An Unexpected Proposal (St Daine Family 1) Read online

  What was her name? Lucien tried, but he could not recall. Still, he continued to watch her—even when she halted momentarily to boldly inspect him from heel to head.

  Staring was rude, he reminded himself, and St. Daine's were never rude. But he continued to watch the lady until she walked away to move about the edges of the room, completely disregarding his sister's derisive snort at his appalling demonstration of correct behavior.

  The woman was quite beautiful with her inky black hair made up in tight ringlet curls, piled atop her head in a fashionable coif that left her delicate neck exposed. Add to that the gentle slope of her shoulders, just visible thanks to the cut of her bodice, and the reason for his blatant rudeness should be quite clear, if it hadn’t been before. She carried herself well, too, he noted, continuing his observation as she made her way, one step behind the red-haired woman in the yellow gown, through the crush. She stopped, apparently having arrived at her intended destination, and he felt a rather teasing smirk settle upon his lips, thinking the evening had definitely become more interesting.

  Phoebe rapped him across the arm with her fan.

  The glowering look he directed at her in response would have made a lesser person cower and look away, but not so, Phoebe.

  “Behave,” she hissed between clenched teeth. Snapping open her fan, she wielded it delicately while giving him her best haughty look. “You passed staring quite some time ago, brother, and Heaven help us, you were practically salivating, Lucien.”

  He arched his brow, giving her his best deadpan stare. “I beg your pardon?”

  Phoebe grinned and leaned close as though she were about to impart a secret. “Oh, I wouldn’t do that, brother. I do so love it when people grovel, but you don’t strike me as the type.”

  Lucien clamped his jaw shut and pinned her with a dark glare, thinking it was lucky for them both that Grandmother Amelia was half again across the ballroom from them and thus could not chasten them for behaving like errant children at such a grand, important event.

  * * *

  Half an hour later, it was determined by the Duchess of Kelsing that the last of their guest had arrived. The introductions were done and, puffing out an immense sigh of relief Phoebe St. Daine swept past her brother as soon as they entered the ballroom proper. Offering up a cheeky grin, she turned away, clearly intending to leave him there while she wandered off in search of a space not occupied by his dark glower.

  “Ah, hold on,” Lucien said, catching her by the arm before she could get away. “Where do you think you’re going in such a hurry, minx?”

  Tilting her head a bit to the side to look up at Lucien, she sighed again, but this time in irritation. “Well, I was hoping to escape into the gardens for a quick tryst amongst the roses, but alas, my plans have been foiled.”

  “Phoebe,” he began, his tone dark and serious. “You cannot speak of such things in mixed company. You should not even know about things like trysts and such! Heed me well, sister, you may think this a game now, but later—”

  Phoebe rolled her eyes and patted him solicitously on the arm. “’Tis quite alright, brother dearest. I spoke out of turn, I know, but it was only in jest. I doubt anyone even heard me. Still, I apologize if I have ruined your saintly image of how I should behave in public. I ought not have done that, either.”

  Realizing, at last, that his sister had been attempting to tease him, Lucien’s expression lightened but only slightly, which was likely responsible for her less than genuine smile when she followed her teasing with, “I know you are only looking out for me, Lucien, and I am touched, truly. But if you do not let go of my arm right now, I swear I will kick you in the shin in front of everyone here. My fingers are beginning to go numb!”

  Lucien released her as though she were made of fire.

  After a quick roll of the offended member, presumably to take away some of the sting, she took his arm,placing her gloved hand in the crook of it. “Come, brother,” she said, her expression one of barely concealed exasperation. “Let us find Grandmother and wipe that pained look off your face 'ere you scare away all my potential suitors.”

  His features relaxed and she turned her attention elsewhere, her eyes scanning the crowd for a glimpse of the silvery-haired dowager duchess of Rothwyn, their grandmother, who was otherwise known as the formidable Lady Amelia St. Daine. Catching sight of the regal looking lady from the corner of her eye, a relieved smile lit her face. Discreetly, she pointed her out to Lucien. “There she is. Let us go over.”

  Grumbling beneath his breath about the travesty of squiring about an ill-mannered sister, Lucien followed her, and the two made their way to the matriarch's side. But when he recognized one particular lady with whom his grandmother was conversing, Lucien almost lost his footing. The stunning, ebon-haired woman from the receiving line stood at his grandmother's side, smiling and nodding along with the conversation as though his grandmother's words were divine. Lucien could only wonder at which tidbits of familial knowledge she dared to impart, but he was not surprised to find the lady's smile, when it came, as stunningly beautiful as the rest of her.

  His grandmother looked up, catching sight of both him standing just a few feet away and smiled grandly. She lifted a hand towards him. “Lucien, my dear boy! You have arrived at just the right time. Come and meet the lovely Lady Claire and her most delightfully charming friend, Lady Melisande Ruebrige.”

  Knowing there was nothing for it but to follow her command—and yes, it was a command—the dowager duchess of Rothwyn knew nothing less, Lucien swallowed the groan rising to his tongue and quickly crossed the remaining distance between them, remembering too late his grandmother’s current obsession with playing matchmaker.

  Straightening, he braced himself for what was sure to be a less than pleasant few minutes of acceptable conversation, frowning when Phoebe used the moment and her grandmother's consent to her sugary plea to spend a moment with Lady Christina to make her escape.

  The ladies curtsied, of course, polite utterances of “Your Grace,” falling from their lips in succession.

  Phoebe slipped away before introductions could be made, knowing deuced well she was to have remained by his side. The minx. Likely, she had known full well what was about to occur, and given that she had neglected to forewarn him, Lucien found himself rather effectively trapped into his grandmother's most current matchmaking scheme.

  Amelia St. Daine claimed she only wanted to see him happily settled, but Lucien knew better. She had decided to find him a bride—for no other reason than she thought it high time he settled down with a woman who: one—would not bring shame to the Rothwyn title, and two—who would bear him heirs in order to continue the rapidly dwindling St. Daine line. His grandmother loved him, this he knew of a certainty, but so, too, did he realize she was not above pulling strings and meddling in his affairs if such was what it took to get her way.

  Without warning, his earlier interest paled. The thought of approaching the raven-haired beauty now was suddenly no longer appealing. Still, he smiled and went through the tired, well-practiced motions of bowing before he pressed the most polite of kisses to the ladies' silk-clad knuckles. He feigned attention while his gaze wandered the crowd, his eyes busily searching for a hint of blue in the crush of fabrics that would reveal his sister's whereabouts. Cursing Phoebe for running off, leaving him to deal with the misguided machinations of their grandmother alone, he pasted a polite smile upon his lips and let his eyes roam the crowded ballroom once more but Phoebe seemed to have disappeared. Giving up for the moment, he allowed his focus to return to Lady Claire and her friend.

  "Do we bore you, Your Grace?"

  Surprise at her rather blunt observation brought Lucien's gaze swinging to Lady Claire. He peered at her, wondering where inside that tightly laced corset of hers she had found the cheek to upbraid him—and in public, no less.

  Her eyes flashed with ill-concealed dislike and Lucien found himself slightly taken aback and completely at a loss as to
what he could have done to merit such a display. As far as he knew, other than their brief introduction in the receiving line, they had not previously met – so why should he now be the recipient of the obvious animosity in her gaze?

  Smiling tightly, he said, “That remains to be seen. The three of us have shared not a word outside of introductions. Given that, I find it quite beyond me to say for certain whether or not I should find your conversational skills lacking, no matter how tasteless and deficient in both tact and good manners it would be for me to do so.”

  Her back stiffened. She held herself upright with remarkable aplomb in light of his curt response, he thought, and her expression somehow remained the very picture of polite. But her eyes...

  His lips twitched, but Lucien held his silence, his gaze once more busily scanning the crowd for Phoebe whilst he awaited her response. He anticipated nothing less than a most cutting rejoinder, but, alas, she said nothing. Instead, it was Lady Melisande who spoke up—to defend him, of all things.

  “Now, now. Let us not forget our manners, shall we?” she attempted to soothe. “I am sure His Grace was not ignoring us on purpose.”

  She spoke as if her comments were directed toward Lady Claire but her bright gaze never wavered from his. Her slow, sweet smile brought a dimple to bear.

  “Perhaps the quiet of Rothwyn House is more to your liking? If so, I must admit I quite understand. Even I find the stifling atmosphere in Town dreadful at this time of year, and to be perfectly honest, I would much prefer the quiet solitude to be found…elsewhere.”

  Lucien felt a chilling burst of fear bloom in his gut. Had she just attempted to wrangle an invitation from him to visit Rothwyn House?

  An icy chill possessed him and he could practically feel the phantom pricks of her metaphorical claws already piercing his flesh. She looked up, a knowing kind of smile flirting on her lips. The wily gleam in her eyes spoke volumes and Lucien felt a sudden, rather desperate urge to run although to do so would be terribly rude. Dukes did not flee, no matter the situation. Not to mention that, thanks to his grandmother's presence, he would not get very far should he dare to make such an attempt. Lady Amelia would reach out and snatch him back the instant he began to walk away.

  Feeling rather desperate now to escape the three females, Lucien scanned the press of bodies around him, his eyes searching in vain for Phoebe. She was the only legitimate excuse his grandmother would accept that would allow him to quit this little group, but blast if the hoyden was anywhere to be found!

  “Dear me, it appears His Grace is at a loss for words, Mel. I wonder why?” Claire said. Turning a cold glare in his direction, she continued, “Perhaps your search for a more suitable female among tonight's attendees might be put off for a bit, if only momentarily, Your Grance, considering you really should be concentrating on our conversation. Else your grandmother is certain to think you are being particularly rude to us, and for no reason at all.”

  Her voice, laced with subtle derision and a very healthy dose of sarcasm, snapped Lucien back to his senses and he regarded her carefully through narrowed eyes. Her gaze was sharp; direct. Shrewd. Her eyes glimmered with a knowing light not unlike that of Lady Melisande's, he noticed, and yet, he had a feeling they each did so for different reasons entirely. The Ruebrige chit was merely doing what one expected but Lady Claire—she had thrown a gauntlet, as far as Lucien was concerned, challenging him to pay attention to her.

  The realization brought a chuckle rumbling up through his chest, which he quickly hid behind a feigned cough. Why he had believed from their very brief interaction earlier that she would be anything less than spirited was now quite beyond him, for he now realized without a doubt that Lady Claire Leighton was a lady possessed of quick wit and an equally lethal sharp tongue.

  “Claire!” Lady Melisande hissed in an undertone, her eyes saying more than her lips that she was not happy with her friend's contribution to the conversation. “Don't be rude!”

  “I was only acting in a similar manner as His Grace,” Claire responded with a soft shrug of her shoulders. “It would be unfair of us to allow him to think we will stand idly by while he insults us with his gross lack of attention.”

  “I am certain His Grace did not mean to be insulting,” Lady Melisande replied through clenched teeth.

  Listening as the two debated the matter of his intentions between themselves, Lucien found it slightly amusing that neither of them paid him a scrap of attention from that point forward though he was, in fact, the very object of their somewhat heated discussion.

  He turned to his grandmother, who had remained strangely silent throughout the entire exchange and found her looking on with a merrily twinkling gaze as though she were profoundly enjoying this farce of polite conversation. Sighing inwardly, he glanced out over the crowd once more.

  Brows pulling low, he muttered a quick, “Excuse me, Grandmother. Ladies,” he tacked on, almost as an afterthought, offering nothing more than a slight nod in their direction before he strode purposefully into the crowd.

  Off to the side and well out of his immediate reach, Phoebe was standing next to a tall male clad in a smart uniform. The fellow had dark hair and angled features, and Phoebe was laughing at something he had said, her fingers resting briefly atop his arm. She cocked her head to the side and murmured something Lucien had no hope of overhearing, given the distance between them, but whatever she said had brought a deeply pensive look over the man's face that did not sit at all well with Lucien.

  Jaw clenched, he hastened to Phoebe's side, but by the time he managed to make his way through the crush in the ballroom, she had somehow managed to disappear from view yet again. Cursing her headstrong nature beneath his breath with every step, Lucien made for the doors to the terrace, swearing beneath his breath the entire way that his sister would be made to spend the rest of her days locked away in her room if she continued to insist upon treading without care—for her reputation if not her safety.

  3

  Claire studied the duke's profile as he strode away, a feeling akin to nausea twisting her stomach well before she glanced back to find Melisande attempting to hide a glare from her. A hot blush stung her cheeks. She glanced out into the crowd to avoid the censure in her friend's gaze but that did not help, either, because judging by the look on her father's face, he, too, had seen the duke walk away and had decided it must have been her fault the fellow hadn't stayed to chat.

  Only then did Claire consider precisely what she had done: not only had she insulted the duke of Rothwyn, but she had done so with both his grandmother and her best friend looking on as witness to her ill-mannered behavior. Her gaze slid to the floor, unwilling to see for certain precisely how affronted his kindly grandmother must feel about her much less than sterling manner with her grandson. “Your Grace, I do apologize. I do not know what came over me, I—Excuse me, please.”

  Walking away, Claire immediately began to chastise herself. How could you have let the man goad you into such behavior? He merely shows up and your brain goes to mush? The very idea was preposterous, but from the moment she had caught the duke staring at Melisande in the receiving line, she could not seem to make herself not think about him.

  “Claire? Are you alright, darling? Your father...”

  Claire slowed her steps and looked over her shoulder at her mother, who no doubt had been sent by her father to further chastise her for estranging the duke, and stifled a groan.

  “I am fine, mother. Merely feeling a bit parched. I was looking for refreshments.” Not precisely the truth, but she could do with a bit of punch to cool the fire in her face, if nothing else.

  “Well then, you are going in the wrong direction, my dear. The refreshment tables have been set near the doors to the terrace. Come, I will join you,” her mother offered, tucking her hand through Claire's arm before turning her to retrace the exact path through the crowd the Duke of Rothwyn had taken only moments before. Glancing back, she saw Melisande still standing beside the do
wager duchess, engrossed in conversation.

  No doubt about His Rudeness, Claire thought unkindly, but she could not be angry with Mel. She had known her intentions well before the beginning of the Season—to snare herself a duke—and it was Claire's duty as her best friend to assist her in her quest.

  “Melisande seems to be enjoying herself this evening,” her mother pointed out, having noticed the direction of her gaze, and Claire nodded her agreement.

  “I believe it is impossible for Mel to not enjoy herself at any function where she is allowed to dance with every eligible male in attendance.” Bemused, she continued, “One smile from her is all it takes to have them eating from her palm but she merely laughs and sends them on their way, her true intentions elsewhere.”

  “And you, Claire? Do you find it impossible to enjoy yourself?” her mother pried, and Claire felt a blush heat her cheeks yet again.

  “No, Mother. I quite enjoy the music and the conversation and even the dancing on occasion.”

  “But not with the Duke of Rothwyn?” Clarisse asked, a sad but knowing smile turning up the corners of her lips. She laid her hand on Claire's shoulder, her expression pained. “I do not blame you for sending him away, Claire. Men like the duke are…not quite the sort a lady need seek for a husband, despite his wealth and connections.”

  Claire's brow furrowed. “Men like the duke? I'm sorry, Mother, but I thought a man like the duke was precisely the sort of man Father would prefer I wed.”

  She did not mention she did not understand the many mysterious things in the duke's life her mother referenced with her less than explicit description. What, precisely, had her mother meant when she said men like the duke?