A deathly moment of awkward silence ensued. Lucinda stiffened. With considerable effort, she kept her smile unaffected. She felt hollow inside but she had her pride.

She forced herself to scan those desirous of partnering her. Her gaze came to rest on Lord Craven. He had not appeared in her circle since that first evening two weeks ago. Tonight, he had been most a.s.siduous.

Smiling brittly, Lucinda held out her hand.

"Lord Craven?"

Craven smiled, a coolly superior gesture, and bowed elegantly.

"It will be a pleasure, my dear." As he straightened, he met her eyes.

"For us both." Lucinda barely heard; automatically, she inclined her head.

With a gentle smile she acknowledged those she had disappointed but by not so much as a flicker of an eyelash did she acknowledge Harry. Outwardly serene, she allowed Lord Craven to lead her to the floor.

Behind her, she left an uncomfortable silence. After a moment, Lord Ruthven, cool and suddenly as remote as Harry, with no hint of his habitual good-humoured indolence in his eyes, lifted a brow.

"I do hope, Lester, that you know what you're about?"

His eyes like green ice, Harry met his lordship's challenging stare and held it, then, without a word, looked away to where Lucinda was taking the floor in Lord Craven's arms.

At first, his lordship tried to hold her too close; Lucinda frowned and he desisted. Thereafter, she paid him little heed, answering his polished sallies at random, their underlying tone barely registering. By the time the last chords sounded and his lordship whirled her to an elegant halt, her inner turmoil had calmed. Enough to leave her prey to an ennervating sense of defeat.

The emotion was not one she could approve. Straightening her shoulders and lifting her head, Lucinda reminded herself of Em's words: Harry would be no easy conquest but she had to hold firm to her plan.

So . here she was at the far end of the ballroom on Lord Craven's arm. His hand held heirs trapped on his sleeve.

"Perhaps, Mrs Babbacombe, we should grasp the opportunity to become better acquainted?"

Lucinda blinked; his lordship gestured to a nearby door, set ajar.

"It's so noisy in here. Perhaps we could stroll the corridor?"

Lucinda hesitated. A corridor did not sound particularly secluded--and it was certainly crowded in the ballroom; her temples were starting to ache.

She glanced up--and met Lord Craven's dark eyes and his faintly superior stare. She wasn't entirely sure of him but he was here, offering yet another potential prod to Harry's possessive nature.

She let her senses reach out, and felt the heat of Harry's gaze. He was watching over her; she cast a glance about but, in the dense crowd, could not find him. Turning back, she met his lordship's gaze. Lucinda drew in a breath. She had told Em she was game. "Perhaps just a quick turn about the corridor, my lord."

She was quite certain her strategy was sound. Unfortunately, this time, she had chosen the wrong rake.

Unlike Lord Ruthven, Mr Amberly and Mr Satterly, Lord Craven was not a familiar of Harry's and therefore lacked their insights into the game she was playing. They, one and all, had determined to a.s.sist her in whatever way they could, intrigued by the prospect of removing Harry from their paths.

Lord Craven, however, had concluded that her flittering progress from rake to rake was merely a reflection of dissatisfaction with the distractions offered. Having seen how far the gentle touch had got his peers, he had determined on a more forceful approach.

With brisk efficiency, he whisked Lucinda through the doorway.

On the other side of the room, Harry swore, startling two dowagers gracing a nearby chaise. He wasted no time on apologies or speculation but started into the crowd. Aware of Craven's reputation, he had kept a close watch on his lordship and his burden but had momentarily lost them at the end of the dance, sighting them again just before Lucinda cast a glance about-- then allowed Craven to lead her from the room. Harry knew very well what that glance had signified. The d.a.m.ned woman had been looking for him--to him--for rescue.

This time, she might need it.

The crowd, dispersing after the dance, milled aimlessly. Harry had to fight an impulse to push people out of his way. He forced himself to rein in his strides; he didn't want to focus any attention on his goal.

He finally broke free of the clinging crowd and gained the garden corridor.

He didn't pause but went straight to its end where a door gave onto the terrace. Lady Harcourt had frequently bemoaned the fact that her ballroom did not open onto terrace and gardens, as was the fashionable norm.

Silently, Harry stepped onto the flagstones. The terrace was deserted. His features hardening, he reined in his building rage and, hands on hips, scanned the deeply shadowed garden.

m.u.f.fled sounds drifted to his ears.

He was running when he rounded the corner of the terrace.

Craven had Lucinda backed against the wall and was trying to kiss her. She had ducked her head, frustrating his lordship's intent; her small hands on his chest, she was trying to push him away, incoherent in her distress.

Harry felt his rage claim him.

"Craven?"

The single word had Craven lifting his head and looking wildly about just as Harry caught his shoulder, spinning him into a punishing left cross that lifted his lordship from his feet and left him sprawled in an untidy heap against the stone bal.u.s.trade.

Lucinda, her hand at her breast, swallowed a sob-- and flung herself into Harry's arms. They closed about her; he hugged her fiercely; Lucinda felt his lips on her hair. His body was hard, rigid; she sensed the fury that possessed him. Then he shifted her to his side, keeping her within the protection of one arm. Her cheek against his coat, Lucinda glanced at Lord Craven. Somewhat shakily, his lordship clambered to his feet.

He worked his jaw, then, blinking, warily eyed Harry. When Harry made no move, Craven hesitated, then reset tied his coat and straightened his cravat.

His gaze shifted to Lucinda, then returned to Harry's face. His features studiously impa.s.sive, he raised his brows.

"I appear to have misread the situation." He bowed to Lucinda.

"My most humble apologies, Mrs Babbacombe--I pray you'll accept them."

Lucinda ducked her head, then hid her burning cheeks in Harry's coat.

Lord Craven's gaze returned to Harry's face. Something not at all civilised stared back at him.

"Lester."

With a curt nod, his lordship strolled carefully past and disappeared around the corner.

Leaving silence to enfold the two figures on the terrace.

Harry held himself rigid, every muscle clenched, his emotions warring within him. He could feel Lucinda trembling; the need to comfort her welled strong.

He closed his eyes, willing himself to resistance, to impa.s.sivity. Every impulse he possessed impelled him to take her into his arms, to kiss her, possess her--to put an end to her silly game. A primitive male desire to brand her inescapably his rocked him to his core. Equally strong was his rage, his dislike of being so manipulated, so exposed by his own feelings, so vulnerable to hers. Mentally cursing her for being the catalyst of such a scene, Harry struggled to suppress pa.s.sions already too long denied.

The moment stretched, the tension palpable. Trapped within it, Lucinda couldn't breathe; she couldn't move. The arm about her didn't tighten, but it felt like iron, inflexible, unyielding. Then Harry's chest swelled; he drew in an unsteady breath.

"Are you all right?"

His deep voice was flat, devoid of emotion. Lucinda forced herself to nod, then, drawing on her courage, stepped back. His arm fell from her. She drew in a deep breath and glanced up; one look at his face, at his utterly blank expression, was enough. His eyes showed evidence of some turbulent emotion, glittering in the green; what, she couldn't tell but she sensed his accusation. Her breath tangling in her throat, she glanced away.

His arm appeared before her.

"Come. You must return to the ballroom."

His face like stone, a graven facade masking turbulent feelings, Harry braced himself against the moment when her fingers settled on his sleeve.