An Unwilling Conquest

An Unwilling Conquest

Stephanie Laurens

www.mirabooks.co.uk

About the Author

Set against the backdrop of Regency England, in An Unwilling Conquest, STEPHANIE LAURENS continues the story of Harry Lester, met earlier in The Reason for Marriage and A Lady of Expectations. The Lesters were the first family Stephanie created where different books dealt with the romances of siblings, and as such were the precursors of many of Stephanie’s subsequent books.

In An Unwilling Conquest, Harry, the second Lester brother, flees London for Newmarket, determined to escape any leg-shackle fate might have waiting for him in the ballrooms. Fate, however, proves more far-sighted, having arranged for a distraction in the person of Mrs Lucinda Babbacombe.

Stephanie lives in a suburb of Melbourne, Australia, with her husband and two daughters. To learn more about Stephanie’s books visit her website at www.stephanielaurens.com.

Also by Stephanie Laurens

THE REASONS FOR MARRIAGE

A LADY OF EXPECTATIONS

A COMFORTABLE WIFE

Chapter One

“Is it the devil we’re running from, then?”

The question, uttered in the mildest of tones, made Harry Lester wince. “Worse,” he threw over his shoulder at his groom and general henchman, Dawlish. “The matchmaking mamas—in league with the dragons of the ton.” Harry edged back on the reins, feathering a curve at speed. He saw no reason to ease the wicked pace. His match greys, sleek and powerful, were quite content to keep the bits between their teeth. His curricle rushed along in their wake; Newmarket lay ahead. “And we’re not running—it’s called a strategic retreat.”

“Is that so? Well, can’t say I blame you,” came in Dawlish’s dour accents. “Who’d ever have thought to see Master Jack landed—and without much of a fight, if Pinkerton’s on the up. Right taken aback, is Pinkerton.” When this information elicited no response, Dawlish added, “Considering his position, he is.”

Harry snorted. “Nothing will part Pinkerton from Jack—not even a wife. He’ll swallow the pill when the time comes.”

“Aye—p’raps. Still, can’t say I’d relish the prospect of answering to a missus—not after all these years.”

Harry’s lips quirked. Realising that Dawlish, riding on the box behind him, couldn’t see it, he gave into the urge to smile. Dawlish had been with him forever, having, as a fifteen-year-old groom, attached himself to the second son of the Lester household the instant said son had been put atop a pony. Their old cook had maintained it was a clear case of like to like; Dawlish’s life was horses—he had recognised a master in the making and had followed doggedly in his wake. “You needn’t worry, you old curmudgeon. I can assure you I’ve no intention, willingly or otherwise, of succumbing to any siren’s lures.”

“All very well to say so,” Dawlish grumbled. “But when these things happen, seems like there’s no gainsaying them. Just look at Master Jack.”

“I’d rather not,” Harry curtly replied. Dwelling on his elder brother’s rapid descent into matrimony was an exercise guaranteed to shake his confidence. With only two years separating them, he and Jack had led much the same lives. They’d come on the town together more than ten years ago. Admittedly, Jack had less reason than he to question love’s worth, nevertheless, his brother had been, as Dawlish had observed, a most willing conquest. The fact made him edgy.

“You planning on keeping from London for the rest of yore life?”

“I sincerely hope it won’t come to that.” Harry checked the greys for a slight descent. The heath lay before them, a haven free of matchmakers and dragons alike. “Doubtless my uninterest will be duly noted. With any luck, if I lay low, they’ll have forgotten me by next Season.”

“Wouldn’t have thought, with all the energy you’ve put into raising a reputation like you have, that they’d be so keen.”

Harry’s lip curled. “Money, Dawlish, will serve to excuse any number of sins.”

He waited, expecting Dawlish to cap the comment with some gloomy pronouncement to the effect that if the madams of society could overlook his transgressions then no one was safe. But no comment came; his gaze fixed unseeing on his leader’s ears, Harry grudgingly reflected that the wealth with which he and his brothers, Gerald as well as Jack, had recently been blessed, was indeed sufficient to excuse a lifetime of social sins.

His illusions were few—he knew who and what he was—a rake, one of the wolves of the ton, a hellion, a Corinthian, a superlative rider and exceptional breeder of quality horseflesh, an amateur boxer of note, an excellent shot, a keen and successful huntsman on the field and off. For the past ten and more years, Society had been his playing field. Capitalising on natural talents, and the position his birth had bestowed, he had spent the years in hedonistic pleasure, sampling women much as he had the wines. There’d been none to gainsay him, none to stand in his path and challenge his profligate ways.

Now, of course, with a positively disgusting fortune at his back, they’d be lining up to do so.

Harry snorted and refocused on the road. The sweet damsels of the ton could offer until they were blue in the face—he wasn’t about to buy.

The junction with the road to Cambridge loomed ahead. Harry checked his team, still sprightly despite their dash from London. He’d nursed them along the main road, only letting them have their heads once they’d passed Great Chesterford and picked up the less-frequented Newmarket road. They’d passed a few slower-moving carriages; most of the gentlemen intent on the week’s racing would already be in Newmarket.

About them, the heath lay flat and largely featureless, with only a few stands of trees, windbreaks and the odd coppice to lend relief. There were no carriages approaching on the Cambridge road; Harry swung his team onto the hard surface and flicked the leader’s ear. Newmarket—and the comfort of his regular rooms at the Barbican Arms—lay but a few miles on.

“To y’r left.”

Dawlish’s warning growl came over his shoulder in the same instant Harry glimpsed movement in the stand of trees bordering the road ahead. He flicked both horses’ withers; as the lash softly swooshed back up the whip-handle, he slackened the reins, transferring them to his left hand. With his right, he reached for the loaded pistol he kept under the seat, just behind his right boot.

As his fingers closed about the chased butt, he registered the incongruity of the scene.

Dawlish put it into words, a heavy horse pistol in his hands. “On the king’s highway in broad daylight—never-you-mind! What’s the world a-coming to, I asks you?”

The curricle sped on.

Harry wasn’t entirely surprised when the men milling in the trees made no attempt to halt them. They were mounted but, even so, would have had the devil of a time hauling in the flying greys. He counted at least five as they flashed past, all in frieze and heavily muffled. The sound of stifled cursing dwindled behind them.

Dawlish muttered darkly, rummaging about re-stowing his pistols. “Stap me, but they even had a wagon backed up in them trees. Right confident of their haul they must be.”

Harry frowned.

The road curved ahead; he regathered the slack reins and checked the greys fractionally.

They rounded the curve—Harry’s eyes flew wide.

He hauled back on the reins with all his strength, slewing the greys across the road. They came to a snorting, stamping halt, their noses all but in the low hedge. The curricle rocked perilously, then settled back on its springs.

Curses turned the air about his ears blue.

Harry paid no attention; Dawlish was still up behind him, not in the ditch. Before him, on the other hand, was a scene of disaster.

A travelling carriage lay on its side, not in the ditch but blocking most of the road. It looked as if one of the back wheels had disintegrated; the ponderous contraption, top-heavy with luggage, had toppled sideways. The accident had only just occurred—the upper wheels of the carriage were still slowly rotating. Harry blinked. A young lad, a groom presumably, was struggling to haul a hysterical girl from the ditch. An older man, the coachman from his attire, was hovering anxiously over a thin grey-haired woman, laid out on the ground.

The coach team was in a flat panic.

Without a word, Harry and Dawlish leapt to the ground and ran to calm the horses.

It took a good five minutes to soothe the brutes, good, strong coach horses with the full stubbornness and dim wits of their breed. With the traces finally untangled, Harry left the team in Dawlish’s hands;

the young groom was still helplessly pleading with the tearful girl while the coachman dithered over the older woman, clearly caught between duty and a wish to lend succour, if he only knew how.

The woman groaned as Harry walked up. Her eyes were closed; she lay straight and rigid on the ground, her hands crossed over her flat chest.

“My ankle—!” A spasm of pain twisted her angular features, tight under an iron-grey bun. “Damn you, Joshua—when I get back on my feet I’ll have your hide for a footstool, I will.” She drew her breath in in a painful hiss. “If I ever get back on my feet.”

Harry blinked; the woman’s tones were startlingly reminiscent of Dawlish in complaining mode. He raised his brows as the coachman lumbered to his feet and touched his forehead. “Is there anyone in the carriage?”

The coachman’s face blanked in shock.

“Oh my God!” Her eyes snapping open, the woman sat bolt upright. “The mistress and Miss Heather!” Her startled gaze fell on the carriage. “Damn you, Joshua—what are you doing, mooning over me when the mistress is likely lying in a heap?” Frantically, she hit at the coachman’s legs, pushing him towards the carriage.

“Don’t panic.”

The injunction floated up out of the carriage, calm and assured.

“We’re perfectly all right—just a bit shaken.” The clear, very feminine voice paused before adding, a touch hesitantly, “But we can’t get out.”

With a muttered curse, Harry strode to the carriage, pausing only to shrug out of his greatcoat and fling it into the curricle. Reaching up to the back wheel, he hauled himself onto the body. Standing on the coach’s now horizontal side, he bent and, grasping the handle, hauled the door open.

Planting one booted foot on either side of the coach step, he looked down into the dimness within.

And blinked.

The sight that met his eyes was momentarily dazzling. A woman stood in the shaft of sunshine pouring through the doorway. Her face, upturned, was heart-shaped; a broad forehead was set beneath dark hair pulled severely back. Her features were well defined; a straight nose and full, well-curved lips above a delicate but determined chin.

Her skin was the palest ivory, the colour of priceless pearls; beyond his control, Harry’s gaze skimmed her cheeks and the graceful curve of her slender neck before coming to rest on the ripe swell of her breasts. Standing over her as he was, they were amply exposed to his sight even though her modish carriage dress was in no way indecorous.

Harry’s palms tingled.

Large blue eyes fringed with long black lashes blinked up at him.

For an instant, Lucinda Babbacombe was not entirely sure she hadn’t sustained a blow on the head—what else could excuse this vision, conjured from her deepest dreams?

Tall and lean, broad-shouldered, slim-hipped, he towered above her, long, sleekly muscled legs braced on either side of the door. Sunlight haloed his golden locks; with the light behind him she could not make out his features yet she sensed the tension that held him.

Lucinda blinked rapidly. A light blush tinged her cheeks; she looked away—but not before she registered the subdued elegance of his garments—the tightly-fitting grey coat, superbly cut, style in every line, worn over clinging ivory inexpressibles, which clearly revealed the long muscles of his thighs. His calves were encased in gleaming Hessians; his linen was crisp and white. There were, she noted, no fobs or seals hanging at his waist, only a single gold pin in his cravat.

Prevailing opinion suggested such severe attire should render a gentleman uninteresting. Unremarkable. Prevailing opinion was wrong.

He shifted—and a large, long-fingered, extremely elegant hand reached down to her.

“Take my hand—I’ll pull you up. One of the wheels is shattered—it’s impossible to right the carriage.”

His voice was deep, drawling, an undercurrent Lucinda couldn’t identify sliding beneath the silken tones. She glanced up through her lashes. He had moved to the side of the door and had gone down on one knee. The light now reached his face, illuminating features that seemed to harden as her gaze touched them. His hand moved impatiently; a black sapphire set in a gold signet glimmered darkly. He would need to be very strong to lift her out with one arm. Subduing the thought that her rescue might well prove a greater threat than her plight, Lucinda reached for his hand.

Their palms met; long fingers curled about her wrist. Lucinda brought her other hand up and clasped it about his—and she was airborne.

She drew in a swift breath—an arm of steel wrapped about her waist; her diaphragm seized. She blinked—and found herself on her knees, held fast in his embrace, locked breast to chest with her unnerving rescuer.

Her eyes were on a level with his lips. They were as severe as his clothes, chiselled and firm. His jaw was distinctly squared, the patrician line of his nose a testimony to his antecedents. The planes of his face were hard, as hard as the body steadying hers, holding her balanced on the edge of the carriage doorframe. He had released her hands; they had fallen to lie against his chest. One of her hips was pressed against his, the other against his muscled thigh. Lucinda forgot about breathing.

Cautiously, she lifted her eyes to his—and saw the sea, calm and clear, a cool, crystalline pale green.

Their gazes locked.

Mesmerised, Lucinda drowned in the green sea, her skin lapped by waves of warmth, her mind suborned to sensation. She felt her lips soften, felt herself lean into him—and blinked wildly.

A tremor shook her. The muscles surrounding her twitched, then stilled.

She felt him draw breath.

“Careful,” was all he said as he slowly rose, drawing her up with him, holding her steady until her feet could find purchase on the carriage.

Lucinda wondered just what danger he was warning her against.

Forcing his arms from her, Harry struggled to shackle his impulses, straining at their leash. “I’ll have to lower you to the ground.”

Peering over the carriage side, Lucinda could only nod. The drop was six feet and more. She felt him shift behind her; she jumped as his hands slipped beneath her arms.

“Don’t wriggle or try to jump. I’ll let go when your coachman has hold of you.”

Joshua was waiting below. Lucinda nodded; speech was beyond her.

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.