The Rake's Wicked Proposal

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.

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