An Unexpected Proposal (St Daine Family 1)

by Leighann Dobbs

  His lips, warm and full, touched hers. At the same time, his arms came around her, closing with his palms against her back. After a moment which seemed much longer than it actually was, he lifted his mouth the barest breath from hers, and then lowered it once more. This time, however, his lips began to move, finding first the delicate curve of her neck and then the highly sensitive area just below and to the right of her earlobe.

  Claire shivered in reaction. Her hands forgot to remain clenched in her wrapper and stole upward instead. Her fingers threaded themselves through the dark hair at his nape while her chin rose, giving him greater access to the place where his lips were pressing. His teeth gently nibbled, causing a wash of liquid heat to pool low in her belly before spreading toward the secret place hidden between her thighs.

  His tongue flicked out, soothing the spot where his teeth had nipped and Claire sucked in a quick breath—which Lucien stole with his kiss, his lips returning in just that instant to mold themselves against hers. Claire felt her own open to him and his kiss; to his questing tongue. Hungry now, she rose up on her toes to better meld her body to his, to give...

  “Well this looks like it could get interesting.”

  The humor-laced words were drawled into the darkness behind her, from somewhere above her shoulder, and Claire's frightened squeal, thankfully muffled beneath Lucien's lips, triggered a reaction from him she was not expecting. Quick as lightning, he released her and pushed her behind him in one smooth, reflexive move, protecting her from the possible danger of being recognized while he faced down their common enemy.

  “No longer pining after Bethany, I take it?” the voice came again, and Claire could have sworn she heard a low chuckle follow.

  With his large body positioned squarely in front of her, hiding her from his obviously unexpected late-night visitor, Lucien visibly relaxed. Claire guessed he must have recognized the fellow because he said, “Your timing is atrocious, Tony, but I must say I am glad to see you. Have a bit of trouble finding your way home?”

  Careful to not draw attention to herself while the duke greeted the man in the shadows, Claire hastily rearranged her wrapper, pulling it tight while she tried, unsuccessfully, to shrink into utter invisibility behind Lucien. Apparently, her attempt to disappear only served to draw attention because she heard the man ask, “Do I get an introduction?”

  The quirk of humor remained in his voice and Claire wondered whether Lucien would pull her from the protective shadow of his body to deliver the requested presentation, thus ruining her reputation and her life, or if he would continue to protect her with the shield of his body. A full moment of silence—silence during which Claire waited, both trapped and mortified to find herself so—passed with wretched slowness.

  Finally, Lucien said, “No.”

  The man still hidden within the shadows of the library affected a sigh, issued in such a way as to make her think Lucien's denial of an introduction had landed him a crushing blow. “One of the blooded lasses, I presume? Oh, well. Best you send her to safety then, Rothwyn, because we've a long night ahead of us.”

  From her position behind him, Claire could feel Lucien's body stiffen. “You've located Tristan?”

  “I have,” his—friend?—acknowledged. “But it is where I've found him that you are going to be none too happy about.”

  “I don't give a damn where you found him, Tony, as long as he is alive,” Lucien said, and Claire knew he spoke the truth because she was standing so closely within the shadow of his body she could feel the ripples of tension dissipate as it left him.

  “He lives, yes, though not through any effort of his own and not by choice, from what I hear.” The man in the dark shifted, hesitating, but then he said, “Your brother has spent the past few months on board the Valkyrie, Lucien. Do you know what kind of ship the Valkyrie is?”

  Pirates.

  The word whispered through Claire's head like a fiendish threat in her deepest nightmare, and she gasped, causing Lucien to cast a glance over his shoulder at her.

  “Go on. Take the lady upstairs, Lucien,” his friend interrupted from the shadows. His voice sounded tired now, even a bit weary. “See her well settled, and when you return, I will tell you everything I know.”

  * * *

  By mid-morning the following day, Claire was feeling rather anxious. Though none of her concern, she could not help but wonder what Lucien's late-night visitor had revealed to him about the missing St. Daine family member. Nor could she manage to wipe the memory of the duke's heated, passionate kisses from her thoughts.

  He had escorted her to her room last night, had even dropped another quick kiss on her lips before pushing her inside her chamber and hurrying away back down the stairs to his friend who waited for him below. But no matter his familiarity in the dark of night when no one else would know, Claire knew she could not exactly rush to his side in the light of day and ask to be brought up on the details. Nor could she seem to think of a plausible excuse to explain away having accepted his kisses to Melisande, should she ask.

  She was becoming increasingly fretful over both dilemmas when, shortly after Aggie finished dressing her hair, her mother joined her for a quiet morning visit in her room.

  Clarisse Leighton delicately settled herself with her needlework upon a divan which rested against the foot of the large four-posted bed in the room Claire had been given and, after routine “good mornings” were shared, began to quietly ply her needle, forming sure stitches while Claire worried with her dress and paced about the chamber in a disturbing state of agitation.

  “You are going to wear a rut in the duke's exquisite carpet, darling,” her mother warned and Claire moved to settle herself at the dressing table—to wait, though for what, she did not know. Her mother's attention focused on her sewing once more, Claire feared she would be forced to pass the remaining half hour before breakfast frowning at her expression in the glass—but then the door to her chamber suddenly flew open hard enough to bang noisily against the opposite wall, making her jump hastily to her feet.

  Lady Clarisse jerked, winced, and lifted an injured thumb to her lips, but she did not rise when Melisande burst into the chamber, almost winded and completely neglecting to offer an apology for bustling in without an invitation.

  “Claire! There you are! I've searched practically all of Rothwyn House for you, only to find you still lounging about here in your chambers!” Oblivious to the somewhat strained atmosphere in the room, she grabbed Claire's hand and promptly towed her toward the door. “The duchess has seated me beside the duke tonight and I haven't a clue which dress I should wear. You must help me decide!”

  Claire cast an apologetic glance back over her shoulder at her mother, immensely grateful to Melisande for the interruption, although she had to admit she also felt a bit uncomfortable facing her friend with the memory of the duke's kisses still fresh in her thoughts. Still, she allowed Mel to draw her from the room, calling her excuses to her mother back over her shoulder as she went. “Please excuse us, Mother. Melisande seems to have stumbled into a bit of a wardrobe emergency.”

  Her mother nodded and waved them away and Claire thought she might actually somehow survive the moment—until a door opened across the hall from hers and the man from last night stepped out. He paused, closing it carefully behind him, and causing both ladies to draw up suddenly in surprise.

  Like a blond gypsy pirate, his shoulder-length hair had been left free of proper restraint and it looked as if he had just emerged from a bath because beads of water still dripped from the burnished lengths onto the front of his white lawn shirt—a shirt left scandalously open to the ladies' shocked gazes—and down the equally scandalous expanse of his broad, sun-bronzed chest. Thankfully, he had taken a moment to tuck the hem into the top of his thigh-hugging black breeches, Claire thought, the legs of which were also neatly pushed beneath the fold at the top of a pair of expensive black leather boots.

  Glancing up at his face again, the shining loop of go
ld suspended from his left ear should have stricken fear into her heart, Claire thought, but it was the intensity in those piercing blue eyes of his which held her rooted to the spot. She held her breath while his dark gaze inspected Mel from head to hem, and then, when his eyes met hers, she had to bite her lip to hold in the squeak of fear which threatened to erupt. She noted the quick flare of recognition in his gaze, and her heart thudded hard in her chest. Would he give her away?

  After several long, quiet seconds which felt quite like hours trudging past, his lids lowered a bit, shuttering the intensity of his gaze, and he dipped his head in silent acknowledgment.

  “Ladies,” he murmured low and then walked away in the opposite direction, leaving Claire to surreptitiously pull in several deep, calming breaths without drawing Melisande's attention to the fact that she was doing so. By the time Claire realized Melisande also had yet to move after their run-in with Lucien's guest, there was no time to speculate over her friend's hesitation. The fellow might decide to come back and Claire had no wish to be caught out here alone with him again should he do so.

  “Come along, Mel. Let us find the perfect dress for you,” she said. Grabbing the other girl by the sleeve, she tugged Melisande the last few steps to her chamber and then inside.

  7

  Having temporarily lost both the strength and support of her legs beneath her, thanks to the icy fear which had exchanged places with her blood when Lucien explained where Tristan was currently residing and why, Phoebe dropped heavily into an armchair.

  Her hands shook so badly in reaction to his news, she finally had to clasp them together in her lap to keep them still. She could feel the pressure of her pulse thumping against her eardrums, which was likely the reason for her sudden light-headedness, she surmised, and her mouth worked silently until she found her voice at last. “Newgate? For piracy? But...how? Why? There must be some mistake, Lucien. You know Tristan would never—”

  She could see by the pained expression he wore that there was more to be revealed of the situation than he had yet mentioned. “Tony was there, Phoebe. He has confirmed that Tristan was indeed the man in charge of the Valkyrie when emissaries from His Majesty's Royal Navy boarded her.”

  “But—” Frowning, she lowered her gaze, trying futilely to make sense of the information her brother had given, but there was none to be made. The Royal Navy had charged her brother with piracy, yet there was no doubt in her mind he was innocent. So why was he not at home? Tony had been there, after all. Lucien said he had confirmed Tristan's identity. He would surely have spoken on their brother's behalf and….

  Her head snapped up in sudden realization and she could almost feel the color draining from her face. “Lucien, they mean to hang him!”

  The sudden image of Tristan dangling from a rope at Tyburn, twisting in the air as his lungs fought for breath, forced a scream into her throat—one she dared not give voice lest every guest and member of the household come running. Instead, she sprang to her feet and began to pace the breadth of her brother's study, her fingers working feverishly at the material of her skirts while at every turn, she paused to utter, “We have to do something, Lucien. There must be something we can do. You must do something!”

  The panic in her head made its way to her tongue, causing her voice to rise to a frantic pitch while Lucien merely continued to sit calmly behind his desk, a look which lay somewhere between dismissal and determination wavering on his face. Appalled by his apparent lack of concern, Phoebe spun away and hurried across the room to tug urgently at the bell pull. When, seconds later, the butler pulled open the door, she struggled to make sense of the words sputtering from her mouth. “Severn, we've had the most dreadful news. You must send a footman 'round with a note to Nicholas and Sebastian and...and Adrien. Tell them t-to join us at the house.”

  “Within the hour,” she commanded when he merely glanced over her shoulder to her brother, but it was Lucien to whom the stalwart man deferred. The slow shake of her brother's head in negation of her command sent him backing out the door once more, an apology for the interruption tumbling from his lips, and her jaw dropped in utter disbelief.

  She turned on Lucien, demanding, “Why did you send him away? Tristan is alive! Don't you understand? He is alive and safe for the moment but if you sit here and do nothing as you have until now—”

  Lucien's jaw firmed into a tight and all to familiar unrelenting line and frustration filled her. Tristan was going to die if he did not go to him—now. How could she make him see time was of the essence? Dropping to her knees on the floor beside his chair, she held tight to her brother's arm. Staring into his eyes, her gaze implored.

  “Lucien, please!” she pleaded almost frantically. “I—I have no one else. Father is gone and Mother with him and I—I am so alone...”

  Her voice stuttered to a halt though her mind continued to spin in fear that she was about to lose the only bit of sanity left to her in this world. Tristan could not die. He just couldn't! “I beg you, Lucien, please do not let them do this!”

  “Phoebe, you are not thinking clearly,” Lucien finally said. A tic twitched in her brother's jaw, but he continued to stare at her with those unrevealing eyes of his, and Phoebe felt the world around her slowly begin to crumble and fall.

  He would do nothing, she thought. Again.

  He glowered up at her. “Calm down and we— ”

  Nay, she thought. He would go on pretending there was naught to be done and her beloved Tristan would go to his grave because of it, she corrected in frantic desperation, ignoring Lucien's command that she calm herself. They would put a rope around Tristan's neck, and…

  No! No, she would not allow it.

  She would save him herself if she must, but first...

  “I will not calm down!” she raged, her eyes wide and burning with the sting of unshed tears.

  Her body filled with anger born of fear, she sprang to her feet, drew back her right hand and swung. Her palm connected solidly against Lucien's cheek, leaving it stinging with the heat and force of her tumultuous emotions. “How can you be so...so cold? You've just learned our brother is about to die, and you sit there as calm and collected as if someone had announced nothing more important than the turn of the weather! Well, I will not do it! I—”

  Failing, in her moment of absolute panic, to note the way his mouth had drawn tight or the subtle lines of tension in his frame, she was not expecting to feel his fingers close around her arm in a steely grip. Nor had she anticipated that he would sweep her off her feet and then march her to the settee, where he deposited her rather hastily before demanding, “Sit, damn it!”

  The swiftly barked command in Lucien's voice halted her tirade, but only long enough for him to say, “Bloody females! Your histrionics accomplish nothing, Phoebe, just as you are so fond of accusing me of doing where your bleeding beloved Tristan is concerned. Therefore, if you wish to save him so badly, I suggest you either sit down and calm yourself so that we may discuss this rationally, like adults, or you are hereby dismissed, precisely in the way a child would be since childish is the only possible term for your current behavior, and you may retire to your room. The last thing I need at the moment is yet another possible scandal brought on by your continued thoughtlessness and lack of propriety!”

  Drawing up as if she had been struck, Phoebe stared at her brother, all the fear and confusion and pain in her soul temporarily stunned into submission by the harsh accusation in his tone. Without a word, she got to her feet and turned on her heel, striding for the door.

  “I think I hate you for this,” she ground out quietly in a mindless fit of pique before she opened the door and quit the room—only to encounter a small, jovial group of ladies, each dressed in the latest finery, sharing a moment of laughter that ended with happy smiles all around. Across the hall, the musicians her grandmother had hired for the week had just stricken the first notes of a minuet, which led Phoebe to surmise distractedly that the ladies were most likely en rout
e to the ballroom.

  Suddenly and inexplicably infuriated by the evidence of their seeming happiness in the face of her own personal tragedy, frightened beyond explanation by thoughts of Tristan hanging lifelessly from the gallows with a rope around his neck, utterly dumbfounded by Lucien's unfair and hurtful accusations, and completely unprepared to deal with even one single thing more, Phoebe threw up her hands and screamed at the lot of them. “Get out! Get out, all of you!”

  Several pairs of eyes swung 'round to stare at her in stunned surprise. In the ballroom, the music stopped immediately and more than a few people spilled into the gallery to see what great calamity had befallen Lady Phoebe St. Daine.

  Dazed by the depths of her pain and fear, it took several moments for Phoebe to realize the spectacle at which everyone stared was her. Once she did comprehend, her face drained of color. Dear Lord, what have I done?

  The thought had barely entered her mind before several others, each adding to the weight of sudden guilt on her shoulders, clamored for recognition among the whirling chaos in her head. Not only had she committed the unthinkable by allowing her fear and feelings of helplessness to cause an unconscionable loss of control in the midst of a house party meant to positively introduce her into society on a more personal level, she had shamed her family with her appalling public display—shamed them and put their whispered names on everyone's lips.

  “Lady Phoebe, please,” came the quiet but imploring voice of Lady Claire Leighton from somewhere behind her. “Your brother looks as if a dagger has just been thrust between his ribs. Your grandmother is likely to faint dead away in the midst of at least twenty of your most influential guests, and your sisters—”

  At the mention of her younger siblings, Phoebe turned, her gaze swinging wildly about to clash with first Alaina's and then Emily's. Both girls looked as if the breath had been sucked from their lungs and their faces had gone as white as the plastered ceiling above their heads.