“This window leads to the terrace. And Lady Haverbuck’s gardens are extensive. Perhaps a stroll through them would cool your cheeks, Mrs Babbacombe?”
Lucinda turned to stare at her erstwhile partner. The gleam in his eyes was unmistakable.
“Wouldn’t want you to feel faint, would we?” Mr Ellerby leaned closer on the words, pressing her fingers meaningfully.
Lucinda stiffened. She drew a steady breath and opened her lips, fully intending to advise her importunate partner that her temper rarely induced faintness, when she was saved the necessity.
“I don’t think Mrs Babbacombe needs a stroll on the terrace just now, Ellerby.”
The drawled yet steely words sent a frisson of excitement through Lucinda; they turned Mr Ellerby sulky.
“Just a suggestion.” He waved the point aside, then offered Lucinda his arm, all but glowering at Harry. “It’s suppertime, Mrs Babbacombe.”
“Indeed,” came from beside her.
Lucinda glanced up and saw Harry’s green gaze grow coldly challenging. His fingers feathered down her arm, then firmed about her wrist. She quelled a shiver.
Harry looked down at her. “If you wish, Mrs Babbacombe, I’ll escort you in.”
He lifted her hand and settled it on his sleeve. Lucinda met his eyes—then turned to coolly dismiss Mr Ellerby. “Thank you for an enjoyable waltz, sir.”
Mr Ellerby looked as if he wished to argue—then he met Harry’s gaze. With a grumpy air, he bowed. “My pleasure, ma’am.”
“I’m sure it was,” Harry muttered beneath his breath as he turned Lucinda towards the supper room.
“I beg your pardon?” Lucinda blinked up at him.
“Nothing.” Harry’s lips compressed. “Couldn’t you chose a more suitable partner than Ellerby? You had enough real gentlemen about you—or can’t you tell the difference?”
“Of course I can.” Suppressing her smile, Lucinda put her nose in the air. “But I’d already danced with all of them. I didn’t want to appear to be encouraging them.”
Harry resisted the urge to grind his teeth. “Believe me, Mrs Babbacombe, you would do better to encourage the gentlemen and avoid the rakes altogether.”
Lucinda copied one of Em’s snorts. “Nonsense. I was in no danger.”
She glanced up to see Harry’s face turn to stone.
“Mrs Babbacombe, I have severe difficulty believing you would recognise danger if you fell over it.”
Lucinda had to purse her lips to stop her smile. “Bosh!” she eventually returned.
Harry sent her a severe glance—and determinedly steered her to a table. Not one of the small, intimate tables for two in the corners of the large supper-room, but a table to accommodate a small army set close to the buffet in the room’s centre. Taking the seat he held for her, Lucinda cast him a puzzled glance.
She was even more puzzled when her court tentatively descended, and Harry forbore to bite. He sat beside her, leaning back in the chair, a champagne flute in one long-fingered hand, and silently monitored the conversation. His brooding presence acted as a most efficient damper, ensuring the jocularity remained strictly within acceptable bounds. Anabelle Burnham, joining them, cast one awed glance at Harry, then caught Lucinda’s eye and raised her glass in a silent toast. Lucinda risked a quick grin, then let her gaze slide to Harry’s face.
He was watching her, not the others, his lips set in a line she was coming to know well, his green gaze jewel-like and impenetrable.
Lucinda quelled a shiver. Turning back to the table, she forced herself to focus on her less interesting admirers.
AS HE HAD PROMISED, Harry was waiting for her in the hall of Hallows House at precisely nine o’clock the next morning.
Descending the stairs with a dark blue half-cape draped over her bluebell-hued carriage dress, Lucinda watched as his gaze skimmed knowledgeably over her. When she reached the hall and came forward, her hand extended, his gaze lifted to her face.
Harry saw the feminine smugness in her eyes—and frowned. “At least you shouldn’t freeze.” He took her hand and bowed over it—then considered the sight of her small, slim hand nestling in his much larger one. “Don’t forget your gloves.”
Lucinda lifted a brow—and drew her gloves from her reticule. “I’ll be back for luncheon, Fergus.” Dutifully drawing on her gloves, she glanced at Harry. “Will you join us, Mr Lester?”
“No—please convey my regrets to my aunt.” Harry grasped her arm and