Part 71 (2/2)

”Nothing else here to interest you?”

”Nothing, I fear.” I~o? d Ruthven put his hand over his heart and quizzed Lucinda.

”Nothing as compares with the joys of conversing with' Mrs Babbacombe.”

Lucinda had to laugh.

Harry, of course, did not. His drawl very much in evidence, he took charge of the conversation. As the languid, distinctly bored accents fell on her ear, Lucinda realised that he never, normally, drawled at her. Nor Em. When he spoke to them, his accents were clipped. Apparently, he reserved the fas.h.i.+onable affectation for those he kept at a distance.

With Harry holding the reins, the conversation predictably remained in stultifyingly correct vein. Lucinda, smothering a yawn, considered an option that might, conceivably, a.s.sist her cause while at the same time rescuing her poor court.

”It's getting rather warm, don't you find it so?” she murmured, her hand heavy on Harry's arm.

He glanced down at her, then lifted his brows. ”Indeed. I suspect it's time we left.”

As he lifted his head to locate Em and Heather, Lucinda allowed herself one, very small, very frustrated snort. She had intended him to take her onto the terrace. Peering through the crowd, she saw Em deep in discussion with a dowager; Heather was engaged with a party of her friends.

”Ah ... perhaps I could manage for another half-hour if I had a gla.s.s of water?”

Mr Satterly immediately offered to procure one and ploughed into the crowd.

Harry looked down at her, a faint question in his eyes. ”Are you sure?”

Lucinda's smile was weak.

”Positive.”

He continued to behave with dogged correctness-- which, Lucinda belatedly realised, as the crowds gradually thinned and she became aware of the curious, speculative glances cast their way, was not, in his case, the same as behaving circ.u.mspectly.

The observation brought a frown to her eyes.

It had deepened by the time they were safely in Em's carriage, rolling home through the now quiet streets.

From her position opposite, Lucinda studied Harry's face, lit by the moonlight and the intermittent flares of the streetlamps.

His eyes were closed, sealed away behind their heavy lids. His features were not so much relaxed as wiped clean of expression, his lips compressed into a firm, straight line.

Seen thus, it was a face that kept its secrets, the face of a man who was essentially private, who revealed his emotions rarely if ever.

Lucinda felt her heart catch; a dull ache blossomed within.

The ton was his milieu--he knew every nuance of behaviour, how every little gesture would be interpreted.

He was at home here, in the crowded ballrooms, as she was not. As at Lester Hall, here, he was in control.

Lucinda s.h.i.+fted in her seat. Propping her chin in her palm, she stared at the sleeping houses, a frown drawing down her fine brows.

Free of her scrutiny, Harry opened his eyes. He studied her profile, clear in the moonlight. His lips curved in the slightest of smiles. Pressing his head back against the squabs, he closed his eyes.

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