An Unexpected Proposal (St Daine Family 1) (4 page)

She tried to turn away, would have left him standing alone in the middle of the floor had he not held firm to both her waist and her chin. His gaze imploring, Lucien continued, “And now, this very minute, you seem determined to spend what few moments a mere dance requires in upbraiding me when we should be enjoying the moment, savoring the music and the movement, getting to know each other.”

He relaxed his grip on her chin to run a finger gently along the soft curve of her jaw before tucking a stray tendril of her silky hair behind her ear, all without missing a step. “Why? What is it that you imagine I have done to cause you harm, Claire, for I vow I do not recall having said or done anything during the few brief moments of our acquaintance thus far to make you loathe me.”

“Miss Leighton, if you please,” she haughtily rebuffed, avoiding his eyes. Her bottom lip trembled, and Lucien sighed in defeat.

“Very well, Miss Leighton. I apologize for any inconvenience your dancing with me may have caused and promise to return you directly to your mother's side the moment the music ends.”

He remained silent throughout what remained of the dance, and true to his word, when the last note struck and after stiffly bowing his thanks to her for the dance, he tucked her hand securely into the bend of his arm and started straightly across the floor to deliver her into the care of her mother.

Glancing quickly about to distract herself from the rather uncomfortable silence between them, Claire found her father's disappointed gaze resting on her, his eyes filled with censure. She could feel the weight of his disapproval all the way across the ballroom.
Fix it
, his expression seemed to demand, and Claire knew she dare not disobey.

“It is Melisande,” she finally whispered as they made their way back to her mother's side. “You were maligning her.”

Lucien drew up and then leaned close to better hear her over the noise of the crush as she hastened to explain. “In the receiving line at the Kelsing's, I—I heard you say....”

She glanced away once before the full weight of her glare returned to rest upon him. “You were
mean
, Your Grace.”

T
hree days later
, Claire was once again readying herself for a ball. Normally, she would not have wasted her time with donning her ballgown and slippers this far in advance of the dancing, but the Rothwyn's country estate was quite some distance away. By the time she and her family arrived, the festivities would be in high dither, leaving her no time to disappear into whatever room she had been assigned to change.

Though she would use it as her explanation if pressed, an eagerness to be prepared for the evening from the moment she stepped down out of her family's carriage had nothing to do with the true reason Claire had taken such pains with her appearance tonight. Nay, her reasons were much more practical. Having bungled the first affair in which she and Melisande attended by accidentally gaining the notice of the Duke of Rothwyn herself—the sort of attention she was supposed to be courting for Mel—Claire vowed she would not again forget herself and her campaign to help Melisande secure the proposal she sought would begin in earnest from the moment of her arrival at the St. Daine's private house party.

Studying herself with a critical eye in the tall, polished glass of the cheval mirror in the corner of her dressing room, Claire decided her goal to make herself look completely uninteresting and unapproachable this evening had most certainly been achieved. The darker pastel gown she had chosen was actually a rather murky green and matched both her slippers and the combs Aggie had used to pin up the heavy mass of her hair. She had also chosen a matching satin ribbon sporting her mother's favorite cameo to wear at her throat and an ivory lace fan shot through with ribbons of the same dull, turbid shade of green completed the ensemble. Aside from rolling in the dust before they reached the duke's estate, Claire determined, there was not much else to be done for dulling her appearance...or rather, none that her parents would allow. With a sigh, she stepped away from the glass and made her way downstairs to wait for her mother and father. She was not looking forward to the tedious carriage ride but there was no way either of her parents would have turned down an invitation from the Duke of Rothwyn—especially not when that invitation allowed them not only to mingle with friends and acquaintances but also to forward Claire's introduction to every eligible male who had also been invited to attend.

Just once, she thought, she would like to be free to enjoy an evening in the same unconcerned, joyful spirit with which Melisande seemed to view every afternoon tea, every evening jaunt to the theater, every ball in London. Instead, she was forced to smile politely, to talk of nothing more stimulating than the winds of a recent thunderstorm, and to hide what wit with which nature had blessed her behind a mask of caution as she inspected each gentleman for possible flaws.

Would he play the nice with her and then disappear into the private parlors for an evening of cards at which he was destined to gamble away his family's entire fortune? “You must pay attention to such clues, Claire,” her father often warned.

Would he smile at her, dance with her, attempt to sweep her off her feet and then do the same with another young woman at some other fete later in the week? “You must guard against such rogues, Claire,” her mother would insist.

Between her father's high regard for a match with a fellow who respected familial duty and fortune and her mother's restricting fear that her daughter would marry a rogue who wanted naught more than a bit of a lovely confection to display at various outings and the requisite heir which she, herself, had failed to deliver, Claire feared she may never find a man to which she might entrust her heart.

Her fingers plucked in distracted irritation at her fan while she waited for her parents to descend, her thoughts wandering to those few moments, days ago, when the Duke of Rothwyn had peered into her eyes and asked why she found him distasteful. There had been true confusion in his gaze, and then, when he had touched her cheek, her chin, her hair....

Claire shook her head, dislodging the memory.

If the Duke of Ambray did not soon show himself, or if the Duke of Kelsing continued to display a marked disinterest in her beyond merely being friendly acquaintances, Rothwyn would belong to Melisande.

As Mel's friend, she was determined to see that it was so, and it would do neither of them a whit of good for her to harbor wistful memories of the man. Claire knew this, and yet, being forced to ignore the way her heart raced, how her breath hitched at his touch, how alive she had felt—even if only for those few brief moments she had danced in his arms—made her feel quite melancholy.

“The trunks are loaded, Claire, and the servants in your mother's chambers have quieted, at last, so I expect we shall be leaving within the quarter hour,” Audrey Leighton, her father, announced as he descended the stairs, his fingers busily straightening his cuffs.

She attempted to smile but with her thoughts having dampened her mood even further than the turbid green dress she had chosen to wear, the best she could offer at the moment, it seemed, was a weary twist of the lips.

Ever observant when she least anticipated it, her father noticed immediately the lowness of her mood, and Claire stifled a groan of dismay. “Perhaps you should visit the kitchens for a tart or something sweet to liven your disposition? We are to be honored guests of the Duke of Rothwyn this week, Claire. I'll not have you spoil your chances with the man by putting on cheerless airs,” her father scolded, his brows low.

Straightening, she befitted her lips with a bright, cheery smile. Using her fan for effect, Claire wielded it with over-zealous fervor. “I do apologize, Father. The excitement, I believe, has me a bit over-set but I am certain I shall be fine by the time we approach the duke's estate.”

Eyeing her speculatively, her father's disapproving gaze wandered the length of her unflattering gown. Her false smile and pretended zeal must have been enough to assure him all was well, however, because he turned away with a grunt. “Yes, well, see that you are. I'll not have you ruin the evening with a dreary composure to match that murky colored gown you've chosen to wear. Had you nothing more festive?”

Claire bit back a burst of laughter at his wince and shook her head. “There were many to choose from, Father. I decided upon this one for its durability in addition to its lovely color. Does it not suit? I was so looking forward to arriving at Rothwyn House with at least a bit of time to spare for dancing, but if you prefer I change, I shall do so immediately.”

“You will
not
change,” Lady Clarisse stated while making her way carefully down the stairs, her feet kicking at the hem of her emerald evening gown despite the several inches of fabric already gathered high in her hands. “We've barely a moment to spare as it is, Audrey, and I see nothing to fault in our daughter's attire. Can we go now, please? If I must spend even one moment more than is necessary in these shoes, I vow I shall tumble headlong into something.”

I
n her rush to
reach the lady's side before she could be pulled away into the boisterous crush inside the ballroom, Phoebe almost barreled broadside into Lady Claire Leighton the very moment she arrived. Had it not been for the other girl's quickly outstretched hands, Phoebe quite feared she would have upset them both, causing each of them to spill in an undignified heap upon the highly polished floor. Her balance corrected, thanks to the other girl's quick reaction, Phoebe grabbed at Claire, both hands clasping tightly around the other girl's forearms.

“I need to speak with you, please, about a matter most urgent. Come with me,” she explained somewhat breathlessly, pulling Claire along behind her toward the gallery which led to the library without waiting for her to either agree or give Claire a chance to dismiss her with some vague but polite excuse.

“Do forgive my haste and abrupt manner, but this simply cannot wait,” Phoebe continued over her shoulder. She pulled Claire into the library, closed and locked the door, and then leaned against the frame, relieved to have managed to sweep the girl away before Lucien became aware of her arrival.

Given her plan for the evening, Phoebe had fully intended to greet the earl and countess of Sterne's daughter with a happy smile, but with one look at the hideously colored gown Claire was wearing, her nose crinkled in distaste instead. “Oh, dear.”

Her eyes crept up the length of the thing to meet with Claire's mischievously twinkling gaze, and her own widened in sudden understanding.

“You're doing it a-purpose, are you not? Of course you are,” she finished, answering her own question, and finally, the smile with which she had intended to greet the other girl found its way onto her lips. Tilting her head slightly to the side, she asked, “Do you like my brother, Lady Claire? I am speaking of Lucien, the duke, of course.”

Phoebe walked toward a tall row of bookshelves, one dainty fingertip running across the leather bound spines of a score of works before she turned back to Claire to clarify her hasty spate of words. “Not that you would know I've a second brother. Unless you do. But given that Tristan hasn't been home since far too long, I don't suppose you would know or remember him, would you? So, of course, I mean Lucien. Do you like him?”

She watched the play of expressions on the other girl's face as they ran the gamut from interest, to dismay, to the polite mask one wore when one needed to answer but not necessarily divulge the truth. Phoebe waved it all away. “I can see that you
do
like him but are loath, for whatever reason, to admit it. No need to play the proper with me, Claire. I am his sister, after all, and though he can be quite a boor, I do love him. Just now, however, his overprotective stalking is quite interfering with my goal. Could you distract him for me, please? A few moments is all I ask. I must speak with Lord Nicholas regarding a quite crucial matter, but Lucien is always hovering, and—”

Claire gasped at her mention of Nicholas Locke and her surprised laughter burst into the room, but Phoebe only counted down the seconds, awaiting her answer.

“Nicholas Locke?” Claire finally asked. “I have seen that one and it is no surprise to learn your brother would prefer to keep the two of you at a distance from one another.”

“Posh,” Phoebe declared with a dismissive wave of her hand. “They are
friends
. We all are. Bastian, Jules, Nick, Tian, Tina, Reesa—even young Weezy and I have shared many a confident conversation right here in this very room. Lucien just doesn't want me asking Nick about Tristan.”

She pursed her lips into what she hoped was a convincing pout. “I believe he fears I may well hie myself aboard one of Sebastian's new ships and go searching for Tris myself, but I vow that is not my intention. I only want to know if Nick has heard anything on the docks. Will you occupy Lucien for a bit? For me?
Please
...?”

Phoebe stared at her, willing as much hope and concern into her gaze as she could possibly muster and still she feared Lady Claire would decline to assist her until, finally, a look of resolution came over the girl's face and she nodded. “I would be delighted to assist you, Lady Phoebe, but where might I find the duke in this crush? I did not see him when we arrived.”

“Call me Phoebe, please, and I shall call you Claire. After all, we share a secret now…unless you prefer to remain on more formal terms?”

Claire shook her head and Phoebe inclined her own toward the door. Grinning, she unlocked unlocked it, and motioning for Claire to come forward, she pointed to her brother who was standing near the musician's dais, his gaze fastened upon the door.

“There he is,” she said. “He is watching for
you
, I believe.”

The look of surprise on Claire's face said she found the idea of Lucien waiting for her to be quite ludicrous. “Of course he isn't! Why would he—”

“Oh, don't be silly,” Phoebe interjected. “If he would insist your family and friends be included on the guest list, he most definitely would stand in wait and anticipation of your arrival.”

L
eaning indolently
against a tall column in the ballroom, after having somehow missed her arrival, Lucien watched through narrowed eyes as Claire smiled and nodded at first one group of acquaintances and then another as she determinedly made her way, her friend Melisande firmly in tow, from the St. Daine library and across the ballroom to his grandmother's side.

Amelia had been making conversation with the twins, Emily and Alaina, but upon Claire and Melisande's approach, both girls lowered their gazes, excused themselves in unison, and hurried forward in his direction. Lucien shook his head at the dual reaction. For siblings who often declared themselves uniquely individual, the girls still managed to be an awful lot alike when they were together.

“Surely you two are not rushing off to hide in your chambers at this early an hour, are you?” Lucien asked when Emily and Alaina drew up beside him where. “The ball is about to begin in earnest and I vow it was
your
voices I heard, just last week, mind you, complaining about being forbidden to attend the various festivities in Town due to your youth.”

Alaina St. Daine scoffed at his reminder. “Of course we are not scuttling off to our chambers, Lucien. Emily and I are quite capable of dancing a few dances without wilting from the excitement of being allowed to mingle with our elders.”

“You have to admit it
is
deuced unfair to make us stay home when in two short years we will be expected to join the crush ourselves,” Emily chimed in, lifting her chin in that special way of hers that seemed to lend importance to her words. “How are we to know what is expected of us at such affairs when we are not allowed to attend?”

Emily St. Daine was the oldest of the barely sixteen-year-old twins, Lucien reminded himself as the girls often did, and by a full two minutes, at that. Recalling having heard those exact words during more than one family meeting wherein the matter under discussion was the twins 'unfair exclusion' from the festivities in
Town
, Lucien stifled a chuckle.