An Unwilling Conquest

by Stephanie Laurens

  “Very good, sir.”

  The upstairs parlour was a small room at the back of the house. Tall windows looked onto the garden at the rear; two armchairs and a chaise plus an assortment of side-tables graced the floral rug by the fireplace while a large daybed filled the space before the windows. An escritoire stood against one wall; Lucinda, a vision in soft blue muslin, was seated before it, pen in hand, when Harry opened the door.

  She glanced around, an abstracted smile on her lips—and froze. Her smile faded, replaced by a polite mask.

  Harry’s expression hardened. He stepped over the threshold and closed the door.

  Lucinda rose. “I didn’t hear you announced.”

  “Probably because I wasn’t.” Harry paused, his hand on the doorknob, and studied her haughty expression. She was going to hear him out, come what may; he wasn’t in the mood to tolerate interruptions. His fingers closed about the key; the lock slid noiselessly into place. “This isn’t a social call.”

  “Indeed?” One brow rising, Lucinda lifted her chin. “To what, then, do I owe this honour, sir?”

  Harry’s smile was a warning. “Lord Craven.”

  As he stalked towards her, his eyes boring into hers, Lucinda had to quell a weak impulse to retreat behind her chair.

  “I’ve come to demand an assurance from you, Mrs Babbacombe, that you will, as of this moment, cease and desist in this little game of yours.”

  Lucinda stiffened. “I beg your pardon?”

  “As well you might,” Harry growled, coming to a halt directly before her, his eyes, glittering green, holding hers. “That little scene on Lady Harcourt’s terrace was entirely your own fault. This ridiculous experiment of yours, this habit you’ve formed of encouraging rakes, has to stop.”

  Lucinda summoned a haughty glance. “I don’t know what you mean. I’m merely doing what many ladies, situated similarly, would do—looking for congenial company.”

  “Congenial?” Harry lifted a supercilious brow. “I would have thought last night would have been sufficient demonstration of how ‘congenial’ the company of rakes can be.”

  Lucinda felt a blush tinge her cheeks. She shrugged and swung aside, stepping away from the desk. “Lord Craven was clearly a mistake.” She glanced back to add, “And I have to thank you most sincerely for your aid.” Deliberately, she met Harry’s gaze, then calmly turned and drifted towards the windows. “But I really must insist, Mr Lester, that my life is my own to live as I please. It’s no business of yours should I choose to develop a…” Lucinda gestured vaguely “…a relationship with Lord Craven or anyone else.”

  A tense silence greeted her statement. Lucinda paused, fingers lightly trailing the high back of the daybed, her gaze fixed, unseeing, on the prospect beyond the windows.

  Behind her, Harry closed his eyes. Fists clenched, his jaw rigid, he fought to shackle his response to what he knew to be deliberate provocation, to suppress the clamorous impulses her words had evoked. Behind his lids, a fleeting image took shape—of her, struggling in Lord Craven’s arms. Abruptly, Harry opened his eyes.

  “My dear Mrs Babbacombe.” He bit the words out as he stalked after her. “It’s clearly time I took a hand in your education. No rake in his right mind is interested in a relationship—other than of an extremely limited sort.”

  Lucinda glanced over her shoulder and saw him coming. She turned to meet him—and abruptly found herself backed against the wall.

  Harry’s eyes trapped hers. “Do you know what we are interested in?”

  Lucinda took in his predatory smile, his glittering eyes, heard the undercurrent in his silky voice. Deliberately, she tilted her chin. “I’m not a complete innocent.”

  Even as the lie left her lips, her breathing seized. Harry moved closer, crowding her against the wall, stopping only when she could retreat no further, her soft skirts caressing his thighs, brushing his boots.

  His lips, so fascinating, were very close. As Lucinda watched, they twisted.

  “Perhaps not. But when it comes to the likes of Craven and the others—or me—you’re hardly experienced, my dear.”

  Her expression intransigent, Lucinda met his gaze. “I’m more than capable of holding my own.”

  His eyes flared. “Are you?”

  Harry felt barely civilised. She kept prodding the demon within him; he felt barely sane. “Shall we put that to the test?”

  He framed her face with his hands and deliberately moved one inch nearer, pressing her against the wall. He felt her draw in a quick breath; a quiver shivered through her. “Shall I show you what we are interested in, Lucinda?” He tilted her face to his. “Shall I show you what’s on our—” his lips twisted in self-mockery “—my mind every time I look at you? Waltz with you?”

  Lucinda didn’t answer. Eyes wide, she stared into his, her breathing shallow and rapid, her pulse skittering wildly. His brows rose mockingly, inviting her comment; his eyes burned. Then his gaze dropped from hers; Lucinda watched as he focused on her lips. She couldn’t suppress the impulse to run the tip of her tongue over the smooth curves.

  She felt the shudder that rippled through him, heard the groan he tried to suppress.

  Then his head swooped and his lips found hers.

  It was the caress she had longed for, planned for, plotted to attain—yet it was like nothing she had dreamed. His lips were hard, forceful, commanding. They captured hers, then tortured them with subtle pleasures, ravishing her senses until she submitted. The kiss caught her up, conquered and willing, and skilfully swept her free of reality, into a place where only his will prevailed. He demanded—she surrendered. Completely.

  When he asked, she gave, when he wanted more, she unhesitatingly yielded. She sensed his need—and wanted, deeply desired, his satisfaction. She kissed him back, thrilled to feel the surge of unleashed passion that answered her. The kiss deepened, then deepened again, until she could sense nothing beyond it and the wild longing that swelled within her.

  What deep-seated alarm it was that hauled Harry to his senses he did not know. Perhaps the urgent clamouring of rampant desires and the consequent need to arrange their fulfilment? Whatever it was, he suddenly realised the danger. It took every last ounce of his strength to draw back.

  When he lifted his head, he was shaking.

  Searching for sanity, he stared at her face—her lids slowly rose, revealing eyes so blue, so soft, so glowing with a siren’s allure that he couldn’t breathe. Her lips, kiss-bruised, gleaming red, ripe and, as he could now testify, so very sweet, drew his gaze. He felt himself falling under her spell again, leaning closer, his lips hungry for hers.

  He dragged in a painful breath—and lifted his gaze to her eyes.

  Only to see, in the soft blue depths, an awakening intelligence, superseded by a very feminine consideration.

  The sight shook him to the core.

  Her gaze dropped to his lips.

  Harry shuddered; fleetingly, he closed his eyes. “Don’t.”

  It was the plea of a defeated man.

  Lucinda heard and understood. But if she didn’t press her advantage now, she would lose it. Em had said he’d be thrilled—but he was so stubborn, if she didn’t play that card now, he might not give her another chance.

  She lifted her gaze to his. Slowly, she drew her hands from between them and pushed them up over his shoulders. She saw the consternation that filled his eyes; his muscles were locked tight, paralysed. He was unable to deny her.

  Harry knew it; restraining his all-but-overpowering desire took all his strength. He couldn’t move, could only watch his fate draw near as her arms tightened about his neck and she stretched upwards against him.

  When her lips were an inch from his, she raised her eyes and met his tortured gaze. Then her lids fell and she pressed her lips to his.

  His resistance lasted all of two heartbeats, as long as it took for desire, shackled, suppressed for so long it had grown to ungovernable proportions, to sear through him, cindering every
last one of his good intentions, his rational reasons, his logical excuses.

  With a groan that was ripped from deep within him, he drew her into his arms and engulfed her in his embrace.

  With all restraint shattered, he kissed her deeply, caressed her, let his desire ignite and set fire to them both. She kissed him back, her hands clinging, her body wantonly enticing.

  Desire rose between them, wild and strong; Lucinda abandoned herself to it, to the deep surge of their passions, fervently hoping to thus disguise any false move, any too-tentative response. If he sensed her innocence, all would come to nought—of that she was sure.

  His caresses were magic, the response they drew so shattering she would be shocked—if she let herself think. Luckily, coherent thought was beyond her, blocked out by heated clouds of desire. Her senses whirled. His hands on her breasts provoked an urgent, building compulsion unlike any she’d ever experienced.

  When one hand dropped low and he drew her hips hard against him, moulding her to him, flagrantly demonstrating his desire, Lucinda moaned softly and pressed closer.

  Burgeoning passion left them frantic, hungry for each other, so desperate Harry’s head was spinning as he backed her to the daybed. He refocused his will on salvaging some modicum of his customary expertise, bringing it to bear as he divested her of her gown and petticoats, brushing her fluttering hands aside, content enough that she was too befuddled to sensibly assist. Desire urged them on, riding them both; clad only in her chemise, Lucinda flung his cravat to the floor, then fell on the buttons of his shirt with a singlemindedness as complete as his. She seemed fascinated by his chest; he had to pick her up and put her on the daybed so he could sit and tug off his boots.

  Lucinda was fascinated—by him, by the sense of rightness that gripped her, by the warm desire flowing in her veins. She felt free, unrestrained by any tenets of modesty or decorum, sure that this was how it should be. He stripped and turned towards her; she wrapped her arms about him, revelling in the feel of his warm skin, burning to her touch. Their lips met; urgency welled, heating her through and through. He drew off her chemise; as their bodies met, she shivered and closed her eyes. They kissed deeply, then Harry pressed her back against the soft cushions. Caught up in the spring tide of their loving, Lucinda lay back and drew him to her.

  He lay beside her and loved her but their spiralling need soon spelled an end to such play. Eyes closed, Lucinda knew nothing beyond a deep and aching emptiness, the overwhelming need he had brought to life and only he could assuage. Relief and expectation flooded her when he shifted and his weight pinned her to the bed. She tried to draw breath, to steel herself; his hand slipped beneath her hips and steadied her—with one smooth flexion of his powerful body he joined them.

  Her soft gasp echoed in the room. Neither of them moved, both stunned to stillness.

  Slowly, his heart thudding in his ears, Harry raised his head and looked down at her face. Her eyes were shut, a frown tangling her brows, her lower lip caught between her teeth. Even as he watched, she relaxed a little beneath him, her features easing.

  He waited for his emotions to catch up with the facts. He expected to feel angry, tricked, deceived.

  Instead, a shattering feeling of possessiveness, untouched by lust, driven by some far more powerful emotion, welled within him, thrusting out all regrets. The sensation grew, joyously swelling, strong and sure.

  Harry didn’t question it—or how it made him feel.

  Lowering his head, he brushed her lips with his. “Lucinda?”

  She snatched in a breath then her lips clung to his. Her fingers fluttered against his jaw.

  Harry brought up a hand to gently smooth away clinging tendrils of her hair from her face.

  Then, with infinite tenderness, he taught her how to love.

  SOME CONSIDERABLE TIME later, when Lucinda again made contact with reality, she discovered herself wrapped in Harry’s arms, her back against his chest as he half-sat, propped against the raised head of the daybed. She sighed long and lingeringly, the glory dimming yet still glowing within her.

  Harry bent over her; she felt his lips at her temple.

  “Tell me of your marriage.”

  Lucinda’s brows half-rose. With one fingertip, she drew whorls in the hair on his forearm. “To understand, you need to realise that I was orphaned at fourteen. Both my parents had been disowned by their families.” Using the minimum of words, she explained her past history, one hand moving slowly back and forth along Harry’s arm, snug about her, all the while. “So, you see, my marriage was never consummated. Charles and I were close, but he didn’t love me in that way.”

  Harry kept his doubts to himself, rendering silent thanks to Charles Babbacombe for keeping her safe, for loving her enough to leave her untouched. His lips in her hair, the subtle scent of her filling him, Harry made a silent vow to her late husband’s shade that, as the recipient of his legacy, he would keep her safe for evermore.

  “You’ll have to marry me.” He spoke the words as they occurred to him, thinking aloud.

  Lucinda blinked. The joy that had filled her faded. After a quiet moment, she asked, “Have to marry you?”

  She felt Harry straighten as he looked down at her.

  “You were a virgin. I’m a gentleman. The prescribed outcome of our recent activity is a wedding.”

  His words were definite, his accents clipped. Lucinda closed her eyes; she didn’t want to believe her ears. The last vestige of lingering afterglow evaporated, the promise of the long, inexpressibly tender moments they had shared vanished.

  Lucinda stifled a sigh; her lips firmed into a determined line. Opening her eyes, she turned in Harry’s arms and looked him straight in the eye. “You want to marry me because I was a virgin—is that correct?”

  Harry frowned. “It’s what’s expected.”

  “But is it what you want?”

  “It doesn’t matter what I want,” Harry growled, his eyes narrowing. “The matter, thank heaven, is simple enough. Society has rules—we’ll follow them—to the general satisfaction of all concerned.”

  For a long moment, Lucinda studied him, her thoughts chaotic. It was an offer—of sorts—from the man she wanted.

  But it wasn’t good enough. She didn’t just want him to marry her.

  “No.”

  Stunned, Harry watched as she scrambled out of his arms and off the daybed. She found her chemise and pulled it on.

  He sat up. “What do you mean—‘No’?”

  “No—I will not marry you.” Lucinda struggled into her petticoats.

  Harry stared at her. “Why not, for heaven’s sake?” She started towards her gown and nearly tripped over his breeches. He heard a stifled curse as she bent to untangle her feet. Then she flung the breeches at him and continued towards her gown.

  With a muttered curse of his own, Harry grabbed the breeches and hauled them on, then pulled on his boots. He stood and stalked over to where Lucinda was pushing her arms through the sleeves of her gown.

  Hands on hips, he towered over her. “Damn it—I seduced you! You have to marry me.”

  Eyes ablaze, Lucinda shot him a furious glance. “I seduced you, if you recall. And I most certainly do not ‘have to marry you’!”

  “What about your reputation?”

  “What of it?” Lucinda tugged her gown up over her shoulders. Turning to face him, she jabbed a finger in his chest. “No one would ever believe that Mrs Lucinda Babbacombe, widow, had been a virgin until you came along. You’ve got no lever to use against me.”

  Looking up, she met his eyes.

  And abruptly changed tack. “Besides,” she said, looking down to do up the buttons of her bodice, “I’m sure it’s not accepted practice for rakes to offer marriage to every woman they seduce.”

  Harry ground his teeth. “Lucinda…”

  “And I have not made you free of my name!” Lucinda glared at him. She wouldn’t let him use it—he’d whispered it, coupled with every conceivable end
earment, as he’d made love to her.

  Love—the emotion she knew he felt for her but was determined to deny.

  It wasn’t good enough—it would never be good enough.

  She whirled on her heel and marched to the door.

  Harry swore. Buttoning his shirt, he started after her. “This is crazy! I’ve offered for you, you demented woman! It’s what you’ve been after ever since I hauled you out of that damned carriage!”

  Lucinda had reached the door. She swung around. “If you’re so adept at reading my mind, then you’ll understand perfectly why I’m throwing you out!”

  She gripped the doorknob, turned it and yanked. Nothing happened. She stared at the door. “Where’s the key?”

  Thoroughly distracted, Harry automatically reached into his breeches pocket. “Here.”

  Lucinda blinked, then grabbed the key and rattled it into the keyhole.

  Harry watched her in disbelief. “Damn it—I’ve given you a proposal—what more do you want?”

  Her hand on the knob, Lucinda drew herself up and turned to face him. “I don’t want to be offered for because of some social technicality. I don’t want to be rescued, or…or protected or married out of pity! What I want—” Abruptly, she halted and dragged in a deep breath. Then she lifted her eyes to his and deliberately stated, “What I want is to be married for love.”

  Harry stiffened. His face hardened. “Love is not considered an important element for marriage within our class.”

  Lucinda pressed her lips together, then succinctly stated, “Balderdash.” She flung open the door.

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about!” Harry ran his fingers through his hair.

  “I know very well what I’m talking about,” Lucinda averred. None better—she loved him with all her heart and soul. Glancing about, she spied his coat and cravat by the daybed. She flew across the room and pounced on them.

  Harry turned to face her, blocking the doorway as she bustled back.

  “There.” Lucinda crammed the expensive coat and cravat into his arms. “Now get out!”

  Harry drew in a steadying breath. “Lucinda—”