An Unwilling Conquest. Stephanie Laurens

anticipation. Fleetingly, Harry closed his eyes, then opened them. “However, if you give me your word you will not stray from my side—not to admire some view, some horse or a lady’s bonnet—” He looked down at her, his jaw setting. “I will engage to escort you there.”

      Her smile was triumphant. “Thank you. That would be very kind.”

      Not kind—foolish. It was, Harry was already convinced, the most stupid move he’d ever made. An ostler came running in answer to his curt gesture. “I’ll have my curricle. You can tell Grimms to take Lady Hallows’s gig back; I’ll see Mrs Babbacombe home.”

      “Yessir.”

      Lucinda busied herself with the fit of her gloves, then meekly allowed herself to be lifted to the curricle’s seat. Settling her skirts, and her quivering senses, she smiled serenely as, with a deft flick of the reins, Harry took the greys onto the street.

      The race-track lay west of the town on the flat, grassy, largely tree-less heath. Harry drove directly to the stables in which his string of racers were housed, a little way from the track proper, beyond the public precincts.

      Lucinda, drinking in the sights, could not miss the glances thrown their way. Stableboy and gentleman alike seemed disposed to stare; she was unexpectedly grateful when the stable walls protected her from view.

      The horses were a wonder. Lifted down from the curricle, Lucinda could not resist wandering down the row of loose boxes, patting the velvet noses that came out to greet her, admiring the sleek lines and rippling muscles of what, even to her untutored eyes, had to be some of the finest horses in England.

      Engaged in a brisk discussion with Hamish, Harry followed her progress, insensibly buoyed by the awed appreciation he saw in her gaze. On reaching the end of the row, she turned and saw him watching her; her nose rose an inch but she came back, strolling towards him through the sunshine.

      “So all’s right with entering the mare, then?”

      Reluctantly, Harry shifted his gaze to Hamish’s face. His head-stableman was also watching Lucinda Babbacombe, not with the appreciation she deserved but with horrified fascination. As she drew nearer, Harry extended his arm; she placed her fingertips upon it without apparent thought. “Just as long as Thistledown’s fetlock’s fully healed.”

      “Aye.” Hamish bobbed respectfully at Lucinda. “Seems to be. I told the boy to just let her run—no point marshalling her resources if it’s still weak. A good run’s the only way to tell.”

      Harry nodded. “I’ll stop by and speak to him myself.”

      Hamish nodded and effaced himself with the alacrity of a man nervous around females, at least those not equine in nature.

      Suppressing a grin, Harry lifted a brow at his companion. “I thought you agreed not to be distracted by horses?”

      The look she bent on him was confidently assured. “You shouldn’t have brought me to see yours, then. They are truly the most distractingly beautiful specimens I’ve ever seen.”

      Harry couldn’t suppress his smile. “But you haven’t seen the best of them. Those on that side are two-and three-year-olds—for my money, the older ones are more gracious. Come, I’ll show you.”

      She seemed only too ready to be led down the opposite row of boxes, dutifully admiring the geldings and mares. At the end of the row, a bay stallion reached confidently over the half-door to investigate Harry’s pockets.

      “This is old Cribb—a persistent devil. Still runs with the best of them though he could retire gracefully on his accumulated winnings.” Leaving her patting the stallion’s nose, Harry went to a barrel by the wall. “Here,” he said, turning back. “Feed him these.”

      Lucinda took the three dried apples he offered her, giggling as Cribb delicately lipped them from her palm.

      Harry glanced up—and saw Dawlish outside the tack-room, standing stock-still, staring at him. Leaving Lucinda communing with Cribb, Harry strolled over. “What’s up?”

      Now that he was beside him, it was clear Dawlish was staring at his companion, not him.

      “Gawd’s truth—it’s happened.”

      Harry frowned. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

      Dawlish turned a pitying eye on him. “Ridiculous, is it? You do realize, don’t you, that that’s the first female you’ve ever shown your horses?”

      Harry lifted a supercilious brow. “She’s the first female ever to have shown an interest.”

      “Hah! Might as well hang up your gloves, gov’nor—you’re a goner.”

      Harry cast his eyes heavenwards. “If you must know, she’s never been to a race-meet before and was curious—there’s nothing more to it than that.”

      “Ah-hah. So you says.” Dawlish cast a long, defeated look at the slight figure by Cribb’s box. “All I says is that you can justify it any ways you want—the conclusions still come out the same.”

      With a doleful shake of his head, Dawlish retreated, muttering, back into the tack-room.

      Harry wasn’t sure whether to laugh or frown. He glanced back at the woman, still chatting to his favourite stallion. If it wasn’t for the fact they would shortly be surrounded by crowds, he might be inclined to share his henchman’s pessimism. But the race-track, in full view of the multitudes, was surely safe enough.

      “If we leave now,” he said, returning to her side, “we can stroll to the track in time for the first race.”

      She smiled her acquiescence and laid her hand on his arm. “Is that horse you were talking of—Thistledown—running in it?”

      Smiling down into her blue eyes, Harry shook his head. “No—she’s in the second.”

      Lucinda found herself trapped in the clear green of his eyes; she studied them, trying to gauge what he was thinking. His lips twitched and he looked away. Blinking as they emerged into the bright sunshine, Lucinda asked, “Your aunt mentioned you managed a stud?”

      His fascinating lips curved. “Yes—the Lester stud.” With ready facility, prompted by her questions, he expiated at length on the trials and successes of his enterprise. What he didn’t say but Lucinda inferred, it being the logical deduction to make from his descriptions, was that the stud was both a shining achievement and the very core of his life.

      They reached the tents surrounding the track as the runners for the first race were being led to the barrier. All Lucinda could see was a sea of backs as everyone concentrated on the course.

      “This way—you’ll see better from the stands.”

      A man in a striped vest was guarding a roped arena before a large wooden stand. Lucinda noted that while he insisted on seeing passes from the other latecomers ahead of them, he merely grinned and nodded at Harry and let them by. Harry helped her up the steep steps by the side of the planks serving as seats—but before they could find places a horn blew.

      “They’re off.” Harry’s words echoed from a hundred throats—about them, all the patrons craned forward.

      Lucinda turned obediently and saw a line of horses thundering down the turf. From this distance, neither she nor anyone else could see all that much of the animals. It was the crowd that enthralled her—their rising excitement gripped her, making her breathe faster and concentrate on the race. When the winner flashed past the post, the jockey flourishing his whip high, she felt inordinately glad.

      “Well raced.” Harry’s gaze was on the horses and riders as they slowed and turned back to the gates.

      Lucinda grasped the moment to study him. He was intent on observation, green eyes keenly assessing, shrewdly calculating. For an instant, she saw him clearly, his features unguarded. He was a man who, despite all other distractions in his life, was totally devoted to his chosen path.