Part 3 (1/2)

”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 Sire 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 cun'ide'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 fl.u.s.tered 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 a.s.surance, that showed in her flank 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.