The reins in his hands, Harry drew in a deep breath—and forced himself to meet her gaze. “No.”
The word hung between them—an unconditional denial. Harry saw the understanding in her eyes, sensed the sudden catch in her breathing as his rejection bit home. But it was better this way—to nip it in the bud before it could flower. Safer for her as well as for him.
But her eyes showed no comprehension of that, of the dangers he could see so clearly. Soft and luminous, they looked at him in hurt surprise.
He felt his lips twist in bitter self-mockery. “I can’t.”
It was all the explanation he could give. With a crack of his whip, he set his horses down the drive—and drove away.
Chapter Five
Three days later, Lucinda was still not satisfied that she understood what had happened. Seated in a wicker chair in a patch of sunlight in the conservatory, she idly plied her needle while her thoughts went round and round. Heather was out riding with Gerald, Sim in close attendance; her hostess was somewhere in the gardens, supervising the planting of a new border. She was alone, free to pursue her thoughts—little good though that seemed to be doing her.
She knew she was inexperienced in such matters, yet deep within lay an unshakeable conviction that something—something eminently to be desired—had sprung to life between herself and Harry Lester.
He had almost kissed her in the winner’s circle.
The moment was etched in her memories, frustratingly incomplete, yet she could hardly fault him for drawing back. But he had then retreated, so completely it had left her feeling unexpectedly vulnerable and inwardly bruised. His parting words confounded her. She could not misconstrue the implications of that “No”—it was his “I can’t” that truly baffled her.
He had not appeared since; courtesy of Gerald, who now haunted the house, she had learned he was still in Newmarket. Presumably, she was supposed to believe he was so immensely busy with his racers that he had no time for her.
With an inward snort, Lucinda jabbed her needle into the canvas. She was, she supposed, now too much the businesswoman to enjoy being shortchanged. But time was slipping away; she couldn’t remain at Hallows Hall forever. Clearly, if she wanted to know just what might be possible, she was going to have to take an active hand.
But how?
Five minutes later, Em entered through the garden door, the hem of her old gardening gown liberally splattered with earth, a pair of heavy gloves in one hand.
“Phoof!” Sinking into the other armchair, separated from Lucinda’s by a small matching table, Em pushed back wisps of browny-grey hair. “That’s done!” She slanted a glance at her guest. “You look very industrious—quite wifely, in fact.”
Lucinda smiled but did not look up.
“Tell me,” Em mused, her sharp gaze belying her idle tone. “Have you ever considered remarrying?”
Lucinda’s needle halted; she looked up, not at her hostess but through the long windows at the garden. “Not until recently,” she eventually said. And returned to her needlework.
Em studied her downbent head, a definite glint in her eye. “Yes—well, it takes one like that. Suddenly pops into your mind—and then won’t get out.” With an airy wave of her gardening gloves, she continued, “Still, with your qualifications I hardly think you need worry. When you get to London you’ll have a goodly selection of beaux lining up to put a ring on your finger.”
Lucinda slanted her a glance. “My qualifications?”
Em’s wave became a flourish. “Your breeding for one—nothing wrong with that, even if your parents were disowned. Your grandparents could hardly change the blood in their veins—as far as Society’s concerned that’s what counts.” As if just struck by the fact, Em added, “In fact, the Giffords are as well connected as the Lesters.”
“Indeed?” Lucinda eyed her warily.
B
lithely, Em continued, “And there’s your fortune, too—that legacy of yours would satisfy the most demanding. And you’re hardly an antidote—you’ve got style, that indefinable something—noticed it straight off. Once the Bruton Street mesdames get a look at you they’ll be vying for your custom, mark my words.”
“I am, however, twenty-eight.”
The blunt comment brought Em to a blinking halt. Turning her head, she stared at her guest. “So?”
Lucinda grimaced and looked down at her work. “Twenty-eight, I suspect, is somewhat long in the tooth to be attractive to town beaux.”
For an instant longer, Em stared at her, then hooted with laughter. “Rubbish, my dear! The ton’s awash with gentlemen whose principal reason for avoiding matrimony is that they cannot stomach the bright-eyed young misses.” She snorted. “More hair than wit, most of them, believe me.” She paused to study Lucinda’s face, half-averted, then added, “It’s very common, my dear, for men to prefer more experienced women.”
Lucinda glanced up—and met Em’s eye. A light blush slowly spread across her cheeks. “Yes, well—that’s another thing.” Her gaze flicked to the green vistas beyond the window as she dragged in a determined breath. “I’m not. Experienced, I mean.”
Em stared. “Not?”