An Unexpected Proposal (St Daine Family 1) Page 3

  Not that it mattered, Claire silently added. The Duke of Rothwyn, like most men, likely considered marriage for the same reasons her father did, and while Claire was not adverse to wedding one of them if her heart were engaged, it was far more probable those men would display a marked inclination toward Melisande rather than her. Still, she would need to be on her guard, Claire decided, because it simply would not do to give her father the impression she would dare to spurn the interest of a duke. Not if she hoped to remain free from the sort of entanglements suddenly finding herself betrothed would create.

  If her father realized her plan to remain unfettered, Claire knew without a doubt that she would be pledged to the first eligible male he could find, and that simply would not do at all.

  * * *

  It had been a bit difficult to pull off, but a promise had been won from the Duke of Kelsing to dance at least once with Melisande before he quit the Malburton's ball.

  Claire knew full well Sebastian had agreed as a nod to his sister, Julia, but the manner in which winning his agreement was accomplished mattered little. That he and Melisande were together on the dance floor at this very moment was all that counted. Watching them now, after last night's failure to live up to her expectations, Claire felt a little thrill that perhaps their plans for the Season were finally getting underway—until the deep rumble of a masculine voice slightly raised in irritation caught her attention, and she turned to stare at the doors leading to the terrace.

  Rothwyn.

  From the moment of their introduction the evening before until now, his voice had threaded its way through her thoughts more than once, giving way to a variety of reactions Claire had not cared to analyze. It was distracting, and she had neither the time nor patience for distractions because she needed to focus every bit of her attention on helping Mel.

  “Damn it, Phoebe, I should not even be having this conversation with you!” Claire heard him say. “Are you trying to create a scandal?”

  “If this is about me taking the air with the good Captain Usbourne...” came his sister's reply, but he quickly cut her off.

  “What were you thinking, Phoebe? Surely you realize how important it is to steer clear of even the hint of scandal just now? You are a St. Daine.”

  “Does being a St. Daine mean we must pretend to not notice when one of our own is missing? Tristan is in trouble, Lucien. I know it. Last night, I was hoping to learn something of his whereabouts from Captain Usbourne, but...”

  “It is not your place to do so, Phoebe,” he said, cutting her off again.

  “Someone has to do it!” she hissed in response. “If being a St. Daine means I must pretend I am not worried about Tris, if it means I am forbidden to seek out those I believe can help find him, well, perhaps I would rather not be a St. Daine!”

  “Phoebe...”

  Claire could not hear his sister's reply to that but it must have been sufficient to secure her freedom because, a few seconds, later the girl swept through the Malburton's double doors, a barely composed vision in pastel blue, with her brother following closely at her heels.

  Claire's eyes lifted to the duke's face and their gazes caught. The dark but concerned scowl which had pinched his features only a moment before smoothed, melting away until, finally, he smiled.

  “Girl's going to be the death of me, I swear,” he said by way of explanation as he motioned toward his sister. “I seriously hope she finds herself a husband this Season because I do not think I can tolerate another round of this.”

  Claire's eyes widened. Had he really just attempted to jest about the serious goal of every young woman of marriageable age at every function one attended past their come-out? A surprised laugh bubbled up from somewhere inside her, sputtering from her lips in a burst of unexpected merriment.

  “Do not laugh, Lady Claire,” he chastened, though his smile widened. “You've no idea the magnitude of trouble my sister can inadvertently land herself in—without trying in the least.”

  His half-serious, half-teasing tone sent a wave of warm sensations through her, causing Claire to snap open her fan and wield it with a bit more enthusiasm than she intended. His nearness was wreaking havoc on her senses—so much so, the unusual warmth flooded her, heating her face and limbs until, confused by her body's reaction, she forced herself to look anywhere but into the teasing merriment of his gaze. It was then that she recalled her mother standing quietly at her side, observing their conversation in amused silence.

  The duke obviously had not suffered from such a lack of awareness, however, because he turned to her mother and asked, “Lady Sterne, may I dance with your daughter?”

  Claire bit back a groan of despair. Had he directed the question to her, she could have politely refused his request, but.... Had he somehow known she would do so? Perhaps that was why he had chosen to defer to her mother. Whatever his reasons, he had asked, and now her stomach twisted into a tight knot while she tried to figure out a way to manage being at his side long enough to dance with him. Even a few moments' brief conversation made her feel all tingly and overheated, both inside and out, and now she would be forced to deal with her peculiar response because, if there was one thing she knew for a certainty about her mother, it was that Lady Clarisse Leighton would never deny a duke the opportunity to dance with her daughter.

  * * *

  During the few seconds Lucien waited for the countess's reply, the lilting strains of a minuet fading into the very different tone of a waltz and Lucien felt his smile slip a bit. He was fully aware of the connotations behind waltzing with a young, unwed woman, but despite the sudden chase of unease rippling along his spine, he somehow managed to hold his slightly amused, somewhat teasing expression until the countess offered a demure smile and nodded her assent.

  His dance partner, however, drew up noticeably, her spine stiffening. Her previously mirthful expression drained immediately of the brief gaiety his mild kerfuffle with his sister had lent her mood, and yet, having made the inquiry, Lucien knew he could not just leave her there simply because of an unexpected change in the music. Taking Claire's hand in his, Lucien nodded to the countess and swept her into the dance.

  Her discomfort was palpable.

  After a moment of tense silence during which the light floral scent of her played with his senses, teasing Lucien with fantasies of forbidden promises not yet made, he politely whispered his gratitude into the air above her ear. “Thank you for agreeing to waltz with me, my lady.”

  He stepped away and her brow rose, the delicate arch climbing high. When the music brought them close again, she reminded, “I did not agree, Your Grace. But then, neither did you ask for either my permission or my preference. Whether or not I cared to dance with you did not seem to signify.”

  Lucien's brows snapped downward at her accusation. The hauteur in her voice, a direct contradiction to the interest he had seen in her eyes only moments before, confused him. He knew he had not imagined the appreciation in her gaze after her slow perusal of him at the Kelsing ball the night before, either.

  Nay, he was not wrong about that, but perhaps he had been mistaken to think the flush warming her cheeks and the way she quickly averted her gaze meant more than he had assumed.

  He studied her now, noting the way her pulse jumped when he pulled her close. The way her eyes widened, though fractionally, when his hand touched her waist. The way her breath seemed to catch before she expelled it in an irritated little puff. No, he had not been mistaken, he decided.

  She was affected by him.

  So why, he wondered, was she behaving as if he had somehow insulted her by asking her to dance?

  “Of course I asked!” he tried to placate, but she was having none of it.

  “You asked my mother,” she pointed out. “And despite how the two must seem the same in your mind, in mine, I can assure you, they are far, far removed.”

  Through the next several turns, Lucien stared at her, nonplussed.

  How could she be upset wi
th him for asking her mother's permission to dance with her? Countess Sterne was there—he could not simply ignore her presence. Her ire made little sense, Lucien thought, giving his head a mental shake. But the crackle of incensed fire blazing in her eyes every time their gazes met assured him she was most certainly angry with him over something.

  “If you had truly wished to dance with me, Your Grace, you would have asked me and then politely deferred to Mother for her permission,” she pointed out. Her expression, however, clearly said had he done so she would have refused him out of hand, and finally, he understood. She was angry with him for leaving her no choice in the matter.

  Uncomfortable now beneath her direct, somewhat haughty scrutiny, he looked away. “I do apologize for my obviously misdirected inquiry, my lady, but you may rest assured that I would not have asked either of you had I not desired to be with you.”

  And he truly had thought her bold gaze and the lingering way she looked at him signified an interest in him on her part, as a dancing partner at the very least. Could he truly have mistaken the curiosity in her warm gaze for something else?

  Glancing across the way, his eyes caught Phoebe's, hers sparkling with a mocking gleam, and Lucien could have sworn a blush burned its way up his neck and onto his cheeks at her scrutiny.

  “Why?” Claire blurted out, and his eyes came back to her face, only to be met by a look of such accusatory puzzlement he was struck quite forcibly by the unsettling notion that she did not like him very much at the moment. “Why did you wish to be with me, Your Grace? We do not even know each other. Indeed, we have barely been introduced, while Melisande—”

  “Why do you dislike me so?” he countered.

  She looked away, and he reached up, his fingers lightly grasping her chin. Forcing her gaze to meet his eyes once more, he continued, “As you say, before last evening's ball we had not previously met, yet you insulted me there as if I had done you some great harm. And then tonight, you get all up in the boughs when my polite inquiry for a dance is directed at your guardian rather than you—as it rightly should be.”

  She tried to turn away, would have left him standing alone in the middle of the floor had he not held firm to both her waist and her chin. His gaze imploring, Lucien continued, “And now, this very minute, you seem determined to spend what few moments a mere dance requires in upbraiding me when we should be enjoying the moment, savoring the music and the movement, getting to know each other.”

  He relaxed his grip on her chin to run a finger gently along the soft curve of her jaw before tucking a stray tendril of her silky hair behind her ear, all without missing a step. “Why? What is it that you imagine I have done to cause you harm, Claire, for I vow I do not recall having said or done anything during the few brief moments of our acquaintance thus far to make you loathe me.”

  “Miss Leighton, if you please,” she haughtily rebuffed, avoiding his eyes. Her bottom lip trembled, and Lucien sighed in defeat.

  “Very well, Miss Leighton. I apologize for any inconvenience your dancing with me may have caused and promise to return you directly to your mother's side the moment the music ends.”

  He remained silent throughout what remained of the dance, and true to his word, when the last note struck and after stiffly bowing his thanks to her for the dance, he tucked her hand securely into the bend of his arm and started straightly across the floor to deliver her into the care of her mother.

  Glancing quickly about to distract herself from the rather uncomfortable silence between them, Claire found her father's disappointed gaze resting on her, his eyes filled with censure. She could feel the weight of his disapproval all the way across the ballroom. Fix it, his expression seemed to demand, and Claire knew she dare not disobey.

  “It is Melisande,” she finally whispered as they made their way back to her mother's side. “You were maligning her.”

  Lucien drew up and then leaned close to better hear her over the noise of the crush as she hastened to explain. “In the receiving line at the Kelsing's, I—I heard you say....”

  She glanced away once before the full weight of her glare returned to rest upon him. “You were mean, Your Grace.”

  4

  Three days later, Claire was once again readying herself for a ball. Normally, she would not have wasted her time with donning her ballgown and slippers this far in advance of the dancing, but the Rothwyn's country estate was quite some distance away. By the time she and her family arrived, the festivities would be in high dither, leaving her no time to disappear into whatever room she had been assigned to change.

  Though she would use it as her explanation if pressed, an eagerness to be prepared for the evening from the moment she stepped down out of her family's carriage had nothing to do with the true reason Claire had taken such pains with her appearance tonight. Nay, her reasons were much more practical. Having bungled the first affair in which she and Melisande attended by accidentally gaining the notice of the Duke of Rothwyn herself—the sort of attention she was supposed to be courting for Mel—Claire vowed she would not again forget herself and her campaign to help Melisande secure the proposal she sought would begin in earnest from the moment of her arrival at the St. Daine's private house party.

  Studying herself with a critical eye in the tall, polished glass of the cheval mirror in the corner of her dressing room, Claire decided her goal to make herself look completely uninteresting and unapproachable this evening had most certainly been achieved. The darker pastel gown she had chosen was actually a rather murky green and matched both her slippers and the combs Aggie had used to pin up the heavy mass of her hair. She had also chosen a matching satin ribbon sporting her mother's favorite cameo to wear at her throat and an ivory lace fan shot through with ribbons of the same dull, turbid shade of green completed the ensemble. Aside from rolling in the dust before they reached the duke's estate, Claire determined, there was not much else to be done for dulling her appearance...or rather, none that her parents would allow. With a sigh, she stepped away from the glass and made her way downstairs to wait for her mother and father. She was not looking forward to the tedious carriage ride but there was no way either of her parents would have turned down an invitation from the Duke of Rothwyn—especially not when that invitation allowed them not only to mingle with friends and acquaintances but also to forward Claire's introduction to every eligible male who had also been invited to attend.

  Just once, she thought, she would like to be free to enjoy an evening in the same unconcerned, joyful spirit with which Melisande seemed to view every afternoon tea, every evening jaunt to the theater, every ball in London. Instead, she was forced to smile politely, to talk of nothing more stimulating than the winds of a recent thunderstorm, and to hide what wit with which nature had blessed her behind a mask of caution as she inspected each gentleman for possible flaws.

  Would he play the nice with her and then disappear into the private parlors for an evening of cards at which he was destined to gamble away his family's entire fortune? “You must pay attention to such clues, Claire,” her father often warned.

  Would he smile at her, dance with her, attempt to sweep her off her feet and then do the same with another young woman at some other fete later in the week? “You must guard against such rogues, Claire,” her mother would insist.

  Between her father's high regard for a match with a fellow who respected familial duty and fortune and her mother's restricting fear that her daughter would marry a rogue who wanted naught more than a bit of a lovely confection to display at various outings and the requisite heir which she, herself, had failed to deliver, Claire feared she may never find a man to which she might entrust her heart.

  Her fingers plucked in distracted irritation at her fan while she waited for her parents to descend, her thoughts wandering to those few moments, days ago, when the Duke of Rothwyn had peered into her eyes and asked why she found him distasteful. There had been true confusion in his gaze, and then, when he had touched her cheek, her c
hin, her hair....

  Claire shook her head, dislodging the memory.

  If the Duke of Ambray did not soon show himself, or if the Duke of Kelsing continued to display a marked disinterest in her beyond merely being friendly acquaintances, Rothwyn would belong to Melisande.

  As Mel's friend, she was determined to see that it was so, and it would do neither of them a whit of good for her to harbor wistful memories of the man. Claire knew this, and yet, being forced to ignore the way her heart raced, how her breath hitched at his touch, how alive she had felt—even if only for those few brief moments she had danced in his arms—made her feel quite melancholy.

  “The trunks are loaded, Claire, and the servants in your mother's chambers have quieted, at last, so I expect we shall be leaving within the quarter hour,” Audrey Leighton, her father, announced as he descended the stairs, his fingers busily straightening his cuffs.

  She attempted to smile but with her thoughts having dampened her mood even further than the turbid green dress she had chosen to wear, the best she could offer at the moment, it seemed, was a weary twist of the lips.

  Ever observant when she least anticipated it, her father noticed immediately the lowness of her mood, and Claire stifled a groan of dismay. “Perhaps you should visit the kitchens for a tart or something sweet to liven your disposition? We are to be honored guests of the Duke of Rothwyn this week, Claire. I'll not have you spoil your chances with the man by putting on cheerless airs,” her father scolded, his brows low.

  Straightening, she befitted her lips with a bright, cheery smile. Using her fan for effect, Claire wielded it with over-zealous fervor. “I do apologize, Father. The excitement, I believe, has me a bit over-set but I am certain I shall be fine by the time we approach the duke's estate.”

  Eyeing her speculatively, her father's disapproving gaze wandered the length of her unflattering gown. Her false smile and pretended zeal must have been enough to assure him all was well, however, because he turned away with a grunt. “Yes, well, see that you are. I'll not have you ruin the evening with a dreary composure to match that murky colored gown you've chosen to wear. Had you nothing more festive?”