An Unexpected Proposal (St Daine Family 1)

by Leighann Dobbs

  She had retired at a respectable hour. If only she hadn't spent the remainder of the night thinking about the duke and his familial dilemmas, she might have awakened feeling well rested and refreshed. Instead, after a fitful few hours wavering between trying to keep her mind off the fact that the duke had almost kissed her again and then wallowing in guilt because, although she knew she would have enjoyed his kiss, had he given it, she ought not, Claire had all but given up her half-hearted attempts at sleep.

  Why could she not simply follow through on the plans she and Mel had made before the start of the Season? Whatever time she found alone with the duke should have been spent in trying to convince him it would be to his benefit to pay heed to Melisande. Instead, she had sought him out on the excuse that she believed he would be concerned over his sister, and then she had compounded her sin by covertly watching him in the ballroom throughout the remainder of the evening.

  Eyes closed against a dawn come far too soon, Claire berated herself for mucking things up so badly the night before, but she could not erase the brief conversation in the gallery with Lucien that had revealed his vulnerability and tweaked her curiosity. She had seen it in his eyes when he looked at her, had sensed it in the almost desperate way he sought her good opinion of his intentions regarding his brother, too, but she did not know what lay at the root of it. His discomfiture over the thought of looking in on his sister left her befuddled, as well, and trying to decipher what it all might mean had kept her awake and confused far into the night.

  Despite her lack of sleep, however, sunlight peeked through the slender spaces between the heavy drapes lining the windows of her guest chamber. It stole across her pillow, forcing her to lift eyelids which much preferred to remain closed. Tossing the covers aside, Claire sat up, blinking rapidly against the glare of a particularly resplendent shaft of light before padding to the table in the corner where a pitcher of cool water waited. She poured a splash into the bowl and dipped a cloth in, which she hastily applied to her swollen, scratchy eyes.

  She had only been out of bed for a few minutes when Aggie crept into her room to help her dress and do her hair. The girl chose a pale plum walking gown for her this morning, one lavishly trimmed with fluffy goose feathers, dyed a deep, royal purple. The same had been added to a jaunty little plum-colored hat with a striking black satin band that Aggie would affix atop her curls just before she left her room. A pair of heeled black leather boots with plum colored laces and a matching, black beribboned, purple lace parasol completed the ensemble. Aggie was helping her do up the laces on her tall boots when Claire realized today would be the first of the Rothwyn's house party in which she had worn anything even slightly resembling the gowns considered to be in the current stare of fashion since her family had arrived at Rothwyn House.

  Shaking out her hem, she went to stand before the etched cheval glass mirror. Admiring the way the bodice of the gown fell and how the waist flowed slightly at her waist to show the gentle curve of her hips, she caught herself wondering what Lucien would think of the outfit but the thought had barely finished before she felt her cheeks sting, hot with embarrassment.

  Discomfited now, she shooed Aggie away and hurried downstairs to find Melisande.

  In the breakfast room, finishing a light repast in the company of Lady Phoebe and her sisters and a few older ladies who had joined the dowager duchess for breakfast, Melisande smiled and waved to her when she entered the room. Murmuring a quick good morning to those who were seated at the long table, Claire claimed a plate for herself and filled it with a few choice selections from the sideboard before joining her friend.

  “Where were you last night?” Claire whispered as soon as she slid into the empty chair beside Melisande. “I looked for you several times in the ballroom, but you were not there.”

  “Shortly after the…” Melisande paused, glancing about at the faces of the other ladies at the table to make sure no one was paying heed to their conversation before continuing. “The squabble between the duke and his sister, I developed a bit of a headache and sought out the quiet solitude of my room. I'm sorry I did not tell you but you were waltzing with Lord Avigney at the time and I did not think your father would appreciate my interrupting the two of you.”

  Claire suppressed a groan because Melisande was likely right. Her father wanted nothing more than for her to make a suitable match, and quickly. He had expressly demanded she choose a husband this Season, although she was in no hurry to do so. But rather than broach the uncomfortable topic with Melisande yet again, she said, “I do hope your megrim was temporary, Mel. We need you at your best if you are to successfully further your acquaintance with the duke over the few days we have left.”

  “Yes,” Melisande agreed, though she sounded a mite less than wholeheartedly enthused by the prospect and Claire could not help but notice her usual zeal for the topic seemed greatly lessened this morning. Mel nibbled at her crust of buttered toast and even offered a bright smile but Claire could clearly tell she was distracted.

  Frowning, she asked, “Did something else happen last night, Mel? You aren't as—you do not seem quite your usual, effervescent self this morning.” In fact, she appeared to be wholly preoccupied, but whatever had snared her attention was obviously not a subject she wished to discuss with Claire because she waved away her friend's concern with a twittering laugh.

  “Of course not. What else would have happened? My head began to pound and I went upstairs to my room. There is nothing to be concerned about, I assure you. If I seem less than cheery, it must be lingering ill effects from the headache.”

  Placing her half-eaten crust of bread on the empty plate in front of her, Melisande wiped delicately at her fingertips with her napkin before laying it aside also. Turning to Claire, she said, “But you are right. I must use every moment at my disposal to attract the dukes' attention. When you are done here, we can explore the gardens and you can tell me everything you've learned about this one since our arrival.”

  * * *

  Standing at the tall, curved windows overlooking the lawns from his study, Lucien watched Claire stroll about the gardens with Lady Melisande, a frown pulling his brow downward while he recalled, yet again, the details of the disturbing dream he'd had last night.

  It had begun quite nicely.

  Claire had been in his bed again, her dark hair wild and strewn about the pillows while he wrung little mewling sounds of pleasure from her soft pink lips with his own. Then, with no warning at all, she had sprung up from the surface of the desk here in his study to accuse him of needlessly letting his brother die at the hand of pirates.

  Watching her now in the garden, his brow knit with a sharp frown, Lucien studied her shapely curves and dared to wonder at what her reaction might be if he were to join her below and ask her to marry him. Would she be delighted, as almost any of the eligible young ladies present at his grandmother's fete this week certainly would be? Or would she be appalled due to their utter lack of familiarity with one another? Or, worse, would she gently but sincerely decline, as Bethany had, her eyes filled with sympathy and compassion but no regret?

  Behind him, Tony cleared his voice sharply. “Lucien, have you heard a word I've said?”

  Flinching guiltily, he dropped the drapes back into place and turned his glower on his friend. “Of course I have. You were telling me about your latest assignment and how you finally had everything in place to catch the man responsible for...” he trailed off a bit questioningly, completely at a loss for the details, though he would never admit as much to Tony.

  “...kidnapping the Marquess of Glenwood's granddaughter?”

  “Yes, I—she was kidnapped?” How had he missed that detail, Lucien wondered. Surely he had not been so preoccupied with watching Claire stroll through his gardens in that lovely purple confection she was wearing that he had completely neglected to comprehend the significance of such an important point.

  “For the love of God, Lucien, what do you think I have spent
the past quarter of an hour explaining?” A string of expletives spilled from his lips and he strode to the window. He snatched back the drapes. “What is so deuced amusing out there that you cannot manage to take in more than two sentences at a time? I—”

  His words stopped abruptly and his expression changed from that of a man annoyed beyond his limits to one of bemused contemplation. Turning back to Lucien, he asked, “Shall we walk with them, old man? I confess I've never been one with a penchant for chatting up a befeathered plum, but I am sure I could spare a lively turn of phrase or two to bestir the lady in cream.”

  Unreasonably annoyed by Tony's amused comment, Lucien pulled the drapes from his fingers, letting them fall back into place before he strode pointedly to his desk.

  “The marquesses granddaughter was kidnapped and you had the culprit fully within your grasp?” he prompted.

  Grinning now at his suddenly renewed interest in the subject, one which had obviously been far too boring to contemplate just moments before, Tony turned away from the window and the tempting view beyond to join him. “Will you propose, Your Gracelessness?”

  Lucien grunted, pretending to ignore the question while he scratched a few notes onto the sheet of paper before him. “If the marquesses granddaughter were in danger, I presume it was you who boarded the ship, fully prepared to rescue her?”

  When Tony did not answer right away, Lucien lifted his gaze and a brow in question, “Yes?”

  Tony sat forward, his gaze flitting to and fro, comfortable, it seemed, so long as it rested anywhere but on Lucien. “Ah, not exactly.”

  Lucien dropped heavily against the back of his chair, a frustrated sigh heaving from him. “You wanted to talk about the assignment, teased me for my distraction, and now you want to prevaricate? If you weren't there, damn it, who did you trust well enough to send in your stead?”

  He leaned forward and propped his elbows on his desk. His eyes narrowed, pinning his friend with the sharpness of his gaze. “I know you, Tony. You would not have allowed someone in which you held less than full confidence to take your place on such an operation, so tell me—who did you choose? Who was the man you sent to board that ship and rescue the marquesses granddaughter?”

  “Tristan.”

  Lucien felt his heart plunge into his stomach as the full ramifications of Tony's answer hit him like a fist to the gut. Tristan had been the one to board the kidnapper's ship and something had gone amiss...and Tony had known all along. It occurred to him also that Tony was, in fact, solely responsible for Tristan's lengthy disappearance, yet he had said nothing of it in all these many months.

  “You knew. You knew, and you said nothing. Why?”

  Betrayed, he thought. He had been terribly, horribly betrayed, and by his best friend, no less.

  All thoughts of Claire fled his mind, replaced by a maelstrom of unfathomable emotion so dark, so deep even Lucien feared to explore it. He could not. Not now. It was simply too raw, too...

  Something of the shock of pain and anger, of the betrayal and utter disappointment he felt must have shown in his expression because Tony jumped to his feet and started to pace the room in agitation. To his credit, he tried to hold his silence, to wait for Lucien to speak first, but his guilt was obviously far too much for him to bear because he could no longer hold back the words.

  “Damn it, Lucien!” he growled, gesturing with a fist in Lucien's direction as the words exploded from him. “I never wanted to tell you and you were never supposed to know. It was wrong of me, and I admit it, but I thought if Tristan were with me, he would be fine. I could look out for him for a time while you dealt with the girls, while you all worked through your grief, and all would be well in the end but—”

  Lucien saw an hundred recriminations march across Tony's face, could see exactly how dreadful he felt about the eventual outcome of his decision, and that he now regretted the choices he had made. But there was no way to change either of them; no way to turn back the clock and make all the bad things which had happened because of them to go away.

  Tony's shame was clearly revealed in his expression. That he was being eaten alive from the inside by his feelings of guilt was blatantly obvious. Lucien could even sense that Tony desperately wanted him to not only accept what had occurred, but to also understand why he had made the choices he had. But neither of them could erase the fact that none of what Tony wanted now could change the awful truth of what he had done.

  “It was me, Lucien. It was I who gave the order to send your brother onto that ship,” he said, his fist thumping against his chest for emphasis. “He was to bring back the girl, no exceptions. We had everything planned down to the letter and we had gone over the details multiple times. There was no possible way for the mission to fail.”

  He dropped back into his chair, a dry bark of laughter escaping before his lips twisted into a bitterly mocking smile. “You should be proud, Lucien. The boy carried out my orders explicitly. Unfortunately, his idea and mine of no exception differ greatly.”

  9

  Lucien sat through most of dinner in grim silence, only speaking to the guests both to his right and left when their questions or quips absolutely required a response. His thoughts were chaotic—fitful and fully occupied by the secret rescue mission his brother had attempted and failed, thanks to the misguided efforts of the man he had believed to be his friend—right up until the moment Tony had confessed, revealing his own damning part in Tristan's regretful disappearance.

  Pushing his plate forward in disgust at the whole situation, Lucien sighed heavily and dropped back hard against his chair. Claire's friend Melisande, currently seated at his right, glanced quickly up at him and then hastily away. She fixed her gaze intently upon her plate and he wondered only fleetingly why she hesitated to inquire as to the reason for either his preoccupation or his rudeness.

  From the far end of the table, he could feel the weight of Claire's concerned stare but when he chanced a peek in her direction, she turned away from the directness of his gaze to speak with the gentleman at her side. He glanced once again at Lady Melisande, a look which she returned with a somewhat hesitant smile, and he felt a sudden bite of remorse for his boorish behavior. Straightening, he offered his dinner partner what he hoped would pass for a sincerely apologetic smile.

  “My apologies, Lady Melisande. I received a bit of unsettling news earlier this afternoon and my mind is elsewhere, I'm afraid,” he offered by way of explanation for his atrocious behavior and sullen mood but made no further attempt to engage her in conversation. Instead, he stood and nodded to the entire assemblage. “Please excuse me. I've an urgent matter which requires my attention.”

  At the other end of the table, Claire watched him go, wondering at the reason behind his sudden, intolerable defection before her gaze returned to the now empty seat he had recently occupied, and finally, to Mel.

  Poor Melisande.

  Her dejected expression was pitiable, leaving Claire to wonder how many more such rejections—impersonal though they may be—that her friend would be able to bear. Offering a bright smile, Claire furtively inclined her head toward the gentleman to Mel's left in an attempt to silently encourage her to strike up a conversation there. But Mel, like the duke, decided her best course of action would be to quit the meal as well.

  “Excuse me,” Claire heard her whisper quietly before she, too, stood and left the dining room.

  Would she follow the duke? Perhaps this time it would be Mel who spoke with him in some quiet alcove, Claire thought, and mayhap they would even share a kiss. A sudden, uncomfortable twinge in her midsection made her lay her fork aside, her appetite strangely diminished.

  Clearly Mel was not feeling well, she decided. She should go after them – after her, Claire corrected. She turned to her father to make her excuses, but one look at the resolute set of his shoulders warned her against it. His expression said he believed the worst—that Mel and the duke had arranged to leave tonight's dinner together so that they mig
ht meet in secret elsewhere with far fewer prying eyes.

  Her smile faltered.

  “Melisande complained of a megrim earlier. I am sure she has merely gone to call for her maid so that she might retire early,” Claire offered instead.

  The earl merely grunted in response, and she was forced to pick up her fork once more. If nothing else, she would have to at least pretend to attend her meal until the last dish was cleared. Only then could she seek Mel out without drawing her father's attention and disapproval.

  But what of the meantime, she wondered. Was Mel with the duke? The now familiar twinge in her stomach pinched again and Claire willed it away. Stop it, Claire Leighton, she chastised in silence. What is it to you if they are together?

  Nothing, she reminded herself. Or at least it should be. If Mel was with Rothwyn, it meant only that her promise was that much closer to being fulfilled. She should be glad, happy for the both of them. But for some reason, Claire felt anything but.

  Pushing at the food on her plate, she prayed time would pass swiftly.

  * * *

  Having quit the dining room, Lucien stalked toward his study, changed his mind at the last minute, and made for the door and the stables instead.

  Grandmother would be upset with him, he knew, but had he stayed a moment longer to explain his sudden need to be far, far away from the company of their guests, he would not have been able to contain the raging anger pulsing through him, and so he had made his exit as quickly and with as little fanfare as possible. He had barely reached his destination when a familiar voice called out to him from the dark.