Stephanie Laurens Rogues' Reform Bundle (77 page)

With that, she turned and, a scintillating vision in shimmering silver blue, glided out of the door.

The drawing-room quickly filled, the guests eager for each other's company. Now sure of her footing, Lucinda found no difficulty in strolling through the crowd, acknowledging the compliments and the open admiration in the gentlemen's eyes, artfully turning aside their subtle suggestions. She was once more in control—but her nerves were taut, her whole being on edge.

The moment she'd been waiting for finally arrived.

Harry walked into the room, creating, she noticed, an immediate stir. He must have arrived while they were changing; he was dressed in his usual severe black and white, his fair hair gleaming in the candlelight. Marguerite broke off her conversation to sweep forward and greet him—with a peck on the cheek, Lucinda noted. Lord Asterley came up to wring his hand. Other gentlemen nodded and called greetings; many of the ladies prinked and preened, smiling in gracious welcome.

Abruptly finding herself the object of a piercing green stare, Lucinda didn't smile at all. Her heart stuttered, then accelerated; a vice slowly closed about her chest. Her expression studiously remote, she inclined her head fractionally and turned back to Mr Ormesby and Lady Morcombe.

And waited for him to come to her.

He didn't—nor was he about to. That much was made plain within ten minutes. Excruciatingly aware of his gaze, dwelling on her shoulders, bare above the abbreviated neckline of her gown, and on her upper breasts, likewise revealed, Lucinda gritted her teeth and inwardly cursed. What the devil was he up to now?

Cursing her, as it happened—Harry could barely restrain the urge to cross the room, lay hold of one delicate wrist and haul her away. What the deuce did she mean by appearing in such a gown? Of the sheerest silk gauze, it shimmered and glimmered, tantalised and teased. The soft material clung wherever it touched, outlining then concealing her slender form, artfully displaying the graceful curves of hips and thighs and the smooth planes of her back. As for her breasts, they were barely concealed at all—the square neckline had been cut by a miser. Gritting his teeth, he forced his feet to remain still. As all the gentleman were openly captivated, at least he didn't need to disguise his interest.

“Harry, old chap! Didn't think to see you here. Thought you might be looking to take a leaf out of Jack's book, what?”

Harry bent a look of intense irritation on Lord Cranbourne. “Not my style, Bentley. But who have you got your eye on?”

Lord Cranbourne grinned. “Lady Morcombe. She's a ripe little plum—that old codger of a husband of hers doesn't appreciate her as he ought.”

“Hmm.” Harry sent another penetrating glance about the room. “Just the usual crowd, is it?”

“All except the lovely Mrs Babbacombe—but you know all about her, as I recall?”

“Indeed.” Harry's gaze rested again on Lucinda. Again he quelled the urge to go to her side.

“Your interest lie that way this evening?”

Harry shot Lord Cranbourne a quick glance, but his lordship's question was clearly an idle one. “Not as you mean it.”

With a nod, he strolled away—before a puzzled Lord Cranbourne could ask for clarification.

With studied nonchalance, Harry circled the room, watching, assessing. His interest was certainly centred on Lucinda—but his first concern was to determine who had placed her name on the invitation list.

He'd been halfway to Asterley before his mind had cleared enough to see the point.
He
hadn't suggested her—so who had? And why?

He prowled the room, carefully studying, not only Lucinda, but all who approached her, intent on discovering which, of his fellow rakes, felt he had first claim.

By the time dinner was announced, by Melthorpe in sepulchural vein, Lucinda had come to the conclusion that Harry was waiting for something—presumably disaster—to befall her, so that he could come to her aid and take charge of her again. Vowing it would never be so, she smiled graciously on Mr Ormesby as he offered her his arm. “Do you come here often, sir?”

Mr Ormesby gesticulated airily. “Now and then. A peaceful interlude away from the bustle of town, what?”

“Indeed.” From the corner of her eye, Lucinda saw Harry frown. Then Marguerite stopped beside him and claimed his arm. Lucinda turned a bright smile on Mr Ormesby. “I will rely on you, sir, if I may, to guide me in Asterley's ways.”

Mr Ormesby looked thoroughly chuffed. “A pleasure, my dear.”

Lucinda blinked, and hoped she wasn't raising any false expectations. “Tell me—are the dinners very elaborate?”

Tonight's wasn't, but neither was it less than an elegant sufficiency with four full courses and two removes. The conversation, to Lucinda's relief, remained general throughout, with much exchanging of the latest gossip and
on dits,
accompanied by considerable merriment, all in the best of taste.

Indeed, if it hadn't been for the subtle undercurrent, borne on glances and the occasional whispered word, her enjoyment would have been unreserved.

“My dear Mrs Babbacombe.” Lord Dewhurst, on Lucinda's left, leaned closer to claim her attention. “Have you heard of the treasure hunt Marguerite has organised for tomorrow?”

“Treasure hunt?” Aware of the growing warmth in his lordship's gaze, Lucinda dimly wondered if such an enterprise, in this company, could possibly be innocent.

“Indeed—and we play a version of Fox and Geese that will, I'm sure, delight you. Needless to say, there's no board involved.” His lordship smiled. “We, ourselves, represent the pieces.”

Lucinda could just imagine. But she kept her smile serene, grasping the offer of a custard to turn aside without comment. In doing so, she caught Harry's eye. He was seated across the table, some way along. Despite the distance, she could sense his simmering irritation, there in the odd tenseness that invested his apparently relaxed frame, and in the way his long fingers gripped his wine glass. Lucinda summoned a radiantly ingenuous smile—and turned it on Mr Ormesby.

Harry felt the muscle in his jaw ripple; his teeth were clenched tight. He forced his jaw to relax, turning aside as Marguerite waved at him from the end of the table.

Lucinda had hoped to catch her breath, to rest her wits and strengthen her defences, when the ladies retired to the drawing-room. But at Asterley, port was the last thing on the gentlemen's minds; they followed in the ladies' wake, not even glancing at the decanters on the sideboard.

“We generally take things quietly on the first evening,” Mr Ormesby informed Lucinda as he joined her by the hearth. “Let people…get to know one another, if you take my meaning.”

“Exactly!” Lord Asterley followed hard on Mr Ormesby's heels. “Tomorrow, of course, things will liven up a trifle.” He rubbed his hands together and looked over the assembled company. “We'd thought to start by punting on the lake, then move on to the Treasure Hunt. Marguerite's got it all organised—to be held in the gardens, of course.” He turned a perfectly innocent smile on Lucinda. “Plenty of quiet nooks to find treasure in.”

“Oh?” Lucinda endeavoured to look politely vague.

“Nothing starts till after noon, of course. We generally all meet in the breakfast parlour about then. Gives everyone a chance to catch up on their sleep, don't y'know.”

Lucinda nodded, making a mental note to be on the road shortly after ten. Quite how she was to excuse herself, and on what grounds, she did not know—but she'd think of something by tomorrow morning.

Lord Cranbourne and Lady Morcombe joined them; the conversation revolved about the expected entertainments of the next few days—the communal ones. As for the others, those that remained unspecified, Lucinda was increasingly aware of the speculative glances cast her way, by Mr Ormesby, Lord Asterley and Lord Dewhurst in particular.

For the first time since entering Asterley Place, she began to feel truly uneasy. Not out of fear for her virtue, but from dislike of the potentially embarrassing situations she might soon find herself in. Mr Ormesby and Lord Asterley showed no disposition to leave her side; to Lucinda's relief, they were both summoned by Marguerite to help pass the teacups. She grasped the opportunity to fill a vacant chair by the
chaise.
On its end sat a pretty woman much of an age with herself; Lucinda vaguely recalled being introduced at Almack's.

“Lady Coleby—Millicent.” The woman smiled and nodded as she passed a teacup. “Always a pleasure to welcome another to our circle.”

Lucinda's answering smile was a trifle weak. She hid it behind her cup. She was beginning to wonder if she should have braved the fuss and left three hours ago.

“Have you made your choice yet?” Over the rim of her cup, Lady Coleby raised a questioning brow.

Lucinda blinked. “Choice?”

Her ladyship gestured about her. “From amongst the gentlemen.”

Lucinda looked blank

“Oh—I forgot. You're new.” Lady Coleby lowered her cup and leaned closer. “It's all very simple. One just decides which of the gentlemen one likes the best—one, two or more if your taste runs that way—then one lets them know—discreetly, of course. You don't need to do anything more; it's all miraculously well-organised.”

Faced with an unwaveringly enquiring gaze, Lucinda swallowed a mouthful of tea. “Ah—I'm not sure.”

“Well, don't leave it too long or the best will be taken.” Lady Coleby touched Lucinda's sleeve. “I'm after Harry Lester, myself,” she confided, nodding to where Harry stood on the opposite side of the room. “He's not attended in an age—not since I've been coming anyway, which is more than a year. But all that excessive elegance, all that lethal grace—” Lady Coleby broke off with a delicate shiver. “Deep waters hold
dangerous
currents, so they say.” Her gaze fixed on Harry, she took a sip of her tea. “I never would have believed brash, impetuous Harry would turn out like that. It just goes to show. He's nothing like the fresh-faced young gentleman who offered for me all those years ago.”

Lucinda froze. Then, slowly, she set her cup back on her saucer. “He offered for you?”

“Oh, yes! Not officially—it never came to that. Ten and more years ago it was.” Her ladyship affected a dewy-eyed look, then giggled. “He was most
terribly
enamoured—well, you know how young men can be.” She waved her hand. “Utterly over the moon. Wild, impassioned declarations—it was all so thrilling for he was very handsome, even then.”

Lucinda studied Lady Coleby's face as her ladyship studied Harry, engaged in a discussion with a Mr Harding. “But you didn't accept him?”

“Heavens, no! Poor as church mice, the Lesters. Or they were. Mind you…” a speculative glint lit her ladyship's brown eyes “…now that Coleby's dead and gone and the Lesters have suffered a windfall—” Lady Coleby broke off to state, “Positively
enormous,
my dear, so I've heard. Well—” she turned back to survey Harry, anticipation lighting her face “—I really do believe I should renew old acquaintances.”

At that moment, Harry and Mr Harding parted. Harry directed a piercing glance across the room.

Her ladyship smiled delightedly and rose, laying aside her teacup. “And it appears there'll be no better time. Do excuse me, my dear.”

Lucinda forced herself to incline her head. Picking up both cups, she carried them to where Marguerite sat by the tea trolley, all the while keeping her gaze firmly fixed on her hostess.

Harry's gaze was fixed on her. He hesitated, frowning, his lips set in a firm line. No gentlemen had pressed her; none had displayed any proprietary interest. Three, if not four, were seriously enamoured; another few were watching closely. But none seemed to consider they had first claim—they were all vying for her favours as if she had swanned into their orbit on her own account.

Which left him with the puzzle unsolved. With an inward grimace, he put it aside until the morning. He was about to cross the room, to head off what he knew would be an embarrassing and confusing confrontation, when he felt a touch on his sleeve.

“Harry!” Millicent, Lady Coleby, uttered the word on a long breathy exhalation. She opened wide brown eyes at him, her delicately tinted cheeks aglow.

Briefly, Harry nodded. “Millie.” His head rose again as he looked for Lucinda; she was still chatting to Marguerite.

“Dear Harry.” Engrossed in artlessly studying his cravat, Millie didn't notice his interest was elsewhere. “I've always carried a torch for you—you do know that, don't you? I had to marry Coleby—you must see that. You're so much older now—you understand the ways of our world.” Millie let a knowing smile curve her lips. “I've heard you understand the ways very well, Harry. Perhaps we might…travel a few avenues together tonight?”

Millie glanced up—just as Lucinda nodded to Marguerite and headed for the door. Harry, about to move, was forced to focus on Millie, standing directly in front of him.

“Excuse me, Millie. I've business elsewhere.”

With that, he nodded and sidestepped, then halted, his gaze on Lucinda—and the three gentlemen who had intercepted her. Concentrating, he could just make out their words.

“My dear Mrs Babbacombe.” Alfred was the first to gain her side. “Dare I hope you've found the evening to your taste?”

“You've proved a most welcome addition to our ranks, ma'am.” Ormesby was close behind. “I do hope we can entice you to spend more time with us—I, for one, can think of little I'd like better.”

Lucinda blinked; before she could answer, Lord Dewhurst joined them.

He took her hand and bowed low. “Enchanted, my dear. Dare I hope for some time to further our acquaintance?”

Lucinda met his lordship's calm but distinctly warm gaze—and wished herself elsewhere. Heat tinged her cheeks—then, from the corner of her eye, she saw Harry. Watching.