Читать книгу The Rake's Wicked Proposal - Кэрол Мортимер, Carole Mortimer - Страница 7

Chapter Two

As expected, Lucian found himself seated between the Duchess of Carlyne on one side and Grace Hetherington on the other, with the Duke seated beside her and an obviously disgruntled Francis Wynter placed between his brother and sister-in-law. No doubt before Lucian’s arrival the other man had expected to be seated beside the lovely Grace Hetherington, and so able to monopolise her attention.

A devilish impulse prompted Lucian to add to the other man’s discomfort by focusing his own attention on the other man’s more than obvious romantic interest. ‘You are on your way to London for the Season, I believe, Miss Hetherington?’ he prompted politely, turning towards her.

She paused in eating her soup. ‘I am, My Lord.’

‘Your first?’

‘Yes, My Lord.’

‘And have you ever been to London before, Miss Hetherington?’

Those long dark lashes were once more lowered over those smoky grey eyes. ‘No, My Lord.’

She really did have the most sensuously arousing voice he had ever heard, Lucian acknowledged, and he found himself continuing to ask her questions just so that he could listen to that husky tone. It was a voice that possessed the potency of a caress against naked flesh. His naked flesh.

‘And are you looking forward to all the excitement of your first Season? Perhaps hoping that the romantic prince of your dreams will appear and sweep you off your feet?’

Grace was frowning as she looked up at Lucian St Claire, having easily heard and taken exception to the light mockery underlining that drawling voice. She could now see the cynical curl to his lips, and the arrogant contempt in his expression towards the absurdity of the Season, and its accompanying plethora of marriage-minded mamas seeking a suitable husband for their daughters.

No doubt he felt all of those things towards Grace as she ventured into Society. As it happened, it was an unwilling venture on her part. She had agreed to this Season only after her Uncle George had explained to her that it would be a diversion for her aunt, who still suffered deep melancholy over the death of her only son.

‘I do not believe in romantic princes, My Lord,’ she assured him softly.

Those dark brows rose over eyes that seemed to laugh at her. ‘You do not?’

‘Not at all, My Lord,’ Grace confirmed lightly. ‘Divest even a prince of his title, and what do you see?’

Lucian St Claire’s eyes were openly amused. ‘Perhaps you would care to enlighten me, Miss Hetherington?’

She shrugged dismissively. ‘That he is a man—like any other.’

Those sculptured lips curved appreciatively. ‘You sound—contemptuous, Miss Hetherington?’

‘Should I not? Perhaps I am wrong, My Lord, but it is my understanding that the rich and titled gentlemen of the ton are looking only for beauty in their future wives, for a woman of suitable lineage to produce their future heirs.’

‘Really, my dear Grace!’ her aunt interrupted sharply. ‘I am sure that Lord St Claire does not wish to hear the—the perhaps less than genteel—’ She broke off as Lord Lucian raised a placating hand.

‘On the contrary, Your Grace, I find myself very interested in Miss Hetherington’s conversation,’ Lucian drawled assuringly, and once again found himself being surprised by Grace Hetherington. Especially as she had just described the sort of arrangement he had decided would most suit himself!

It was rare indeed to hear a young woman express herself so frankly when in public. Well, apart from his sister Arabella, of course. But, having grown up with three older brothers, Bella tended to be slightly different from the usual.

He gave Grace Hetherington a considering look from beneath hooded lids. ‘You do not hold with the opinion that a titled gentleman is duty-bound to take himself a wife?’

‘A wife he does not love nor perhaps even like?’ Grey eyes frowned across at him. ‘No, My Lord, I do not hold with that opinion.’

‘This really is not suitable dinner conversation, my dear,’ the Duchess of Carlyne reproved her again, lightly. ‘You must excuse my niece, Lord St Claire; she has lived all her life in the country with her parents—my dear deceased sister and her husband. She does not yet know how to go on in Society.’

‘On the contrary, I find Miss Hetherington’s conversation very—refreshing,’ Lucian assured her, his gaze fixed intently on the now slightly flushed face of Grace Hetherington. ‘Tell me, Miss Hetherington, what is your opinion of the less financially fortunate gentlemen of the ton?’ he prompted softly.

Grace was well aware that Lord Lucian was playing with her, deliberately provoking her into voicing her less than enamoured opinion of the Society in which he lived. And played. Even on such brief acquaintance Grace knew that this man played with words when no other diversion presented itself.

It was an arena in which her liberal-minded father and mother had encouraged Grace to hold her own. ‘Those gentlemen are, of course, not so concerned with the way a woman looks, or indeed her lineage, so long as she has the fortune necessary for them to live the lifestyle they consider theirs by right.’

Lucian St Claire gave up all pretence of eating and pushed his soup bowl away from him to focus all his attention on Grace. ‘And which of those categories do you suppose I fit into, Miss Hetherington?’ His voice was soft—dangerously so.

Grace pretended to give the question due consideration.

Pretended because, after Francis’s description of the other man, she believed she already knew what type of man Lucian St Claire was.

Grace pushed her own soup bowl away from her before turning to meet that mocking dark gaze. ‘It is my belief that there is a third category of man amongst the ton.’

‘Which is?’ The amusement was less in evidence now, and the darkness of Lucian St Claire’s eyes had taken on a cold glitter.

Grace shrugged unconcernedly. ‘It is, I believe, those gentlemen who have both money and a title but no use for a wife of any kind. They see women—married or otherwise—merely as playthings.’

‘And you believe I am one of that category?’ There was a definite edge to Lucian St Claire’s voice now, a challenge in those sculptured lips as they thinned above the squareness of his arrogantly angled jaw.

‘That really is not for me to say, My Lord,’ Grace told him softly. Having glanced at Francis Wynter, she easily recognised the expression of malicious glee on his face as he listened avidly to the exchange. And another glance at her aunt’s disapproving face told Grace that she should not pursue this conversation any further. That she had already pursued it too far.

That she had been goaded into doing so by Lucian St Claire was in no doubt, but nevertheless Grace accepted that she had been less than prudent in her opinions.

She lowered her lashes demurely, to hide the flash of temper she knew would be visible in her eyes. ‘My aunt is correct, sir, when she claims I am not yet used to the subtle nuances of the ton. I apologise if you have found my comments in the least insulting. I have perhaps been too—candid in my views.’ She looked up, her temper once again under control, her eyes calmly serene. ‘It is also very wrong of me to have monopolised your attention in this way, when I am sure that my uncle is simply longing to tell you of the prime horseflesh he has recently acquired.’ She gave her uncle an affectionate smile.

Surprisingly, Lucian was disappointed at this abrupt ending of his conversation with Grace Hetherington. For once in his life he had believed himself to be having an honest exchange with a woman—his sister Arabella once again excepted; Arabella was even more outspoken in her opinions than Grace Hetherington had been. Heaven help the male members of the ton if Grace Hetherington and Arabella should meet up in London during the coming Season and form a friendship!

But Grace Hetherington’s introduction of the subject of the Duke’s stables made the conversation less exclusive, and the three gentlemen began to discuss horseflesh, at the same time allowing the Duchess to once again gently reprimand her niece for her lack of discretion. Lucian noted this regretfully, as Grace Hetherington fell silent during the rest of the surprisingly excellent meal. Perhaps, as the Duke had claimed, the food did make up for the inn’s lack of other amenities after all.

The good food and wine certainly helped to ease the earlier discord in their gathering. Even Lucian’s mood had lightened somewhat by the time the ladies had drunk their tea and the Duchess had risen to suggest that the two of them would now retire for the evening, so leaving the gentlemen alone to enjoy their brandy and cigars.

‘I believe I might retire too, m’dear.’ The Duke rose more slowly to his feet than the two younger gentlemen. ‘Forgive me, St Claire, but I’m feeling slightly fatigued. Too much good food and wine, I expect,’ he added in rueful apology. ‘There is no joy in getting older, I’m afraid!’

Lucian gave the older man a searching glance, noting as he did so the fine sheen of moisture on the other man’s forehead, the slight pallor to his clammy skin, and the blue eyes dulled with pain. Obviously the Duke was suffering some discomfort after eating, but Lucian very much doubted that at the age of eight and fifty the reason for such discomfort could be attributed to age.

‘Is it your heart again, George?’ Francis Wynter looked up frowningly at his older brother.

The Duke’s face became flushed with temper. ‘No, dammit, it is not m’heart—’

‘Calm yourself, Carlyne,’ the Duchess soothed placatingly. ‘I am sure that Francis was only expressing his concern.’

‘It is a concern I can well do without.’ Her husband scowled his displeasure.

‘Remember what the physician you consulted in Worcester said about your heart and becoming too excited, Carlyne—’

‘Damned quack,’ the Duke dismissed disgustedly. ‘Excuse the family exchange, if you will, St Claire.’ He smiled across at Lucian ruefully. ‘A touch of indigestion and everyone assumes ’m on m’deathbed.’

‘I am sure that the Duchess and Francis meant well,’ Lucian placated. ‘Would you like me to accompany you up the stairs?’ He frowned as he noted the way the Duke swayed slightly as he turned to walk to the door.

‘Not necessary, m’dear fellow, when I have my dear Margaret and Grace beside me.’ George Wynter smiled reassuringly at his wife as she took his arm concernedly, Grace at his other side. ‘You two young bucks stay and enjoy your brandy and some congenial conversation.’

Lucian thought he would rather once again take up his commission and endure cold months in the saddle than spend any time alone with the pompous bore Francis Wynter had undoubtedly become! But as the Duke and Duchess of Carlyne left the room, accompanied by their solicitous niece, Lucian accepted that he had little choice than to partake of at least one glass of the brandy the young maid poured for them before she also left the room. After that he would acquire a decanter of his own to take up to his bedchamber, so that he might drink himself into oblivion.

Francis Wynter took advantage of the departure of his brother and the two ladies to move into Grace Hetherington’s seat, and the two men were sitting side by side as he leant confidingly towards Lucian. ‘I beg that you will not think too badly of Miss Hetherington for her less than discreet conversation earlier.’

Lucian looked at the other man coldly, surprised at the younger man’s chosen topic of conversation when his brother had just left the room in an obviously less than well state. ‘I assure you I do not think badly of Miss Hetherington.’

Francis Wynter’s eyes narrowed. ‘But I am sure you will agree that she is yet slightly gauche when in polite society.’

Lucian had no idea where this conversation was going, but he certainly did not appreciate the younger man discussing Miss Hetherington in this familiar manner with someone who was, after all, a complete stranger to her. ‘On the contrary,’ he drawled slowly. ‘It is my belief that Miss Hetherington’s nature is such that over the next few months she will come to be considered an Original by the ton.’

‘As to that, St Claire—’ the younger man gave a supercilious smile ‘—I am sure it cannot have escaped your notice that Miss Hetherington and I…’ He paused delicately. ‘Well, there is an understanding between the two of us. Of course there has been nothing official announced as yet.’ He grimaced. ‘But I believe I can safely say that an engagement will shortly be announced.’

Lucian didn’t react to the other man’s self-satisfied announcement by so much as a flicker of an eyelid— but inwardly… Inwardly! Was this young puppy actually warning him off pursuing any interest he might be nurturing in Grace Hetherington’s direction? Did this man actually dare to presume—?

‘Grace must be allowed to have her Season, of course,’ Francis Wynter continued airily. ‘But it is only to introduce her to Society. I have every confidence that George will consider no offer but my own.’

Damn it, he did dare to presume!

Lucian couldn’t remember feeling this angry for a very long time. Certainly he had never been roused to such emotion before where a woman was concerned. ‘Surely it is Miss Hetherington who will need to consider your offer?’ he said. And from the little Lucian had observed this evening in Grace Hetherington’s manner towards Francis Wynter, he had no doubt she would be in total disagreement with such an offer.

There was no doubting that such a match would be considered a very good one for a country miss such as Grace Hetherington. Lucian had guessed from the Duchess’s earlier comments about her sister and her husband that Grace’s parents had been simple country gentry. But, easily recalling that spark of rebellion he had seen in Grace Hetherington’s eyes on more than one occasion this evening, and her earlier conversation concerning marriage, Lucian very much doubted that Francis Wynter was going to find it quite so easy to persuade Miss Grace Hetherington as to the suitability of his offer.

Not that it was any of Lucian’s business who Grace Hetherington chose to marry. Except that it would be a pity to see all of that originality subjugated by Francis Wynter’s pomposity. Or her beauty given to him alone, Lucian allowed grudgingly, recalling those misty grey eyes and the fullness of Grace Hetherington’s mouth, the creamy softness of her skin and the silky darkness of hair that, once unconfined, would no doubt fall in curling disarray to the slenderness of her waist.

Francis raised his brows. ‘Grace will, of course, be guided by my brother and his wife when it comes to the acceptance of a marriage proposal. And a match between the two of us is more than suitable,’ he claimed with certainty.

It might be suitable as far as Francis Wynter was concerned, Lucian acknowledged as he repressed a smile, but Grace Hetherington was another matter entirely. ‘I wish you every luck in your endeavour, then, Wynter,’ he drawled uninterestedly. ‘Pass the brandy, would you?’ he added briskly; if he had to endure this man’s company then he might as well drink his fill of brandy now, and so be too drunk to take offence at anything the other man might say!

‘You do not think that we should perhaps call a doctor, Aunt?’

Grace frowned her concern as she looked across the room at her Uncle George, where he lay back on the bed, his eyes closed, even paler now than he had been downstairs.

‘Carlyne will not hear of it—claims it is only a touch of indigestion.’ Her aunt looked no less worried as she glanced across at her husband. Not surprisingly, when there had been several bouts of such indigestion in recent months.

‘The opinion of another physician would perhaps be advisable, do you not think?’ Grace ventured to suggest, knowing that her uncle had absolutely no time for the diagnosis of the local doctor who had been summoned to Winton Hall after his last bout.

Grace had become very fond of her aunt and uncle during the year she had spent under their guardianship, and could not bear to now see her uncle in such discomfort, or her aunt so obviously worried.

‘I dare not go against Carlyne’s wishes.’ Her aunt gave a strained smile. ‘I believe it best if we wait a while and see if this passes, as it has before. You are only next door, Grace. Be assured I will call upon you if I have need of you,’ she added reassuringly as she saw Grace remained unconvinced.

Grace accepted the dismissal for what it was. ‘Please do not hesitate if you are in the least concerned. After all, there is Lord Wynter and—and Lord St Claire to call upon if needs be.’

She felt a slight warmth enter her cheeks just at recalling her verbal exchange with Lucian St Claire at dinner. He had not been at all what she’d expected after Francis’s description of him as a rake. He was very handsome, of course, as well as arrogant and mocking in his conversation, but there had been none of the overt familiarity that Grace had been expecting, nor the flirtation, nor indeed the faintest trace of a debauchee either in those arrogantly handsome features or the hard strength of his lithely muscled body. In fact, if anything, Grace had found him cold and emotionally removed.

She’d had the chance to observe him often from beneath lowered lashes during the course of the meal, and had come to realise that there was much more to Lord Lucian St Claire than the rake Francis had described him as being.

She had no doubt whatsoever that his affection for her aunt and uncle was completely genuine. And she had known that his contempt of Francis was equally sincere. But as Grace wholeheartedly shared that last view she could see no fault in him for that either!

In fact, as Mary, her maid, helped Grace to prepare for bed, before retiring to the room she was to share with the Duchess’s maid, Grace found her thoughts lingering musingly on Lord Lucian St Claire.

She could find no faults in him whatsoever—apart from perhaps an excess of arrogance—and had even, to her shame, enjoyed that lively verbal exchange with him.

Could it be that she was ever so slightly infatuated with him? Grace wondered frowningly, as she sat in her nightgown on the seat before the window. She lifted the catch and allowed the brisk spring air to enter the stuffiness of the small bedchamber. Perhaps, she conceded self-derisively.

The gentlemen she would meet during her Season would certainly pale into insignificance beside his nonchalant elegance and arrogant handsomeness. If Francis Wynter allowed any of those gentlemen close enough for her to be able to compare, Grace acknowledged with a tightening of her mouth as she crossed the room to climb into bed, before blowing out the candle and settling down sleepy-eyed amongst the pillows.

She had found Francis’s proprietorial manner towards her this evening even more annoying than usual, his hopes of a match where she was concerned being more than obvious.

Surely her aunt and uncle would not seriously contemplate such a match for her? It would be the first note of discord in their relationship if that were to be the case. Because Grace had no intention, now or in the future, of accepting any offer of marriage that Francis Wynter might make her. She would not even consider such an offer.

She would think of the more fascinating Lord Lucian St Claire instead, Grace decided, and she hugged a pillow to her, her thoughts drifting off as she fantasised about herself held unwilling captive by a faceless spurned lover, and Lucian St Claire riding to her rescue before carrying her off to his deserted castle. Quite what she wanted to happen once they reached that deserted castle Grace wasn’t sure, but no doubt it would include the placing of those finely chiselled lips upon her own, and the caress of his long, elegant hands upon her body.

A body that now warmed at the thought of such caresses. Her breasts were feeling strangely full, and there was an unaccustomed ache between her thighs as her thoughts wandered to considering what Lucian St Claire would look like without the benefit of the tailored perfection of his clothing. His shoulders would be wide and muscled, his skin soft and yet unyielding to the touch, his chest also, his stomach flat, his thighs—

Grace’s thoughts came to an abrupt halt as she acknowledged that, as she had no real experience of the nakedness of a man’s body below the waist, her imagination could take her no further.

But the little she had imagined had only increased the heat of her own body. The tips of her breasts were now tingling achingly, and there was a throbbing moistness between her thighs, a quiver of pleasure trembling through her body when she pressed her legs together, unlike anything she had ever felt before.

She touched herself wonderingly, feeling how slick and wet she was, how sensitive. Even the lightest touch of her fingers against that swollen flesh was sending tremors of feeling through her body.

How much more arousing would it be to have Lucian St Claire touch her in this way—to lie back and wantonly open herself to him as he…

Grace gave an aching groan as she turned onto her side and curled into a ball beneath the bedclothes, her face heated with embarrassment at her own unruly thoughts, and her eyes tightly closed against further imaginings as she willed herself to fall asleep.

He had drunk more brandy than usual during that enforced hour in Francis Wynter’s company, Lucian acknowledged disgustedly, staggering slightly as he made his way slowly up the narrow stairs of the inn by the light of the candle he carried.

The younger man had to be the most crashing bore Lucian had ever had the misfortune to meet—more so even than Lucian had imagined. He certainly did not envy Miss Grace Hetherington if he had been mistaken earlier concerning her feelings and she were to accept the other man’s offer of marriage; Wynter would probably be just as boring in the bedroom as he was in every other way!

Not his concern, Lucian told himself derisively as he concentrated on taking the measure of the stairs. Neither Wynter’s tedium in the bedroom, nor the imagining of Grace Hetherington’s slender loveliness going to such waste. No doubt if such a marriage should occur the two would deal very well together. Lucian certainly did not intend giving that lovely young lady or her future, with or without Wynter as her husband, another thought. All he required at this moment was his bed, and eight hours or so of complete oblivion, his sleep hopefully not visited by any of the nightmares that had so often beset him following that last horrendous battle at Waterloo.

Grace awoke with a start, having no idea why she had woken or indeed where she was for some seconds. Until she remembered the coach journey from Lord Darius Wynter’s home at Malvern Hall with her aunt and uncle, and Francis riding his black hunter in front of the coach, so not noticing the faulty wheel that had necessitated an unexpected halt in their journey. A halt that had brought them to this less than comfortable coaching inn.

And so to her meeting with Lord Lucian St Claire.

Grace shied away from thinking of him again after the embarrassing thoughts she’d had of him before falling asleep, instead turning her attention to trying to discover why it was she had woken so suddenly.

There was someone in her bedchamber!

The realisation that she was not alone, that someone else was moving stealthily about the room, muttering softly under their breath as they stumbled into unseen obstacles in the darkness, held Grace frozen beneath the bedclothes.

Who could it be?

Her aunt, perhaps? To tell her that Uncle George’s condition had worsened and they needed to send for the physician after all? But, no. Her aunt would have knocked on the door of the bedchamber before entering, and she would also have carried a candle to light her way, not be stumbling around in the darkness.

So the intruder was probably unknown to Grace.

A robber, perhaps?

But surely of all the guests staying at the inn—amongst them a duke, a duchess and two lords—the innocuous Miss Grace Hetherington was the least likely to have anything of value in her room?

Except herself, of course…

Grace’s eyes widened in alarm as she acknowledged that it was perhaps her virtue that the intruder was intent on stealing.

Not without a fight on her part, Grace resolved determinedly, her mind racing as she considered how best to deal with the situation. She could just scream, of course—a move sure to bring at least four people running: her aunt and uncle, Lord Francis Wynter, and Lord Lucian St Claire. But that same scream would also alert the intruder to her wakefulness, allowing him the time to make good his escape and so be free to repeat the crime at some later date on a female perhaps less resilient than Grace. No, she would not scream. Instead she would deal with the intruder herself, before alerting her aunt and uncle.

Grace’s movements were slow and quiet as she managed to slip from beneath the covers to crouch on the side of the bed furthest from the intruder, her intention being to grasp the empty water jug on the table before hitting him over the head with it.

Grace executed her move with surprising success, catching the intruder completely unawares as she literally smashed the jug over his head, so that he fell to the floor and ceased all movement.

Grace’s hands were shaking very badly as she attempted to relight her candle, the flint refusing to spark until she had made several attempts, but the wick at last flickering into flame. She picked up the candle and turned to face her assailant.

Grace gasped her complete disbelief as she saw it was Lord Lucian St Claire who lay unconscious—and very naked!—on the floor of her bedchamber!