An Unexpected Proposal (St Daine Family 1) (8 page)

“Hmm,” Lucien murmured, his lips turned up in a smirk. “Are
their
bodices scandalously low as well? I should have a word with them and send them all screaming to their rooms.”

Tony snickered at his self-directed sarcasm. “That girl is going to give you problems, Lucien. Your little Al is far too quick witted for her own good.”

“Alaina, please. We certainly do not need her entertaining notions of what would be possible could she easily assume a male identity,” Lucien cautioned. “Still, I am delighted at least one of us had the presence of mind to do something about the situation,” he said in defense of Alaina's hastily invented little falsehood.

After a moment, he sighed, shifting his stance from one foot to the other before admitting, “Despite a brief moment of terror when first it happened, I must admit I found myself both appalled by and ridiculously proud of Phoebe for saying and doing precisely that which I, myself, wished to do.”

“Aye, I agree it is a hellish situation,” Tony offered with a commiserating nod. “I have eyes and ears watching and listening at every possible avenue, Lucien, but despite how admirable Phoebe's display as tragic heroine might seem at the moment in light of what we know—or more specifically, what we are still unsure of—we need to keep this one close to our breasts.”

“Speaking of,” Lucien interrupted. Straightening, he nodded in the direction of the stairs. “You
do
have somewhere else to be at the moment, do you not?”

Tony glanced over and his eyes narrowed studiously while his lips kicked up sideways in a slightly mocking grin. He shook his head. “No, I do not believe so, actually. Nowhere as interesting as staying right here promises to be, at any rate.”

He peered at Claire and then back at Lucien, his gaze questioning. “You haven't taken a fancy to her, have you? Because if you have, your timing is wretched, old man.”

“And
your
presence is undesired, for the moment,” he growled as Claire drew near though he was wont to agree. With the latest news regarding Tristan being what it was, the last thing he should be thinking of was a woman. Still, he could not look away as she slowly descend the stairs. Tony threw back his head, laughter exploding from his lips loud enough to bring several curious glances swinging in their direction and to make Claire falter in her graceful approach. He ducked into the shadows just as, having realized Lucien was not alone, her steps halted.

“Good evening, Lady Claire,” Lucien greeted before she could change her mind and run away as her now skittish approach warned she was about to do.

At his greeting, a quick, timorous smile spread across her lips.

“Your Grace,” she returned, her gaze sliding warily toward Tony, whom she probably assumed was waiting for an introduction. Rather than give his friend away—that was one card he would hold on to for now—he asked, “You were with Phoebe?”

She nodded, nervously picking at the fingers of one hand with the other. “Your sister has retired to her room for the evening, Your Grace. I sent a maid up.”

“Then she is not merely changing her attire for something more appropriate, I take it?”

His attempt at humor was apparently lost on her because she glared at him, her eyes flashing. “Your sister is very distraught, Your Grace. I hardly see how changing her gown would matter. What did you do? Call her into your study and tell her your brother is to hang at dawn?”

“Oh, I do hope you didn't, old man. The process will require a fortnight at a bare minimum, I am sure,” Tony intruded, and Lucien cut a glare in his direction. His scowl, he turned on Claire.

“I did no such thing. I attempted to explain the situation to her—rationally, I might add. But Phoebe being Phoebe, she flew into a girlish fit. What else was I to do?”

He sighed, averting his gaze from the commiserating look in Tony's eyes and the faintly damning one in Claire's. His short bark of laughter preceded the hint of mockery in his tone. “She is
always
distraught when it comes to Tristan, I am afraid. At least there is no doubt for which of her brothers she holds the most affection.”

Not that it mattered, he told himself. Except that it did. Knowing precisely how Phoebe greatly preferred to spend her time with Tristan stung, but it seemed there was naught he could do to change her rather sorry opinion of himself.

Claire's brow rose. “Perhaps you could have told her you are as troubled by what has happened as she? Or barring that, mayhap you could have admitted that, although you must appear strong for the rest of the family in the face of this tragedy, you, too, are frightened by the possibility of losing your brother?”

“I think the lady is right, Luc. Show a little more of your softer side. Maybe shed a tear or two...” Tony concurred with Claire. Crossing his arms over his chest, his lips twitched, but his attention returned to the lady who was clearly growing more offended by his casual mocking than he intended. His shoulders shook with silent laughter, yet his expression remained that of a deeply concerned friend.

Clearly appalled by the timing of their humor, Claire's brows dipped low and she straightened, her hands sliding down to disappear into the folds of her pale lemon gown. “Shame on the both of you. How can you poke fun at a time like this?”

Her gaze swung from Lucien to Tony and back again. “Poor Phoebe has just spent her last tear in fear of her brother's life, and who can say what
he
must be feeling at the moment, as I presume he is not actually guilty for that which he is charged?”

Drawing in a deep breath, she continued. “You two are behaving like children, and yet I can clearly see the fear in both your eyes. Would it not be more productive to spend your time and nervous energy in formulating a strategy meant to free your brother and friend from the false charges levied against him? Or are you both truly content to sit back and allow an innocent man to be lost to such a horrible fate?”

Tony, having apparently lost the battle with both his laughter and keeping his mouth shut, shook and scoffed and sputtered. Grinning, still chuckling, he shook his head and clapped Lucien on the shoulder.

“Oh, I like this one, Luce! Just look at her, all stiff and prickly, with the light of battle in her eyes!” He held up his hands and wiggled his fingers as if to point out the 'stiff-and-prickly' bits. “This one is nothing like Bethany, m'boy. Nothing at all!”

Lucien, on the other hand, was not amused. He felt as if she had struck him.

Far more affected by what amounted to an uninformed comment from a passing stranger he had barely met than he should have been, Lucien drew himself up and, after rudely elbowing his friend out of the way, grabbed Claire by the arm to tow her through the gallery toward the opposite wing until he was sure they were out of Tony's range of hearing. Then, scowling down at her, he bit out, “Are
you
going to accuse me of doing nothing to save my brother, as well?”

Shaking her head, Claire said, “No. I have no reason to accuse you, Your Grace. It is just that your sister is so very upset and you two were behaving as if you held little concern for a matter which obviously means a lot to her. I thought...”

“You thought our bit of forced gaiety in the midst of a bad situation must mean we care nothing for what happens to my brother, yes? Well, like Phoebe, you are wrong. Tony and I are doing everything we can to get Tristan out of shackles and safely home, back into the bosom of his loving family—where he belongs!” He looked away, unwilling to let her see how much Phoebe's disbelief in his abilities as both her brother and the duke of Rothwyn affected him. Nor did he care to see a reflection of Phoebe's doubtful accusations in the depths of Claire's beautiful eyes. “This does not concern you, Claire. It is enough for you to know that Phoebe will never listen long enough for me to explain...”

He stopped, suddenly realizing he was actually trying to convince her to believe better of him than his own sister did. The touch of her hand, warm and delicate upon his wrist, brought his gaze back to hers and he thought he might happily drown in the misty pools of her eyes at that moment.

There was no accusation in her gaze, as he had feared, but there was a warm concern shining in the depths of her lovely eyes.

“I believe you,” she said after a long moment, her words quietly spoken but sincere, and it was as if something inside him sprang open, freeing his soul from the dark turmoil of the past several years of his life, at last.

He wanted to hold her, to draw her into his embrace and simply share the relief her words had brought him. He breathed her name on a whisper, but before he could reach out his hands to her, before he could draw her close and lower his head, to press his lips to hers in a kiss of gratitude as he meant to do, she stepped away.

“I believe I hear the first strains of a waltz lilting out from the ballroom, Your Grace. If you will excuse me, I must find my partner lest he give up on me and seek a dance from another. If you join us, perhaps you could ask Melisande? I am sure she would enjoy it.”

Lucien watched her walk away, strangely disappointed for want of the embrace they had not shared. When she stopped at the entrance to the ballroom, he thought for an instant that she meant to return, but she merely spake over her shoulder to him. “Do what you can to save your brother, Your Grace, but in the meantime, perhaps you could look in on your sister?”

She met his gaze, the look in her eyes both imploring and filled with compassion and whispered, “She needs you.”

N
ear the door
, Melisande watched as Claire slipped quietly into the ballroom. After a brief pause during which she seemed to be gathering herself together, Claire hurried to her mother's side where a tall, lovely, blond-haired gentleman was waiting to whisk her away in a waltz.

Less than a minute passed before the duke also wandered into the ballroom.

Melisande followed him with her gaze as he made his way to a corner where his grandmother sat with several other elder ladies of the ton, though his attention, she noted, was clearly engaged elsewhere. His eyes followed Claire around the ballroom as she was swept around the floor in the arms of Lord Michael Avigney, if she correctly recalled.

While the duke kept his eyes on Claire, Melisande studied him from her solitary post, desperately trying to imagine herself beside him. Her hand would rest gracefully upon his arm as he greeted his family, she thought, trying to immerse herself in the imaginary scenario. But each time she saw his eyes light with the fire of jealousy as they followed her friend around the room, she felt her dream of winning the heart of this particular duke slip further and further away. Clearly, his interest lay elsewhere, though whether Claire was aware of it or no, she was not sure.

Her throat grew tight and she felt the sting of tears prick against the backs of her eyelids, but rather than risk a display like the one to which the duke's sister had given vent earlier, she drew in a deep breath, clenched her fingers so tightly against her palms her nails practically cut into the tender flesh, and quietly slipped through the entryway into the gallery outside.

Much like Claire had done inside the ballroom, she paused for a moment to rein in her emotions and then turned to make her way up the stairs to the chamber she had been given for the duration of her stay, thinking how cruel life could be, for it seemed she was destined to remain invisible for the rest of her miserably lonely life.

“Hello, beautiful.”

If not for the hand which swept out from the shadows in the corridor to pull her in, Melisande would have continued on her way, certain the deep, sultry voice calling out from the darkness had been intended to be heard by someone else because there was one thing of which she was absolutely sure: she, of all people, was not beautiful.

Claire, with her dark tresses and pale skin, was beautiful. Lady Phoebe, for all her temperament, was beautiful. Princess Helena was beautiful, but Melisande...

“I hoped you might forgo the dancing a bit early,” the sultry voice teased, and Melisande's breath hitched. “But I will admit I was fully prepared to wait out the night, if I must, to see you again.”

Snatched from the depressing limbo of her thoughts by strong male fingers that corded her upper arms, she realized too late that she was being drawn against the searing warmth of a dangerously well muscled, deliciously wonderful smelling body.

A male one.

Any girl with proper sense in her head would have pulled away in fear, or for the sake of propriety, at the very least with eyes wide and mouth open, fully prepared to demand her release or even to scream for help. But the only words whispering from Melisande's parted and now trembling lips as her head slowly turned from side to side in denial were, “I am not beautiful, sir.”

M
orning came far too early
for Claire.

After her brief conversation with Lucien the night before, she had spent the remaining hours until just before dawn dancing in the ballroom. Not that she had enjoyed herself. She would have much preferred to slip away and chat with Melisande in the privacy of her chamber, or to look in on Lady Phoebe once more, or anything other than play the pretty for her parents but her father
did
expect her to choose a husband this year. If he thought she was giving the matter less than her best effort, he might feel inclined to make the choice for her and that simply would not do—but the dancing was not her only excuse for a fitful night with little sleep.

She had retired at a respectable hour. If only she hadn't spent the remainder of the night thinking about the duke and his familial dilemmas, she might have awakened feeling well rested and refreshed. Instead, after a fitful few hours wavering between trying to keep her mind off the fact that the duke had almost kissed her again and then wallowing in guilt because, although she knew she would have enjoyed his kiss, had he given it, she ought not, Claire had all but given up her half-hearted attempts at sleep.

Why could she not simply follow through on the plans she and Mel had made before the start of the Season? Whatever time she found alone with the duke should have been spent in trying to convince him it would be to his benefit to pay heed to Melisande. Instead, she had sought him out on the excuse that she believed he would be concerned over his sister, and then she had compounded her sin by covertly watching him in the ballroom throughout the remainder of the evening.

Eyes closed against a dawn come far too soon, Claire berated herself for mucking things up so badly the night before, but she could not erase the brief conversation in the gallery with Lucien that had revealed his vulnerability and tweaked her curiosity. She had seen it in his eyes when he looked at her, had sensed it in the almost desperate way he sought her good opinion of his intentions regarding his brother, too, but she did not know what lay at the root of it. His discomfiture over the thought of looking in on his sister left her befuddled, as well, and trying to decipher what it all might mean had kept her awake and confused far into the night.

Despite her lack of sleep, however, sunlight peeked through the slender spaces between the heavy drapes lining the windows of her guest chamber. It stole across her pillow, forcing her to lift eyelids which much preferred to remain closed. Tossing the covers aside, Claire sat up, blinking rapidly against the glare of a particularly resplendent shaft of light before padding to the table in the corner where a pitcher of cool water waited. She poured a splash into the bowl and dipped a cloth in, which she hastily applied to her swollen, scratchy eyes.

She had only been out of bed for a few minutes when Aggie crept into her room to help her dress and do her hair. The girl chose a pale plum walking gown for her this morning, one lavishly trimmed with fluffy goose feathers, dyed a deep, royal purple. The same had been added to a jaunty little plum-colored hat with a striking black satin band that Aggie would affix atop her curls just before she left her room. A pair of heeled black leather boots with plum colored laces and a matching, black beribboned, purple lace parasol completed the ensemble. Aggie was helping her do up the laces on her tall boots when Claire realized today would be the first of the Rothwyn's house party in which she had worn anything even slightly resembling the gowns considered to be in the current stare of fashion since her family had arrived at Rothwyn House.

Shaking out her hem, she went to stand before the etched cheval glass mirror. Admiring the way the bodice of the gown fell and how the waist flowed slightly at her waist to show the gentle curve of her hips, she caught herself wondering what Lucien would think of the outfit but the thought had barely finished before she felt her cheeks sting, hot with embarrassment.

Discomfited now, she shooed Aggie away and hurried downstairs to find Melisande.

In the breakfast room, finishing a light repast in the company of Lady Phoebe and her sisters and a few older ladies who had joined the dowager duchess for breakfast, Melisande smiled and waved to her when she entered the room. Murmuring a quick good morning to those who were seated at the long table, Claire claimed a plate for herself and filled it with a few choice selections from the sideboard before joining her friend.

“Where were you last night?” Claire whispered as soon as she slid into the empty chair beside Melisande. “I looked for you several times in the ballroom, but you were not there.”

“Shortly after the…” Melisande paused, glancing about at the faces of the other ladies at the table to make sure no one was paying heed to their conversation before continuing. “The
squabble
between the duke and his sister, I developed a bit of a headache and sought out the quiet solitude of my room. I'm sorry I did not tell you but you were waltzing with Lord Avigney at the time and I did not think your father would appreciate my interrupting the two of you.”

Claire suppressed a groan because Melisande was likely right. Her father wanted nothing more than for her to make a suitable match, and quickly. He had expressly demanded she choose a husband this Season, although she was in no hurry to do so. But rather than broach the uncomfortable topic with Melisande yet again, she said, “I do hope your megrim was temporary, Mel. We need you at your best if you are to successfully further your acquaintance with the duke over the few days we have left.”

“Yes,” Melisande agreed, though she sounded a mite less than wholeheartedly enthused by the prospect and Claire could not help but notice her usual zeal for the topic seemed greatly lessened this morning. Mel nibbled at her crust of buttered toast and even offered a bright smile but Claire could clearly tell she was distracted.

Frowning, she asked, “Did something
else
happen last night, Mel? You aren't as—you do not seem quite your usual, effervescent self this morning.” In fact, she appeared to be wholly preoccupied, but whatever had snared her attention was obviously not a subject she wished to discuss with Claire because she waved away her friend's concern with a twittering laugh.

“Of course not. What else would have happened? My head began to pound and I went upstairs to my room. There is nothing to be concerned about, I assure you. If I seem less than cheery, it must be lingering ill effects from the headache.”

Placing her half-eaten crust of bread on the empty plate in front of her, Melisande wiped delicately at her fingertips with her napkin before laying it aside also. Turning to Claire, she said, “But you are right. I must use every moment at my disposal to attract the dukes' attention. When you are done here, we can explore the gardens and you can tell me everything you've learned about
this
one since our arrival.”

S
tanding at the tall
, curved windows overlooking the lawns from his study, Lucien watched Claire stroll about the gardens with Lady Melisande, a frown pulling his brow downward while he recalled, yet again, the details of the disturbing dream he'd had last night.

It had begun quite nicely.

Claire had been in his bed again, her dark hair wild and strewn about the pillows while he wrung little mewling sounds of pleasure from her soft pink lips with his own. Then, with no warning at all, she had sprung up from the surface of the desk here in his study to accuse him of needlessly letting his brother die at the hand of pirates.

Watching her now in the garden, his brow knit with a sharp frown, Lucien studied her shapely curves and dared to wonder at what her reaction might be if he were to join her below and ask her to marry him. Would she be delighted, as almost any of the eligible young ladies present at his grandmother's fete this week certainly would be? Or would she be appalled due to their utter lack of familiarity with one another? Or, worse, would she gently but sincerely decline, as Bethany had, her eyes filled with sympathy and compassion but no regret?

Behind him, Tony cleared his voice sharply. “Lucien, have you heard a word I've said?”

Flinching guiltily, he dropped the drapes back into place and turned his glower on his friend. “Of course I have. You were telling me about your latest assignment and how you finally had everything in place to catch the man responsible for...” he trailed off a bit questioningly, completely at a loss for the details, though he would never admit as much to Tony.

“...kidnapping the Marquess of Glenwood's granddaughter?”

“Yes, I—she was kidnapped?” How had he missed
that
detail, Lucien wondered. Surely he had not been so preoccupied with watching Claire stroll through his gardens in that lovely purple confection she was wearing that he had completely neglected to comprehend the significance of such an important point.

“For the love of God, Lucien, what do you think I have spent the past quarter of an hour explaining?” A string of expletives spilled from his lips and he strode to the window. He snatched back the drapes. “What is so deuced amusing out there that you cannot manage to take in more than two sentences at a time? I—”

His words stopped abruptly and his expression changed from that of a man annoyed beyond his limits to one of bemused contemplation. Turning back to Lucien, he asked, “Shall we walk with them, old man? I confess I've never been one with a penchant for chatting up a befeathered plum, but I am sure I could spare a lively turn of phrase or two to bestir the lady in cream.”

Unreasonably annoyed by Tony's amused comment, Lucien pulled the drapes from his fingers, letting them fall back into place before he strode pointedly to his desk.

“The marquesses granddaughter was kidnapped and you had the culprit fully within your grasp?” he prompted.

Grinning now at his suddenly renewed interest in the subject, one which had obviously been far too boring to contemplate just moments before, Tony turned away from the window and the tempting view beyond to join him. “Will you propose, Your Gracelessness?”

Lucien grunted, pretending to ignore the question while he scratched a few notes onto the sheet of paper before him. “If the marquesses granddaughter were in danger, I presume it was
you
who boarded the ship, fully prepared to rescue her?”

When Tony did not answer right away, Lucien lifted his gaze and a brow in question, “Yes?”

Tony sat forward, his gaze flitting to and fro, comfortable, it seemed, so long as it rested anywhere but on Lucien. “Ah, not exactly.”

Lucien dropped heavily against the back of his chair, a frustrated sigh heaving from him. “You wanted to talk about the assignment, teased me for my distraction, and now you want to prevaricate? If you weren't there, damn it, who did you trust well enough to send in your stead?”