Other than bestowing on her one, long, unnervingly intent look, Harry made no particular comment, replying readily to any questions, but leaving the conversational reins in her hands. When they drew up at Em's steps, Lucinda felt she had handled them with laudable skill.

She chose the moment when Harry lifted her down to say,

"I'm really most grateful for your escort, Mr Lester."

With what she considered commendable fort.i.tude, she refrained from further comment.

"Indeed?" Harry arched one brow.

Lucinda fought against a frown.

"Indeed," she returned, meeting his gaze.

Harry looked down at her face, at her wonderfully blue eyes, gleaming with feminine defiance--and wondered how long he could hold her, his hands firm about her waist, before she became aware of it.

"In that case, tell Fergus to inform me when you wish to inspect your next inn." She felt warm, vibrant, supple and alive between his hands.

Lucinda knew perfectly well where his hands were; she could feel his fingers burning through her gown. But that kiss, so quick it was over almost before it had begun, had been her first intimation-that victory was truly possible; despite the unnerving cascade of emotions the fleeting caress had evoked, she was determined not to back down. If she had, albeit unknowingly, breached his walls once, she could do it again. Battling breathless hess she ~ropped her gaze to where her fingers rested against his coat.

"But I couldn't so impose on your time, Mr Lester."

Harry frowned. He could see her eyes glinting through her lashes.

"Not at all." He paused, then added, native caution returning,

"As I told you before, given you're my aunt's guest, at my insistence, I feel it's the least I can do."

He thought he heard a disgusted humph. Suppressing a smile, he glanced up--and met Dawlish's deeply commiserating gaze.

All expression draining from his face, Harry dropped his hands.

Stepping back, he offered his aunt's guest his arm, then gallantly, in open contempt of his henchman's foreboding, escorted her up the steps.

While waiting for Fergus to open the door, Lucinda glanced up--and intercepted an exchange of glances between Harry and Dawlish.

"Dawlish seems very dismal--is anything amiss?"

Harry's features hardened.

"No. He's just unused to getting up so early."

Lucinda blinked.

"Oh?"

"Indeed." The door opened; beaming, Fergus held it wide. Harry bowed.

"Au revoir, Mrs Babbacombe."

Crossing the threshold, Lucinda looked over her shoulder and threw him a smile--a soft, alluring, siren's smile. Then she turned and slowly headed for the stairs.

Utterly mesmerised, Harry stood and watched her go, her hips swaying gently as she crossed the tiled hall.

"Sir?"

Harry came to himself with a start. With an abrupt nod to Fergus, he turned and descended the steps.

Climbing into the curricle, he fixed Dawlish with a warning glance.

Then gave his attention to his horses.

CHAPTER SEVEN.

A WE K later, Harry sat at his desk in the small library of his lodgings.

The window gave onto a leafy courtyard; outside, May bustled towards June while the ton worked itself into a frenzy of betrothals and weddings.

Harry's lips twisted cynically; he was intent on other things. A tap on the door ~brought his head up. The door opened; Dawlish looked in.

"Ah--there you be. Thought as how you'd want to know that they're bound for Lady Hemminghurst's this evening."

"d.a.m.n!" Harry grimaced. Amelia Hemminghurst had a soft spot for rakes--the fraternity would be well represented amongst her guests.

"I suppose I'll have to attend."

"That's what I thought. You going to walk or should I bring the carriage around?."

Harry considered, then shook his head.

"I'll walk." It would be twilight by then; the short stroll to Grosvenor Square would help ease the restlessness his self-imposed restrictions seemed to be creating.

With a humph and a nod, Dawlish retreated. Idly toying with a pen, Harry reviewed his Strategy.

On 'quitting Newmarket, he had stubbornly adhered to his plans and gone home to Lester Hall. There he had found his brother Jack, along with his soon-to-be bride, Miss Sophia Winterton and her guardians, her uncle and aunt, Mr and Mrs Webb. While he had nothing against Miss Winterton, with whom his brother was openly besotted, he had not appreciated the considering light that had lit Mrs Webb's silver blue eyes, nor the contemplative expression with which 'she had regarded him. Her interest had made him edgy.

He had ultimately concluded that London and the dragons he knew, might well be safer than Lester Hall.

He had arrived in town a day in advance of his aunt and her company.

Knowing Em, reared in a more dangerous age, travelled nowhere without outriders, he couldn't conceive that Mrs Babbacombe might face any danger on the trip. Besides, the incident on the Newmarket road had to have been due to mere opportunism.

Guarded by Em and her servants, Lucinda Babbacombe was safe enough.

Once they had settled in town, however, that had no longer been the case. He had laid low as long as he could, avoiding any unnecessary appearances, hoping thus to leave the dragons and the matchmakers in ignorance of his presence. By spending most of his days at his clubs, at Manton's or Jackson's or similar all-male venues, eschewing the Park during the fashionable hours and' driving himself everywhere rather than risk strolling the pavements, a prey to dowagers and fond mamas, he had largely achieved his objective.

And with Dawlish spending most of his time in the kitchens at Hallows House, he had been able to emerge into the bright lights only when absolutely necessary. Like tonight.

He had thus far succeeded in protecting the d.a.m.ned woman from importunate inn-dwellers and rakes alike, to the total confusion of the ton. And with his appearances amongst their gilded flowers thus restricted, and so very patently cent red on Lucinda Babbacombe, the dragons and matchmakers had had few opportunities to exploit.