“Master Gerald arrived half an hour ago. In his new phaeton.”
Harry’s lips twitched. “Ah, yes—his latest achievement.” He made an almost imperceptible adjustment to the folds of his crisply white cravat.
“Your aunt will be delighted to see you, sir.”
Harry met Fergus’s eyes in the mirror. “No doubt.” He let his lids fall, veiling his eyes. “Who else is here?”
“Sir Henry and Lady Dalrymple, Squire Moffat and Mrs Moffat, Mr Butterworth, Mr Hurst and the Misses Pinkerton.” When Harry stood stock still, green eyes hooded, his expression utterly blank, Fergus added, “And Mrs Babbacombe and Miss Babbacombe, of course.”
“Of course.” Regaining his equilibrium, momentarily shaken, Harry resettled the gold pin in his cravat. Then, turning, he strolled towards the drawing-room door. Fergus hurried to open it.
Announced, Harry entered.
Her eyes met his immediately—she wasn’t experienced enough to cloak her spontaneous reaction. She’d been speaking with Mr Hurst, a gentleman farmer whom Em, Harry suspected, had long had in her matchmaking sights. Harry paused just inside the door.
Lucinda smiled across the room—an easy, politely welcoming smile—and turned back to Mr Hurst.
Harry hesitated, then, languidly urbane, strolled to where his aunt sat ensconced in regal purple on the end of the chaise. “Dear Aunt,” he said, bowing elegantly over her hand.
“Wondered if you’d come.” Em grinned her triumph.
Harry ignored it. He nodded to the lady sharing the chaise. “Mrs Moffat.” He was acquainted with all those Em had deigned to invite—he simply hadn’t expected her to invite them. Tonight was the last night of the race-meet; tomorrow, after the final races in the morning, all the gentlemen would head back to town. His aunt’s summons to dinner was not unusual, yet he had thought long and hard before accepting. Only the certainty that Mrs Babbacombe would shortly be returning to Yorkshire, well beyond his reach, while he intended to retire to Lester Hall in Berkshire, had persuaded him to do so. That, and the desire to see her again, to look into her misty blue eyes—one last time.
He had expected to share a table with his aunt, his brother, his aunt’s houseguests—and no one else. Theoretically, the current situation, with so many distractions, should have reassured him. In fact, it did the opposite.
With a nod, and a swift glance at Mrs Babbacombe’s dark head, he left the chaise, drifting to where Sir Henry Dalrymple stood chatting with Squire Moffat. Gerald was near the windows, Heather Babbacombe beside him, both conversing easily with Lady Dalrymple. The Misses Pinkerton, determined spinsters in their thirties, chatted with Mr Butterworth, Sir Henry’s secretary.
Harry’s gaze lingered on Lucinda, clad in delicate blue watered silk and talking animatedly with Mr Hurst; if she felt it, she gave no sign.
“Ah, Lester—up for the races, I presume?” Sir Henry beamed a welcome.
Squire Moffat snorted good-humouredly. “Precious little else to bring you this way.”
“Indeed.” Harry shook hands.
“Saw that filly of yours win in the second—great run.” Sir Henry’s faraway gaze said he was reliving the moment. Then he abruptly refocused. “But tell me, what do you think about Grand Larrikin’s chances in the Steeple?”
The ensuing discussion on the Duke of Rutland’s latest acquisition took up no more than half of Harry’s mind. The rest was centred on his siren, apparently oblivious on the other side of the room.
Lucinda, perfectly aware of the sideways glances he occasionally sent her way, doggedly adhered to Em’s strictures and studiously ignored him, prattling on about she knew not what to the loquacious Mr Hurst. He, thankfully, seemed so taken with the sound of his voice—a soothing baritone—that he didn’t notice her preoccupation.
Struggling to focus her mind on his words, Lucinda steadfastly denied the increasing compulsion to glance at Harry Lester. Since the moment he’d appeared in the doorway, clad in severe black and white, his hair gleaming guinea gold in the candlelight, every elegant, indolent line screaming his position in the ton, her senses had defied her.
Her heart had leapt—Em had warned her that her summons wouldn’t bring him if he didn’t want to come. But he had arrived; it felt like she’d won, if not the first battle, then at least the opening skirmish.
She was so excruciatingly aware of him that when he left Squire Moffat and Sir Henry to languidly stroll her way, she had to clench her fists hard to stop herself from turning to greet him.
Approaching from behind her, Harry saw the sudden tension in her shoulders, bared by her gown. Beneath his heavy lids, his green eyes glinted.
As he drew abreast of her, he ran his fingertips down her bare forearm to capture her hand. Her eyes widened, but when she turned to smile at him there was no hint of perturbation in her face.
“Good evening, Mr Lester.”
Harry smiled down into her eyes—and slowly raised her hand to his lips. Her fingers quivered, then lay passive. “I sincerely hope so, Mrs Babbacombe.”
Lucinda accepted the salute with stalwart calm but withdrew her tingling fingers the instant he eased his grip. “I believe you’re acquainted with Mr Hurst?”
“Indeed. Hurst.” Harry exchanged nods with Pelham Hurst, who he privately considered a pompous ass. Hurst was a year older than he; they’d known each other since childhood but mixed as much as oil and water. As if to confirm he’d changed little with the years, Hurst launched into a recital of the improvements he had made to his fields; Harry dimly wondered why, with a vision like Lucinda Babbacombe in the vicinity, Pelham thought he’d be interested.
But Pelham rambled on.
Harry frowned. It was wellnigh impossible to keep his gaze on Lucinda Babbacombe’s face while Hurst kept bombarding him with the details of crop rotation. Grasping a rare moment when Pelham paused for breath, he turned to Lucinda. “Mrs Babbacombe—”
Her blue eyes came his way—only to slide past him. She smiled in welcome. “Good evening, Mr Lester. Mr Butterworth.”
Harry momentarily closed his eyes, then, opening them, forced himself to step back to allow Gerald and Nicholas Butterworth to make their bows. Together with Heather Babbacombe they joined their circle.
Any chance of detaching his quarry was lost.
Mentally gritting his teeth, Harry held to his position by her side. He knew he should go and chat to the Misses Pinkerton; he excused his lapse on the grounds that, being what he was, he made them nervous.
The thought gave him pause.
Lucinda felt very like Daniel in the lion’s den—not at all sure of her safety. When the first trickle of heat slid down her nape, she didn’t immediately register its cause. But when, but moments later, she felt the skin above her breasts tingle, she shot a frowning glance sideways.
Harry met it with a blank green stare—slightly questioning, all innocence. Lucinda raised her brows and pointedly turned back to the conversation. Thereafter, she steadfastly ignored all her senses—as best she could. She greeted Fergus’s arrival and his stately pronouncement that dinner was served with considerable relief.
“If you would allow me to escort you in, Mrs Babbacombe?” Pelham Hurst, ineradicably convinced of his self-worth, offered a heavily creased sleeve.
Lucinda smiled and was about to accept when a drawling voice cut off her escape.
“I’m afraid, Hurst, that I’m before you.” Harry smiled at his childhood acquaintance, the gesture in no way softening the expression in his eyes. “By days.”
On the words, Harry shifted his green gaze to Lucinda’s face—and dared her to contradict him.
Lucinda merely threw him an equable smile. “Indeed.” She gave Harry her hand and allowed him to place it on his sleeve, turning as he did so to inform Mr Hurst, “Mr Lester has been of great assistance while we’ve been in Newmarket. I don’t know how we would have escaped our upturned carriage if he hadn’t happened along.”
The remark, of cours
e, led Pelham to enquire in deeply solicitous vein as to their accident. As the Misses Pinkerton had already wandered into the dining-room eschewing all male escort, Hurst was free to stroll on Lucinda’s other side as Harry guided her into the dining-room.
By the time he took his seat beside the lovely Mrs Babbacombe, Harry’s temper was straining at its leash.
But there were more trials in store. Lady Dalrymple, a motherly soul who had long deplored his unmarried state, took the seat to his left. Even worse, the Pinkerton sisters settled in opposite, warily eyeing him as if he was some potentially dangerous beast.
Harry wasn’t sure they were wrong.
Ignoring all distractions, he turned to his fair companion. “Dare I hope you’re satisfied with the outcome of your visit to Newmarket, Mrs Babbacombe?”
Lucinda fleetingly met his eyes, confirming that the question was, indeed, loaded. “Not entirely, Mr Lester. I can’t help but feel that certain interests must regrettably be classed as unfinished business.” Again she met his gaze and allowed her lips to curve. “But I dare say Mr Blount will manage.”
Harry blinked, breaking the intensity of his gaze.
With a gentle smile, Lucinda turned away as Mr Hurst claimed her attention. She resisted the compulsion to glance to her right until the second course was being removed. Ineffably elegant, apparently relaxed, Harry was engaged in idly entertaining Lady Dalrymple.
At that moment, Mrs Moffat called upon Lady Dalrymple to confirm some report. Harry turned his head—and met Lucinda’s determinedly mild gaze.
Resigned, he lifted a brow at her. “Well, my dear—what’s it to be? The weather is singularly boring, you know nothing about horses and as for what I’d prefer to discuss with you—I’m quite certain you’d rather I didn’t.”
Attack—with a vengeance. There was no mistaking the light in his eyes. Lucinda inwardly quivered—outwardly she smiled. “Now there you are wrong, Mr Lester.” She paused for an artful second before continuing, her gaze holding his, “I’m definitely interested in hearing about Thistledown. Is she still in town?”
He sat so perfectly still Lucinda found she couldn’t breathe. Then one brow slowly rose; his eyes were jewel-like, crystalline and hard, sharp and brilliant. “No—she’s on her way back to my stud.”
“Ah, yes—that’s in Berkshire, is it not?”
Harry inclined his head, not entirely trusting himself to speak. At the edge of his vision, the Pinkertons, oddly sensitive to atmospherics, were tensing, casting glances at each other, frowning at him.
Lady Dalrymple leaned forward to speak around him. “I’m so sorry you won’t be here for my little gathering next week, Mrs Babbacombe. Still, I dare say you’re quite right in heading to town. So much to do, so much to see—and you’re young enough to enjoy the social whirl. Will you be bringing your stepdaughter out?”
“Possibly,” Lucinda answered, ignoring the sudden tension that had laid hold of the body between them. “We’ll make the decision once we’re in town.”
“Very wise.” Lady Dalrymple nodded and turned back to Em.
“London?”
The question was quiet, his tone flat.
“Why, yes.” Calmly, Lucinda met his green gaze. “I have four more inns to inspect, remember?”
For a pregnant moment, Harry’s eyes held hers. “Which are?”
Again his voice was soft, steel cloaked in silk. Very thin silk.
“The Argyle Arms in Hammersmith, the Carringbush in Barnet, the Three Candles in Great Dover Street and the Bells at Wanstead.”
“What’s that about the Bells?”
Lucinda turned her head as Pelham Hurst butted in.
“An excellent inn—I can recommend it to you, Mrs Babbacombe. Often stay there myself. Don’t like to risk my cattle in town, don’t y’know.”
Harry ignored him completely. Luckily, as a large apple tart was placed in front of him at that moment, Pelham didn’t notice. Harry grasped the opportunity as the diners sat up and looked over the dessert course to lean closer to Lucinda. He spoke in a steely whisper. “You’re out of your senses! Those are four of the busiest inns in England—they’re all coaching inns on the major roads.”
Lucinda reached for a jelly. “So I’ve been told.”
Harry gritted his teeth. “My dear Mrs Babbacombe, your little act of being an inspector might work in country inns—” he broke off to thank Lady Dalrymple for passing the cream which he immediately set down “—but it’ll get you nowhere in town. Aside from that, you cannot visit any of those inns alone.”
“My dear Mr Lester.” Lucinda turned to face him, her eyes wide. “Surely you’re not trying to tell me my inns are dangerous?”
He was trying to tell her just that.
But Pelham Hurst, hearing only snippets, put in his oar. “Dangerous? Not a bit of it! Why, you’ll be as safe as…as here, at the Bells. Highly recommend it, Mrs Babbacombe.”
Glimpsing the goaded expression in Harry’s green eyes, Lucinda kept her lips straight and made haste to assure Mr Hurst, “Indeed, sir. I’m sure that wasn’t what Mr Lester meant.”
“Mr Lester, as you well know, meant that you have as much experience as a green girl and rather less chance of surviving one of your ‘inspections’ at any of those inns without receiving at least three propositions and a carte blanche.” Having delivered this clarification through clenched teeth, Harry attacked the custard that had appeared before him.
“Would you care for some cream?” Lucinda, having helped herself to a generous dollop, caught a drip on her fingertip. Her eyes, innocently blue, met Harry’s as she lifted her finger to her lips.
For a blind instant, as she lowered her hand, Harry could see nothing beyond her lips, ripe and luscious, begging to be kissed. He heard nothing, was blissfully unaware of the gaggle of conversation about him. Abruptly, he grabbed hold of his reins, fast disappearing. He lifted his gaze and met hers. His eyes narrowed. “No, thank you.”
Lucinda simply smiled.
“It’s fattening,” Harry added but she only smiled more. She looked very like the cat who had found the right jug.
Stifling a curse, Harry applied himself to his dessert. It was no business of his if she insisted on swanning into danger. He’d warned her. “Why can’t Mabberly do those inns? Let him earn his keep.”
“As I told you before, Mr Mabberly does not have the right qualifications for conducting an inquisition.” Lucinda kept her voice low, grateful that Heather had distracted Mr Hurst.
She waited for the next comment—but her neighbour merely snorted and fell silent.
His disapproval lapped about her in waves.
Harry endured the rest of the evening outwardly urbane, inwardly brooding. The gentlemen did not linger over their port, which was just as well for he was no good company. But when they repaired to the drawing room, he discovered that, rather than the general chatty atmosphere which was the norm for Em’s dinners, and which he’d been determined to exploit for his own ends, tonight, they were to be entertained by the Babbacombes, Mrs and Miss.
With no good grace, Harry sat on a chair at the back of the room, unmoved by what he recognised as an exemplary performance. The tea trolley appeared as the applause died.
His temper sorely strained, he was one of the last to come forward for his cup.
“Yes, indeed,” Em said as he strolled up, nodding to Lady Dalrymple. “We’ll be there—I’ll look for you. It’s going to be such fun to go the rounds again.”
Harry froze, his hand half-outstretched.
Em looked up—and frowned. “Here you are!”
Harry blinked—and took the cup, Em’s frown reflected in his eyes. “Are you contemplating going up to town, dear Aunt?”
“Not contemplating.” Em threw him a belligerent glance. “I’m going. As Lucinda and Heather are set to visit there, we’ve decided to go together. Much the best thing. I’ve sent for them to open Hallows House—Fergus is going up tomorrow. It’ll be wonderful,
being in the swing again. I’ll introduce Lucinda and Heather to the ton. Marvellous distraction—just what I need to give me new life.”
She actually had the gall to smile at him.
Harry forced himself to utter the expected platitudes—under Lady Dalrymple’s mild gaze he could hardly give his aunt the benefit of his true conclusions.
After that he beat a hasty retreat—even Squire Moffat and the intricacies of the local drainage system were preferable to farther contemplation of the web he now found himself in. The only one he could be open with was his brother.
“Em’s insane. They all are,” he growled as he joined Gerald by the window. Heather Babbacombe was chatting to Mrs Moffat. Harry noticed Gerald’s smiling gaze rarely left the girl.
“Why? No harm in them going up to London. I’ll be able to show Heather all the sights.”
Harry snorted. “While London’s rakes are attempting to show Mrs Babbacombe their etchings, no doubt.”
Gerald grinned. “Well—you can take care of that. None of the others will come near if you hover at her shoulder.”
The look Harry bent on him spoke volumes. “In case it’s escaped your admittedly distracted intelligence, brother dear, I am currently the principal Lester target in the matchmakers’ sights. Having lost Jack to Miss Winterton, they’ll redouble their efforts and turn all their guns on yours truly.”
“I know.” Gerald shot him an insouciant grin. “You’ve no idea how grateful I am that you’re there for them to aim at—with any luck, they won’t remember me. Good thing—I haven’t a bean of your experience.”
He was clearly sincere. Harry swallowed the sharp words that rose to his tongue. Lips compressed, he retired to the safety of Sir Henry’s conversation, studiously avoiding any further contact with his fate. His siren. She who would lure him onto the rocks.
The guests left in concert. Harry and Gerald, as family, stood back to let the others take their leave. Em stepped onto the porch to wave farewell; Gerald and Heather were dallying by the drawing-room door. In the shadows by the front door, Harry found himself beside his temptation.