The Rake's Wicked Proposal

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.