An Unwilling Conquest Part 23

"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 table with his aunt, his brother, his aunt's house guests--and no one else.

Theoretically, the current situation, with so many distractions, should have rea.s.sured him. In fact, it did the opposite.

With a nod, and a swift glance at Mrs Babbacombe's dark head, he left the charge, 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 b.u.t.terworth, 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 cent red 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 pa.s.sive.

"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 a.s.s.

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 well nigh 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 Babba ombe--' Her blue eyes came his way--only to slide past him.

She smiled in welcome.

"Good evening, Mr Lester. Mr b.u.t.terworth."

Harry momentarily closed his eyes, then, opening them, forced himself to step back to allow Gerald and Nicholas b.u.t.terworth 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 b.r.e.a.s.t.s 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 p.r.o.nouncement 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 a.s.sistance 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 course, 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 eying 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 cla.s.sed 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 Dairytopic.

At that moment, Mrs Moffat called upon Lady Dalrymple to confirm some report.