded to bind Agatha’s ankle, ignoring the maid’s grumbles. All the while, Agatha shot suspicious glances past her.
“You’d best stay by me, mistress. And keep the young miss by you. That gentleman may be a gentleman, but he’s a one to watch, I don’t doubt.”
Lucinda didn’t doubt either but she refused to hide behind her maid’s skirts. “Nonsense. He rescued us in a positively gentlemanly manner—I’ll thank him appropriately. Stop fussing.”
“Fussing!” Agatha hissed as Lucinda drew her skirts down to her ankles. “You didn’t see him move.”
“Move?” Frowning, Lucinda stood and dusted her hands, then her gown. She turned to discover Heather hurrying up, hazel eyes bright with excitement, clearly none the worse for their ordeal.
Behind her came their rescuer. All six feet and more of him, with a lean and graceful stride that conjured the immediate image of a hunting cat.
A big, powerful predator.
Agatha’s comment was instantly explained. Lucinda concentrated on resisting the urge to flee. He reached for her hand—she must have extended it—and bowed elegantly.
“Permit me to introduce myself, ma’am. Harry Lester—at your service.”
All the characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author, and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all the incidents are pure invention.
All Rights Reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Enterprises II B.V./S.à.r.l. The text of this publication or any part thereof may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, storage in an information retrieval system, or otherwise, without the written permission of the publisher.
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the prior consent of the publisher in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
MIRA is a registered trademark of Harlequin Enterprises Limited, used under licence.
First published 1995. This edition 2008.
MIRA Books, Eton House, 18-24 Paradise Road,
Richmond, Surrey, TW9 1SR
© Stephanie Laurens 1995
ISBN: 978-1-408-92900-1
Table of Contents
Cover
Excerpt
Title Page
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Preview
Copyright
Stephanie Laurens, A Lady of Expectations
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