Leaving her gloves and reticule on the table, Lucinda slowly walked down the room. Halting by the window, she drew in a steadying breath and swung to face Harry. He had followed in her wake; she watched as he drew near, stopping directly before her, one brow lifting, a challenging look in his eye.
Lucinda returned it in full measure. “It may interest you to know, Mr Lester, that I had no intention of—” she gestured dismissively “—barging into a private meeting. A fact I was about to make clear to Mr Honeywell when you chose to intervene.”
The arrested, suddenly defensive expression that flickered in Harry’s eyes was balm to Lucinda’s temper. She immediately pressed her advantage. “I merely wished to enquire as to the bona fides of the customers using my inn—a right I’m sure even you will agree is mine.” She waggled a finger under his nose. “Neither you nor Mr Honeywell had any justification for jumping to such a conclusion—as if I was a child unaware of the proprieties! And you, sir, had no right to threaten me as you did.” Turning aside and folding her arms, Lucinda elevated her chin. “I wish to hear an apology, sir, for your ungentlemanly behaviour.”
Silence greeted her demand. Harry studied her face, his gaze clear and steady. Then his lips twisted. “I suggest, my dear, that you refrain from holding your breath. My behaviour throughout this morning has been gentlemanly in the extreme.”
Lucinda’s eyes flew wide. “Gentlemanly?” Her arms dropped as she rounded on him.
Harry held up a hand. “I’ll admit that both Honeywell and I might have jumped to unwarranted conclusions.” His eyes met hers, his expression fleetingly rueful. “For myself, for that, I apologise unequivocally. For the rest, however…” His face hardened. “I fear you must excuse it on the grounds of extreme provocation.”
“Provocation?” Lucinda stared at him. “What provocation was that, pray tell?”
The provocation of keeping her safe, shielded, the undeniable, instinctive impulse that had him in its grip. The truth echoed in Harry’s head; he struggled to shut his mind against it. He looked into her eyes; softly blue, they searched his, then widened. He dropped his gaze to her lips, full, blush red—a potent temptation. As he watched, they parted fractionally. About them, silence reigned; between them, the tension grew. Compelled, as aware of her increased breathing as he was of the deepening thud in his veins, Harry lifted a finger and, with the lightest of touches, traced her lower lip.
The shudder his touch evoked in her reverberated deep in his marrow.
His breath caught; if he met her gaze, he would be lost.
Desire welled, unexpectedly strong; he fought to shackle it. He tried to draw breath, tried to step away, and could not.
Distant footsteps drew near; in the corridor a board creaked.
Swiftly, Harry bent his head and touched his lips to hers in a caress so brief he barely registered the gentle movement of her lips beneath his.
When the door opened and Honeywell came in, he was standing by the fireplace, some yards from Lucinda. The innkeeper noticed nothing amiss; he placed the heavy ledgers on the table and looked hopefully at Lucinda.
Harry glanced her way but her bac
k was to the window, hiding her expression.
Lucinda hesitated, just long enough to marshall her thoroughly disordered wits. Then she swept forward, plastering an expression of such haughtiness on her face that Mr Honeywell blinked. “Just the figures for this year, I think, Mr Honeywell.”
The innkeeper hurried to do her bidding.
Immersed in figures, Lucinda struggled to soothe her tingling nerves, inflamed by that too-fleeting kiss and further abraded by Harry’s lounging presence. For one instant, she had felt as if the world had spun wildly; determinedly, she put the memory aside and concentrated on Mr Honeywell’s accounts. By the time she was satisfied, half an hour had passed, leaving her once more in control. Quite capable of maintaining a steady flow of artless prattle all the way back to Audley Street.
Other than bestowing on her one, long, unnervingly intent look, Harry made no particular comment, replying readily to any questions, but leaving the conversational reins in her hands. When they drew up at Em’s steps, Lucinda felt she had handled them with laudable skill.
She chose the moment when Harry lifted her down to say, “I’m really most grateful for your escort, Mr Lester.” With what she considered commendable fortitude, she refrained from further comment.
“Indeed?” Harry arched one brow.
Lucinda fought against a frown. “Indeed,” she returned, meeting his gaze.
Harry looked down at her face, at her wonderfully blue eyes, gleaming with feminine defiance—and wondered how long he could hold her, his hands firm about her waist, before she became aware of it. “In that case, tell Fergus to inform me when you wish to inspect your next inn.” She felt warm, vibrant, supple and alive between his hands.
Lucinda knew perfectly well where his hands were; she could feel his fingers burning through her gown. But that kiss, so quick it was over almost before it had begun, had been her first intimation that victory was truly possible; despite the unnerving cascade of emotions the fleeting caress had evoked, she was determined not to back down. If she had, albeit unknowingly, breached his walls once, she could do it again. Battling breathlessness, she dropped her gaze to where her fingers rested against his coat. “But I couldn’t so impose on your time, Mr Lester.”
Harry frowned. He could see her eyes glinting through her lashes. “Not at all.” He paused, then added, native caution returning, “As I told you before, given you’re my aunt’s guest, at my insistence, I feel it’s the least I can do.”
He thought he heard a disgusted humph. Suppressing a smile, he glanced up—and met Dawlish’s deeply commiserating gaze.
All expression draining from his face, Harry dropped his hands. Stepping back, he offered his aunt’s guest his arm, then gallantly, in open contempt of his henchman’s foreboding, escorted her up the steps.
While waiting for Fergus to open the door, Lucinda glanced up—and intercepted an exchange of glances between Harry and Dawlish. “Dawlish seems very dismal—is anything amiss?”
Harry’s features hardened. “No. He’s just unused to getting up so early.”