“Iced water,” Harry replied. He transferred his gaze to Frederick Amberly’s innocent visage. “You needn’t linger, Amberly. I’ll escort Mrs Babbacombe back to my aunt.”
Mr Amberly’s brows rose, but he merely smiled gently. “If you insist, Lester.” Lucinda held out her hand and he took it, bowing elegantly. “Your servant always, Mrs Babbacombe.”
Lucinda bestowed a perfectly genuine smile. “Thank you for a most…delightful interlude, sir.”
Mr Amberly’s departing look suggested she was learning.
Then she glanced up at Harry’s face. He was eyeing her narrowly.
“My dear Mrs Babbacombe, has anyone ever explained to you that remaining a virtuous widow is conditional on not encouraging rakes?”
Lucinda opened her eyes wide. “Encouraging rakes? My dear Mr Lester, whatever do you mean?”
Harry returned no answer but his lips thinned.
Lucinda grinned. “If you mean Mr Amberly,” she continued ingenuously, “we were just chatting. Indeed,” she went on, her smile widening again, “I have it on excellent authority that I’m incapable of encouraging rakes.”
Harry snorted. “Rubbish.” After a moment, he asked, “Who told you that?”
Lucinda’s smile lit up the room. “Why, you did—don’t you remember?”
Looking down into her very bright eyes, Harry inwardly groaned. And hoped Amberly hadn’t noticed just how thin the lovely Mrs Babbacombe’s skull was. Taking the empty glass from her fingers, he deposited it on a passing tray, then took her hand and placed it on his sleeve. “And now, Mrs Babbacombe, we are going to perambulate, very slowly, around the room.”
Bright blue eyes quizzed him. “Very slowly? Why?”
Harry gritted his teeth. “So you don’t stumble.” Into another rake’s arms.
“Ah.” Lucinda nodded sagely. A delighted, distinctly satisfied smile on her lips, she let him lead her, very slowly, into the crowd.
LUCINDA’S HEAD was throbbing when she followed Em into the carriage. Heather tumbled in after them and promptly curled up on the opposite seat.
Settling her skirts, Lucinda decided that, despite her minor discomfort, her evening had been a success.
“Damned if I know what Harry’s about,” Em stated as soon as Heather’s breathing subsided into the soft cadence of sleep. “Have you made any headway with him yet?”
Lucinda smiled into the gloom. “Actually, I think I’ve at last found a chink in his armour.”
Em snorted. “’Bout time. The boy’s too damned stubborn for his own good.”
“Indeed.” Lucinda settled her head against the squabs. “However, I’m unsure how long this chink might take to develop into a breach, nor yet how potentially difficult it might prove to pursue. I don’t even know whether, ultimately, it will work.”
Em’s next snort was one of pure frustration. “Anything’s worth a try.”
“Hmm.” Lucinda closed her eyes. “So I think.”
ON MONDAY, she danced twice with Lord Ruthven.
On Tuesday, she went driving in the Park with Mr Amberly.
On Wednesday, she strolled the length of Bond Street on Mr Satterly’s arm.
By Thursday, Harry was ready to wring her pretty neck.
“I suppose this campaign has your blessing?” Harry looked down at Em, settled in majestic splendour on a chaise in Lady Harcourt’s ballroom. He made no attempt to hide his barely restrained ire.
“Campaign?” Em opened her eyes wide. “What campaign?”
Harry gave her one of her own snorts—the one that signified incredulous disbelief. “Permit me to inform you, dear Aunt, that your protégée has developed a potentially unhealthy taste for living dangerously.”