Stephanie Laurens Rogues' Reform Bundle

“Good. Gerald, too—I haven’t found him yet.”

  Harry looked over the sea of heads. “He’s over there—beside the blonde ringlets.”

  “Ah, yes. I’ll catch him in a minute.”

  Harry noted that his brother’s eyes, glowing warmly, rarely left the slender blonde dancing with Lord Harcourt. Their host appeared captivated. “How’s Pater?”

  “Fine. He’ll live to be eighty. Or at least long enough to see us all wed.”

  Harry bit back his instinctive response; Jack had heard him disparage marriage often enough. But not even his brother knew the reason for his vehemence; that had always remained his secret.

  Following Jack’s gaze, Harry studied his elder brother’s chosen bride. Sophia Winterton was a charming, utterly open and honest woman whom Harry was certain Jack could trust. Harry switched his gaze to Lucinda’s dark head; his lips twisted. She might serve him some tricks, as she was presently doing, but her motives would always be transparent. She was open and direct, uncommonly so; she would never seriously lie or cheat—she simply wasn’t that sort of woman.

  A sudden longing welled within him, followed immediately by the old uncertainty. Harry shifted his gaze, looking once more at Jack. Once he had found his particular Golden Head, Jack had moved very swiftly to claim her. As usual, his brother had been totally confident, assured in his decision. Studying Jack’s smile, Harry felt an unexpected twinge of emotion—and recognized it as jealousy.

  He straightened from the wall. “Have you seen Em?”

  “No.” Jack glanced about. “Is she here?”

  Harry strolled with him through the crowd until he could point out their aunt, then left Jack to forge his way to her. Then, shackling his temper, he let his feet have their way. They took him to Lucinda’s side.

  From the opposite side of the large ballroom, Earle Joliffe watched Harry take his place in the select circle about Lucinda. “Odd. Very odd,” was his judgement.

  “What’s odd?” Beside him, Mortimer Babbacombe inserted a pudgy finger beneath his neckcloth and eased the stiff folds. “Dashed warm in here.”

  Joliffe’s glance was contemptuous. “What’s odd, my dear Mortimer, is that, if there was ever a rake guaranteed to gain the entrée into your aunt-by-marriage’s boudoir, it would be Harry Lester.” Joliffe glanced again across the room. “But as I read it, he’s holding off. That’s what’s odd.”

  After a moment, Joliffe went on, “A disappointment, Mortimer. But it seems he’s disappointed her, too—she’s looking over the field, no doubt about that.” Joliffe’s gaze grew distant. “Which means that all we have to do is wait for the first whispers—these things always percolate from under even the most tightly closed doors. Then we’ll get a little hard proof—it shouldn’t be too difficult. A few eye-witnesses of comings and goings. Then we’ll have your sweet cousin—and her even sweeter legacy—in our hands.”

  It was a reassuring prospect. Joliffe was over his ears in debt, although he’d been careful to conceal his desperation from Mortimer. His erstwhile friend was reduced to a shivering jelly just knowing he owed Joliffe five thousand pounds. The fact that Joliffe had pledged the money on, with interest, and to one against whom it was never wise to default, would turn Mortimer to a quivering wreck. And Joliffe needed Mortimer, hale and hearty, sound in mind and reputation, if he was ever to save his neck.

  If he failed to help Mortimer to Heather Babbacombe’s legacy, he, Earle Joliffe, man about town, would end life as a beggar in the Spitalfield slums. If he was lucky.

  Joliffe’s gaze rested on Lucinda’s dark head. Once he had seen her, he had felt a great deal more confident. She was precisely the sort of widow who attracted the most dangerous of rakes. His hard eyes lighting, Joliffe squared his shoulders and turned to Mortimer. “Mind you, Scrugthorpe will have to forgo his revenge.” Joliffe’s lips lifted. “But then, nothing in life is ever quite perfect. Don’t you agree, Mortimer?”

  “Er—ah—yes.”

  With a last worried glance at his aunt-by-marriage, Mortimer reluctantly followed Joliffe into the crowd.

  At that moment, the opening strains of a waltz percolated through the room. Lucinda heard it; her nerves, already taut, quivered. It was the third waltz of the evening, almost certainly the last. Relief had swept her when, only moments ago, Harry had, at last, materialised by her side. She had not seen him until then although she had felt his gaze. Breath bated, she had welcomed him with a soft smile. As usual, he had not joined in the conversation but had stood, his features hard, his expression remote, beside her. She had slanted a glance up at him; he had met it with an impenetrable look. Now, a smile on her lips as she graciously acknowledged the usual clamour of offers for the dance, she waited, buoyed with anticipation, to hear Harry’s softly drawled invitation.

  In vain.

  The still silence on her left was absolute.

  A deathly moment of awkward silence ensued.

  Lucinda stiffened. With considerable effort, she kept her smile unaffected. She felt hollow inside but she had her pride. She forced herself to scan those desirous of partnering her. Her gaze came to rest on Lord Craven.

  He had not appeared in her circle since that first evening two weeks ago. Tonight, he had been most assiduous.

  Smiling brittlely, Lucinda held out her hand. “Lord Craven?”

  Craven smiled, a coolly superior gesture, and bowed elegantly. “It will be a pleasure, my dear.” As he straightened, he met her eyes. “For us both.”

  Lucinda barely heard; automatically, she inclined her head. With a gentle smile she acknowledged those she had disappointed but by not so much as a flicker of an eyelash did she acknowledge Harry. Outwardly serene, she allowed Lord Craven to lead her to the floor.

  Behind her, she left an uncomfortable silence. After a moment, Lord Ruthven, cool and suddenly as remote as Harry, with no hint of his habitual good-humoured indolence in his eyes, lifted a brow. “I do hope, Lester, that you know what you’re about?”

  His eyes like green ice, Harry met his lordship’s challenging stare and held it, then, without a word, looked away to where Lucinda was taking the floor in Lord Craven’s arms.

  At first, his lordship tried to hold her too close; Lucinda frowned and he desisted. Thereafter, she paid him little heed, answering his polished sallies at random, their underlying tone barely registering. By the time the last chords sounded and his lordship whirled her to an elegant halt, her inner turmoil had calmed.

  Enough to leave her prey to an enervating sense of defeat.

  The emotion was not one she could approve. Straightening her shoulders and lifting her head, Lucinda reminded herself of Em’s words: Harry would be no easy conquest but she had to hold firm to her plan.

  So…here she was at the far end of the ballroom on Lord Craven’s arm. His hand held hers trapped on his sleeve.

  “Perhaps, Mrs Babbacombe, we should grasp the opportunity to become better acquainted?”

  Lucinda blinked; his lordship gestured to a nearby door, set ajar.

  “It’s so noisy in here. Perhaps we could stroll the corridor?”

  Lucinda hesitated. A corridor did not sound particularly secluded—and it was certainly crowded in the ballroom; her temples were starting to ache. She glanced up—and met Lord Craven’s dark eyes and his faintly superior stare. She wasn’t entirely sure of him but he was here, offering yet another potential prod to Harry’s possessive nature.

  She let her senses reach out, and felt the heat of Harry’s gaze. He was watching over her; she cast a glance about but, in the dense crowd, could not find him.

  Turning back, she met his lordship’s gaze. Lucinda drew in a breath. She had told Em she was game. “Perhaps just a quick turn about the corridor, my lord.”

  She was quite certain her strategy was sound.

  Unfortunately, this time, she had chosen the wrong rake.

  Unlike Lord Ruthven, Mr Amberly and Mr Satterly, Lord Craven was not a familiar of Harry’s and therefore lacke
d their insights into the game she was playing. They, one and all, had determined to assist her in whatever way they could, intrigued by the prospect of removing Harry from their paths. Lord Craven, however, had concluded that her flittering progress from rake to rake was merely a reflection of dissatisfaction with the distractions offered. Having seen how far the gentle touch had got his peers, he had determined on a more forceful approach.

  With brisk efficiency, he whisked Lucinda through the doorway.

  On the other side of the room, Harry swore, startling two dowagers gracing a nearby chaise. He wasted no time on apologies or speculation but started into the crowd. Aware of Craven’s reputation, he had kept a close watch on his lordship and his burden but had momentarily lost them at the end of the dance, sighting them again just before Lucinda cast a glance about—then allowed Craven to lead her from the room. Harry knew very well what that glance had signified. The damned woman had been looking for him—to him—for rescue.

  This time, she might need it.

  The crowd, dispersing after the dance, milled aimlessly. Harry had to fight an impulse to push people out of his way. He forced himself to rein in his strides; he didn’t want to focus any attention on his goal.

  He finally broke free of the clinging crowd and gained the garden corridor. He didn’t pause but went straight to its end where a door gave onto the terrace. Lady Harcourt had frequently bemoaned the fact that her ballroom did not open onto terrace and gardens, as was the fashionable norm. Silently, Harry stepped onto the flagstones. The terrace was deserted. His features hardening, he reined in his building rage and, hands on hips, scanned the deeply shadowed garden.

  Muffled sounds drifted to his ears.

  He was running when he rounded the corner of the terrace.

  Craven had Lucinda backed against the wall and was trying to kiss her. She had ducked her head, frustrating his lordship’s intent; her small hands on his chest, she was trying to push him away, incoherent in her distress.

  Harry felt his rage claim him.

  “Craven?”

  The single word had Craven lifting his head and looking wildly about just as Harry caught his shoulder, spinning him into a punishing left cross that lifted his lordship from his feet and left him sprawled in an untidy heap against the stone balustrade.

  Lucinda, her hand at her breast, swallowed a sob—and flung herself into Harry’s arms. They closed about her; he hugged her fiercely; Lucinda felt his lips on her hair. His body was hard, rigid; she sensed the fury that possessed him. Then he shifted her to his side, keeping her within the protection of one arm. Her cheek against his coat, Lucinda glanced at Lord Craven.

  Somewhat shakily, his lordship clambered to his feet. He worked his jaw, then, blinking, warily eyed Harry. When Harry made no move, Craven hesitated, then resettled his coat and straightened his cravat. His gaze shifted to Lucinda, then returned to Harry’s face. His features studiously impassive, he raised his brows. “I appear to have misread the situation.” He bowed to Lucinda. “My most humble apologies, Mrs Babbacombe—I pray you’ll accept them.”

  Lucinda ducked her head, then hid her burning cheeks in Harry’s coat.

  Lord Craven’s gaze returned to Harry’s face. Something not at all civilised stared back at him. “Lester.” With a curt nod, his lordship strolled carefully past and disappeared around the corner.

  Leaving silence to enfold the two figures on the terrace.

  Harry held himself rigid, every muscle clenched, his emotions warring within him. He could feel Lucinda trembling; the need to comfort her welled strong. He closed his eyes, willing himself to resistance, to impassivity. Every impulse he possessed impelled him to take her into his arms, to kiss her, possess her—to put an end to her silly game. A primitive male desire to brand her inescapably his rocked him to his core. Equally strong was his rage, his dislike of being so manipulated, so exposed by his own feelings, so vulnerable to hers.

  Mentally cursing her for being the catalyst of such a scene, Harry struggled to suppress passions already too long denied.

  The moment stretched, the tension palpable.

  Trapped within it, Lucinda couldn’t breathe; she couldn’t move. The arm about her didn’t tighten, but it felt like iron, inflexible, unyielding. Then Harry’s chest swelled; he drew in an unsteady breath.

  “Are you all right?”

  His deep voice was flat, devoid of emotion. Lucinda forced herself to nod, then, drawing on her courage, stepped back. His arm fell from her. She drew in a deep breath and glanced up; one look at his face, at his utterly blank expression, was enough. His eyes showed evidence of some turbulent emotion, glittering in the green; what, she couldn’t tell but she sensed his accusation.

  Her breath tangling in her throat, she glanced away. His arm appeared before her.

  “Come. You must return to the ballroom.”

  His face like stone, a graven faade masking turbulent feelings, Harry braced himself against the moment when her fingers settled on his sleeve.

  Through the simple contact, Lucinda could sense his simmering anger, and the control that left his muscles twitching, shifting restlessly beneath her hand; for an instant, her feelings threatened to overwhelm her. She wanted him to comfort her, yearned to feel his arms about her once again. But she knew he was right—she had to reappear in the ballroom soon. Dragging in a shaking breath, she lifted her head. With the slightest of nods, she allowed him to lead her back, into the cacophany of conversation and laughter, back to the bright lights and bright smiles.

  Her own smile appropriately bright if brittle, she gracefully inclined her head as, with a curt nod, Harry deposited her at the end of Em’s chaise. He immediately turned on his heel; Lucinda watched him stride away, into the crowd.

  Chapter Eight

  “GOOD AFTERNOON, Fergus. Is Mrs Babbacombe in?”

  Harry handed his gloves and cane to his aunt’s butler. His expression stonily impassive, he glanced towards the stairs.

  “Mrs Babbacombe is in the upstairs parlour, sir—she uses it as her office. Her ladyship’s laid down upon her bed. These late nights are greatly tiring at her age.”

  “I dare say.” With decisive stride, Harry headed for the stairs. “I won’t disturb her. You needn’t announce me.” His lips thinned. “I’m quite sure Mrs Babbacombe is expecting me.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  The upstairs parlour was a small room at the back of the house. Tall windows looked onto the garden at the rear; two armchairs and a chaise plus an assortment of side-tables graced the floral rug by the fireplace while a large daybed filled the space before the windows. An escritoire stood against one wall; Lucinda, a vision in soft blue muslin, was seated before it, pen in hand, when Harry opened the door.

  She glanced around, an abstracted smile on her lips—and froze. Her smile faded, replaced by a polite mask.

  Harry’s expression hardened. He stepped over the threshold and closed the door.

  Lucinda rose. “I didn’t hear you announced.”

  “Probably because I wasn’t.” Harry paused, his hand on the doorknob, and studied her haughty expression. She was going to hear him out, come what may; he wasn’t in the mood to tolerate interruptions. His fingers closed about the key; the lock slid noiselessly into place. “This isn’t a social call.”

  “Indeed?” One brow rising, Lucinda lifted her chin. “To what, then, do I owe this honour, sir?”

  Harry’s smile was a warning. “Lord Craven.”

  As he stalked towards her, his eyes boring into hers, Lucinda had to quell a weak impulse to retreat behind her chair.

  “I’ve come to demand an assurance from you, Mrs Babbacombe, that you will, as of this moment, cease and desist in this little game of yours.”

  Lucinda stiffened. “I beg your pardon?”

  “As well you might,” Harry growled, coming to a halt directly before her, his eyes, glittering green, holding hers. “That little scene on Lady Harcourt’s terrace was entirely you
r own fault. This ridiculous experiment of yours, this habit you’ve formed of encouraging rakes, has to stop.”

  Lucinda summoned a haughty glance. “I don’t know what you mean. I’m merely doing what many ladies, situated similarly, would do—looking for congenial company.”

  “Congenial?” Harry lifted a supercilious brow. “I would have thought last night would have been sufficient demonstration of how ‘congenial’ the company of rakes can be.”

  Lucinda felt a blush tinge her cheeks. She shrugged and swung aside, stepping away from the desk. “Lord Craven was clearly a mistake.” She glanced back to add, “And I have to thank you most sincerely for your aid.” Deliberately, she met Harry’s gaze, then calmly turned and drifted towards the windows. “But I really must insist, Mr Lester, that my life is my own to live as I please. It’s no business of yours should I choose to develop a…” Lucinda gestured vaguely “…a relationship with Lord Craven or anyone else.”

  A tense silence greeted her statement. Lucinda paused, fingers lightly trailing the high back of the daybed, her gaze fixed, unseeing, on the prospect beyond the windows.

  Behind her, Harry closed his eyes. Fists clenched, his jaw rigid, he fought to shackle his response to what he knew to be deliberate provocation, to suppress the clamorous impulses her words had evoked. Behind his lids, a fleeting image took shape—of her, struggling in Lord Craven’s arms. Abruptly, Harry opened his eyes.

  “My dear Mrs Babbacombe.” He bit the words out as he stalked after her. “It’s clearly time I took a hand in your education. No rake in his right mind is interested in a relationship—other than of an extremely limited sort.”

  Lucinda glanced over her shoulder and saw him coming. She turned to meet him—and abruptly found herself backed against the wall.

  Harry’s eyes trapped hers. “Do you know what we are interested in?”

  Lucinda took in his predatory smile, his glittering eyes, heard the undercurrent in his silky voice. Deliberately, she tilted her chin. “I’m not a complete innocent.”

  Even as the lie left her lips, her breathing seized. Harry moved closer, crowding her against the wall, stopping only when she could retreat no further, her soft skirts caressing his thighs, brushing his boots.