An Unexpected Proposal (St Daine Family 1) (17 page)

Alaina's brows drew downward and she shook her head. “No, silly. Nothing like that. She would have been devastated to be forced into marriage by such a scandal. It's just that, when it comes to our brother, Lady Claire obviously forgets to
think
.”

If her brother's kisses affected Claire the way Mister Claybourne's had affected her, Phoebe thought she completely understood. And Lucien obviously cared for Claire, too. Otherwise, he would never have proposed to her. Would he? “Do you think they are in love?”

Alaina sat up. Covering a yawn with her hand, she nodded. “I do.”

Phoebe cast a glance at Emily, who had remained mostly silent throughout the discussion. She seemed far away. Pensive. “Em? Do you think there is something between our brother and Lady Claire?”

Emily sat, quiet and thoughtful, for at least minute more. Then, she said, “Yes, I do.”

“Well then! But—if Lucien has asked Claire to marry him and she has declined, there is not much sense in our pondering the matter, is there?”

Alaina scowled at her. “Of course there is, you noddle head! The thing to ponder is
why
? Why would Lady Claire, or any lady for that matter, turn down a proposal from a duke?”

“You are right, of course,” Emily added. “And I believe Lady Claire's refusal stems from her promise to her friend. Remember, Alaina? At the beginning of the Season, she promised to help Lady Melisande win a proposal from a duke.”

It was Phoebe's turn to frown. “If that is so, all should be well, should it not? Alaina has just informed us that Lady Melisande is in love with Uncl...er...with Tony.”

Emily shook her head. “But Claire is still unaware of her friend's attraction to him, Phoebe, just as we were before Alaina informed us of their frequent trysts. Perhaps Claire has reason to believe her friend prefers our brother?”

Phoebe thought about it for a moment, recalling Claire's mention of her bravery. “How brave you are to marry for your brother's sake. I hope that when the time comes, I, too, am able to make such a grand sacrifice.”

There had been a strange sheen in Claire's eyes, a wistfulness in her voice, but Phoebe had not understood at the moment that she might have been pining for her brother, for the love she could not have.

Oh, she
was
brave, Phoebe thought, her throat working with emotion. More than herself, Phoebe decided, for Claire was obviously prepared to sacrifice the love of her heart out of naught more than loyalty to her friend whereas she...

“Well, at least we know she is loyal,” she said aloud.

“An admirable quality to be sure,” Emily added, a rare hint of anger vibrating in her voice. “But she is hurting our brother, and wrongly so, it seems, and that simply will not do.”

“You are correct,” Alaina hastily agreed, and a rather impish grin suddenly danced across her lips. “Now, we need only decide what we are going to do about it!”

T
he following morning
, the Leightons left Rothwyn House shortly before first light, while most of the St. Daine family still slept—only the dowager duchess had been available to see them off. The instant her booted feet touched the cobbled drive, Claire had breathed a sigh of relief, yet she still half feared either the duke or Melisande would appear out of the early morning shadows, or show up from around a shadowy corner, or beside the carriage, or even suddenly appear on the garden walk behind the gurgling fountain in the center of the circular drive before the conveyance could manage to pull away. By the time she settled herself in the carriage, she was practically jumping at shadows.

Could the coachman not just get the carriage underway already?
She fretted.

Her mother climbed in and settled herself beside Claire, but she paid little heed. Now that they were inside the carriage, at last, her brow furrowed and her fingers busily twisted the dainty, embroidered handkerchief in her lap while her thoughts once again battled the riotous tangle of emotions which had sent her fleeing from the duke's library the afternoon before.

Her father had elected to ride alongside for a time—Claire could hear the steady
clop, clop, clop
of his mount's hooves as he moved off down the drive ahead of them and for a fleeting moment, she wished
she
could be out there, riding with him instead of cooped up, waiting with baited breath, inside the carriage with her mother.

Finally, the vehicle started to move, and she breathed a hushed sigh of relief.

“You did not even take a moment to say goodbye to Melisande and that is completely out of character for you, Claire,” her mother chastened, breaking the tense silence once the coach began to move along the Rothwyn's long drive and toward home. “Are you certain there is not more to your plea for an early departure than you've said?”

Claire spared her mother a fleeting glance. The hint of motherly concern in her voice should have set off warning bells in Claire's mind, and so they would have on any other occasion. But on this particular morning—the morning after she had received a proposal from the Duke of Rothwyn—she was too wrapped up in her own thoughts to notice.

Still, what her mother had realized and remarked upon was true—she
hadn't
said goodbye to Melisande. But the oversight had been neither forgetfulness nor neglect on Claire's part. Nay, she had not forgotten Mel. Better that she could, Claire thought, for then, perhaps, her stomach would not be twisting into knots while she silently urged the horses to hurry, hurry, hurry!

Rather, she had purposely chosen not to apprise Melisande of their early departure quite simply because she
could not do it
. Her emotions were still much too tumultuous; her thoughts far too confused.

“Quite,” Claire answered, though she avoided her mother's direct gaze because she knew there
was
more.
Much
more.

The duke had
proposed
to her.

Lucien St. Daine, the current and most handsome Duke of Rothwyn, had asked her to be his wife, and despite her shock, despite her near life-long fear of being trapped in a loveless marriage and all the plans she and Melisande had made at the beginning of the Season to the contrary, Claire had wanted most desperately to accept. The mere thought made her breathless and giddy and slightly nauseated at the same time.

While accepting Lucien's proposal would have solved the problem of her needing to choose a husband by Season's end, or thus leave it to her father to make the choice for her, Claire had no assurances that marrying the duke would not leave her in the hopeless, lovelorn position she had so wished to avoid. Was it possible that the duke was in love with her?

Was this tangle of emotions she experienced every time she thought of him that most fickle and elusive one she sought most? And further, how was she to know for certain?

From the beginning there had been an inexplicable
something
between them, a connection Claire could not quite fathom, and clearly there was passion. He kissed her and she melted, touched her and she burned…but that was neither the best nor worst of it, unfortunately.

The Duke of Rothwyn had proposed—to
her
—not
to Melisande.

How would she ever explain his proposal to Mel?

She would be devastated.

Claire did not relish the idea of seeing her friend as wounded and broken as she had been when first they had met. It had taken weeks to convince Mel that Helena's marriage to the prince of Kozla had not ruined her chances of making a good match for herself – one of which her father would approve – forever.

There were plenty of princes and dukes in the world and just because the one she had set her sights upon had chosen her friend instead of her did not mean she could not have another. But it was more the thought of her best friend having betrayed her that seemed to have hurt Melisande so badly.

For those first few weeks, Mel had talked of nothing else. Each time she mentioned it, Claire had patiently explained that Helena had had no part in her betrothal to the prince—at least not in the beginning. She hadn't known about the arrangement between the prince's and her own father until the summer Simeon had come to England to claim her as his bride, which meant she had not intended to betray her friendship with Melisande at all.

Their relationship had soon been put to rights, if not fully restored, but to be twice thrown over in favor of another, which Claire feared was precisely how Melisande would see the duke's proposal…bile rose up in her throat at the realization of just how deeply her perceived betrayal of their friendship would cut. Her features contorted and she swallowed hard.

More difficult than explaining about the proposal however, she realized, would be explaining the
first
kiss she and Lucien had shared all those weeks before. She had not mentioned it at the time because she had believed nothing more would come of it, but now…

How wrong she had been. That one kiss had swiftly led to a proposal and the very conundrum she now faced. Or had it been their first waltz? Would Melisande count
that
as her first betrayal? She sighed.

“Are you well, Claire?” her mother asked, concern etching her features. “You've dark shadows beneath your eyes and, well, pardon my saying so, darling, but you look a fright.”

Claire
felt
a fright.

Indeed, with each moment that passed after the duke's proposal, she had felt more and more terrible. Perhaps she was unwell after all? Her fingers trembled and she hid them in the folds of her handkerchief.

“There is naught to worry yourself over, Mother, though I will admit to having lain awake for much of the night last night,” she said, hoping the explanation would be enough to account for the shadows as well as her distracted silence. Claire offered a tremulous smile of hopeful encouragement but her mother still looked doubtful, so she added, “A quiet day of rest is all I need and I shall be fine, I promise.”

A quiet day during which she must somehow find a way to tell Melisande of the duke's proposal, of her own betrayal, and that she would no longer be available to aid her in her pursuit to become Rothwyn's duchess. Her stomach knotted and Claire did her best to avoid her mother's shrewd gaze. “I am fine, Mother. Truly. Please do not fret. I shall be as right as rain tomorrow.”

But the following day passed much the same as had the day before—with Claire spending the bulk of her time pacing her chambers, fretfully considering the promise she had made to Melisande, reliving the duke's proposal, considering the ultimatum her father had given at the beginning of the Season…so many things while she constantly debated how best to move forward now that her life had been thrown into a state of utter upheaval.

Uppermost in her thoughts, however, was her fear that she had made the wrong choice, the wrong decision, for all the wrong reasons. If only she could go back, could ask the questions she needed to ask, to say what she had truly wished to say...

Leaving the settee, Claire moved to peer, unseeing, out her window, as she had done multiple times since leaving her bed this morning.
What to do? What to do?
The refrain matched the rhythm of her footsteps as she crossed the room, trailing her thoughts like a distant echo in an empty chamber.

She did not want to ruin her friendship with Melisande, but Claire also knew she would never be happy for Mel if she were to marry the duke. Instead, she would feel hurt and resentful and what she believed to be a true friendship would transform itself into a bitter mockery of the relationship they had shared before.

For the first time, Claire thought she truly could understand some of what Melisande must have felt when she'd learned Helena was to marry the Kozlavian prince, but…

She frowned, shaking her head in denial. Nay, she thought.
This
was different.

The situation between herself and the Duke of Rothwyn was entirely different because, though Mel had wanted to marry Helena's prince to effect a marital match of which even her father could not disprove, she had never—not even
once
—mentioned or believed herself to be in love with Prince Simeon.

Melisande had wanted the royal title, but Claire sought a lifetime of happiness, and she had convinced herself love was an essential ingredient in every truly happy marriage. Yes,
love
, she decided, at last, very much afraid she had already allowed herself to stumble right into it with the Duke of Rothwyn—yet she had hastily declined his proposal. Covering her face with her hands, Claire groaned in frustrated confusion.

It was a vicious circle, this situation she had fallen into.

She must marry, but the man she wanted was the man from whom she had promised to help Melisande gain a proposal. Further, if she did not choose a husband soon, her father would make the choice for her—that her heart had made its choice already would not signify.

A choice between loyalties lay at the crux of the matter—a horrible, terrible choice between Melisande and their friendship or to her heart. But which to choose?

It should have been a simple enough matter but the fact that she was being forced to make a choice at all had her confused and torn up inside. Friendship or love clearly were her only choices and all that remained for her to do was decide which she was willing to sacrifice, but how could she possibly choose?

Then again, how could she not?

T
here was
no easy way to confess to a friend your intention to renege on a solemn promise made but Melisande knew she must do precisely that, and she had to do it before she left England. Anything less would be cowardly and she was
not
a coward. Well, in this matter, at least.

Around her, servants bustled about, making the necessary preparations for her coming trip while Melisande sat, pensive, at the desk in her father's study. She had to tell Claire she was leaving, to explain why—but how could she when she was not entirely certain herself?

The only thing Melisande felt sure of at the moment was that she could not continue to pretend an interest in either of
the Graces
when both her heart and mind were so completely occupied elsewhere. Nor could she remain in England, where
he
could continue to tempt and tease her with longing for a future which could never be.

Her throat tight, she took up a quill, dipped it into the inkwell and hastily scrawled out a quick note. She sanded the ink and carefully sealed the foolscap, then summoned a footman to deliver her somewhat cryptic missive to Lady Claire Leighton at the Sterne residence. The liveried fellow nodded, bowed, and turned on his heel to do as his lady had requested.

Already distracted yet again by her thoughts, Melisande watched him go through a distant haze. Lost in thought once more, she stared, unseeing, through the mullioned window fronting the street. Though there were hours yet before she would take her leave, she felt hollow. Painfully so. It was if her decision to go had created a deep, yawning chasm in her heart—one she feared would never be filled, and…

Within the secret corners of her heart, she allowed herself an admission: she would miss him.

She would miss the devilish sparkle in his eyes, the engaging curl of his lips when he smiled, the husky sound of his voice when he chuckled shamelessly at some scandalous quip or another he had made specifically because he enjoyed seeing her blush.

Her thoughts quickly reminded her of several such quips in rapid succession and she could feel her own lips turn up at the corners. Her eyes misted. “Oh, Tony. Why could you not be a duke or a prince or an earl at the very least?”

Her whispered plea seemed to hang in the air, repeating itself back to her until she wanted to cry, to run away, to flee to her room and hide until she felt capable of facing the world again. But deep inside she feared that day would never come—because she loved him.

Yes, she admitted, despite knowing the futility of her acknowledgment. She loved the mysterious, handsome pirate king who had snatched her out of the darkness and into his arms and promptly stolen a kiss along with her heart. But it was the dictates of Society which had broken it, she decided. Those silly rules of pride and precedence her father would never, ever allow her to break. She was the daughter of a marquess. As such, she would marry royalty or as close to it as possible—or such had been his declaration.

From a tender age, Melisande had known precisely what her father expected of her and she had tried so very hard to give him what he wanted, to be a child he could be proud of, a woman he could admire.

She
had
tried—so very hard, but now...

Now, all she wanted was to forget the wasted years, to forget that her father was an impossible man to please, to forget class and station and expectations and instead spend the rest of her days with the scandalously exciting, sinfully beautiful, and utterly charming man who had somehow managed to make her see the world—and him—through different eyes.