The Rake's Wicked Proposal

Besides, Lucian St Claire sounded exciting, at least, and after weeks of Francis’s tedious attentions Grace welcomed even the thought of that diversion.

‘He sounds very—interesting, Uncle George,’ she assured him softly.

‘The man may well be a war hero.’ Francis persisted. ‘But rumour has it that since his return to Society he has become something of a rake and a—’

‘That is enough, Francis,’ his brother cut in warningly. ‘I will not have any of our heroic soldiers denigrated in this way.’

Grace watched as another tide of resentment flashed across Francis Wynter’s youthfully handsome features.

There was no doubting he was very handsome—his hair a rich burnished gold, his eyes a pale blue, his shoulders wide, waist tapered, legs muscled, in black evening clothes and snowy white linen. If only his nature were as pleasant as those looks. But his lengthy visit to his brother and sister-in-law’s estate in Worcestershire, following on from a much shorter one to his brother Darius’s new home at Malvern—the two younger brothers did not get on—had allowed Grace to learn that, besides being extremely opinionated, Francis was also completely lacking in a sense of humour.

He was not her Uncle George’s full brother, of course, which could explain at least some of the reasons Francis was so different from his good-humoured eldest brother. George Wynter, aged eight and fifty, had been born to the first wife of the previous Duke of Carlyne; Darius Wynter, aged one and thirty, had been born to the second wife, and Francis Wynter, aged five and twenty, to the third and final one.

Grace could only assume, having now met and become better acquainted with all three brothers, that they must all favour their individual mothers—because they certainly bore little resemblance to each other. George was the warm, amiable-natured one, Darius the consummate rake—and Francis, she was sorry to say, was a complete bore.

Although it was distinctly ungrateful of Grace to think so, when the Wynter family had all been so warm and welcoming to her. Having lived quietly in the country with her parents for the first nineteen years of her life, Grace had suddenly found herself orphaned, her parents having both been killed in a boating accident a year ago. Her mother’s sister and brother-in-law, the Duke and Duchess of Carlyne, were now her guardians, the Duke also being trustee of her considerable estate and fortune until she married.

In fact, now that Grace’s year of mourning was over, it had been her aunt’s insistence that Grace really must have a Season that had necessitated them undertaking this uncomfortable journey to London in the first place—slightly earlier than was necessary, as her aunt intended to acquire a completely new wardrobe for Grace before any of the entertainments began. She had declared Grace’s scant wardrobe of three day dresses and two evening gowns completely inadequate for a London Season, where she would be introduced to all the ton as the ward of the Duke and Duchess of Carlyne.

Grace was grateful for all the loving attention her aunt and uncle had bestowed upon her in the last year. She simply wished that Lord Francis Wynter were a little less proprietorial of her.

‘Lucian was such a dear boy when he was younger,’ her Aunt Margaret mused wistfully. ‘Do you remember what great friends he and Simon always were, Carlyne? How the two of them were at Eton and then Cambridge together, before taking up a commission in the army on the same day?’

The Duke reached out and patted his wife’s hand consolingly. ‘There, there, m’dear. What cannot be changed must be endured.’

Grace’s heart ached at how stoically her aunt and uncle bore the tragic blow of their only son’s death. She had not known Cousin Simon very well, his being ten years her senior, but the little she did remember of him was as a man as good-natured and charmingly amiable as his father.

How strange, then, that he should be particular friends with a man her uncle described as possessing ‘broodingly dark good-looks’, and Francis claimed was ‘a rake and a—’ And a what? Grace wondered curiously. Whatever it was, as far as her uncle was concerned it was not a fit description for the ears of an innocent like herself.

Contrarily, Francis’s disapproval of Lord Lucian St Claire only made him all the more appealing to Grace!

Lucian drew in a weary breath as he stood outside the parlour where the Wynter family were awaiting his appearance so that they might dine. The thirty minutes or so since Lucian had parted from the Duke had not improved his disposition. The accommodation at the inn had proved as inferior as Carlyne had claimed it to be, and the furnishings in Lucian’s room were sparse, to say the least, with not even a lock on the door to keep his belongings safe while he was downstairs dining.

Which was perhaps the point…

Not that Lucian was carrying anything of particular value to a thief—chance or otherwise. Having arranged for his valet to depart for Mulberry Hall—the principal St Claire seat in Gloucestershire, and Lucian’s home for the first eighteen years of his life—a day ahead of Lucian travelling on horseback, Lucian was carrying only the barest necessities with him. As he had already explained to the Duke, he did not even have with him appropriate evening clothes for dining in female company.

Stop delaying the inevitable, Lucian, he instructed himself severely. There was no getting out of dining with the Carlynes, so he might just as well get this initial meeting with the rest of the family out of the way as quickly as possible. After all, Margaret Wynter was pleasant enough, and if Francis Wynter was not to be tolerated he could at least be ignored. As could whichever elderly twittering female the Duchess had brought with her as companion for this visit to London.

He could hear the murmur of voices in the private parlour as he reached out and turned the door handle. One of those voices was raised much louder than the others, and the words reached Lucian as plainly as if he were already in the room.

‘Say what you like about the man’s war record, George, but I remember him as being wild and undisciplined in our youth. Neither do his years in the army alter the fact that St Claire has become nothing more than a rake since his return to polite society, and as such rendering him unfit company for the likes of Grace—’ Francis Wynter abruptly broke off his tirade as Lucian stepped nonchalantly into the room.

Grace, along with everyone else present, turned her attention sharply towards the door as it was softly pushed open and an unknown gentleman stepped lightly into the room.

And what a gentleman!

Grace had never seen a man so tall, so fashionably attired—in a superbly tailored jacket, waistcoat and cream breeches with highly polished Hessians, his linen snowy white, with delicate lace at the cuffs and throat—and so aristocratically and darkly handsome as Lord Lucian St Claire.

For surely this could be none other than the man Francis had just called a rake?

Grace’s breath caught in her throat as she raised her gaze to Lord Lucian St Claire’s face. His jaw was square and chiselled beneath cynically sculptured lips, and a straight nose was set below the darkest, blackest, most piercingly intense eyes Grace had ever beheld.

Eyes that coolly met her surprised gaze before he raised one dark brow with arrogant deliberation.

Grace quickly averted her gaze from that mockingly sardonic one—but not before she had noted that his overlong, slightly curling hair was almost as dark as those intense black eyes that seconds ago had looked at her so tauntingly.

‘I seem to have interrupted your conversation, Wynter,’ he drawled softly, challengingly. ‘You were saying…?’

Grace felt a quiver of trepidation down the length of her spine at the warning she sensed behind the mildness of that tone, and knew by the way Francis’s cheeks coloured that he was also aware of the air of danger that surrounded the slightly older man. Lord Lucian St Claire must have appeared a formidable officer to his men during his years in the army.

Francis’s smile was forced. ‘Nothing of any consequence, St Claire,’ he dismissed determinedly. ‘You know my sister-in-law, the Duchess of Carlyne, of course?’ he added courteously.

‘Your Grace.’ Lucian St Claire stepped forward to take the Duchess’s hand in his own before raising it to his lips.

‘And this is Carlyne’s ward, Miss Grace Hetherington,’ Francis added, even as he took a proprietorial step that moved him pointedly to Grace’s side, his hand lightly beneath her elbow in a gesture of possession.

It was a gesture that Grace, as she rose to bobble a curtsey to Lord Lucian, definitely took exception to, and she took a step away from that show of possession.

In fact, Grace acknowledged frowningly, Francis’s manner was too pompously elevated altogether, when it should have been the Duke, as the host for the evening, who made the introductions.

‘Miss Hetherington.’ Lucian gave an inclination of his head, his dark eyes mocking as he gazed his fill on the youthfully beautiful Grace Hetherington.

It would have been impossible for Lucian not to be aware of Francis Wynter’s unsubtle and protective move to Grace Hetherington’s side—almost as if he suspected that Lucian might try to seduce her here and now, under the Duke and Duchess of Carlyne’s watchful gaze, with his rakish ways!

He had also noted Grace Hetherington’s instant removal of herself from Wynter’s protection…

Francis’s earlier claim that Lucian had been ‘wild and undisciplined’ in his youth had rankled more than Lucian cared to admit—especially as his own memories of visits to his friend Simon’s home during school holidays were of Francis, the Duke’s young brother and ward, constantly telling tales on the two older boys, petulant and whiny if he was excluded from their more mature pursuits.

But a single glance at Grace Hetherington had shown Lucian that he would be foolish to give in to the temptation he felt to use her in order to retaliate to Francis’s barbs. There was no doubting that she was ethereally lovely, with her ebony hair curling enticingly about the pale delicacy of her face—a face dominated by unfathomable grey eyes surrounded by thick dark lashes, and a full pouting mouth that almost cried out to be kissed. She was also, Lucian noted dismissively, barely older than Lucian’s nineteen-year-old sister Arabella.

Whilst Lucian might deserve the rakish reputation he had earned in the last two years, he had lately become tired of that life. Aware of his responsibilities, he had even come to the conclusion in the last few months that it was time he took a wife, to become mistress of his estate in Hampshire and provide the necessary heirs. An older woman, familiar enough with the ways of the ton to accept the little time and emotion Lucian felt able to give her…

‘My Lord,’ Grace Hetherington returned politely, her voice soft and husky.

A voice, Lucian recognised with frowning surprise, capable of raising a man’s desire without any other effort being made on her part.

He gave Grace Hetherington a second, more searching glance from beneath hooded lids. Her hair was indeed lovely—black and silky, those curls enticingly impish—but the expression in her grey eyes was hidden by demurely lowered lashes that lay dark and thick against her creamy cheeks. Her nose was small and slightly uptilted, her lips full and lush in her heart-shaped face, her neck long and slender, her breasts surprisingly full and creamy above the low neckline of her cream silk and lace evening gown. The rest of her slender figure was indiscernible beneath the high-waisted gown.

Lucian’s gaze returned to the delicate beauty of her face, still frowning as he tried to reconcile the come-to-bed huskiness of her voice with her otherwise youthfully innocent appearance. Was she aware of the effect her voice alone had upon a man? Those demurely lowered lashes seemed to say no, and yet—

Damn it, Grace Hetherington was his young sister’s contemporary, Lucian reminded himself with impatient self-disgust. And as such she was completely untouchable for a man of his experience. Completely!

‘I believe I have kept you all from your meal quite long enough,’ he drawled in languid apology. ‘Please allow me to escort you in to dinner, Your Grace.’ He held out his arm politely to the Duchess of Carlyne.

Grace hadn’t even been aware that she had ceased to breathe under the intensity of Lord Lucian St Claire’s dark, unreadable gaze, until he broke that gaze as he turned away from her, in order to accompany her aunt through to the private dining room that had been set aside for their use this evening. Nor that her cheeks were hot and flushed. That her hands were shaking. Her legs feeling less than steady.

Lord Lucian St Claire, Grace had absolutely no doubt, even on such short acquaintance, was exactly the type of man—exactly the type of man!—that her mother had warned her to beware of if she were ever to find herself in tonnish society.