An Unexpected Proposal (St Daine Family 1) (3 page)

Her voice, laced with subtle derision and a very healthy dose of sarcasm, snapped Lucien back to his senses and he regarded her carefully through narrowed eyes. Her gaze was sharp; direct. Shrewd. Her eyes glimmered with a knowing light not unlike that of Lady Melisande's, he noticed, and yet, he had a feeling they each did so for different reasons entirely. The Ruebrige chit was merely doing what one expected but Lady Claire—she had thrown a gauntlet, as far as Lucien was concerned, challenging him to pay attention to
her
.

The realization brought a chuckle rumbling up through his chest, which he quickly hid behind a feigned cough. Why he had believed from their very brief interaction earlier that she would be anything less than spirited was now quite beyond him, for he now realized without a doubt that Lady Claire Leighton was a lady possessed of quick wit and an equally lethal sharp tongue.

“Claire!” Lady Melisande hissed in an undertone, her eyes saying more than her lips that she was not happy with her friend's contribution to the conversation. “Don't be rude!”

“I was only acting in a similar manner as His Grace,” Claire responded with a soft shrug of her shoulders. “It would be unfair of us to allow him to think we will stand idly by while he insults us with his gross lack of attention.”

“I am certain His Grace did not mean to be insulting,” Lady Melisande replied through clenched teeth.

Listening as the two debated the matter of his intentions between themselves, Lucien found it slightly amusing that neither of them paid
him
a scrap of attention from that point forward though he was, in fact, the very object of their somewhat heated discussion.

He turned to his grandmother, who had remained strangely silent throughout the entire exchange and found her looking on with a merrily twinkling gaze as though she were profoundly enjoying this farce of polite conversation. Sighing inwardly, he glanced out over the crowd once more.

Brows pulling low, he muttered a quick, “Excuse me, Grandmother. Ladies,” he tacked on, almost as an afterthought, offering nothing more than a slight nod in their direction before he strode purposefully into the crowd.

Off to the side and well out of his immediate reach, Phoebe was standing next to a tall male clad in a smart uniform. The fellow had dark hair and angled features, and Phoebe was laughing at something he had said, her fingers resting briefly atop his arm. She cocked her head to the side and murmured something Lucien had no hope of overhearing, given the distance between them, but whatever she said had brought a deeply pensive look over the man's face that did not sit at all well with Lucien.

Jaw clenched, he hastened to Phoebe's side, but by the time he managed to make his way through the crush in the ballroom, she had somehow managed to disappear from view yet again. Cursing her headstrong nature beneath his breath with every step, Lucien made for the doors to the terrace, swearing beneath his breath the entire way that his sister would be made to spend the rest of her days locked away in her room if she continued to insist upon treading without care—for her reputation if not her safety.

C
laire studied
the duke's profile as he strode away, a feeling akin to nausea twisting her stomach well before she glanced back to find Melisande attempting to hide a glare from her. A hot blush stung her cheeks. She glanced out into the crowd to avoid the censure in her friend's gaze but that did not help, either, because judging by the look on her father's face, he, too, had seen the duke walk away and had decided it must have been
her
fault the fellow hadn't stayed to chat.

Only then did Claire consider precisely what she had done: not only had she insulted the duke of Rothwyn, but she had done so with both his grandmother and her best friend looking on as witness to her ill-mannered behavior. Her gaze slid to the floor, unwilling to see for certain precisely how affronted his kindly grandmother must feel about her much less than sterling manner with her grandson. “Your Grace, I do apologize. I do not know what came over me, I—Excuse me, please.”

Walking away, Claire immediately began to chastise herself.
How could you have let the man goad you into such behavior? He merely shows up and your brain goes to mush?
The very idea was preposterous, but from the moment she had caught the duke staring at Melisande in the receiving line, she could not seem to make herself
not
think about him.

“Claire? Are you alright, darling? Your father...”

Claire slowed her steps and looked over her shoulder at her mother, who no doubt had been sent by her father to further chastise her for estranging the duke, and stifled a groan.

“I am fine, mother. Merely feeling a bit parched. I was looking for refreshments.” Not precisely the truth, but she could do with a bit of punch to cool the fire in her face, if nothing else.

“Well then, you are going in the wrong direction, my dear. The refreshment tables have been set near the doors to the terrace. Come, I will join you,” her mother offered, tucking her hand through Claire's arm before turning her to retrace the exact path through the crowd the Duke of Rothwyn had taken only moments before. Glancing back, she saw Melisande still standing beside the dowager duchess, engrossed in conversation.

No doubt about
His Rudeness
, Claire thought unkindly, but she could not be angry with Mel. She had known
her
intentions well before the beginning of the Season—to snare herself a duke—and it was Claire's duty as her best friend to assist her in her quest.

“Melisande seems to be enjoying herself this evening,” her mother pointed out, having noticed the direction of her gaze, and Claire nodded her agreement.

“I believe it is impossible for Mel to not enjoy herself at any function where she is allowed to dance with every eligible male in attendance.” Bemused, she continued, “One smile from her is all it takes to have them eating from her palm but she merely laughs and sends them on their way, her true intentions elsewhere.”

“And you, Claire? Do you find it impossible to enjoy yourself?” her mother pried, and Claire felt a blush heat her cheeks yet again.

“No, Mother. I quite enjoy the music and the conversation and even the dancing on occasion.”

“But not with the Duke of Rothwyn?” Clarisse asked, a sad but knowing smile turning up the corners of her lips. She laid her hand on Claire's shoulder, her expression pained. “I do not blame you for sending him away, Claire. Men like the duke are…not quite the sort a lady need seek for a husband, despite his wealth and connections.”

Claire's brow furrowed. “Men like the duke? I'm sorry, Mother, but I thought a man like the duke was
precisely
the sort of man Father would prefer I wed.”

She did not mention she did not understand the many mysterious things in the duke's life her mother referenced with her less than explicit description. What, precisely, had her mother meant when she said
men like the duke
?

Not that it mattered, Claire silently added. The Duke of Rothwyn, like most men, likely considered marriage for the same reasons her father did, and while Claire was not adverse to wedding one of them if her heart were engaged, it was far more probable those men would display a marked inclination toward Melisande rather than her. Still, she would need to be on her guard, Claire decided, because it simply would not do to give her father the impression she would dare to spurn the interest of a duke. Not if she hoped to remain free from the sort of entanglements suddenly finding herself betrothed would create.

If her father realized her plan to remain unfettered, Claire knew without a doubt that she would be pledged to the first eligible male he could find, and that simply would not do at all.

I
t had been
a bit difficult to pull off, but a promise had been won from the Duke of Kelsing to dance at least once with Melisande before he quit the Malburton's ball.

Claire knew full well Sebastian had agreed as a nod to his sister, Julia, but the manner in which winning his agreement was accomplished mattered little. That he and Melisande were together on the dance floor at this very moment was all that counted. Watching them now, after last night's failure to live up to her expectations, Claire felt a little thrill that perhaps their plans for the Season were finally getting underway—until the deep rumble of a masculine voice slightly raised in irritation caught her attention, and she turned to stare at the doors leading to the terrace.

Rothwyn.

From the moment of their introduction the evening before until now, his voice had threaded its way through her thoughts more than once, giving way to a variety of reactions Claire had not cared to analyze. It was
distracting
, and she had neither the time nor patience for distractions because she needed to focus every bit of her attention on helping Mel.

“Damn it, Phoebe, I should not even be having this conversation with you!” Claire heard him say. “Are you
trying
to create a scandal?”

“If this is about me taking the air with the good Captain Usbourne...” came his sister's reply, but he quickly cut her off.

“What were you thinking, Phoebe? Surely you realize how important it is to steer clear of even the hint of scandal just now? You are a
St. Daine
.”

“Does being a St. Daine mean we must pretend to not notice when one of our own is missing? Tristan is in trouble, Lucien. I
know
it. Last night, I was hoping to learn something of his whereabouts from Captain Usbourne, but...”

“It is not your place to do so, Phoebe,” he said, cutting her off again.

“
Someone
has to do it!” she hissed in response. “If being a St. Daine means I must pretend I am not worried about Tris, if it means I am forbidden to seek out those I believe can help find him, well, perhaps I would rather not
be
a St. Daine!”

“
Phoebe...
”

Claire could not hear his sister's reply to that but it must have been sufficient to secure her freedom because, a few seconds, later the girl swept through the Malburton's double doors, a barely composed vision in pastel blue, with her brother following closely at her heels.

Claire's eyes lifted to the duke's face and their gazes caught. The dark but concerned scowl which had pinched his features only a moment before smoothed, melting away until, finally, he smiled.

“Girl's going to be the death of me, I swear,” he said by way of explanation as he motioned toward his sister. “I seriously hope she finds herself a husband this Season because I do not think I can tolerate another round of
this
.”

Claire's eyes widened. Had he really just attempted to jest about the serious goal of every young woman of marriageable age at every function one attended past their come-out? A surprised laugh bubbled up from somewhere inside her, sputtering from her lips in a burst of unexpected merriment.

“Do not laugh, Lady Claire,” he chastened, though his smile widened. “You've no idea the magnitude of trouble my sister can inadvertently land herself in—without trying in the least.”

His half-serious, half-teasing tone sent a wave of warm sensations through her, causing Claire to snap open her fan and wield it with a bit more enthusiasm than she intended. His nearness was wreaking havoc on her senses—so much so, the unusual warmth flooded her, heating her face and limbs until, confused by her body's reaction, she forced herself to look anywhere but into the teasing merriment of his gaze. It was then that she recalled her mother standing quietly at her side, observing their conversation in amused silence.

The duke obviously had not suffered from such a lack of awareness, however, because he turned to her mother and asked, “Lady Sterne, may I dance with your daughter?”

Claire bit back a groan of despair. Had he directed the question to
her
, she could have politely refused his request, but.... Had he somehow known she would do so? Perhaps that was why he had chosen to defer to her mother. Whatever his reasons, he
had
asked, and now her stomach twisted into a tight knot while she tried to figure out a way to manage being at his side long enough to dance with him. Even a few moments' brief conversation made her feel all tingly and overheated, both inside and out, and now she would be forced to deal with her peculiar response because, if there was one thing she knew for a certainty about her mother, it was that Lady Clarisse Leighton would never deny a duke the opportunity to dance with her daughter.

D
uring the few
seconds Lucien waited for the countess's reply, the lilting strains of a minuet fading into the very different tone of a waltz and Lucien felt his smile slip a bit. He was fully aware of the connotations behind waltzing with a young, unwed woman, but despite the sudden chase of unease rippling along his spine, he somehow managed to hold his slightly amused, somewhat teasing expression until the countess offered a demure smile and nodded her assent.

His dance partner, however, drew up noticeably, her spine stiffening. Her previously mirthful expression drained immediately of the brief gaiety his mild kerfuffle with his sister had lent her mood, and yet, having made the inquiry, Lucien knew he could not just leave her there simply because of an unexpected change in the music. Taking Claire's hand in his, Lucien nodded to the countess and swept her into the dance.

Her discomfort was palpable.

After a moment of tense silence during which the light floral scent of her played with his senses, teasing Lucien with fantasies of forbidden promises not yet made, he politely whispered his gratitude into the air above her ear. “Thank you for agreeing to waltz with me, my lady.”

He stepped away and her brow rose, the delicate arch climbing high. When the music brought them close again, she reminded, “I did not agree, Your Grace. But then, neither did you ask for either my permission or my preference. Whether or not I cared to dance with you did not seem to signify.”

Lucien's brows snapped downward at her accusation. The hauteur in her voice, a direct contradiction to the interest he had seen in her eyes only moments before, confused him. He knew he had not imagined the appreciation in her gaze after her slow perusal of him at the Kelsing ball the night before, either.

Nay, he was not wrong about that, but perhaps he
had
been mistaken to think the flush warming her cheeks and the way she quickly averted her gaze meant more than he had assumed.

He studied her now, noting the way her pulse jumped when he pulled her close. The way her eyes widened, though fractionally, when his hand touched her waist. The way her breath seemed to catch before she expelled it in an irritated little puff. No, he had not been mistaken, he decided.

She was affected by him.

So why, he wondered, was she behaving as if he had somehow insulted her by asking her to dance?

“Of course I asked!” he tried to placate, but she was having none of it.

“You asked
my mother
,” she pointed out. “And despite how the two must seem the same in
your
mind, in mine, I can assure you, they are far,
far
removed.”

Through the next several turns, Lucien stared at her, nonplussed.

How could she be upset with him for asking her mother's permission to dance with her? Countess Sterne was there—he could not simply ignore her presence. Her ire made little sense, Lucien thought, giving his head a mental shake. But the crackle of incensed fire blazing in her eyes every time their gazes met assured him she was most certainly angry with him over something.

“If you had truly wished to dance with me, Your Grace, you would have asked
me
and then politely deferred to Mother for her permission,” she pointed out. Her expression, however, clearly said had he done so she would have refused him out of hand, and finally, he understood. She was angry with him for leaving her no choice in the matter.

Uncomfortable now beneath her direct, somewhat haughty scrutiny, he looked away. “I do apologize for my obviously misdirected inquiry, my lady, but you may rest assured that I would not have asked either of you had I not desired to be with you.”

And he truly
had
thought her bold gaze and the lingering way she looked at him signified an interest in him on her part, as a dancing partner at the very least. Could he truly have mistaken the curiosity in her warm gaze for something else?

Glancing across the way, his eyes caught Phoebe's, hers sparkling with a mocking gleam, and Lucien could have sworn a blush burned its way up his neck and onto his cheeks at her scrutiny.

“Why?” Claire blurted out, and his eyes came back to her face, only to be met by a look of such accusatory puzzlement he was struck quite forcibly by the unsettling notion that she did not like him very much at the moment. “Why did you wish to be with
me
, Your Grace? We do not even know each other. Indeed, we have barely been introduced, while Melisande—”

“Why do you dislike me so?” he countered.

She looked away, and he reached up, his fingers lightly grasping her chin. Forcing her gaze to meet his eyes once more, he continued, “As you say, before last evening's ball we had not previously met, yet you insulted me there as if I had done you some great harm. And then tonight, you get all up in the boughs when my polite inquiry for a dance is directed at your guardian rather than you—as it rightly should be.”