Lucian’s mouth curled disdainfully. ‘Do try to look a little happier, Grace, when I am about to ask your guardians for your hand in marriage.’

Grace stared at him dazedly, sure that she could not have heard him correctly. He could not seriously think—could not imagine—

‘But I have no wish to marry you!’

‘Wish?’ He arched scathing brows. ‘Wishes, Grace, either yours or my own, do not enter into the situation we now find ourselves in,’ he assured her scornfully. ‘We have broken the unwritten law of Society.’

Grace was well aware that she should not have allowed this man the liberty of kissing her—and had no idea how she was going to face her aunt again—but surely that did not mean they had to actually marry each other?

Carole Mortimer was born in England, the youngest of three children. She began writing in 1978, and has now published over one hundred and forty books with Harlequin Mills & Boon. Carole has four sons, Matthew, Joshua, Timothy and Peter, and a bearded collie called Merlyn. She says, ‘I’m happily married to Peter senior; we’re best friends as well as lovers, which is probably the best recipe for a successful relationship. We live in a lovely part of England.’

THE RAKE’S
WICKED PROPOSAL

Carole Mortimer

www.millsandboon.co.uk

THE RAKE’S WICKED PROPOSAL

Chapter One

‘Good gad! Is that you, St Claire?’

Lucian St Claire, having entered the coaching inn only seconds earlier, and feeling much relieved to at last be out of the relentless rain he had suffered for the last two hours, felt that relief replaced by a sinking dread as he easily recognised the boomingly jovial voice of the Duke of Carlyne.

‘It is you!’ The Duke strode forcefully down the hallway of the inn to where Lucian stood, removing his extremely wet greatcoat, a smile of pleasure lighting the older man’s features as he thrust a hand out in greeting. ‘Well met, m’boy!’

‘Your Grace,’ Lucian murmured softly, giving an abrupt inclination of his head even as he shook the proffered hand, his gaze dark and unreadable.

Deliberately so. He and the Duke had not met for almost two years, but Lucian knew that very shortly the Duke would remember the circumstances of that meeting, and the pleasure would fade from the older man’s face. It was a face that had aged considerably in the intervening years, making the Duke appear much older than the late fifties Lucian knew him to be.

Ah, there it was, Lucian recognised heavily. The frown. The flicker of pained remembrance in the eyes. Quickly followed by a forced return of the other man’s earlier pleasure in this chance meeting.

Lucian had suffered many such encounters since he had resigned his commission from the army almost two years ago. Too many. And neither time nor frequency had dulled the feeling of guilt he suffered at each such meeting.

For Lucian had survived five years in the army, only resigning his commission after that last bloody battle at Waterloo. A battle that had ensued after many Englishmen and women had thought Napoleon finished, routed, and incarcerated on the Isle of Elba. Only to have him escape that island to rouse his soldiers anew, renewing hostilities in a battle that had robbed Lucian of far too many brothers-in-arms. Most especially three fellow officers, his closest friends.

Including Simon Wynter, Marquess of Richfield, the Duke of Carlyne’s beloved only son and heir…

Lucian forced down the memories of his unhappy journey almost two years ago to the Duke’s estate in Worcestershire, where he had felt compelled to go in order to offer the Duke and Duchess his condolences on Simon’s death.

He had made similar journeys to several of the families of his slain friends, each of them harder than the last as, once his condolences had been expressed a certain look of resentment appeared on the faces of those families at their realisation that he, Major Lord Lucian St Claire, the second of the three sons of the deceased Ninth Duke of Stourbridge, had somehow survived whilst their beloved husband, son or brother had perished.

Lucian had felt no animosity towards those people for the emotion; how could he when he had so often been plagued with nightmares that made him, too, wish that he had not survived!

He decided it was time to take pity on the Duke of Carlyne’s confused expression. ‘You are visiting friends in the area, sir?’

‘Just come from spending a few days at m’brother Darius’s new estate in Malvern.’ The older man’s expression brightened as he thankfully grasped this innocuous subject.

‘I trust he is well, sir?’ It had been far less than two years since Lucian had last seen his friend Darius—only seven months or so. But a lot had happened to the other man in that time…

The Duke’s face took on a suitable look of melancholy. ‘Bearing up, don’t you know.’ A glint of rueful humour entered his eyes. ‘Some would say perhaps too well!’

There was an answering glint in Lucian’s gaze as it knowingly met the older man’s.

Lord Darius Wynter, Lucian knew, had taken himself a wife seven months ago. A Miss Sophie Belling, from the north of England. Her father owned several mills in the area, and so had been easily able to provide a more than generous dowry for his only child. It had not been a love-match, on either side: Miss Belling had wanted a husband with a title, and Darius had required a wife with a fortune. Conveniently—for Darius, that was—Lady Sophie had been killed in a hunting accident only a month after the wedding, leaving Darius in possession of the fortune but not the wife.

Darius had always been a rogue and a gambler. His profligate lifestyle meant that he had quickly gone through the fortune left to him by his father when he reached his majority, thus necessitating a need in Darius to marry for money. He had even, Lucian recalled with some amusement, offered for Lucian’s young sister Arabella at the end of last Season. An offer Hawk, their haughty older brother and the the Duke of Stourbridge, had felt absolutely no hesitation in refusing!

‘A brief diversion, for we’re on our way to London,’ the Duke of Carlyne continued lightly. ‘For the Season. Or at least we were.’ He frowned. ‘Damned coach has developed a rickety wheel. But I mustn’t keep you standing about here when you are obviously wet and uncomfortable.’ He frowned as Lucian’s greatcoat chose that moment to drip water on to the wooden floor. ‘You surely aren’t travelling on horseback, St Claire?’

Lucian grimaced. ‘It was very fine when I set out from London two days ago.’ After days, often weeks, spent in the saddle during his years in the war against Napoleon, the rain of an English spring did not seem like such a hardship to Lucian.

‘That’s the English weather for you, hmm?’ The older man smiled ruefully. ‘On your way to visit your brother and the family in Gloucestershire, are you?’

‘I am, sir.’ Lucian gave an inclination of his dark head.

‘Inferior inn, I’m afraid, St Claire,’ the Duke confided dismissively. ‘But ’m reliably informed that the food makes up for the lack of other comforts. Join us for dinner once you have procured a room and changed out of those wet clothes.’

‘I do not have the necessary clothes with me for dining in company—’

‘Nonsense,’ the Duke dismissed warmly. ‘Do say you will join us, St Claire. I have no doubt the ladies will be relieved to have more diverting company than a crusty old man and his boorish brother.’

Ladies? Plural? Which obviously meant there would be another lady other than the Duchess present. And the Duke’s ‘boorish brother’ had to be Lord Francis Wynter, the youngest of the three Wynter brothers—a young man Lucian had known for many years, and found pompous and opinionated in the extreme.

But good manners dictated that Lucian could not continue to refuse the Duke of Carlyne’s gracious invitation. ‘In that case I would be honoured, Your Grace,’ he accepted stiffly. ‘If you will allow me but half an hour in which to make good my appearance…?’

‘Certainly, m’boy.’ The Duke now looked pleased by this turn of events. ‘I am sure m’wife will want to hear all about your brother and his pretty new Duchess.’

Lucian was equally sure, as he strolled upstairs to his bedchamber several minutes later, having procured a room and demanded hot water for a bath, that his brother Hawk would not appreciate having his beloved Jane discussed in a public coaching inn or anywhere else!

‘I am sure you will find St Claire extremely diverting, m’dear,’ Grace’s uncle, the Duke of Carlyne, continued to assure her with a merry twinkle in his eye. ‘Most of the single ladies of the ton seem to find his broodingly dark good-looks extremely appealing. Several of the married ones, too—eh, m’dear?’ He gave his Duchess a knowing smile.

‘I am sure I do not know what you mean, Carlyne.’ Grace’s aunt, a plump matronly woman still deeply in love with her equally smitten husband, dismissed him frowningly. ‘Neither is it a fitting subject on which to converse in front of a young lady of Grace’s sensibilities.’

‘Certainly not,’ Lord Francis Wynter agreed haughtily. ‘In fact, George, I am not sure that it was a wise decision on your part to invite St Claire to join us for dinner at all, with two ladies present.’

‘Don’t be such a pompous ass, Francis. Oh! I am sorry, m’dears.’ The Duke at once apologised to his wife and Grace for his outspokenness. ‘But St Claire’s entitled to sow a few wild oats,’ he added defensively. ‘What you should remember, Francis, is that Major Lord Lucian St Claire is a hero of the Peninsula War—and most especially that last bloody battle at Waterloo.’

Grace saw the flush of resentment on Francis’s cheeks at this reminder that, despite being a youngest son, he had chosen not to enter into that particular war. A war, moreover, in which his only nephew, Grace’s cousin, had lost his young life.

Grace was not sure either, after her aunt’s whispered comments about Lord Lucian St Claire, and her uncle’s more risqué ones, that the man was a fitting dinner companion. But she would not for the world have said so. She was deeply resentful of the almost proprietorial air that Francis Wynter had lately started to adopt towards her and her welfare. Especially as she had given him no encouragement, by word or deed, to behave in such a familiar manner.

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.

Exactly the sort of man it would be very dangerous—and heartbreaking—for any woman to ever fall in love with.

Not that Grace had any intention of falling in love with him. She definitely aspired a little higher than the tedious Francis Wynter as her lifetime companion, but at the same time she was not naïve enough to consider that a man as arrogantly handsome as Lucian St Claire had proved to be would ever fall in love with and marry someone like her. After the example of her parents’ marriage, as well as her aunt and uncle’s, Grace had already decided she would settle for nothing less than a love-match, either.

‘Grace…?’ Francis Wynter prompted impatiently as he stood beside her waiting to escort her into dinner.

Looking at him from beneath lowered lashes, Grace could not help but once again compare his petulantly blond good-looks to the saturnine handsomeness of Lucian St Claire. Day and Night. Good and devilish. Boring and dangerous…!

But with the mesmerising Lord St Claire now escorting her aunt into the adjoining room, Grace was able to take exception to Francis Wynter’s proprietorial attitude, and she shot him a look of glittering reproof before turning to instead slip her hand into the crook of her uncle’s arm.

‘Shall we go through, Uncle George…?’ She smiled up at him affectionately, all the time aware of the glowering dissatisfied gaze directed at the slenderness of her back as Francis Wynter followed closely behind them.

Chapter Two

As expected, Lucian found himself seated between the Duchess of Carlyne on one side and Grace Hetherington on the other, with the Duke seated beside her and an obviously disgruntled Francis Wynter placed between his brother and sister-in-law. No doubt before Lucian’s arrival the other man had expected to be seated beside the lovely Grace Hetherington, and so able to monopolise her attention.

A devilish impulse prompted Lucian to add to the other man’s discomfort by focusing his own attention on the other man’s more than obvious romantic interest. ‘You are on your way to London for the Season, I believe, Miss Hetherington?’ he prompted politely, turning towards her.

She paused in eating her soup. ‘I am, My Lord.’

‘Your first?’

‘Yes, My Lord.’

‘And have you ever been to London before, Miss Hetherington?’

Those long dark lashes were once more lowered over those smoky grey eyes. ‘No, My Lord.’

She really did have the most sensuously arousing voice he had ever heard, Lucian acknowledged, and he found himself continuing to ask her questions just so that he could listen to that husky tone. It was a voice that possessed the potency of a caress against naked flesh. His naked flesh.

‘And are you looking forward to all the excitement of your first Season? Perhaps hoping that the romantic prince of your dreams will appear and sweep you off your feet?’

Grace was frowning as she looked up at Lucian St Claire, having easily heard and taken exception to the light mockery underlining that drawling voice. She could now see the cynical curl to his lips, and the arrogant contempt in his expression towards the absurdity of the Season, and its accompanying plethora of marriage-minded mamas seeking a suitable husband for their daughters.

No doubt he felt all of those things towards Grace as she ventured into Society. As it happened, it was an unwilling venture on her part. She had agreed to this Season only after her Uncle George had explained to her that it would be a diversion for her aunt, who still suffered deep melancholy over the death of her only son.

‘I do not believe in romantic princes, My Lord,’ she assured him softly.

Those dark brows rose over eyes that seemed to laugh at her. ‘You do not?’

‘Not at all, My Lord,’ Grace confirmed lightly. ‘Divest even a prince of his title, and what do you see?’

Lucian St Claire’s eyes were openly amused. ‘Perhaps you would care to enlighten me, Miss Hetherington?’

She shrugged dismissively. ‘That he is a man—like any other.’

Those sculptured lips curved appreciatively. ‘You sound—contemptuous, Miss Hetherington?’

‘Should I not? Perhaps I am wrong, My Lord, but it is my understanding that the rich and titled gentlemen of the ton are looking only for beauty in their future wives, for a woman of suitable lineage to produce their future heirs.’

‘Really, my dear Grace!’ her aunt interrupted sharply. ‘I am sure that Lord St Claire does not wish to hear the—the perhaps less than genteel—’ She broke off as Lord Lucian raised a placating hand.

‘On the contrary, Your Grace, I find myself very interested in Miss Hetherington’s conversation,’ Lucian drawled assuringly, and once again found himself being surprised by Grace Hetherington. Especially as she had just described the sort of arrangement he had decided would most suit himself!

It was rare indeed to hear a young woman express herself so frankly when in public. Well, apart from his sister Arabella, of course. But, having grown up with three older brothers, Bella tended to be slightly different from the usual.

He gave Grace Hetherington a considering look from beneath hooded lids. ‘You do not hold with the opinion that a titled gentleman is duty-bound to take himself a wife?’

‘A wife he does not love nor perhaps even like?’ Grey eyes frowned across at him. ‘No, My Lord, I do not hold with that opinion.’

‘This really is not suitable dinner conversation, my dear,’ the Duchess of Carlyne reproved her again, lightly. ‘You must excuse my niece, Lord St Claire; she has lived all her life in the country with her parents—my dear deceased sister and her husband. She does not yet know how to go on in Society.’

‘On the contrary, I find Miss Hetherington’s conversation very—refreshing,’ Lucian assured her, his gaze fixed intently on the now slightly flushed face of Grace Hetherington. ‘Tell me, Miss Hetherington, what is your opinion of the less financially fortunate gentlemen of the ton?’ he prompted softly.

Grace was well aware that Lord Lucian was playing with her, deliberately provoking her into voicing her less than enamoured opinion of the Society in which he lived. And played. Even on such brief acquaintance Grace knew that this man played with words when no other diversion presented itself.

It was an arena in which her liberal-minded father and mother had encouraged Grace to hold her own. ‘Those gentlemen are, of course, not so concerned with the way a woman looks, or indeed her lineage, so long as she has the fortune necessary for them to live the lifestyle they consider theirs by right.’

Lucian St Claire gave up all pretence of eating and pushed his soup bowl away from him to focus all his attention on Grace. ‘And which of those categories do you suppose I fit into, Miss Hetherington?’ His voice was soft—dangerously so.

Grace pretended to give the question due consideration.

Pretended because, after Francis’s description of the other man, she believed she already knew what type of man Lucian St Claire was.

Grace pushed her own soup bowl away from her before turning to meet that mocking dark gaze. ‘It is my belief that there is a third category of man amongst the ton.’

‘Which is?’ The amusement was less in evidence now, and the darkness of Lucian St Claire’s eyes had taken on a cold glitter.

Grace shrugged unconcernedly. ‘It is, I believe, those gentlemen who have both money and a title but no use for a wife of any kind. They see women—married or otherwise—merely as playthings.’

‘And you believe I am one of that category?’ There was a definite edge to Lucian St Claire’s voice now, a challenge in those sculptured lips as they thinned above the squareness of his arrogantly angled jaw.

‘That really is not for me to say, My Lord,’ Grace told him softly. Having glanced at Francis Wynter, she easily recognised the expression of malicious glee on his face as he listened avidly to the exchange. And another glance at her aunt’s disapproving face told Grace that she should not pursue this conversation any further. That she had already pursued it too far.

That she had been goaded into doing so by Lucian St Claire was in no doubt, but nevertheless Grace accepted that she had been less than prudent in her opinions.

She lowered her lashes demurely, to hide the flash of temper she knew would be visible in her eyes. ‘My aunt is correct, sir, when she claims I am not yet used to the subtle nuances of the ton. I apologise if you have found my comments in the least insulting. I have perhaps been too—candid in my views.’ She looked up, her temper once again under control, her eyes calmly serene. ‘It is also very wrong of me to have monopolised your attention in this way, when I am sure that my uncle is simply longing to tell you of the prime horseflesh he has recently acquired.’ She gave her uncle an affectionate smile.

Surprisingly, Lucian was disappointed at this abrupt ending of his conversation with Grace Hetherington. For once in his life he had believed himself to be having an honest exchange with a woman—his sister Arabella once again excepted; Arabella was even more outspoken in her opinions than Grace Hetherington had been. Heaven help the male members of the ton if Grace Hetherington and Arabella should meet up in London during the coming Season and form a friendship!

But Grace Hetherington’s introduction of the subject of the Duke’s stables made the conversation less exclusive, and the three gentlemen began to discuss horseflesh, at the same time allowing the Duchess to once again gently reprimand her niece for her lack of discretion. Lucian noted this regretfully, as Grace Hetherington fell silent during the rest of the surprisingly excellent meal. Perhaps, as the Duke had claimed, the food did make up for the inn’s lack of other amenities after all.

The good food and wine certainly helped to ease the earlier discord in their gathering. Even Lucian’s mood had lightened somewhat by the time the ladies had drunk their tea and the Duchess had risen to suggest that the two of them would now retire for the evening, so leaving the gentlemen alone to enjoy their brandy and cigars.

‘I believe I might retire too, m’dear.’ The Duke rose more slowly to his feet than the two younger gentlemen. ‘Forgive me, St Claire, but I’m feeling slightly fatigued. Too much good food and wine, I expect,’ he added in rueful apology. ‘There is no joy in getting older, I’m afraid!’

Lucian gave the older man a searching glance, noting as he did so the fine sheen of moisture on the other man’s forehead, the slight pallor to his clammy skin, and the blue eyes dulled with pain. Obviously the Duke was suffering some discomfort after eating, but Lucian very much doubted that at the age of eight and fifty the reason for such discomfort could be attributed to age.

‘Is it your heart again, George?’ Francis Wynter looked up frowningly at his older brother.

The Duke’s face became flushed with temper. ‘No, dammit, it is not m’heart—’

‘Calm yourself, Carlyne,’ the Duchess soothed placatingly. ‘I am sure that Francis was only expressing his concern.’

‘It is a concern I can well do without.’ Her husband scowled his displeasure.

‘Remember what the physician you consulted in Worcester said about your heart and becoming too excited, Carlyne—’

‘Damned quack,’ the Duke dismissed disgustedly. ‘Excuse the family exchange, if you will, St Claire.’ He smiled across at Lucian ruefully. ‘A touch of indigestion and everyone assumes ’m on m’deathbed.’

‘I am sure that the Duchess and Francis meant well,’ Lucian placated. ‘Would you like me to accompany you up the stairs?’ He frowned as he noted the way the Duke swayed slightly as he turned to walk to the door.

‘Not necessary, m’dear fellow, when I have my dear Margaret and Grace beside me.’ George Wynter smiled reassuringly at his wife as she took his arm concernedly, Grace at his other side. ‘You two young bucks stay and enjoy your brandy and some congenial conversation.’

Lucian thought he would rather once again take up his commission and endure cold months in the saddle than spend any time alone with the pompous bore Francis Wynter had undoubtedly become! But as the Duke and Duchess of Carlyne left the room, accompanied by their solicitous niece, Lucian accepted that he had little choice than to partake of at least one glass of the brandy the young maid poured for them before she also left the room. After that he would acquire a decanter of his own to take up to his bedchamber, so that he might drink himself into oblivion.

Francis Wynter took advantage of the departure of his brother and the two ladies to move into Grace Hetherington’s seat, and the two men were sitting side by side as he leant confidingly towards Lucian. ‘I beg that you will not think too badly of Miss Hetherington for her less than discreet conversation earlier.’

Lucian looked at the other man coldly, surprised at the younger man’s chosen topic of conversation when his brother had just left the room in an obviously less than well state. ‘I assure you I do not think badly of Miss Hetherington.’

Francis Wynter’s eyes narrowed. ‘But I am sure you will agree that she is yet slightly gauche when in polite society.’

Lucian had no idea where this conversation was going, but he certainly did not appreciate the younger man discussing Miss Hetherington in this familiar manner with someone who was, after all, a complete stranger to her. ‘On the contrary,’ he drawled slowly. ‘It is my belief that Miss Hetherington’s nature is such that over the next few months she will come to be considered an Original by the ton.’

‘As to that, St Claire—’ the younger man gave a supercilious smile ‘—I am sure it cannot have escaped your notice that Miss Hetherington and I…’ He paused delicately. ‘Well, there is an understanding between the two of us. Of course there has been nothing official announced as yet.’ He grimaced. ‘But I believe I can safely say that an engagement will shortly be announced.’

Lucian didn’t react to the other man’s self-satisfied announcement by so much as a flicker of an eyelid— but inwardly… Inwardly! Was this young puppy actually warning him off pursuing any interest he might be nurturing in Grace Hetherington’s direction? Did this man actually dare to presume—?

‘Grace must be allowed to have her Season, of course,’ Francis Wynter continued airily. ‘But it is only to introduce her to Society. I have every confidence that George will consider no offer but my own.’

Damn it, he did dare to presume!

Lucian couldn’t remember feeling this angry for a very long time. Certainly he had never been roused to such emotion before where a woman was concerned. ‘Surely it is Miss Hetherington who will need to consider your offer?’ he said. And from the little Lucian had observed this evening in Grace Hetherington’s manner towards Francis Wynter, he had no doubt she would be in total disagreement with such an offer.

There was no doubting that such a match would be considered a very good one for a country miss such as Grace Hetherington. Lucian had guessed from the Duchess’s earlier comments about her sister and her husband that Grace’s parents had been simple country gentry. But, easily recalling that spark of rebellion he had seen in Grace Hetherington’s eyes on more than one occasion this evening, and her earlier conversation concerning marriage, Lucian very much doubted that Francis Wynter was going to find it quite so easy to persuade Miss Grace Hetherington as to the suitability of his offer.

Not that it was any of Lucian’s business who Grace Hetherington chose to marry. Except that it would be a pity to see all of that originality subjugated by Francis Wynter’s pomposity. Or her beauty given to him alone, Lucian allowed grudgingly, recalling those misty grey eyes and the fullness of Grace Hetherington’s mouth, the creamy softness of her skin and the silky darkness of hair that, once unconfined, would no doubt fall in curling disarray to the slenderness of her waist.

Francis raised his brows. ‘Grace will, of course, be guided by my brother and his wife when it comes to the acceptance of a marriage proposal. And a match between the two of us is more than suitable,’ he claimed with certainty.

It might be suitable as far as Francis Wynter was concerned, Lucian acknowledged as he repressed a smile, but Grace Hetherington was another matter entirely. ‘I wish you every luck in your endeavour, then, Wynter,’ he drawled uninterestedly. ‘Pass the brandy, would you?’ he added briskly; if he had to endure this man’s company then he might as well drink his fill of brandy now, and so be too drunk to take offence at anything the other man might say!

‘You do not think that we should perhaps call a doctor, Aunt?’

Grace frowned her concern as she looked across the room at her Uncle George, where he lay back on the bed, his eyes closed, even paler now than he had been downstairs.

‘Carlyne will not hear of it—claims it is only a touch of indigestion.’ Her aunt looked no less worried as she glanced across at her husband. Not surprisingly, when there had been several bouts of such indigestion in recent months.

‘The opinion of another physician would perhaps be advisable, do you not think?’ Grace ventured to suggest, knowing that her uncle had absolutely no time for the diagnosis of the local doctor who had been summoned to Winton Hall after his last bout.

Grace had become very fond of her aunt and uncle during the year she had spent under their guardianship, and could not bear to now see her uncle in such discomfort, or her aunt so obviously worried.

‘I dare not go against Carlyne’s wishes.’ Her aunt gave a strained smile. ‘I believe it best if we wait a while and see if this passes, as it has before. You are only next door, Grace. Be assured I will call upon you if I have need of you,’ she added reassuringly as she saw Grace remained unconvinced.

Grace accepted the dismissal for what it was. ‘Please do not hesitate if you are in the least concerned. After all, there is Lord Wynter and—and Lord St Claire to call upon if needs be.’

She felt a slight warmth enter her cheeks just at recalling her verbal exchange with Lucian St Claire at dinner. He had not been at all what she’d expected after Francis’s description of him as a rake. He was very handsome, of course, as well as arrogant and mocking in his conversation, but there had been none of the overt familiarity that Grace had been expecting, nor the flirtation, nor indeed the faintest trace of a debauchee either in those arrogantly handsome features or the hard strength of his lithely muscled body. In fact, if anything, Grace had found him cold and emotionally removed.

She’d had the chance to observe him often from beneath lowered lashes during the course of the meal, and had come to realise that there was much more to Lord Lucian St Claire than the rake Francis had described him as being.

She had no doubt whatsoever that his affection for her aunt and uncle was completely genuine. And she had known that his contempt of Francis was equally sincere. But as Grace wholeheartedly shared that last view she could see no fault in him for that either!

In fact, as Mary, her maid, helped Grace to prepare for bed, before retiring to the room she was to share with the Duchess’s maid, Grace found her thoughts lingering musingly on Lord Lucian St Claire.

She could find no faults in him whatsoever—apart from perhaps an excess of arrogance—and had even, to her shame, enjoyed that lively verbal exchange with him.

Could it be that she was ever so slightly infatuated with him? Grace wondered frowningly, as she sat in her nightgown on the seat before the window. She lifted the catch and allowed the brisk spring air to enter the stuffiness of the small bedchamber. Perhaps, she conceded self-derisively.

The gentlemen she would meet during her Season would certainly pale into insignificance beside his nonchalant elegance and arrogant handsomeness. If Francis Wynter allowed any of those gentlemen close enough for her to be able to compare, Grace acknowledged with a tightening of her mouth as she crossed the room to climb into bed, before blowing out the candle and settling down sleepy-eyed amongst the pillows.

She had found Francis’s proprietorial manner towards her this evening even more annoying than usual, his hopes of a match where she was concerned being more than obvious.

Surely her aunt and uncle would not seriously contemplate such a match for her? It would be the first note of discord in their relationship if that were to be the case. Because Grace had no intention, now or in the future, of accepting any offer of marriage that Francis Wynter might make her. She would not even consider such an offer.

She would think of the more fascinating Lord Lucian St Claire instead, Grace decided, and she hugged a pillow to her, her thoughts drifting off as she fantasised about herself held unwilling captive by a faceless spurned lover, and Lucian St Claire riding to her rescue before carrying her off to his deserted castle. Quite what she wanted to happen once they reached that deserted castle Grace wasn’t sure, but no doubt it would include the placing of those finely chiselled lips upon her own, and the caress of his long, elegant hands upon her body.

A body that now warmed at the thought of such caresses. Her breasts were feeling strangely full, and there was an unaccustomed ache between her thighs as her thoughts wandered to considering what Lucian St Claire would look like without the benefit of the tailored perfection of his clothing. His shoulders would be wide and muscled, his skin soft and yet unyielding to the touch, his chest also, his stomach flat, his thighs—

Grace’s thoughts came to an abrupt halt as she acknowledged that, as she had no real experience of the nakedness of a man’s body below the waist, her imagination could take her no further.

But the little she had imagined had only increased the heat of her own body. The tips of her breasts were now tingling achingly, and there was a throbbing moistness between her thighs, a quiver of pleasure trembling through her body when she pressed her legs together, unlike anything she had ever felt before.

She touched herself wonderingly, feeling how slick and wet she was, how sensitive. Even the lightest touch of her fingers against that swollen flesh was sending tremors of feeling through her body.

How much more arousing would it be to have Lucian St Claire touch her in this way—to lie back and wantonly open herself to him as he…

Grace gave an aching groan as she turned onto her side and curled into a ball beneath the bedclothes, her face heated with embarrassment at her own unruly thoughts, and her eyes tightly closed against further imaginings as she willed herself to fall asleep.

He had drunk more brandy than usual during that enforced hour in Francis Wynter’s company, Lucian acknowledged disgustedly, staggering slightly as he made his way slowly up the narrow stairs of the inn by the light of the candle he carried.

The younger man had to be the most crashing bore Lucian had ever had the misfortune to meet—more so even than Lucian had imagined. He certainly did not envy Miss Grace Hetherington if he had been mistaken earlier concerning her feelings and she were to accept the other man’s offer of marriage; Wynter would probably be just as boring in the bedroom as he was in every other way!

Not his concern, Lucian told himself derisively as he concentrated on taking the measure of the stairs. Neither Wynter’s tedium in the bedroom, nor the imagining of Grace Hetherington’s slender loveliness going to such waste. No doubt if such a marriage should occur the two would deal very well together. Lucian certainly did not intend giving that lovely young lady or her future, with or without Wynter as her husband, another thought. All he required at this moment was his bed, and eight hours or so of complete oblivion, his sleep hopefully not visited by any of the nightmares that had so often beset him following that last horrendous battle at Waterloo.

Grace awoke with a start, having no idea why she had woken or indeed where she was for some seconds. Until she remembered the coach journey from Lord Darius Wynter’s home at Malvern Hall with her aunt and uncle, and Francis riding his black hunter in front of the coach, so not noticing the faulty wheel that had necessitated an unexpected halt in their journey. A halt that had brought them to this less than comfortable coaching inn.

And so to her meeting with Lord Lucian St Claire.

Grace shied away from thinking of him again after the embarrassing thoughts she’d had of him before falling asleep, instead turning her attention to trying to discover why it was she had woken so suddenly.

There was someone in her bedchamber!

The realisation that she was not alone, that someone else was moving stealthily about the room, muttering softly under their breath as they stumbled into unseen obstacles in the darkness, held Grace frozen beneath the bedclothes.

Who could it be?

Her aunt, perhaps? To tell her that Uncle George’s condition had worsened and they needed to send for the physician after all? But, no. Her aunt would have knocked on the door of the bedchamber before entering, and she would also have carried a candle to light her way, not be stumbling around in the darkness.

So the intruder was probably unknown to Grace.

A robber, perhaps?

But surely of all the guests staying at the inn—amongst them a duke, a duchess and two lords—the innocuous Miss Grace Hetherington was the least likely to have anything of value in her room?

Except herself, of course…

Grace’s eyes widened in alarm as she acknowledged that it was perhaps her virtue that the intruder was intent on stealing.

Not without a fight on her part, Grace resolved determinedly, her mind racing as she considered how best to deal with the situation. She could just scream, of course—a move sure to bring at least four people running: her aunt and uncle, Lord Francis Wynter, and Lord Lucian St Claire. But that same scream would also alert the intruder to her wakefulness, allowing him the time to make good his escape and so be free to repeat the crime at some later date on a female perhaps less resilient than Grace. No, she would not scream. Instead she would deal with the intruder herself, before alerting her aunt and uncle.

Grace’s movements were slow and quiet as she managed to slip from beneath the covers to crouch on the side of the bed furthest from the intruder, her intention being to grasp the empty water jug on the table before hitting him over the head with it.

Grace executed her move with surprising success, catching the intruder completely unawares as she literally smashed the jug over his head, so that he fell to the floor and ceased all movement.

Grace’s hands were shaking very badly as she attempted to relight her candle, the flint refusing to spark until she had made several attempts, but the wick at last flickering into flame. She picked up the candle and turned to face her assailant.

Grace gasped her complete disbelief as she saw it was Lord Lucian St Claire who lay unconscious—and very naked!—on the floor of her bedchamber!

Chapter Three

Lucian’s first thought upon awakening was that he appeared to be suffering from the worst hangover of his life. Which was strange considering that, despite the brandy he consumed on a nightly basis, he rarely, if ever, suffered the effects of it the following morning.

But the throbbing in his head, like a dozen or more tiny men wielding hammers, was definitely worse than anything he had ever experienced before or wanted to experience again, he acknowledged with a pained groan, as he attempted to move his head from the pillow. Those hammers began to pound even more violently.

‘You’re awake!’

Lucian became very still as he fell back on the pillow. He was sure that he recognised that huskily seductive voice from the previous evening, but just as sure that Miss Grace Hetherington should not—absolutely should not!—be in his bedchamber with him.

He kept his eyes firmly closed. ‘Please tell me that this is just a manifestation of my imagination!’

‘No, My Lord, I am afraid this is very real,’ the voice that definitely sounded like Miss Grace Hetherington’s confirmed wryly.

Lucian’s lids rose abruptly even as he turned his head sharply in the direction of that voice, determinedly ignoring the painful hammering inside his head. His eyes widened accusingly as his gaze alighted on Grace Hetherington, where she sat on a chair beside his bed, apparently wearing only a silk robe over her nightgown, her black hair falling in enticing curls to her waist now that it was unconfined, just as Lucian had imagined it would.

‘What the devil are you doing in my bedchamber?’ Lucian demanded furiously.

More to the point, had he suffered any nightmares in her presence? Those dark, relentless dreams during which he cursed as he stabbed again and again with his sword at the French soldier who had just cut down Simon Wynter, in a bloodlust that left him shaken and numbed by his own savagery…

The fact that Grace had not run screaming from the bedchamber, nor now stared at him in horror, seemed to indicate that he had not.

Dark brows arched over clear grey eyes. ‘I think, My Lord, that you will find that it is for me to ask what you are doing in my bedchamber.’

Lucian frowned darkly before shifting his gaze about the room. What he saw was a bedchamber very similar to his own. And yet strangely not his own…

None of his travelling clothes were draped over the chair, as he had left them the evening before, and his shaving things were not on the dressing table either. In their stead was a cream satin and lace gown—the one worn by Miss Grace Hetherington the evening before—and on the dressing table a silver brush set, obviously feminine, and the pearl earbobs this young lady had also worn the previous evening.

His gaze returned sharply to Grace Hetherington’s face. ‘What am I doing in your bedchamber?’

Those full and tempting lips twisted into a rueful grimace. ‘I was hoping you might be able to tell me that.’

Lucian’s frown deepened. He remembered stumbling up the stairs, and his infinite relief at escaping Francis Wynter’s oppressive company at last. Then his wish for a peaceful night’s sleep, and the opening of the door to his bedchamber—

The candle had blown out as he entered the room—Grace Hetherington’s bedchamber rather than his own, apparently. Lucian remembered that now. He had been thrown into complete darkness, his irritation with Francis Wynter still such that he hadn’t even bothered to grope around and relight the candle, but had instead undressed in the darkness—

He had undressed in the darkness!

Grace watched calmly as Lucian St Claire’s hand shifted. He sharply lifted the bedclothes to look down upon his own nakedness. The same nakedness that had taken Grace completely by surprise when she had first lit the candle and seen him lying unconscious at her feet. The same nakedness that had initially shocked her into being unable to do anything more than simply stand and stare at so much male nudity.

As she had imagined, his shoulders were indeed wide and muscled, his stomach equally taut. And Grace now had her answer as to exactly what this man looked like beneath those cream breeches…!

Beautiful. With a hard, masculine beauty that she could never, ever have imagined. His legs were long and muscled—possibly from the years he had spent in the saddle whilst in the army—and a dark thatch of silky hair surrounded his manhood.

Extremely—manfully—beautiful. There was no other way in which Grace could possibly have described the hard nakedness of Lucian St Claire’s body.

Lucian let the bedclothes drop back over his nudity, his mouth a thin, disapproving line, a nerve pulsing in his jaw as he glared up at Grace Hetherington. ‘Did I touch you?’

‘Touch me…?’ she repeated softly.

Lucian closed his eyes only briefly before grating. ‘Yes—touch you! Did I—before the brandy I had consumed so obviously sent me into oblivion—did I happen to take your innocence?’

Her eyes widened. ‘You do not remember what happened after you entered my bedchamber?’

‘No, I—’ Lucian broke off impatiently as he frowned at her. ‘I remember my candle blowing out as I entered the room—’

She nodded. ‘I had opened the window for some air.’

Lucian scowled at the admission—as if she were not perfectly at liberty to open her own bedroom window if she so chose. ‘Miss Hetherington, did I or did I not make love to you last night?’

Grace stood up to move slightly away from the bed, sure that Lord St Claire would not follow her now that he was aware of his nakedness beneath the bedclothes.

He did not remember coming to her room. Did not remember undressing. Did not remember that, once Grace had helped him into the bed, he had been consumed by the most horrendous nightmares, during which he’d sworn and railed like a man possessed as he battled against a ‘French bastard’…

Nor did he seem to remember that prior to that he had been hit over the head with a water jug…!

Grace chewed on her lower lip, unsure of what to do or say next.

It was obvious from Lucian St Claire’s initial comment that he had believed himself to be in the privacy of his own bedchamber earlier, when he had moved so stealthily about the room, discarding his clothes before dropping them uncaringly on the floor.

She’d had time to ponder, as she sat helplessly in the chair beside the bed as witness to his nightmares, whether or not Lucian St Claire had meant to come to her bedchamber, and if so for what purpose. Although the fact that he was naked seemed all too readily to indicate that purpose!

But his surprise on awakening, at finding himself in her bedchamber rather than his own, and his anger and impatience with that fact, made a complete nonsense of her initial conclusion.

Disappointingly so? Perhaps, Grace allowed self-derisively. Even if she would have rebuffed his advances, it would still have been exciting—flattering, even—to be the object of the intimate interest of a man as arrogantly handsome as Lord Lucian St Claire.

But his mistaking her bedchamber for his own had obviously been genuine. A mistake—if they were not to be the centre of a complete scandal—that would have to be rectified as quickly and quietly as possible: namely by Lord St Claire’s removal from her bedchamber!

‘How long have I been here?’

Grace turned back to him. ‘Only an hour or so.’ She was reluctant to let him know that she had seen his disturbed dreams, already knowing him to be a man who would see such dreams as a weakness. A weakness he would hate anyone else to witness.

‘An hour—’ Lucian made the mistake of attempting to sit up. A mistake immediately brought home to him as the agonising pain that ensued caused him to place his hands on either side of his head in the hope of holding it in place should it attempt to topple from his neck!

Hell and damnation—what had been in the brandy this evening?

Ah—he had found the cause of the pain, his fingers having encountered a large bump on the left side of his head, just behind his ear. A lump that was tender and sore to the touch, as if—

He looked across at Grace Hetherington accusingly.

She swallowed, her throat moving convulsively, her eyes suddenly enormous grey pools of contrition in the pallor of her face. ‘I—er—I struck you over the head with the water jug,’ she admitted, with a self-conscious grimace.

Lucian winced. ‘If, as you claim, I made no attempt on your innocence, might I enquire as to why you felt the wielding of the water jug necessary…?’

Her small pink tongue moved nervously across the fullness of her lips, moistening them. Enticingly so. ‘I believed you to be an intruder, you see.’

Yes, Lucian did see—and heaven help any man or woman who ever tried to enter this young woman’s bedchamber uninvited! It was certainly a pity he had been the recipient of her wrath this evening, but it was also reassuring to know that she was capable of defending herself if the occasion warranted it.

‘What if your intruder had been Francis Wynter?’ he drawled mockingly.

Angry colour darkened her cheeks. ‘Then I would have used much more force than I actually did!’

‘Really?’ Lucian gave another wince as his fingers gently probed the tenderness of his scalp. ‘I do believe that a heavier blow might have resulted in your killing him.’

‘If Francis Wynter ever enters my bedchamber uninvited then it is a fate he will deserve!’ Her expression was fierce.

Lucian’s lips thinned as he repressed a smile. ‘Perhaps it was as well that I conveniently fell upon the bed?’

She gave another grimace. ‘You did not.’

He frowned. ‘How the deuce did you get me from the floor to the bed…?’

He had noticed earlier this evening that Grace Hetherington only reached up to his shoulder in her slippered feet, and the fragility of her appearance certainly didn’t indicate the strength of an amazon beneath her silk robe.

Colour brightened her cheeks. ‘You were conscious enough to help a little, and I—I really could not leave you lying on the cold floor once I’d realised your identity!’

Lucian couldn’t help but admire this young woman’s fortitude.

He couldn’t think of too many women—of any age—who would have the courage to knock an intruder unconscious with a water jug, let alone manage to drag him onto her bed. Before calmly entering into conversation with him once he regained his senses!

And Lucian had now recovered his senses.

All of them…!

Alone with her in her bedchamber, he found Grace Hetherington’s beauty overpowering: her brow was like alabaster, her grey eyes mistily enigmatic, her lips full and poutingly tempting. The silk of her nightgown and robe flowed revealingly over pert breasts and curvaceous hips, and her feet peeped out daintily beneath its hem.

Desire stirred inappropriately in recognition of all those womanly charms, and Lucian’s breath arrested in his throat as his thighs hardened even more inappropriately.

Grace tensed warily as she sensed the sudden change in the quality of the silence that had fallen between them. There was almost an air of expectation—of awareness, Lucian St Claire’s eyes having darkened to black as he looked at her through narrowed lids.

She straightened. ‘I believe it is past time you returned to your own bedchamber, My Lord.’

‘Really?’ He turned on his side to lean his elbow against the pillows, raising himself to look at her. ‘But I find your bedchamber so much more comfortable than my own, Grace.’ His voice was low, huskily seductive.

Grace’s eyes widened at the sense of intimacy his familiarity engendered. ‘In what way, My Lord?’

‘Why, because you are here, my dear Grace.’ He grinned, instantly dispelling the impression of arrogant cynicism she had sensed as being such a part of him when they were first introduced. In fact he looked almost boyishly appealing now—especially so after the nightmares she had witnessed—and the dark hair that fell softly over his brow added to that illusion.

But it was an illusion. Lucian St Claire was far from being a boy. Not only was he a hardened soldier, but since resigning his commission he had also become known as something of a rake. A man hell-bent on the pursuit of pleasure. Pleasure that did not engage his emotions.

The warm intimacy of that dark gaze as it swept over her so slowly, from her head to her feet, gave the impression that she had now become the focus of that pleasure!

The warmth in Grace’s cheeks spread to the rest of her traitorous body. Traitorous because Lucian St Claire’s continued presence in her bedchamber in the early hours of the morning—or at any other time!—really was completely unacceptable. And dangerous. To her and to every rule dictated by the society they lived in.

Except he did look so dark and rakishly handsome, lying there in her bed, the sheet having fallen down as he turned to face her to reveal a muscled chest covered in hair as dark as that upon his head, and the flatness of his stomach, the hard curve of his hips, with the dark hair continuing in a deep vee towards thighs that were hard and—

Grace’s stricken gaze returned to his face, the colour deepening in her cheeks as he raised mocking brows above eyes that openly laughed at her display of startled modesty. Her mouth tightened. ‘If you are attempting to alarm me, My Lord, then you are not succeeding.’

‘Am I not?’ He sat up in the bed to place his feet upon the wooden floor, the sheet draped decorously across his hips, but doing little to hide the response of his body that had so flustered Grace seconds ago. ‘Then you have me at a disadvantage, Grace—because being here alone with you like this is alarming the hell out of me!’ he acknowledged self-derisively.

Her eyes flashed warningly. ‘Do not attempt to trifle with me, My Lord—’

‘Trifle, Grace?’ His smile was wolfish. ‘You describe the desire you have so obviously aroused in me as a mere trifle?’

In truth, it was some time since Lucian’s interest in a woman had been strong enough to evoke any sort of reaction in him other than boredom. The married ladies of the ton, those beautiful and bored matrons looking for a brief and meaningless affair, that was all they required as a diversion from the tedium of their marriage, were proving far too easy a conquest of late.

Not that he had any intention of becoming genuinely involved with Miss Grace Hetherington, the marriageable ward of the Duke and Duchess of Carlyne, but Lucian couldn’t deny that she was proving to be an interesting diversion to his otherwise jaded palate. Most young women in her situation would have run screaming from the room by now. So perhaps he could allow himself—and her—a few harmless kisses? After all, it would be a pity not to live up to Francis Wynter’s lurid description of him earlier this evening!

‘Come here to me, Grace.’ He held out his hand to her invitingly. A gesture she recoiled from as if his hand had all the appeal of a snake about to strike. ‘Or perhaps you would prefer it if I were to come to you?’ His challenge—and his nudity!—were obvious.

Grace Hetherington predictably looked no more happy about that suggestion, and she scowled at him. ‘I refuse to play this ridiculous game, My Lord—’

‘Surely, my dear Grace, as I am at this moment in your bedchamber, actually seated upon your bed, it would be more appropriate if you were to call me Lucian?’ he drawled comfortably, his relaxed and lazy posture totally deceptive.

‘It would be totally inappropriate—as is your being in my bedchamber at all!’ She glared across the room at him. ‘If anyone were to find you here it would cause the most hideous scandal.’

Lucian couldn’t deny the truth of that. Even Hawk, his older brother whose rigid code of conduct had become much softer and accommodating since his marriage to Jane the previous year, would baulk at Lucian debauching an innocent miss such as Grace Hetherington. Or giving the appearance of having done so!

He regarded Grace mockingly. ‘Then the sooner you do as I ask the better for all concerned—do you not think?’

Grace regarded Lucian frustratedly, aware that he was once again playing with her, but not knowing, in this hitherto unknown situation, how to respond. It was unthinkable that she should actually take up the invitation of his extended hand. And yet not to do so, she was sure, would result in an even more unacceptable occurrence—that of Lucian walking naked across the room to her!

‘No, I most certainly do not think!’ she snapped, even as she crossed the room in three impatient strides. She’d ignored that outstretched hand even as she glared at him, her shortness in stature meaning that their faces were now on a level. ‘There—I have done as you asked. Now will you please leave?’

Easier said than done, Lucian acknowledged self-mockingly as his arousal hardened to an almost painful degree; if he were to stand up now, erection magnificently on display, this innocent young miss would probably have a fit of the vapours. Or perhaps not…? She had, after all, already dealt quite capably with someone she had considered an intruder to her bedchamber.

‘I think perhaps I would like you to kiss me better first.’ He tilted his head invitingly.

Temper darkened her cheeks; those grey eyes were stormy. ‘You are a man of almost thirty years, not three!’

Lucian gave an acknowledging inclination of his head. ‘My years do not make the pain of my injury any less.’

‘You are impossible, My Lord—’

‘Lucian.’

‘The familiarity of your name does not make your behaviour any less outrageous!’

He bared his teeth in a grin. ‘A kiss, Grace. A single kiss. And then I promise that I will leave your bedchamber immediately.’

Grace’s pulse was already racing at his proximity, and her heart was beating frantically in her chest just at the thought of placing her lips anywhere upon this man—even on the dark silkiness of his hair, where she had struck him with the water jug. To touch him in any way, while alone with him in the privacy of her bedchamber, would be highly improper—and yet if it meant that he would then vacate her bedchamber…

‘One kiss?’ She gave him a severe look.

His grin became boyish once again. ‘One kiss, Grace.’

Her pulse began to race faster as he easily held her gaze. She leant towards him, her heart beating even more erratically as she breathed in the male scent of him, her legs shaking so much that Grace was no longer sure they would support her.

And then they didn’t need to as, instead of remaining seated, Lucian St Claire surged powerfully to his feet, barely giving Grace time to register his nakedness before his arms moved about her like bands of steel. He pulled her body close against the heat of his and his head lowered towards hers.

Grace began to struggle against the strength of those arms. ‘You said you wanted me to kiss you better—’

‘Ah, but I did not say where, Grace,’ he murmured huskily, before his lips claimed hers.

Grace became suddenly still in his arms, forgetting to breathe altogether as those lips moved purposefully, seductively, against hers. His tongue teased her own lips apart, deepening the kiss to intimacy as it continued on its marauding path, tasting her, claiming her, seeking out every soft and delicate contour of her mouth, his tongue running erotically along the edge of her teeth even as his arms tightened about her and he curved her body more intimately against his own.

Grace had been encouraged by her parents to have friends of both sexes during her adolescent years, and several of those friendships had developed into slight crushes as they’d matured. One of the boys had even dared to kiss her chastely on the lips on one memorable occasion.

But Lucian St Claire was no boy. And there was nothing chaste about this kiss. The imprint of his body seemed to sear into hers, even as he encouraged her to return the intimate caress, his tongue sweeping lightly across her sensitised lips an enticement in itself.

Grace felt as if she were on fire. Aflame. Pleasure rippled across and through her body as her fingers tightened on the bareness of his shoulders. His kiss was wondrous. Ecstasy. Beyond anything Grace had ever thought or imagined in her innocent musings of being kissed by a man.

‘Please…!’ she groaned achingly as his lips left hers to trail a path of arousal down the column of her throat.

The sound of Grace’s voice—that softly husky voice that moved across Lucian’s flesh like a caress—brought him back to the reality of exactly what he was doing. And with whom.

He raised his head abruptly, deeply shocked at the realisation of how aroused he had been by Grace Hetherington—Miss Grace Hetherington, the young, unmarried ward of the Duke and Duchess of Carlyne!

The shock Lucian could see upon her own face told him that Grace was just as stunned by her own response.

How could Lucian have forgotten, however briefly, that Grace was but twenty years of age? That she was an innocent about to enjoy her first Season?

What sort of man was he to use her in this familiar fashion? Lucian wondered with a self-disgusted groan. What sort of man had he become?

Was he now so armoured against the emotions of others, so centred on self, that he would have allowed himself to take this young woman’s innocence without a qualm? Without a care for the consequences of such an action? Without a thought being given as to what that taking would have done to her? Made of her?

His hands tightened painfully on her waist and he scowled down at her darkly. ‘Grace—’

‘Grace, dear, I saw your candle was alight and—’

Margaret, Duchess of Carlyne, entered the bedchamber after the briefest of knocks—only to come to an abrupt, shocked halt in the doorway, her eyes wide and her cheeks paling as she took in the intimacy of the scene in front of her.

‘Oh, my…!’ she breathed faintly, even as she raised a stricken hand to her throat. ‘Oh, my goodness…!’ she groaned weakly. ‘I—’ She gave a dazed shake of her head. ‘I—if you will excuse me…!’ She turned and fled.

Chapter Four

Grace stared after her aunt in shocked dismay, even as she stumbled back to drop down weakly upon the windowseat, taking care, even in that numbing shock, that she didn’t sit on the clothes of Lucian St Claire’s, which she had so neatly folded and placed there earlier.

Not only had she forgotten every shred of caution the moment Lucian St Claire had taken her into his arms, but her Aunt Margaret—her Aunt Margaret—had been a witness to that wantonness! What must her aunt be thinking? What must she now think of Grace?

Grace closed her eyes as the hot tears rushed forward, aware of Lucian St Claire standing briefly beside her before he moved away again, the only sound in the room now her own heated sobs of mortification as she buried her face in her hands.

She had behaved the wanton in Lucian St Claire’s arms. Had encouraged him. Had returned his kisses. Had relished the feel of his lips and tongue against hers. With absolutely no thought of denial.

She—

‘You will remain here, Grace,’ Lucian St Claire rasped into the silence.

‘Where are you going?’ Grace lowered her hands, her head snapping up, and she saw that he was dressed now—in shirt and breeches and black Hessians, at least.

What manner of man was he that he could even think of leaving her to face this alone? She could not believe he was such a coward as to—

‘To talk to your guardians, of course.’ Lucian’s expression was grim as he pulled on his tailored waistcoat and jacket. He might as well be dressed for the part, at least.

‘My—?’ Her face was stricken. ‘What are you going to say to them? How can you possibly explain—excuse—? What are they going to think of me?’ She gave a woeful shake of her head, her hair falling forward about her face like a black silky curtain.

Lucian eyed her coldly. ‘No doubt they are going to congratulate you on succeeding in enticing the brother of the Duke of Stourbridge into a betrothal!’

Lucian could not believe he had been so stupid. So absolutely, bloody stupid! What game had he thought he was playing with this young woman? ‘One kiss’ be damned! He should have made his escape from her bedchamber whilst he still had the chance!

Instead, this surely had to take the place of honour as the most wanton piece of self-destruction he had ever allowed himself to fall into! A betrothal, followed by a marriage, to exactly the sort of young, inexperienced woman he had always been at such pains to avoid!

But there was no other way out of this situation that Lucian could see. Absolutely none. For either of them.

His mouth curled disdainfully. ‘Do try to look a little happier, Grace, when I am about to ask your guardians for your hand in marriage.’

Grace stared at him dazedly, sure that she could not have heard him correctly. He could not seriously think—Could not imagine—’ But I have no wish to marry you!’

‘Wish?’ He arched scathing brows. ‘Wishes, Grace—either yours or my own—do not enter into the situation we now find ourselves in,’ he assured her scornfully. ‘We have broken the unwritten law of Society—’

‘But we have done nothing that could result in—Well, in—’ Grace was not so naïve that she did not know how babies were made. She was well aware that she should not have allowed this man the liberty of kissing her—had no idea how she was going to face her aunt again!—but surely that did not mean they had to actually marry each other?

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.

‘Yet.’

‘Ever!’

His dark gaze swept over her with chilling intensity. ‘Your stubbornness in this matter is starting to annoy me, Grace.’ His tone was softly warning—dangerously so.

Grace had never felt so consumed with frustrated anger. No matter how many times she told this man she would not even consider the idea of marrying him, he still persisted in talking as if it were a foregone conclusion—as if Grace were already tied to him, answerable to him. Which she most certainly was not. And she never would be.

‘Very well.’ She finally nodded abruptly, her mouth set stubbornly. ‘If your friendship for my aunt and uncle “dictates” it, then you may ask them for their permission to pay your addresses to me. It will be an offer I shall promptly refuse. And there the matter will be at an end.’ She sat down in the window seat to arrange her nightgown as modestly about her as the circumstances allowed. It was a little difficult to look disdainfully elegant whilst wearing only her night attire!

Lord Lucian gave her another of those pitying smiles. ‘Our betrothal will be announced before the week is out,’ he predicted mockingly.

Her eyes sparkled rebelliously. ‘I would rather agree to marry Francis Wynter than consent to enter into a betrothal with you!’

Lucian shrugged with complete indifference, knowing that this particular threat was an idle one. He was sure from watching the two of them together the previous evening that Grace would prefer even the prospect of marriage to him over a lifetime as Francis Wynter’s wife.

‘I am sure your guardians would even agree to that in order to avoid the scandal that would result if the events of tonight were to become public knowledge.’

‘I have already assured you that my aunt will say nothing—’

‘Your aunt, I am afraid, is probably already living in fear of the manifestation of the physical evidence of tonight’s events.’

‘Physical evidence…?’ Grace looked startled.

‘You really cannot be that naïve, Grace.’ Lucian eyed her pityingly.

Her cheeks flamed anew as his meaning became clear. ‘But we did not—’ She gave a fierce shake of her head. ‘Nothing happened tonight of which either of us needs be ashamed.’

‘Shame…’ Lucian repeated the word thoughtfully. ‘Such a small word for the ruination of your life, is it not?’

‘My life will not be ruined over one silly mistake—’

‘Will it not, Grace?’ he mused. ‘I believe you will find you are mistaken about that. You see, Grace, a man is allowed his affairs—his mistresses, even—but a woman’s reputation is a tenuous thing. As light and delicate as gossamer—and as easily destroyed,’ he concluded hardly. ‘I do assure you, Grace, physical evidence or not, if there is even the hint of gossip that you have been found by your guardians in your bedchamber with a naked man you are not even betrothed to, then your reputation will be ruined for ever, and any future marriage prospects completely destroyed.’

‘Then I will retire to the country and remain an old maid—’

‘I would not advise it for one with such a passionate nature as your own, Grace,’ he drawled mockingly, knowing by the way her face paled that he had succeeded in shaking her.

‘You are despicable, sir!’ She glared at him vehemently.

‘Probably.’ Lucian shrugged off the insult. ‘But a life in the country as an old maid really would not suit you, Grace. One day you would be sure to give in to temptation—with a local farmer, perhaps, or possibly a married neighbour. With the possible result that an illegitimate child would then bear the stigma of your shame for the rest of its days. No, Grace, you would be far wiser to accept your fate and marry me.’

She hated this man, Grace decided numbly. Hated him with a passion. With as much passion, if not more, with which she had only minutes ago returned his kisses. Any softer feelings she might have had towards him following his nightmares had completely dissipated in the face of his intractability concerning a marriage between them.

‘Never.’ She roused herself with an effort, so emotionally tired that she just wanted to sleep—to close her eyes and find when she woke in the morning that this had all been just a dream. A horrible, horrible dream.

Lucian St Claire’s mouth twisted humourlessly. ‘You really are not looking at this situation positively at all, Grace,’ he taunted. ‘After all, you will be marrying the brother of a duke—’

‘I am already the niece-by-marriage of a duke.’

‘I am also the son of a duke, Grace. A second son, admittedly,’ he acknowledged dryly, ‘but luckily my father was a man of vision. A man who saw that having three sons might one day present a problem. It was a dilemma that he solved by making provision for all of his children. As a result we are all, my sister included, independently wealthy. My own wealth has been increased considerably over the years by wise investments. I am wealthy enough by far, I do assure you, Grace, for my wife to live the life of a duchess without the onerous duties that necessarily accompany that role.’

Grace stared at him unblinkingly. What did she care for his wealth? Did this man really believe that if she agreed to become his wife she would be happy in the knowledge that at least he had the wealth to ensure her life was a comfortable one!

Comfortable?

Grace could not see any future life for herself as the unwilling wife of Lord Lucian St Claire’s as being a comfortable one!

She gave him a narrow-eyed glare. ‘My own father was also a man of vision, My Lord,’ she assured him coldly. ‘In as much as he did not see any difference between a male or female heir. I am my parents’ only child. As a consequence, all of my father’s considerable personal wealth, as well as his estate in Cornwall, were left in trust to me on his death.’

Lucian St Claire gave an abrupt inclination of his head. ‘Then it appears I am to marry a woman with a considerable dowry, does it not?’

Her chin rose challengingly. ‘The provisions of my father’s will ensure that a portion of that wealth remains in my possession even after I am married, with the rest to be put in trust for my children.’

Her parents could not have foreseen their premature deaths, of course, but it had always been a worry of her mother’s, as well as her father’s, that Grace would one day be pursued on the marriage mart not for herself alone, but for her father’s considerable wealth. The property laws ensured that a woman’s wealth automatically became her husband’s on her marriage. It had been a law that neither of her parents had agreed with, and provision had been made to circumvent that law as far as was possible.

Lucian St Claire gave a brief smile. ‘In that case it seems I will be able to forgo the task of arranging an allowance for you after we are married,’ came his parting shot, as the door of the bedchamber closed quietly—decisively—behind him.

Grace stared after him blankly. His persistence in pursuing that particular line—his absolute conviction that a marriage between them was the only possible outcome of tonight’s events—shook Grace more than she cared to admit. More than she cared for Lucian St Claire to know.

Because she was not so sure in her own determination that it would not be so as she wished it to be. Her aunt and uncle, the Duke and Duchess of Carlyne, although having been warm and kind to her this last year, were not as visionary as her own parents had been. Her parents would never have seen Grace married to any man for reasons other than a deep love existing between them. The fact that her aunt and uncle had known Lord Lucian St Claire for years—that he was a family friend, had been the best friend of her cousin Simon—already indicated that they would approve of a match between him and Grace.

A match Grace could never willingly agree to.

Never, ever willingly.

As Lucian St Claire would quickly learn for himself if he proceeded with this absurdity.

Chapter Five

‘I know this is all terribly exciting for you, Grace, but you really must try to eat something.’ Her aunt beamed at her encouragingly across the breakfast table from Grace, as the two of them sat in the private parlour of the coaching inn. ‘After all, you do not want Lord Lucian to see his betrothed looking pale and sickly when he joins us.’

Grace looked at her aunt numbly. The two of them were alone in the parlour. Her uncle, having recovered fully from his upset the evening before, and Lord Francis had set off early to check on the progress being made on the repair of the ducal coach—it being the Duke’s intention, her aunt had informed her archly, to tell Francis of Grace’s betrothal to Lord Lucian St Claire during their absence, in the hopes that he would have accepted this startling change in circumstances by the time he returned.

As if it were of any interest to Grace whether Francis were informed or otherwise—or indeed what his response was to the news!

Only Grace’s own emotions concerning the announcement of her betrothal to Lord Lucian St Claire, imparted to her by her uncle when he and her aunt had come to her bedchamber in the early hours of this morning, were of any significance. Those emotions had been disbelief and horror. But Grace’s protests had gone unheard as her uncle had proceeded to tell her how fortunate she was in her betrothed. How charming and worldly Lord Lucian was. How prestigious his family. How all the doors of Society would now be opened to her.

The list of advantages of being the wife of Lord Lucian St Claire were endless, it seemed.

Grace’s numbness, following her aunt and uncle’s return to their own bedchamber, had been so absolute it had resulted in her sitting in the window seat all night, staring sightlessly out at the slowly awakening day. It had seemed to her at the time that it was unacceptable that day should follow night, as it usually did, when such a momentous—horrifying!—occurrence was taking place in her own life. To add insult to injury, the sun had come out—as if to shine in blessing upon the union.

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