One such was Lord Craven, who strolled into the ballroom late, surveyed the field from the top of the steps, then beat a disguised but determined path to her side. Dragooning Mr Satterly into providing an introduction, his lordship was bowing over Lucinda’s hand when the unmistakable strains of a waltz filled the room.
“My dear Mrs Babbacombe, dare I hope you’ll take pity on a latecomer and grant me the honour of this waltz?”
Lucinda met Lord Craven’s dark hooded eyes—and decided her pity would be more wisely bestowed elsewhere. She let her eyes widen and swept a questioning glance at the gentlemen surrounding her.
They instantly came to her rescue, dismissing Lord Craven’s claim as outrageous, presumptuous and unfair and plying her with any number of alternatives. Laughing lightly, Lucinda withdrew her fingers from Lord Craven’s clasp. “I fear you must take your chance amongst the competition, my lord.”
His lordship’s expression turned distinctly stiff.
“Now, let’s see.” Lucinda smiled at her cavaliers and was about to bestow her favour upon Mr Amberly, who, despite the appreciation in his eyes, was another more inclined to amusement than seduction, when she felt a stir beside her.
Long, strong fingers encircled her arm, sliding over the bare skin just above her glove.
“My waltz, I believe, Mrs Babbacombe.”
Lucinda’s breath caught. She swung to face Harry; their eyes met—his were very green, his gaze sharp, oddly intent. Elation swept Lucinda. She struggled to hide it.
Harry’s lips curved, their ends lifting in a smile, which turned to a grimace, hidden as he bowed.
When he straightened, his features were impassive.
“I say, Lester! This is dashed unfair.” Mr Amberly all but pouted. Others muttered in similar vein.
Harry merely lifted a supercilious brow, his now-hooded glance shifting to rest on Lucinda’s face. “As I recall, my dear, you owe me a waltz. I’ve come to claim it.”
“Indeed, sir.” Savouring the sound of his deep drawl, Lucinda gave up her fight and smiled her delight. “I always pay my debts. My first waltz in the capital is yours.”
Harry’s lips twitched but he stilled them. With an elegant gesture he claimed her hand and settled it on his sleeve.
Lucinda slanted a quick, triumphant glance at Em, but her mentor was hidden by her court. “Gentlemen.” With a sunny smile and a nod for her disappointed cavaliers, who were shooting disgruntled glances at her unexpected partner, she allowed him to lead her to the floor.
Harry held his tongue until they reached the dance floor but as soon as he had whirled them into the swirling throng, he looked down and trapped Lucinda’s blue gaze. “I realise, Mrs Babbacombe, that your experience does not extend to the vagaries of the ton. I fear I should warn you that many of the gentlemen presently intent on your smiles should be treated with extreme caution.”
More concerned with adequately following his assured lead than with her redundant court, Lucinda frowned. “That’s obvious.”
Harry’s brows slowly rose.
Lucinda’s frown grew distracted. “I’m rather more than seven, you know. As far as I can see, there’s no reason I shouldn’t enjoy myself in their company—I’m hardly so green as to be taken in by their charms.”
At that, Harry snorted. For a full minute, he considered the possibility of scaring her with a more explicit warning, then mentally shook his head. She wasn’t, he realised, recalling Jake Blount and the Green Goose, easily scared. But he could hardly countenance her court.
Glancing down at her face, he saw she was still frowning, but in an abstracted way. “What’s wrong?”
She started—and cast an irritated glance up at him.
“Well?”
“If you must know,” Lucinda said. “I’m not terribly experienced at waltzing. Charles didn’t, of course. I’ve had lessons—but it’s rather different on a crowded floor.”
Harry couldn’t stop his slow grin. “Just relax.”
The look she sent him suggested that she found his humour ill-conceived.
Harry chuckled—and drew her closer, tightening his arm about her so she could more easily sense his intentions.
Lucinda held her breath—then slowly let it out. Their new positions were just this side of decent but she felt immeasurably more secure. When Harry twirled her through a complicated set of turns as they negotiated the end of the room, she followed without faltering. Reassured, she relaxed—only to find her wits almost overwhelmed by her senses. His hard thighs brushed hers as they progressed down the room; she could feel the heat of his large body reaching for her, enveloping her, his strength effortlessly whirling her about. A strange tension gripped her, making breathing difficult. It was matched by the tension in the arm locked about her. From beneath her lashes, Lucinda glanced up. Her gaze found his lips. As she watched, they firmed into a straight line.
It was an uphill battle but Harry strove to push aside all distractions—like the enthralling curves encased in blue silk nestling in his arms, the womanly softness of those curves and the supple planes of her back, like the subtle scent of her that rose to tease his senses, and the graceful curve of her neck exposed by her new hairstyle—and remind his wandering wits just why he had returned to London. “When are you planning to visit your inns?”