Harry noticed. “What is it?”
Colouring slightly, Lucinda shot him a glance from beneath her lids.
Harry raised his brows higher.
Lucinda grimaced. “If you must know,” she said, switching her gaze to the horizon. “I was simply struck by the fact that managing a stud is a peculiarly apt enterprise for…er, one with your qualifications.”
Harry laughed, an entirely spontaneous sound Lucinda realised she had not before heard.
“My dear Mrs Babbacombe!” His green eyes quizzed her. “What a thoroughly shocking observation to make.”
Lucinda glared, then put her nose in the air.
Harry chuckled. Ignoring her blushes, he drew her closer. “Strangely enough,” he said, his lips distinctly curved, “you’re the first to ever put it into words.”
Lucinda fell back on one of Em’s snorts—the one that signified deep disapproval. Disapproval gave way to hope when she realised Harry was not leading her back to the gig but towards a small wood bordering the nearest field. A path led between the trees, cut back to permit easy strolling.
Perhaps…? She never finished the thought, distracted by the discovery that the wood was in reality no more than a windbreak. Beyond it, the path was paved as it ambled about a small pond where water lilies battled with reeds. “That needs clearing.”
Harry glanced at the pond. “We’ll get to it eventually.”
Lucinda looked up and followed his gaze—to the house. Large, rambling, with old-fashioned gables, it was made of local stone with a good slate roof. On the ground floor, bow windows stood open to the summer air. A rose crept up one wall to nod pale yellow blooms before one of the upstairs windows. Two large, leafy oaks stood one to each side, casting cool shade over the gravelled drive which wound from some gateway out of sight down a long avenue to end in a sweep before the front door.
She glanced at Harry. “Lestershall?”
He nodded, his eyes on the manor house. “My house.” Briefly, his lips twisted. “My home.” With a languid wave, he gestured ahead. “Shall we?”
Suddenly breathless, Lucinda inclined her head.
They strolled on to where their path debouched onto the lawn, then crossed the grassy expanse and ducked beneath the low branches of one of the oaks to join the drive. As they approached the shallow stone steps, Lucinda noticed the front door stood ajar.
“I’ve never really lived here.” Harry steadied her as they scrunched across the gravel. “It had fallen into disrepair, so I’ve had a small army through to set it to rights.”
A burly individual in a carpenter’s leather apron appeared in the doorway as they set foot on the steps.
“Mornin’, Mr Lester.” The man ducked his head, his cheery face lit by a smile. “It’s all coming together nicely—as I think you’ll find. Not much more to do.”
“Good morning, Catchbrick. This is Mrs Babbacombe. If it won’t inconvenience you and your men, I’d like to show her around.”
“No inconvenience at all, sir.” Catchbrick bowed to Lucinda, bright eyes curious. “Won’t be no trouble—like I said, we’re nearly done.”
So saying, he stood back and waved them on into the hall.
Lucinda crossed the threshold into a long and surprisingly spacious rectangular hall. Half-panelling in warm oak was surmounted by plastered walls, presently bare. A mound draped in dust covers in the centre of the floor clearly contained a round table and a large hall stand. Light streamed in from the large circular fanlight. Stairs, also in oak with an ornately carved balustrade, led upwards, the half-landing sporting a long window which, Lucinda suspected, looked out over the rear gardens. Two corridors flanked the stairs, the left ending in a green baize door.
“The drawing-room’s this way.”
Lucinda turned to find Harry standing by a set of ha
ndsome doors, presently set wide; a boy was polishing the panels industriously.
The drawing-room proved to be of generous proportions, although on far smaller a scale than at the Hall. It boasted a deep bow window complete with window seat and a long low fireplace topped by a wide mantel. The dining-room, now shaping to be an elegant apartment, had, as had the drawing-room, a large mound of furniture swathed in dust cloths in its midst. Lucinda couldn’t resist lifting one corner of the cloth.
“Some pieces will need to be replaced but most of the furniture seems sound enough.” Harry’s gaze remained on her face.
“Sound enough?” Lucinda threw back the cover to reveal the heavy top of an old oak sideboard. “It’s rather more than that. This is a very fine piece—and someone’s had the sense to keep it well-polished.”
“Mrs Simpkins. She’s the housekeeper,” Harry supplied in answer to Lucinda’s raised brows. “You’ll meet her in a moment.”