The Third Duke's the Charm (2 page)

Under any other circumstances, he doubted her father would ever agree, but in this case, Sir Edwin nodded, looking somewhat grateful. It was Lucien’s own father who sent him a quelling glance, but then he rose. “Maybe that would be best.”

And Lucien read the unspoken message:
Do what you can to clean up this mess; beguile her, seduce her into agreeing, but just make sure this wedding is going to take place
.

Once they’d exited the room, Lucien regarded his possible future bride with an assessing look, waiting until she glanced up as the silence lengthened to speak. He said mildly, “I assume that as you and Charles have been friends since almost the cradle, were incorrigible playmates, and saw each other regularly since the engagement, you knew full well this was going to happen. Where did they go? Gretna Green?”

Vivian stiffened. “Of course I didn’t . . . I wouldn’t . . . I mean, well . . .”

Lucien lifted his brows, still negligently propped against the mantel. She wasn’t a good liar. He favored that attribute in a person, actually.

She stopped and then exhaled audibly. “Very well, yes, I
knew
. Please don’t tell my mother.”

As always, he found her candor endearing. His reply was dry. “You are safe there, for your mother and I do not have private conversations.” He didn’t add that while he admired Sir Edwin very much, he thought Vivian’s mother was overbearing and not a little misguided when it came to her daughter. Truth be told, he avoided the woman as much as possible.

Vivian laughed. It was short and a bit muffled, but a laugh nonetheless. “No, I don’t imagine you do. All she wants to talk about is the latest gossip and I can’t quite see you having an interest in that, my lord. You are far too practical to waste your time that way.” Still sitting primly in the chair across the room, her lustrous hair unruly enough a few strands had escaped her chignon to frame her face, she gazed at him in open question. “So you are trying to gloss over this scandal for Charles’s sake. I think I understand now.”

That was not exactly the truth. Lucien straightened and his smile held a tinge of irony. “My motives are very rarely that pure, though Charles is certainly a consideration. If I had to encapsulate my purpose, I think I would say that if our engagement became public, it would save both our families a great deal of embarrassment and allow the elopement to be retired as not quite as sensational as it might be otherwise. Tell me, how did he talk you into helping him?”

After a moment, Vivian compressed her soft lips, her pale skirts draped around her, the expression on her face both vulnerable and resolute. “He told me about Louisa the very evening he met her. Quite frankly, I have never seen him so . . . so euphoric. It was all very romantic, really. He fell in love at first sight. I have always been skeptical that it was even possible, especially for a rake like Charles, but apparently it is.”

His brother was indeed a rake of the first order. Charming, lighthearted, and easygoing; even if he were not handsome and from a prominent family, women would have succumbed anyway and gladly graced his bed.

Neutrally, he said, “It is generous of you to help your fiancé run off with another woman.”

“How could I not help him? He is my dearest friend.” A simple statement for a relationship that really wasn’t simple at all.

“I know he feels the same about you.” Lucien had always found that unique, and while not incomprehensible, still a bit hard to understand. Not that he’d never had platonic female friends. There were a few—very few—but that any healthy adult male could feel that way about Vivian Lacrosse . . .

His
admiration for her was anything but platonic.

“Please understand, my lord,”—a hint of color came into her smooth cheeks—“I was just a bit taken by surprise earlier. It’s very . . . er . . . noble of you to try to save face for me,” she finished lamely.

He couldn’t help it; he laughed. “I am thirty-two, Vivian, and I don’t think I have ever been called noble before this moment. I always have a reason for whatever I do, and often enough, I’m afraid, I am not prompted by selfless virtue. So let us not address my motivation but the question itself. As you pointed out, I am a practical man.”

In open confusion, she stared at him.

“The offer of marriage,” he prompted.

“Oh.” Her slender fingers convulsively clenched the material of her skirt.

“There is a solid argument that this would be a good match for us both. We’ve known each other for a long time, our families are quite close, and though I don’t share your passion for botany, I do understand it. After all, my entire life my father has been fascinated by the same hobby.”

The last was the coup de grace. Her very unfashionable interest in breeding and raising plants was part of the reason she hadn’t been more successful on the marriage mart.

As a ploy, he gambled it might be successful. He’d never proposed—never even considered it until he learned of his younger brother’s elopement—and if he were proposing to anyone else, he might have used a different tactic. But with Vivian, making it known he didn’t mind her spending time in the greenhouse might just win her favor.

She had no idea how much he wanted her to agree to be his wife any more than she understood that love at first sight was not a novel concept to him. After all, that was how he’d fallen in love with
her
.

Chapter Two

The sense of disbelief held Vivian suspended in the moment as if perhaps she might be asleep and having a bizarre dream, would wake up and shake her head at the whimsical nature of the human mind, and then rise for the day as always.

Yet, Vivian noticed, Lucien Caverleigh seemed quite solid and real, his expression the usual mask of detached sophistication he always wore, and she had no idea whatsoever how to respond to his question. His good looks were legendary in the social circles of the
ton
, and there was no question why.
Dramatic
was the word that came to mind, though she’d never used it to describe any other man she’d ever met before and surely she was acquainted with most of the males in society by now. His features were fine and held classic straight lines and angles, and his mahogany hair was a contrast to those startling blue eyes. There was a faint disdainful curve to his mouth, an arrogance to the line of his jaw, and his shoulders were impressively wide.
Handsome
was applicable, but not quite enough.

She’d never known anyone with his sort of potent presence. It was palpable, and maybe he wasn’t even aware of it, but women clearly were. He was by far the most sought-after bachelor in England, handsome, titled, and rich, and as astonishing as it might be, he was doing his best to persuade her to accept his proposal.

No one would believe it
. She
didn’t believe it.

He was trying yet again to save Charles. That was what it came down to, and she knew it. Lucien had a habit of dragging his younger brother out of any mess, no matter how sticky, and a talent for keeping it all quiet.

Well, she thought, he needn’t be so drastic as to marry a confirmed spinster who had four dismal seasons already behind her.

Noble of him, she supposed, and it rankled a bit, but then again it wasn’t like she was unaware of her status as a failure with the beau monde. Vivian lifted her chin and eyed the man standing so casually across the length of the formal room. “I think we should address
my
reputation, Lord Stockton.”

A hint of amusement lit his eyes at her austere tone, which should not surprise her. She doubted he took any of this seriously, which was yet another reason why he wouldn’t make an admirable husband.

“You don’t have one that I know of,” he drawled in a soft tone. “Unless one counts virtuous conduct and unusual intellectual pursuits. And there is no need to be so formal. As I have already pointed out, you’ve known me all your life.”

“Exactly
my
point.” Vivian straightened, her spine stiff, trying to ignore his blatant masculinity. Her friendship with Charles was based on a childhood camaraderie, but Lucien was different. He was enough older that he’d inspired a secret sort of hero worship and a girlish daydream or two, but never, ever would she have wanted him to know it. “We have nothing whatsoever in common and that isn’t speculation but fact. I am not the kind of woman you would pursue, and while I appreciate your gallantry in trying to protect me from gossip over a broken engagement, it isn’t necessary.”

“Isn’t it?” He raised an ebony brow and to her dismay, moved from his stance by the fireplace to take a nearby chair. When he stretched out his long legs, his booted feet brushed her skirts. “As I said, my reasons are rarely altruistic. I need an heir, Vivian.” He added meaningfully, “And a wife. A man cannot have the first one without the other.”

How very pragmatic. And his use of her first name wasn’t new, just newly disconcerting considering the conversation.

Speechless, she could not help but blush. It wasn’t even the connotation of his words, but the way he looked at her, as if he were imagining, well,
that
. The charisma of his presence alone was overwhelming. He’d always had it, but she was a woman now, not a young naïve girl.

More tartly than she intended, she said, “You wish to acquire me for breeding purposes? Forgive me for a lack of proper gratitude, because—”

“My apologies.” His interruption was abrupt, and all amusement faded from his expression as he set aside his now empty glass with a definitive click on a nearby table. “You are absolutely correct; that was boorish. I’m apparently not good at this. I’ve never done it before and forgive me if I am a bit nervous.”

She almost gaped. Nervous? The gloriously handsome, popular Marquess of Stockton nervous in the presence of a young woman who was a recognized failure in polite society? Vivian had to admit she yet again could not find anything intelligent at all to say.

A not-unusual circumstance, but still . . . unfortunate.

“Let me rephrase and perhaps do it better.” He held her gaze, his blue eyes steady. The normally sensual line of his mouth—yes, she’d noticed it before, as he was not the kind of man a woman would easily forget—was taut. “I would very much appreciate it if you would consider a proposal of marriage from me, Miss Lacrosse. Is that possible?”

It was so ridiculous she had to stifle the urge to laugh hysterically. Charles and his abrupt departure with Vicar Clifton’s daughter aside, the ludicrous notion that she would marry Lucien Caverleigh instead caused an unwanted giggle to rise in her throat.

“I don’t think, my lord,” she said in all fairness, though it cost her in pride, “you have paid enough attention to my age or lack of popularity. It is kind of you to be so—”

For the second time that evening he interrupted her. “Neither matter to me. You are ten years younger than I am, and as for your popularity or lack thereof, I doubt you can deny much of that is deliberate on your part.”

A bit stunned, Vivian sat silent. The canny observation was true, and she was unsettled enough already. More to the point, it was beyond comprehension that he’d paid attention enough to even know that about her.

Carefully, after taking a calming breath and considering the words, she spoke. “I suppose it could be said I am unmarried by choice, but then again, I might argue that my offers have not been similar to those given to the diamonds of the first water and none of the gentlemen truly engaged my interest. And in the same vein, my lord, may I point out you might have taken a successful interest in any of the popular debutantes at any time. Why me?”

“I dislike insipid women.”

And then he executed his infamous smile. It was well done with a slow curve of his lips and a slight crease near his remarkable eyes. He deliberately let his gaze travel lower to survey her body with most improper male assessment, and though Vivian had been stared at before, she still could not quite suppress the flush that warmed her skin. It was as if he’d touched her, and though she was not in any way as experienced as he was, she knew somehow that was exactly what he intended her to feel.

Maybe Charles was not the only rakish brother.

No, she was not adept enough at this game to play with the infinitely skillful Marquess of Stockton. The proposal was ridiculous.

“I would like to think I do not qualify as insipid,” she said with a hint of desperate humor, for really, she was so unprepared for this situation she was utterly at a loss.

“You don’t. If I didn’t have that confidence, I would not be here, trying to convince you to accept my suit. Now then, may I have an answer?”

It was too fast, too much, and though she’d anticipated not being comfortable with the interview over Charles and his deception, she had never prepared herself for this.

“You can’t expect me to make a decision so swiftly,” she hedged.

“But yet I do. The moment word of my brother’s elopement gets out, our engagement will look as if it was staged and I am trying to avoid that.”

At least he hadn’t pointed out she was unlikely to get a better offer anytime soon, or ever, for that matter. A marriage to Charles was a coup, but a marriage to Lucien Caverleigh, ducal heir, would be a sensation. Not that she wanted to draw any attention to herself—just the opposite.

What a quandary.

It would make her mother happy. It would therefore make her father happy. The duke would be satisfied to have his oldest son settled. For all she knew, it would save Charles from the repercussions of his reckless abduction of the vicar’s daughter. It would delight the gossips and apparently make Lord Stockton also content in that he was finally doing his duty to his title.

The real question, of course, was what it would do for her? But then again, Vivian no doubt should have outgrown her romantic yearnings four years ago when she so abysmally failed her first season.

And yet it was quite clear that she had not.

***

It looked as though she just might still decline his offer.

Why wasn’t he surprised? Lucien gazed at the young woman sitting across from him and wondered at the whimsical nature of fate. For years he had studiously dodged any circumstance that might trap him into the matrimonial noose, but when it came to Vivian Lacrosse, he was not able to employ his habitual detachment, which was why he usually avoided contact with her.

Yet here he was, proposing marriage—on a whim, no less.

Fool
.

Lucien gazed into those emerald green eyes. Shouldn’t he be able to sway her? She wasn’t a seasoned, jaded society favorite, used to dispensing her favors with calculated intrigue. She was . . . genuine.

Was that it? Maybe. She wasn’t sophisticated but neither was she a simpering miss. Vivian was unique.

He somehow found his voice. “It isn’t just for you, as I said it is for me also. I’m not selfless. I truly think this is best. Do you not agree?”

Not selfless? That was hardly a lie. Even now he wanted to abruptly sweep her into his arms, carry her upstairs to the closest convenient bedroom and shimmy the gown off her tempting body to see what he’d been imagining for the past six years.

Actually, he didn’t have to rely strictly on imagination. He’d seen her undressed once before; he just wanted a repeat performance.

A summer night. Moonlight. A dare over who could swim across the lake fastest. She’d been all of sixteen and Charles a year older . . . she’d taken off her gown and slid into the water in just her shift, her dark hair trailing, streaming over those pale, perfect shoulders . . . she’d won the impromptu race, and risen from the water like a goddess, her laughter intoxicating as a drug, both fresh and feminine . . . and something had happened in that moonlit moment . . .

That night she’d caught his attention, and unfortunately she had held it ever since. Neither she nor Charles had ever known he’d stumbled across their impromptu swim. Lucien had to admit he’d assumed then they were already lovers, given his brother’s inclinations toward beautiful women, but perhaps he’d been wrong. Vivian was certainly tempting enough and Charles wasn’t exactly an angel, but then again, with the wisdom of age came a slow recognition that lust did not require love and so maybe love did not require lust. Their friendship appeared platonic. His brother had told him outright he’d agreed to the engagement to spare her another season.

Quite a profound thought.

“You could have anyone.”

His head came up at that quiet speech and Lucien smiled with no trace of humor. “Apparently not, your hesitation a case in point. We all have choices. My brother is a bit of a fool in my opinion to choose someone else, but then again, it’s his life.”

“You are trying to charm me.” Vivian sat very upright, her graceful spine straight.

“I’m trying to
convince
you. It is different.”

“How so?” Her answering smile was fleeting.

“Charm often lies. I am only telling you the truth.” Lucien sighed then and then set aside his glass impatiently. “Your engagement to Charles is not meant to be. Our families are unhappy on both sides right now, and this marriage would satisfy everyone. You were willing to marry my brother, why not me?”

Why not
me
? he thought.

A warning voice cautioned Lucien that he sounded much too sincere, too involved, too damnably importunate. Like a lover—and a jealous one at that.

It fit.

And it wasn’t him, not the persona of the duke’s reputable son, the responsible heir who believed in making sound choices to the benefit of all, rather than indulging his own desires. Unlike Charles, he didn’t think seduction was a sport best played by skilled athletes that rigorously trained in aristocratic boudoirs and exclusive ballrooms, where men and women danced in formality in one setting and in delicious horizontal informality in another. Love wasn’t a game. Not to him.

It was ironic to realize he was a romantic. Considering his life was filled with practical matters: business, politics, and obligation, his day-to-day routine didn’t reflect him as a man. No one truly knew him, and as ridiculous as it sounded, he thought it was possible she might be the one who could connect with his soul.

So he needed to actually convince the one woman he truly wanted to marry. No doubt it was easier said than done, but then again, he had never been one to back away from a challenge.

“Why not me?” he repeated, his voice softer, the question almost too poignant.

Vivian rose then, poised, outwardly serene, but he caught the slightly panicked look in her eyes. “I own I still cannot believe you are serious, my lord.”

He had no choice but to also stand out of politeness and watch as she walked across the room to stop in front of one of the long windows. The window faced the garden, of course. Her interest in botany was well-known, and the legacy was come by honestly. Her father was a respected scholar and scientist, famous for his work in that discipline. So was Lucien’s father, for that matter.

He wasn’t her friend like Charles. Or anything like her father who shared a similar passion for the world of exotic plants. Or even the foppish young men who were too stupid to see beyond her intellect and court her. He was simply a man who liked the refreshing honesty of her personality, who admired her beauty, and who was somehow—and it was indefinable—
struck
by her.

If that was not love, the definition escaped him, but at the moment what he wanted was the opportunity to find out.