An Unwilling Conquest

by Stephanie Laurens

  “Fussing!” Agatha hissed as Lucinda drew her skirts down to her ankles. “You didn’t see him move.”

  “Move?” Frowning, Lucinda stood and dusted her hands, then her gown. She turned to discover Heather hurrying up, hazel eyes bright with excitement, clearly none the worse for their ordeal.

  Behind her came their rescuer. All six feet and more of him, with a lean and graceful stride that conjured the immediate image of a hunting cat.

  A big, powerful predator.

  Agatha’s comment was instantly explained. Lucinda concentrated on resisting the urge to flee. He reached for her hand—she must have extended it—and bowed elegantly.

  “Permit me to introduce myself, ma’am. Harry Lester—at your service.”

  He straightened, a polite smile softening his features.

  Fascinated, Lucinda noted how his lips curved upwards just at the ends. Then her eyes met his. She blinked and glanced away. “I most sincerely thank you, Mr Lester, for your assistance—yours and your groom’s.” She beamed a grateful smile at his groom, unhitching the horses from the coach with Sim’s help. “It was immensely lucky you happened by.”

  Harry frowned, the memory of the footpads lurking in the trees beyond the curve intruding. He shook the thought aside. “I beg you’ll permit me to drive you and your…” Brows lifting, he glanced from the younger girl’s bright face to that of his siren’s.

  She smiled. “Allow me to introduce my stepdaughter, Miss Heather Babbacombe.”

  Heather bobbed a quick curtsy; Harry responded with a slight bow.

  “As I was saying, Mrs Babbacombe.” Smoothly Harry turned back and captured the lady’s wide gaze with his. Her eyes were a soft blue, partly grey—a misty colour. Her carriage gown of lavender blue served to emphasise the shade. “I hope you’ll permit me to drive you to your destination. You were headed for…?”

  “Newmarket,” Lucinda supplied. “Thank you—but I must make arrangements for my people.”

  Harry wasn’t sure which statement more surprised him. “Naturally,” he conceded, wondering how many other ladies of his acquaintance, in like circumstances, would so concern themselves over their servants. “But my groom can handle the details for you. He’s familiar with these parts.”

  “He is? How fortunate.”

  Before he could blink, the soft blue gaze had left him for Dawlish—his siren followed, descending upon his servitor like a galleon in full sail. Intrigued, Harry followed. She summoned her coachman with an imperious gesture. By the time Harry joined them, she was busily issuing the orders he had thought to give.

  Dawlish shot him a startled, distinctly reproachful glance.

  “Will that be any trouble, do you think?” Lucinda asked, sensing the groom’s distraction.

  “Oh—no, ma’am.” Dawlish bobbed his head respectfully. “No trouble at all. I knows the folks at the Barbican right well. We’ll get all seen to.”

  “Good.” Harry made a determined bid to regain control of the situation. “If that’s settled, I suspect we should get on, Mrs Babbacombe.” At the back of his mind lurked a vision of five frieze-coated men. He offered her his arm; an intent little frown wrinkling her brows, she placed her hand upon it.

  “I do hope Agatha will be all right.”

  “Your maid?” When she nodded, Harry offered, “If she’d broken her ankle she would, I think, be in far greater pain.”

  The blue eyes came his way, along with a grateful smile.

  Lucinda glanced away—and caught Agatha’s warning glare. Her smile turned into a grimace. “Perhaps I should wait here until the cart comes for her?”

  “No.” Harry’s response was immediate. She shot him a startled glance; he covered his lapse with a charming but rueful smile. “I hesitate to alarm you but footpads have been seen in the vicinity.” His smile deepened. “And Newmarket’s only two miles on.”

  “Oh.” Lucinda met his gaze; she made no effort to hide the consideration in hers. “Two miles?”

  “If that.” Harry met her eyes, faint challenge in his.

  “Well…” Lucinda turned to view his curricle.

  Harry waited for no more. He beckoned Sim and pointed to the curricle. “Put your mistresses’ luggage in the boot.”

  He turned back to be met by a cool, distinctly haughty blue glance. Equally cool, he allowed one brow to rise.

  Lucinda suddenly felt warm, despite the cool breeze that heralded the approaching evening. She looked away, to where Heather was talking animatedly to Agatha.

  “If you’ll forgive the advice, Mrs Babbacombe, I would not consider it wise for either you or your stepdaughter to be upon the road, unescorted, at night.”

  The soft drawl focused Lucinda’s mind on her options. Both appeared dangerous. With a gentle inclination of her head, she chose the more exciting. “Indeed, Mr Lester. Doubtless you’re right.” Sim had finished stowing their baggage in the curricle’s boot, strapping bandboxes to the flaps. “Heather?”

  While his siren fussed, delivering a string of last-minute instructions, Harry lifted her stepdaughter to the curricle’s seat. Heather Babbacombe smiled sunnily and thanked him prettily, too young to be flustered by his innate charms.

  Doubtless, Harry thought, as he turned to view her stepmother, Heather viewed him much as an uncle. His lips quirked, then relaxed into a smile as he watched Mrs Babbacombe glide towards him, casting last, measuring glances about her.

  She was slender and tall—there was something about her graceful carriage that evoked the adjective “matriarchal.” A confidence, an assurance, that showed in her frank gaze and open expression. Her dark hair, richly brown with the suspicion of red glinting in the sun, was, he could now see, fixed in a tight bun at the nape of her neck. For his money, the style was too severe—his fingers itched to run through the silken tresses, laying them free.

  As for her figure, he was having great difficulty disguising his interest. She was, indeed, one of the more alluring visions he had beheld in many a long year.

  She drew near and he lifted a brow. “Ready, Mrs Babbacombe?”

  Lucinda turned to meet his gaze, wondering how such a soft drawl could so easily sound steely. “Thank you, Mr Lester.” She gave him her hand; he took it, drawing her to the side of the carriage. Lucinda blinked at the high step—the next instant, she felt his hands firm about her waist and she was lifted, effortlessly, to the seat.

  Stifling her gasp, Lucinda met Heather’s gaze, filled with innocent anticipation. Sternly suppressing her fluster, Lucinda settled herself on the seat next to her stepdaughter. She had not, indeed, had much experience interacting with gentlemen of Mr Lester’s standing; perhaps such gestures were commonplace?

  Despite her inexperience, she could not delude herself that her position, as it transpired, could ever be dismissed as commonplace. Her rescuer paused only to swing his greatcoat—adorned, she noted, with a great many capes—about his broad shoulders before following her into the curricle, the reins in his hands. Naturally, he sat beside her.

  A bright smile firmly fixed on her lips, Lucinda waved Agatha goodbye, steadfastly ignoring the hard thigh pressed against her much softer limb, and the way her shoulder perforce had to nestle against his back.

  Harry himself had not foreseen the tight squeeze—and found its results equally disturbing. Pleasant—but definitely disturbing. Backing his team, he asked, “Were you coming from Cambridge, Mrs Babbacombe?” He desperately needed distraction.

  Lucinda was only too ready to oblige. “Yes—we spent a week there. We intended to leave directly after lunch but spent an hour or so in the gardens. They’re very fine, we discovered.”

  Her accents were refined and untraceable, her stepdaughter’s less so, while those of her servants were definitely north country. The greys settled into their stride; Harry comforted himself that two miles meant less than fifteen minutes, even allowing for picking their way through the town. “But you’re not from hereabouts?”

  “No—we’re
from Yorkshire.” After a moment, Lucinda added, a smile tweaking her lips, “At the moment, however, I suspect we could more rightly claim to be gypsies.”

  “Gypsies?”

  Lucinda exchanged a smile with Heather. “My husband died just over a year ago. His estate passed into his cousin’s hands, so Heather and I decided to while away our year of mourning in travelling the country. Neither of us had seen much of it before.”

  Harry stifled a groan. She was a widow—a beautiful widow newly out of mourning, unfixed, unattached, bar the minor encumbrance of a stepdaughter. In an effort to deny his mounting interest, to block out his awareness of her soft curves pressed, courtesy of Heather Babbacombe’s more robust figure, firmly against his side, he concentrated on her words. And frowned. “Where do you plan to stay in Newmarket?”

  “The Barbican Arms,” Lucinda replied. “I believe it’s in the High Street.”

  “It is.” Harry’s lips thinned; the Barbican Arms was directly opposite the Jockey Club. “Ah—have you reservations?” He slanted a glance at her face and saw surprise register. “It’s a race week, you know.”

  “Is it?” Lucinda frowned. “Does that mean it’ll be crowded?”

  “Very.” With every rakehell and womaniser who could make the journey from London. Harry suppressed the thought. Mrs Babbacombe was, he told himself, none of his business. Very definitely none of his business—she might be a widow and, to his experienced eye, ripe for seduction, but she was a virtuous widow—therein lay the rub. He was too experienced not to know such existed—indeed, the fleeting thought occurred that if he was to plot his own downfall, then a virtuous widow would be first choice as Cupid’s pawn. But he had recognised the trap—and had no intention of falling into it. Mrs Babbacombe was one beautiful widow he would do well to leave untouched—unsampled. Desire bucked, unexpectedly strong; with a mental curse, Harry shackled it—in iron!

  The first straggling cottages appeared ahead. He grimaced. “Is there no acquaintance you have in the district with whom you might stay?”

  “No—but I’m sure we’ll be able to find accommodation somewhere.” Lucinda gestured airly, struggling to keep her mind on her words and her senses on the late afternoon landscape. “If not at the Barbican Arms, then perhaps the Green Goose.”

  She sensed the start that shot through him. Turning, she met an openly incredulous, almost horrified stare.

  “Not the Green Goose.” Harry made no attempt to mute the decree.

  It was received with a frown. “Why not?”

  Harry opened his mouth—but couldn’t find the words. “Never mind why—just get it into your head that you cannot reside at the Green Goose.”

  Intransigence flowed into her expression, then she put her pretty nose in the air and looked ahead. “If you will just set us down at the Barbican Arms, Mr Lester, I’m sure we’ll sort things out.”

  Her words conjured a vision of the yard at the Barbican Arms—of the main hall of the inn as it would be at this moment—as Harry had experienced it at such times before. Jam-packed with males, broad-shouldered, elegant tonnish gentlemen, the vast majority of whom he would know by name. He certainly knew them by nature; he could just imagine their smiles when Mrs Babbacombe walked in.

  “No.”

  The cobbles of the High Street rang beneath the greys’ hooves.

  Lucinda turned to stare at him. “What on earth do you mean?”

  Harry gritted his teeth. Even with his attention on his horses as he negotiated the press of traffic in the main street of the horse capital of England, he was still aware of the surprised glances thrown their way—and of the lingering, considering looks bent on the woman by his side. Arriving with him, being seen with him, had already focused attention on her.

  It was none of his business.

  Harry felt his face harden. “Even if the Barbican Arms has rooms to spare—which they will not—it’s not suitable for you to stay in town while a race meeting’s on.”

  “I beg your pardon?” After a moment of astonished surprise, Lucinda drew herself up. “Mr Lester—you have most ably rescued us—we owe you our gratitude. However, I am more than capable of organising our accommodation and stay in this town.”

  “Gammon.”

  “What?”

  “You don’t know anything about staying in a town during a race-meet or you wouldn’t be here now.” Lips set in a thin line, Harry shot her an irritated glare. “Devil take it—look around you, woman!”

  Lucinda had already noticed the large number of men strolling the narrow pavements. As her gaze swept the scene, she noted that there were many more on horseback and in the sporting carriages of every description thronging the thoroughfare. Gentlemen everywhere. Only gentlemen.

  Heather was leaning close, shrinking against her, not used to being stared at and ogled. She raised hazel eyes filled with uncertainty to Lucinda’s face. “Lucinda…?”

  Lucinda patted her hand. As she raised her head, she encountered a boldly appraising stare from a gentleman in a high-perch phaeton. Lucinda returned his scrutiny with a frosty glance. “Nevertheless,” she maintained. “If you will set us down at…”

  Her words trailed away as she glimpsed, hanging above a broad archway just ahead, a signboard depicting a castle gateway. In that instant, the traffic parted; Harry clicked his reins and the curricle shot forward—straight past the archway.

  Lucinda swivelled to peer at the sign as they moved steadily down the street. “That’s it—the Barbican Arms!” 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.