The Rake's Wicked Proposal

Lucian St Claire gave her a pitying look down the long, arrogant length of his nose. ‘The unwritten law, Grace—“thou shalt not get caught”! Society may behave exactly as it pleases behind closed doors—and very often does!—but in no way is it permissible to allow that behaviour to become public knowledge.’

‘But only my aunt is aware—’

‘Your aunt is no doubt relating this incident to her husband, the Duke of Carlyne, at this very moment,’ he dismissed coldly. ‘I have known them most of my life, Grace. Their son, your cousin, was my dearest friend. I am afraid that nothing less than marriage between us will satisfy that friendship.’

‘No!’ Grace protested as she rose sharply to her feet. This was wrong. All wrong.

She had behaved badly just now, yes. She had behaved stupidly, certainly. Recklessly, even. But surely that did not mean that she had to be tied for the rest of her life to a man who obviously loved her no more than she loved him?

Did it…?

‘You have something else you wish to say to me before I talk to your uncle?’ He was every inch Lord Lucian St Claire, brother of the haughty Duke of Stourbridge, as he paused in the doorway.

Frighteningly so. Grace found herself facing a complete stranger. The teasing lover of earlier was nowhere to be seen in this coldly arrogant nobleman.

Because he no more wished to be married to her than Grace wished to be married to him. Only Society, it seemed, and his friendship and regard for her aunt and uncle dictated that it must be so…

Well, if that were the case then Grace wanted no part of that Society. Nor would she remain with her aunt and uncle to bring shame upon them by her behaviour. If needs be she would return to the countryside from whence she had come.

Her chin rose determinedly. ‘I will refuse any offer of marriage you might make, My Lord.’

His mouth twisted into a humourless smile, those black eyes cold and merciless. ‘You will be given little choice in the matter, Grace.’

She gasped. ‘But of course I will be consulted—’

‘No, Grace, you will not,’ Lucian assured her flatly, almost pitying her in that moment. Almost.

He was too angry, both with himself and with her, to feel genuine pity. Grace Hetherington was everything Lucian had already decided he did not desire in a wife. She was too young. She was too idealistic in her expectations. Expectations Lucian already knew, in the resolute way he felt he had to hold himself aloof from emotional entanglement, he would never be able to measure up to.

Her response just now to his kisses seemed to indicate they would both enjoy the bedding part of their marriage, but Lucian did not hold out hopes for the success of any other part of the alliance. Certainly he had no desire to see himself happily ensconced with Grace in the way that Hawk and Jane now were at Mulberry Hall. In fact, as Lucian had originally intended with any woman he took to wife, he would spend as little time with her as possible once they were married.

Grace had been brought up in the country. Once she was his wife it was to his own country estate in Hampshire that she would go, and there she would stay.

His mouth thinned with displeasure as he saw how pale her face had become at his assertion. ‘You have been caught in a compromising position, Grace, and the price of that compromise, for both of us, is marriage.’

And, oh, how he hated the very idea of it. Grace knew that without a shadow of a doubt. As did she. It would be horrible, unimaginable, to find herself married to a man who no longer seemed even to like her, let alone wanted to spend the rest of his life tied to her in marriage.

She straightened as she raised her chin challengingly. ‘I will refuse to marry you, Lord St Claire.’

Those black eyes narrowed ominously. ‘You will not, Grace.’

Grace stood her ground as she gave a determined shake of her head. ‘You will not dictate to me, sir.’

A nerve pulsed in his tightly clenched jaw. ‘My friendship with your aunt and uncle dictates it, not I!’

‘Your friendship with my aunt and uncle…?’ Her eyes widened with indignation. ‘What of my feelings in this matter?’

His top lip curled with displeasure. ‘They became unimportant, as did my own, the moment your aunt walked into this bedchamber and found the two of us together. It would seem I am to pay the price for the deed without even having enjoyed it to the full,’ he added mockingly.

Grace breathed hard in her agitation. ‘And neither will you!’ she assured him forcefully. ‘Not now. Or ever!’

Those black eyes narrowed dangerously. ‘You are denying me our marital bed before we are even wed?’

‘I am telling you that there will be no marital bed! I am refusing to marry you under any circumstances! For any reason!’ Her hands were clenched tightly into fists at her sides.

She really was magnificently beautiful when she was angry, Lucian appreciated dispassionately. ‘I really cannot agree to that, Grace—’

‘I do not need your agreement, My Lord—’

‘You would rather cause more distress to your aunt?’ His eyes were narrowed coldly.

She flushed. ‘No, of course not.’

‘And your uncle?’ Lucian continued remorselessly. ‘Unless I am mistaken, the Duke is unwell…’

She swallowed hard. ‘He has a—a condition of the heart. Although he refuses to believe it.’

Lucian gave an abrupt inclination of his head. ‘Then do you not think a scandal involving his niece is the last thing that he needs?’

‘You are being unfair, My Lord—’

‘I am being practical, Grace,’ Lucian rasped. ‘Now, I advise that you tidy yourself in my absence. That you dress more appropriately for receiving the congratulations of your guardians on the good fortune of your future marriage.’

She gave a stubborn shake of her head. ‘I do not believe my aunt and uncle would ever force a betrothal upon me brought about in such regrettable circumstances.’

Lucian gave her a pitying look. Grace really was very young if she honestly believed that would be the case. He already knew that the Duke and Duchess of Carlyne would grasp him eagerly to their bosoms and call him nephew as quickly as they would forget the circumstances of their betrothal, before congratulating themselves on the advantageous match they had secured for their young niece. Cynically, Lucian could not help wondering how long it would be before Grace saw that advantage for herself…

She would become wife to the war hero Major Lord Lucian St Claire, and sister-in-law to the powerful Duke of Stourbridge and his lovely wife Jane, also to the eligible Lord Sebastian St Claire, and to the beautiful Lady Arabella St Claire. And the prestige and wealth of those individual St Claires was such that in Society they were held to be a law unto themselves.

Except, Lucian knew, when it came to the question of besmirching the reputation of an innocent young lady such as Miss Grace Hetherington, ward of the Duke and Duchess of Carlyne, in a public inn…

Lucian gave a mocking shake of his head. ‘Future events will prove you quite wrong, my dear Grace.’

‘I am not your dear anything!’

Not yet, perhaps. But she would be. And if nothing else, once Grace was his wife, Lucian intended slaking at his leisure the thirst her body created in his. With any luck he could still continue with his earlier businesslike plans for his marriage. He would get Grace with child within months, and then he would deposit her at his estate in Hampshire—far away from London and the life he intended to carry on living there whilst his wife and child rusticated in the country.

Not for him the slavish devotion Lucian now saw in his brother Hawk. No, that was being unfair. Hawk worshipped the ground his beloved Jane walked upon, yes, but it was a love that was more than reciprocated as the two of them happily resided together at Mulberry Hall, awaiting the birth of their first child.

Completely unlike the businesslike arrangement that Lucian intended for his own marriage. Indeed, once Grace had produced the necessary heir they would not even have to see each other above once a year, and then only for appearances’ sake.

‘Indeed you are not,’ he conceded hardly. ‘But I advise you, for your own sake, that the sooner you learn to obey me the better we shall deal with each other.’

‘Obey you…?’ Grace stared at him incredulously, two bright spots of angry colour in her cheeks. ‘The year is 1817, My Lord, not 1217, and the times of the feudal overlord are long gone!’

‘Not on my estate,’ he assured her coldly.

‘But we are not on your estate,’ she pointed out with insincere sweetness.