Stephanie Laurens Rogues'' Reform Bundle

  Lord Ruthven studied Harry’s aunt with wary fascination. “Ah—indeed.” After a moment, in which he recalled the numerous times Harry had cut him out when they’d both had the same ladybird in their sights, he said, “Pray convey my most earnest wishes for a speedy recovery to Mrs Babbacombe. I will, of course, be delighted to welcome her back to our midst—I look forward to her return with uncommon anticipation.”

  Em grinned. “Dare say you do.”

  With a regal wave, she dismissed him. Lord Ruthven bowed gracefully and withdrew.

  Fifteen minutes later, Mr Amberly stopped by her chaise. The instant the formalities were over, he asked, “Wondered if you’d be so good as to convey my regards to Mrs Babbacombe? Understand she’s under the weather tonight. She’s a distraction sorely missed by us poor bachelors. Wanted to assure her of my continuing support when she once again graces our halls.”

  Em smiled her approval. “I’ll make certain to pass your kind words on, sir.”

  Mr Amberly bowed and drifted away.

  To Em’s satisfaction, her evening was punctuated by a succession of similar encounters as, one after another, Harry’s close friends stopped by to pledge their aid in furthering Lucinda’s cause.

  Chapter Nine

  LADY MOTT’S DRUM BADE FAIR to being the most horrendous crush of the Season. Or so Lucinda thought as she inched through the crowd on Lord Sommerville’s arm. About them, the ton milled en masse; it was difficult to see more than five feet in any direction.

  “Phew!” Lord Sommerville threw her an apologetic glance. “Pity the dance landed us so far from your companions. Normally enjoy wandering the room—but not like this.”

  “Indeed.” Lucinda tried to keep her smile bright, no mean effort when she felt like wilting. The heat was rising about them; bodies hemmed them in. “I must confess that I’ve yet to divine why such a crowd, beyond the bounds of sense, should be considered so desirable.”

  Lord Sommerville nodded sagely.

  Lucinda hid a weak grin. His lordship was close to her own age, yet she felt immeasurably older. He was still striving for a position amongst the rakes of the ton; in her opinion, he had some developing yet to do before he would rival some she could name.

  Harry’s image rose in her mind; with an effort, she banished it. There was no point in bemoaning what was well and truly spilt milk.

  Ever since she had flung his offer in his teeth, she’d been plagued by doubts—doubts she did not wish to countenance. She hadn’t seen him since; he had not returned to go down on bended knee. Presumably, he had yet to see the error of his ways. Or else, despite her firm conviction—and what did she know of the matter, after all?—he did not truly love her.

  She kept telling herself that if that was so, then it was all for the best—when he had forced her to put her thoughts into words, she had realised just how much a marriage built on love now meant to her. She had everything else she could want of life—except that—a loving husband with whom she could build a future. And what use was all the rest without that?

  She’d been right—but her heart refused to lift, hanging like a leaden weight in her breast.

  Lord Sommerville craned his neck to peer forward. “Looks like the crowd thins just ahead.”

  Her smile growing weaker, Lucinda nodded. The couple immediately in front of them paused to acknowledge an introduction. Trapped, they halted. Lucinda glanced to her left—directly at a gold pin in the shape of an acorn, nestling in the snowy folds of a cravat tied with mathematical precision. She knew that pin—she had pulled it free a little over twenty-four hours before.

  A vice tightened about Lucinda’s chest. She looked up.

  Clear green eyes, the colour of a storm-tossed sea, met hers. Her heart in her mouth, Lucinda searched but could read nothing in his shadowed gaze. His expression was hard, impassive, the planes of his face an impenetrable mask. Defeated there, Lucinda looked at his lips.

  Only to see them firm, thinning into a severe line.

  Puzzled, she glanced up—and caught a fleeting glimpse of uncertainty in his eyes. She sensed his hesitation.

  Five feet and two pairs of shoulders separated them.

  His eyes returned to hers; their gazes locked. He shifted, his lips twisted, quirking up at the ends.

  “Ah—there we are. At last!” Lord Sommerville turned and bowed, gesturing before them.

  Distracted, Lucinda looked ahead and discovered the crowd had eased, leaving a path forward. “Ah—yes.”

  She glanced at Harry.

  Only to see him turn aside to greet an imposing matron with a simpering young girl in tow. He acknowledged the introduction to the chit with a restrained bow.

  Battling the constriction in her chest, Lucinda drew in a deep breath and turned away, forcing herself to listen to Lord Sommerville’s patter with some semblance of interest.

  From the corner of his eye, Harry watched her move away; he clung to the sight of her until she was swallowed up by the crowd. Only then did he give his attention to Lady Argyle.

  “Just a little soirée—a select few only.” Lady Argyle beamed. “So you younger folk can chat and get to know each other better. Not something one can readily accomplish in this crowd, is it?”

  Her ladyship’s protruberant eyes invited him to agree. Harry was far too old a hand to fall for the trick. His expression coldly impassive, he looked down on her from a very great distance. “I’m afraid, Lady Argyle, that I’m otherwise engaged. Indeed,” he continued, languid boredom threatening, “I don’t look to spend much time in the ballrooms this Season.” He caught her ladyship’s suspicious eye. “Pressing matters elsewhere,” he murmured. With a smooth bow, he took advantage of a break in the surrounding throng to slip away, leaving Lady Argyle unsure just what, exactly, he had been telling her.

  Once free, Harry hesitated, then followed in Lucinda’s wake. His declaration that he was finished with her rang mockingly in his ears; he shut off the sound. After trying a number of tacks, he finally located her, at the centre of her inevitable court. Ruthven was there, as were Amberly and Satterly. Harry’s eyes narrowed.

  Amberly was at Lucinda’s side, chatting with his usual facility; he gestured hugely and everyone laughed, Lucinda included. Then it was Satterly’s turn; Hugo leaned forward and smiled, clearly retelling some on dit or recounting some incident. Ruthven, on Lucinda’s other side, glanced down at her. He was watching her face closely. Harry’s lips compressed.

  Concealed by the crowd, he focused on Lucinda. She smiled at Satterly’s tale yet the gesture lacked the warmth Harry knew it could hold. The conversation became general; she laughed and returned some comment but without the assured gaiety she normally displayed. The dangerous tension that had gripped him eased.

  She was subdued—very possibly unhappy beneath her calm veneer.

  Guilt welled; ruthlessly, Harry stifled it. Serve the damned woman right—he’d offered; she’d refused.

  He’d escaped a dangerous situation. Logic suggested he remove himself from further temptation. Harry hesitated, and saw Ruthven offer Lucinda his arm.

  “Might I suggest a short stroll about the terrace, m’dear?” Concerned by the wan, haunted look in Lucinda’s eyes, Ruthven could think of nothing else that might bring her some ease. Her gaze, dark and shadowed, constantly roamed the crowd. “Some fresh air will help you forget this stuffy ballroom.”

  Lucinda smiled, aware her brightness had dimmed. “Indeed,” she said, glancing around. “The atmosphere is too close for my comfort, but…” She hesitated, then glanced up at his lordship. “I’m really not sure…”

  She let the words trail away, unable to put her uncertainty into words.

  “Oh—don’t worry about that.” Mr Amberly waved expansively. “Tell you what—we’ll all go.” He smiled encouragingly at Lucinda. “Nothing anyone could make of that, what?”

  Lucinda blinked—and glanced at Lord Ruthven and Mr Satterly.

  “Capital notion, Amberly.” His lord
ship again offered her his arm, this time with a gallant flourish.

  “Just the ticket.” Mr Satterly nodded and stepped back, waving her on.

  Lucinda blinked again. Then, realising they were all watching her, waiting, genuine thoughtfulness their only motivation, she smiled gratefully, and even more gratefully relaxed. “Thank you, gentlemen, that would indeed be most kind of you.”

  “Only too happy,” came from Mr Satterly.

  “A pleasure, m’dear,” from Mr Amberly.

  Lucinda glanced up and found Lord Ruthven’s eyes ruefully twinkling. His lips twisted in a wry smile.

  “Nothing too good for a friend, you know.”

  More reassured than she had been all evening, Lucinda smiled back.

  From the depths of the crowd, Harry watched the little cavalcade head off, Ruthven steering Lucinda in Satterly and Amberly’s wake. As the realisation that Ruthven’s goal was one of the long windows opening onto the terrace crystallised in his brain, tension gripped Harry anew. He took a step forward—then stopped short.

  She was no longer any business of his.

  Satterly and Amberly stood aside for Lucinda and Ruthven to pass through the window—then followed. Harry blinked. For an instant, he stared, eyes slowly narrowing, at the gently billowing drapes through which all four had disappeared.

  Then his lips curved cynically. With such cavaliers, the lovely Mrs Babbacombe had no need of further protection.

  Somewhat stiffly, he turned on his heel and headed for the cardroom.

  “AURELIA WILCOX ALWAYS DID give the best parties.” Em rustled her silks in the dark of the carriage as it rolled down High-gate Hill. After a moment, she diffidently added, “Didn’t see Harry tonight.”

  “He wasn’t there.” Lucinda heard the weariness in her voice and was glad Heather, curled on the seat opposite, wasn’t awake to hear it. Her stepdaughter was thoroughly enjoying her taste of the ton in a wholly innocuous, innocent way. If it hadn’t been for Heather’s undoubted enjoyment, she would be seriously considering removing from the capital, regardless of the fact that such a move would clearly signal defeat.

  She felt defeated. Tuesday night had just come and gone, with no sign of Harry. She hadn’t seen him since Lady Mott’s ball on Saturday evening; since then, he had not even been present at the balls and parties they had attended. His presence was not something she would miss—his gaze had always triggered a certain sensation, quite unique, within her.

  A sensation she now missed—dreadfully.

  “Perhaps he’s already left London?” Her tone was uninflected, yet the words embodied her deepest fear. She had played her cards and lost.

  “No.” Em stirred on the seat beside her. “Fergus mentioned that Dawlish is still haunting the kitchens.” Softly, Em snorted. “The Almighty only knows to what purpose.”

  After a moment, Em went on, her voice low, “It was never going to be easy, y’know. He’s as stubborn as a mule—most men are over matters like this. You have to give him time to get used to the idea—to let his resistance wear itself out. He’ll come around in the end—just wait and see.”

  Wait and see. As the carriage rattled on over the cobbles, Lucinda laid her head back against the squabs and reviewed her recent actions. No matter how she tried, she could not regret any of them—faced with the same situation, she would act as she had again. But neither dwelling on the past—nor idling through the present—was advancing her cause. But she could hardly seduce Harry again if he didn’t come near her.

  Worse—he was no longer concerned for her safety, even though Lord Ruthven, Mr Amberly and Mr Satterly had been particularly assiduous in their attentions. Indeed, if it hadn’t been for their enthusiastic if totally platonic support, she doubted she could have held her head up over these past nights. The balls, which she had initially found fascinating, had lost their attraction. The dances were boring, the waltzes trials. As for the promenading, the incessant visiting, the constant appearances demanded by the ton, she increasingly saw them as a waste of time; her business persona re-emerging, no doubt. If she told true, she now viewed the time she spent in tonnish endeavours as a very poor investment.

  It was unlikely to render her the return she sought.

  Unfortunately, she had no idea what new tack to take, how to realign her strategies to bring her goal back in sight.

  Her goal, in this case unfortunately not inanimate, had taken matters into his own hands—which left her with nothing to do but wait—a scenario she found intensely irksome.

  Lucinda stifled a snort—Em’s habit was catching.

  But Em was very likely right—again. She would have to wait—she had played her cards.

  It was Harry’s turn now.

  SOME TWELVE HOURS LATER, Harry lounged in his customary pose, propping the wall in the long ballroom of the Webb residence in Mount Street, idly watching the crowd gathered to celebrate his brother’s nuptials. His father, of course, was there, sitting in his chair at the other end of the room. Beside him sat Em, resplendent in deep blue silk. Her principal houseguest had not attended.

  Not, of course, that he needed to worry his head over where she was or what she was doing. Not with the way his friends were behaving. Over the past five days, they had taken to squiring her everywhere while coolly regarding him with a pointedly critical air. Ruthven, indeed, with a sublime disregard for the cryptic, had felt moved to tell him he was “being a damned fool”. Ruthven—who was six months older than Harry, but had yet to show the slightest sign of bestirring himself enough to find a wife. Ruthven—who had a title to keep in the family. Disgusted, Harry had snorted—and informed his erstwhile friend that if he was so enamoured of the lady then he could pay her price.

  Ruthven had blinked, then had looked a trifle abashed.

  Eyes hooded, Harry took a soothing sip of brandy, the glass cradled in one hand.

  Only to be thumped on the shoulder at the most critical moment.

  Harry choked. Recovering his breath, he swung to face his assailant. “Damn it—I hope your wife aims to teach you some manners!”

  Jack laughed. “Probably—but none, I suspect, that will apply to you.” Deep blue eyes twinkling, he raised his brows at Harry. “She thinks you’re dangerous. In severe need of the right woman to blunt your lethal edge.”

  “Indeed?” Harry replied, repressively chill. He took another sip of his brandy and looked away.

  Jack was undeterred. “As I live and breathe,” he affirmed. “But she’s of the opinion it’ll take a brave woman—a Boadicea, I gather—to successfully take you on.”

  Harry rolled his eyes—but couldn’t stop his mind supplying an image of Lucinda, half-naked, bedaubed with blue paint, driving a chariot. “Your wife is clearly blessed with a typically extravagant feminine imagination.”

  Jack chuckled. “I’ll let you know after the honeymoon. We’re off to Rawling’s Cottage for a week. Nice and quiet up in Leicestershire just now.”

  Harry shook his head, a half-smile on his lips as he took in his brother’s bright eyes. “Just don’t lose anything vital—like your wits.”

  Jack laughed. “I think I’ll manage—just.” His slow grin surfaced as his gaze found his wife at the centre of a crowd near the door. He turned to Harry and put out his hand. “Wish me luck?”

  Harry met his gaze. He straightened—and took Jack’s hand. “You know I do. And your Golden Head as well.”

  Jack grinned. “I’ll tell her.” Poised to leave, Jack slid Harry a sidelong glance. “Take care yourself.” With a last nod, he headed for his future.

  Leaving Harry to wonder just how much of his current predicament showed in his face.

  Fifteen minutes later, at the top of the steps outside the Webbs’ house, he watched as the carriage carrying Jack and his bride rounded the corner into South Audley Street and disappeared from view. The assembled throng turned with a sigh and shuffled back indoors. Harry hung back, avoiding Em and his father. He re-entered the hall at the rear of
the crowd.

  The butler had just returned with his gloves and cane when a cool, calm voice enquired, “But surely you’ll stay for just a little while, Mr Lester? I feel we’ve hardly had a chance to become acquainted.”

  Harry turned to view Mrs Webb’s delicate features—and her silver-blue eyes which, he was quite positive, saw far too much for his comfort. “Thank you, ma’am, but I must away.” He bowed elegantly.

  Only to hear her sigh as he straightened.

  “I really do hope you make the right decision.”

  To Harry’s intense discomfort, he found himself trapped in her silver-blue stare.

  “It’s quite easy, you know—no great problem, even though it always feels as if it is. One just has to decide what one wants most of life. Take my word for it.” She patted his arm in a motherly fashion, quite at odds with her supremely elegant appearance. “It’s quite easy if you put your mind to it.”

  For the first time in a very long while, Harry was rendered speechless.

  Lucilla Webb smiled up at him, utterly ingenuous, then fluttered a delicate hand. “I must return to my guests. But do try hard to get it right, Mr Lester. And good luck.”

  With an airy wave, she glided back to the drawing-room.

  Harry escaped.

  On reaching the pavement, he hesitated. His lodgings? Brook’s? Manton’s? Frowning, he shook his head and started walking.

  Unsummoned, the image of Boadicea returned. Harry’s frown faded; his lips twitched, then curved. A fanciful notion. But was he really such a dangerous figure that a woman needs must put on armour to deal with him?

  The rake within him was not averse to the analogy; the man wasn’t so sure of the compliment. He was sure, however, having had the point proved repeatedly, that Lucinda Babbacombe was not the sort of woman to recognise danger, much less actively consider it. She, he imagined, would simply have looked the Roman commanders in the eye and calmly pointed out that they were trespassers. Then waited, arms folded, toe tapping, for them to remove themselves from her land.