An Unwilling Conquest. Stephanie Laurens
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She turned to look at Harry. “You’ve passed it.”
Grim-faced, Harry nodded.
Lucinda glared at him. “Stop,” she ordered.
“You can’t stay in town.”
“I can!”
“Over my dead body!” Harry heard his snarl and inwardly groaned. He closed his eyes. What was happening to him? Opening his eyes, he glared at the woman beside him. Her cheeks were becomingly flushed—with temper. A fleeting thought of how she would look flushed with desire shot through his unwilling mind.
Something of his thoughts must have shown in his face—her blue eyes narrowed. “Are you proposing to kidnap us?” Her voice held the promise of a long and painful death.
The end of the High Street appeared; the traffic thinned. Harry flicked his leader’s ear and the greys surged. As the sound of hooves on cobbles died behind them, he glanced down at her and growled, “Consider it forcible repatriation.”
Chapter Two
“Forcible repatriation?”
Harry shot her a narrow-eyed glare. “You don’t belong in a race-town.”
Lucinda glared back. “I belong wherever I choose to stay, Mr Lester.”
His face set in uncompromising lines, Harry looked back at his team. Lucinda looked ahead, frowning direfully.
“Where are you taking us?” she eventually demanded.
“To stay with my aunt, Lady Hallows.” Harry glanced at her. “She lives a little way out of town.”
It had been many years since she’d allowed anyone to order her life. Nose in the air, Lucinda held to dignified disapproval. “How do you know she won’t already have visitors?”
“She’s a widow of long standing and lives quietly.” Harry checked his team and turned onto a side road. “She has a whole Hall to spare—and she’ll be delighted to make your acquaintance.”
Lucinda sniffed. “You can’t know that.”
The smile he bent on her was infinitely superior.
Resisting the urge to gnash her teeth, Lucinda pointedly looked away.
Heather had perked up the instant they’d quit town; she smiled when Lucinda glanced her way, clearly restored to her usual sunny humour and unperturbed by the unexpected alteration to their plans.
Feeling distinctly huffy, Lucinda looked ahead. It was, she suspected, pointless to protest—at least, not until she’d met Lady Hallows. Until then, there was nothing she could do to regain the ascendancy. The infuriating gentleman beside her had the upper hand—and the reins. Her gaze flicked sideways, to where his hands, covered by soft doeskin gloves, dextrously managed the ribbons. Long slim fingers and slender palms. She’d noted that earlier. To her horror, the memory evoked a shiver—she had to fight to quell it. With him so close, he would very likely feel it—and, she suspected, would unhesitatingly guess its cause.
Which would leave her feeling embarrassed—and even more deeply disturbed. He evoked a most peculiar response in her—it had yet to fade, despite her irritation at his autocratic interference. It was a distinctly novel feeling—one she wasn’t at all sure she appreciated.
“Hallows Hall.”
She looked up to discover a pair of imposing gateposts which gave onto a shady avenue lined with elms. The gravelled drive wound gently along a slight ridge, then dipped to reveal a pleasant vista of rolling lawns surrounding a reed-fringed lake, the whole enclosed by large trees.
“How pretty!” Heather looked about in delight.
The Hall, a relatively recent structure in honey-coloured stone, sat on a rise above the drive, which wound past the front steps before curving around the corner of the house. A vine stretched green fingers over the stone. There were roses in abundance; ducks clacked from the lake.
An ancient retainer came ambling up as Harry drew his team to a halt.
“Thought as we’d see you this week, young master.”
Harry grinned. “Good evening, Grimms. Is my aunt at home?”
“Aye—that she is—and right pleased she’ll be to see you. Evening, miss. Miss.” Grimms doffed his cap to Lucinda and Heather.
Lucinda’s answering smile was distant. Hallows Hall stirred long-forgotten memories of life before her parents had died.
Harry descended and helped her down. After helping Heather to the ground, he turned to see Lucinda looking about her, a wistful expression on her face. “Mrs Babbacombe?”
Lucinda started. Then, with a half-grimace and a frosty glance, she placed her hand on his arm and allowed him to lead her up the steps.
The door was flung open—not by a butler, although a stately personage of that persuasion hovered in the shadows—but by a gaunt, angular-featured woman a good two inches taller than Lucinda and decidedly thinner.
“Harry, m’boy! Thought you’d be here. And who’s this you’ve brought?”
Lucinda found herself blinking into dark blue eyes, shrewd and intelligent.
“But what am I about? Come in, come in.” Ermyntrude, Lady Hallows, waved her guests into the hall.
Lucinda stepped over the threshold—and was immediately enveloped in the warm, elegant yet homey atmosphere.
Harry took his aunt’s hand and bowed over it, then kissed her cheek. “As elegant as ever, Em,” he said, scanning her topaz gown.
Em’s eyes opened wide. “Flummery? From you?”
Harry pressed her hand warningly as he released it. “Allow me to present Mrs Babbacombe, Aunt. Her carriage broke a wheel just outside town. I had the honour of driving her in. She had some idea of staying in town but I prevailed upon her to change her mind and give you the benefit of her company.”
The words tripped glibly from his tongue. Rising from her curtsy, Lucinda shot him a chilly glance.
“Capital!” Em beamed and took Lucinda’s hand. “My dear, you don’t know how bored I sometimes get, stuck out here in the country. And Harry’s quite right—you can’t possibly stay in town during a meet—not at all the thing.” Her blue eyes switched to Heather. “And who’s this?”
Lucinda made the introduction and Heather, smiling brightly, bobbed a curtsy.
Em put out a hand and tipped Heather’s chin up the better to view her face. “Hmm—quite lovely. You’ll do well in a year or two.” Releasing her, Em frowned. “Babbacombe, Babbacombe…” She glanced at Lucinda. “Not the Staffordshire Babbacombes?”
Lucinda smiled. “Yorkshire.” When her hostess only frowned harder, she felt compelled to add, “I was a Gifford before my marriage.”
“Gifford?” Em’s eyes slowly widened as she studied Lucinda. “Great heavens! You must be Melrose Gifford’s daughter—Celia Parkes was your mother?”
Surprised, Lucinda nodded—and was promptly enveloped in a scented embrace.
“Good gracious, child—I knew your father!” Em was in transports. “Well—I was a bosom-bow of his elder sister, but I knew all the family. Naturally, after the scandal, we heard very little of Celia and Melrose, but they did send word of your birth.” Em wrinkled her nose. “Not that it did much good—stiff-necked lot, your grandparents. On both sides.”
Harry blinked, endeavouring to absorb this rush of information. Lucinda noticed, and wondered how he felt about rescuing the outcome of an old scandal.
“Just fancy!” Em was still in alt. “I never thought to set eyes on you, m’dear.