The carriage hit a rut; a strong arm shot out and saved her from falling to the floor.
Lucinda righted herself; Harry’s hand fell away. She turned to him—and glared at his still shut eyes. “Lady Coleby was speaking to me yesterday.”
Languidly, his brows rose. “Oh?”
Despite his tone, he had tensed. Lucinda pressed her lips together and forged on. “She told me you had once been in love with her.”
She could feel her heart thudding in her chest, in her throat.
Harry opened his eyes. Slowly, he turned his head until his eyes, very green, met hers. “I didn’t—then—know what love was.”
His eyes held hers for a long moment, then he turned forward and closed them again.
The wheels rolled on; Lucinda stared at him. Then, slowly, she drew in a deep breath. A smile—of relief, of welling hope—broke across her face. Her lips still curved, she settled her head against the squabs—and followed Harry’s example.
Chapter Twelve
Three days later, Harry sat in a garden chair under the spreading branches of the oak at the bottom of the Lester Hall lawn, squinting through the early afternoon sunshine at the blue-clad figure who had just emerged onto the terrace.
She saw him; she raised her hand, then descended the steps and headed his way. Harry smiled.
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And watched his intended stroll towards him.
Her gown of cerulean blue muslin clung to her figure as she walked. Her face was shaded by a villager hat, three blue daisies decorating its band. He had put them there himself, first thing this morning, when their petals had still sparkled with dew.
Harry’s smile deepened; contentment swept through him. This was what he wanted—what he was determined to have.
A shout, greeted by gay laughter, drew his attention to the lake. Gerald was punting Heather Babbacombe about. Face alight, Heather was laughing up at Gerald, smiling down at her from his place in the stern.
Harry raised his brows, resigned to what he strongly suspected was the inevitable. But Heather was still very young, as was Gerald; it would be some years yet before they realised just what this Season had begun.
He hadn’t been at all surprised to see his younger brother drive up to the Hall a bare hour after he and Lucinda had arrived. As he had foreseen, Em and Heather had reached the Hall before them; Em had already had the household in hand.
Other than casting him a curious, almost wary look, Em had forborne to comment on his arrangements. To his considerable satisfaction, after the debacle of Asterley Place, it appeared his aunt was content to run in his harness.
Just as his intended, albeit suspiciously, was doing.
Harry rose as she approached, his smile openly welcoming.
Returning his smile, Lucinda put a hand to her hat as a gentle breeze whipped her skirts about her. “It’s such a lovely afternoon, I’d thought to stroll the grounds.”
“An excellent idea.” The breeze died; Harry claimed her hand and with a calmly proprietorial air, tucked it in his arm. “You haven’t explored the grotto at the end of the lake, have you?”
Lucinda dutifully admitted ignorance and allowed him to steer her onto the path skirting the lake’s edge. Heather saw them and waved; Gerald hallooed. Lucinda smiled and waved back, then let silence fall.
And waited.
As she’d been waiting for the past three days.
Her sojourn at Lester Hall was proving far more pleasant than her projected stay at Asterley Place could ever have been. From the moment Harry had led her into the drawing-room and introduced her to his father, his intentions had been plain. Everything—every glance, every touch, every little gesture, every single word and thought that had passed between them since—had underscored the simple fact. But not once during their twilight strolls on the terrace, throughout their ambling rides through woods and fields, through all the hours they had spent together out of the past seventy-two, had he said one single word to the point.
He hadn’t kissed her either—a fact which was fuelling her impatience. Yet she could hardly fault his behaviour—it was gentlemanly in the extreme. The suspicion that he was wooing her—traditionally, according to all the accepted precepts, with all the subtle elegance only one of his experience could command—had taken firm root in her mind.
Which was all very well, but…
With one hand on the crown of her hat, Lucinda tipped her head up and studied the sky. “The sunshine’s been so constant one forgets the days are winging past. I fear we should return to London soon.”