Stephanie Laurens Rogues' Reform Bundle (60 page)

Harry gripped her firmly and swung her over the edge. The coachman quickly grasped her legs; Harry let go—but could not prevent his fingers from brushing the soft sides of her breasts. He clenched his jaw and tried to eradicate the memory but his fingertips burned.

Once on
terra firma,
Lucinda was pleased to discover her wits once more at her command. Whatever curious influence had befuddled her faculties was, thank Heaven, purely transitory.

A quick glance upwards confirmed that her rescuer had turned back to render a like service to her stepdaughter. Reflecting that at barely seventeen Heather's susceptibility to his particular brand of wizardry was probably a good deal less than her own, Lucinda left him to it.

After one comprehensive glance about the scene, she marched across to the ditch, leaned over and dealt Amy, the tweeny, a sharp slap. “Enough,” she declared, as if she was speaking of nothing more than kneading dough. “Now come and help with Agatha.”

Amy's tear-drenched eyes opened wide, then blinked. “Yes, mum.” She sniffed—then shot a watery smile at Sim, the groom, and struggled up out of the thankfully dry ditch.

Lucinda was already on her way to Agatha, prone in the road. “Sim—help with the horses. Oh—and do get these stones out of the road.” She pointed a toe at the collection of large, jagged rocks littering the highway. “I dare say it was one of these that caused our wheel to break. And I expect you'd better start unloading the carriage.”

“Aye, mum.”

Halting by Agatha's side, Lucinda bent to look down at her. “What is it and how bad?”

Lips compressed, Agatha opened iron-grey eyes and squinted up at her. “It's just my ankle—it'll be better directly.”

“Indeed,” Lucinda remarked, getting down on her knees to examine the injured limb. “That's no doubt why you're white as a sheet.”

“Nonsense—oooh!” Agatha sucked in a quick breath and closed her eyes.

“Stop fussing and let me bind it.”

Lucinda bade Amy tear strips from her petticoat, then proceeded to bind Agatha's ankle, ignoring the maid's grumbles. All the while, Agatha shot suspicious glances past her.

“You'd best stay by me, mistress. And keep the young miss by you. That gentleman may be a gentleman, but he's a one to watch, I don't doubt.”

Lucinda didn't doubt either but she refused to hide behind her maid's skirts. “Nonsense. He rescued us in a positively gentlemanly manner—I'll thank him appropriately. Stop fussing.”

“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
ton
nish 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.