The Rake's Wicked Proposal. Carole Mortimer

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      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. СКАЧАТЬ