Stephanie Laurens - An Unwilling Conquest

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Set against the backdrop of Regency England, in An Unwilling Conquest, STEPHANIE LAURENScontinues 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.

THE REASONS FOR MARRIAGE

A LADY OF EXPECTATIONS

A COMFORTABLE WIFE

“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.