An Unexpected Proposal (St Daine Family 1)

by Leighann Dobbs

  “Going for a brisk ride to stave off your frustrations, are we? Too bad we are not in London. A quick round at Knights would do the job most admirably, don't you think?”

  Lucien did not wait for a more blatant or gracious invitation. He spun about, swinging blindly, but his fist connected with naught more than thin air. Tony, having swiftly ducked out of harm's way, left only an amused chuckle to fill the space where his head had been.

  “Damn it, Tony, how could you do it? How could you send Tristan into danger?” he asked, his fists now clenched tight at his sides. “You knew we had just lost our parents, knew he was grieving still, and not at all ready to make any sort of decision about his way of life or lack thereof!”

  “He is a man, Lucien. Only a few years younger than you. Are you telling me you were not capable of following your own mind at his age?”

  Tony's logic only made Lucien more angry. “Of course not, damn it!” But there were any number of legitimate pursuits you could have suggested instead, and well you know it. Had you done so, like a true friend with both our families' best interests at heart, Tristan would still be...”

  “Safe? Untested? Stuck securely behind the walls here at Rothwyn House where his sisters and your grandmother could coddle him like a girl until he lost his manhood completely?” Tony heckled, needling him to the point of violence until, with the sure voice of reason, he said the words Lucien knew he could not honestly dispute. “Come now, Lucien, we both know there is too much of your father in Tristan for him to allow that to happen. Your brother knew exactly what he could be getting into when he boarded that ship.”

  The anger and frustration he had harbored since morning dissipated immediately, leaving Lucien with a queer, hollow feeling inside. “Why did you not at least try to protect him, Tony? You were there. What could possibly have gone so badly awry that, while you made it home unscathed, my brother was left bound in chains and then dragged away to be locked in a cell in Newgate, to await trial on charges of piracy?”

  Tony scoffed at his blatant disloyalty. “You think I have not done everything in my power to keep Tristan's neck out of a noose?”

  Silence met his question and he rambled on, though Lucien was no longer certain whether his intention was to push him to release the fury which had been roiling inside him all day or to needle him with yet more guilt.

  “I suppose you would be quite thrilled had our positions been reversed, leaving me lying on a dirty cot to rot in a tiny, windowless cell. But while you're standing there wishing me into the blackest pit hell has to offer, consider that had I not 'made it home unscathed', your brother would be left with no hope whatsoever of getting out of that prison alive.”

  Lucien did not bother to remind him he had yet to show proof of this vague bit of hope he proffered.

  “Other than a life-long friendship, I have no true obligation here, Lucien. Tristan is an adult, fully capable of making his own decisions. I could sail at dawn, be off with the morning tide. But as I am currently the only thing standing between your brother and certain death, I believed my presence here would, at the very least, be appreciated.”

  When Lucien continued to hold his silence, Tony stepped back into the shadows that loomed dark near the stables. His voice tinged with a weariness not unlike that which Lucien had felt daily since the night of Tristan's disappearance, he murmured, “It appears, however, that I was mistaken.”

  Lucien reached out, halting him. “You know you are appreciated, Tony.”

  After a long moment of silence, Tony nodded. “Duly noted. Now, may we go back to your guests before your grandmother sends out a search party? I've grown rather attached to the freedoms of anonymity but something tells me Lady Amelia would happily blurt my identity to the world if it meant doing so would bring you back inside.”

  A wry smile turned up one corner of Lucien's lips. “Aye, you are probably correct. Although this little house party was supposed to be for Phoebe's benefit, I can see my grandmother's fine hand at matchmaking at play within the guest list.”

  Tony turned to lead the way back to the house. “A right fine hand it is, too, if the scene I witnessed upon my arrival is any indication.”

  Lucien grunted noncommittally. “I've no time for dallying with the ladies, Tony, despite Grandmother's machinations. Now that I know where Tristan is, I'll be going to London to speak with the magistrate. But first, I must find a way to tell Phoebe.”

  * * *

  The following morning, Lucien had risen early to prepare for his trip to London to see the magistrate. He had put off telling Phoebe until the last possible minute, but now, there was no time left for procrastinating.

  “Phoebe?” he called through the locked door and raised his hand to rap his knuckles softly against the wood. He had already knocked once and gotten no response, but he knew he must try again. There was already more discontent between the two of them than he cared to admit. If he left this morning without at least attempting an explanation…

  “Phoebe, I need to speak with you about Tristan. Will you please open the door?”

  Muffled shuffling noises from inside the room told him she must have decided to hear what he had come to say. While he waited for the door to open, he considered several possible scenarios of how the next few minutes might play out. Unfortunately, most of them ended with him once again looking like the villain, and he almost walked away without seeing her before he left for London after all.

  The door opened, barely a crack, but he could see her red and swollen eyes even in the low light and immediately felt guilty for having caused her tears. He had, after all, been the bearer of the bad news which had overset her so completely. “May I come in?”

  She said nothing, merely stepped back to allow him entrance. He stepped inside and closed the door behind him. A quick glance around her chambers revealed evidence of a long, tear-filled night, though her bed looked as fresh as his own often did when he had yet to sleep in it. “Did you sleep not at all?”

  Crossing to the settee, Phoebe sat, tucking one leg beneath her, and shook her head. “I could not.”

  Out of his element now and completely uncertain how to proceed with this whole “looking in on his sister” bit Claire had suggested after calmly informing him that his sister needed him last night, Lucien wandered around her chamber, idly examining the few framed paintings and casually lifting a figurine here and there, hefting the weight of each in his palm before placing it back where it belonged. Finally, not knowing what else to say or how to ease her misery, he said, “I am going to London to speak with the magistrate. I leave this afternoon.”

  Before the spark of hope he saw in her eyes could become fully lit, he cautioned, “I am going alone. To have the entire family pack up and hie to London now would only fuel the fires of gossip. However, once our guests depart, Grandmother has promised to bring you and the girls along.”

  “Will you see him?” she asked. Her voice was unusually husky, as if she were quite on the verge of spilling yet more tears.

  “I do not know. My meeting is to be with the magistrate, but if they will allow me to see him, I—” He broke off, his throat working from the effort of holding back his own emotions. If they did allow him to see Tristan, what would he say? What could he say? Obviously, he had said quite enough before his brother had left them, but—had it truly been more than a year since last he'd had word from his brother? No, he reminded himself as his gaze wandered aimlessly about the room. Tristan had written to Phoebe before Christmas, promising to be home soon, and Phoebe had been ecstatic with the news of his return. But the holiday had come and gone without him, leaving the entire St. Daine family in a state of unease. Phoebe, of course, feared the worst, and though Lucien did his best to assure her Tristan was fine, he, too, had begun to doubt.

  His thoughts flew back to the evening that had started the whole mess. Barely more than a year had passed since the deaths of their parents at the time and the family was just coming out of mourning when
Tristan approached him in his study to tell him of his grand plan.

  Lucien had refused to allow it, of course. As the Duke of Rothwyn and the eldest St. Daine male, it had become his responsibility to look after and protect his family, and he had told Tristan as much, he recalled, but doing so had not mattered.

  They had argued.

  They had fought.

  Tristan reminded him a number of his closest friends were currently engaged in the same sort of endeavor and Lucien pointed out that those friends were not his brother—and it was that particular line of argument which had caused the situation to descend into madness.

  “And you are not my father, Lucien!” Tristan had demanded. “You are not my father!”

  Stricken by the pain both caused by and filling his brother's words, Lucien had fallen silent, a sudden anguish for the loss of their beloved parents robbing him of the ability to say more. Tristan had walked out the front door of Rothwyn House shortly thereafter and now...

  Phoebe nodded, but said nothing. In fact, she was silent for so long, Lucien turned on his heel and was already at the door before her quietly whispered plea halted him.

  “Lucien?”

  Turning back, he opened his mouth to reply but the sight of her on the settee, her back straight while her shoulders quivered and rivers of silent tears spilled unchecked down her cheeks, struck him temporarily dumb. His mouth worked, but no sound issued forth. Finally, he cleared his throat to ease the tightness there enough to ask, “Yes?”

  She lifted her watery gaze to his, a look of utter misery on her face, and he felt his heart squeeze painfully in his chest.

  “I'm scared, Lucien. So very scared.”

  As if the words she spake somehow caused her fragile hold on her control to break, Phoebe began to sob. She lifted her hands to cover her face, though doing so did nothing to hide her momentary loss of restraint from him.

  His jaw clenched tight.

  What was he to do with a sobbing female? Should he walk away and allow her to shed her tears in private? Or should he remind her that tears served little to help in situations such as this? Father would immediately have known how to handle the moment, Lucien thought, and Tristan as well. But he was entirely unprepared for dealing with this new crisis.

  She needs you.

  Claire's words rose up in his thoughts, urging him to at least try, and he crossed the room to sit rather awkwardly beside his sister on the settee. Drawing her into the circle of his arms, he pressed a brotherly kiss upon the crown of her head before wrapping his arms around her to hold her while she cried.

  “As am I, Phoebe,” he quietly admitted. “As am I.”

  10

  In London again for less than a week after the Duke of Rothwyn's house party had disassembled, and having danced almost every dance since her arrival at the Rindal's soiree this evening, Melisande was quite winded. Pausing to catch her breath and regroup her thoughts, she made herself comfortable on the settee nearest the doors leading outside so she might catch a breeze or two while resting.

  All this dancing was doing her very little good in the “win-a duke” area of her life, she thought, covertly slipping a sliver from her reticule to read, now that she had a moment alone. Her gaze flitted around the ballroom, searching for the Duke of Rothwyn since Kelsing had left the affair almost as soon as he had escorted his sister through the doors. Disappointed, she glanced surreptitiously at the scrap of paper in her palm.

  Meet me in the garden, beautiful lady.

  T.

  Melisande stared down at the note given her by a footman after her last dance, determined to ignore the command written there in flawlessly scrolled, expertly formed letters despite the quick thrill of excitement she felt just from looking at it.

  The 'T' stood for Tony, she realized, but his given name was the only thing about him she knew—and even that could prove to be false, she feared.

  She wasn't going to do it.

  No good could come from a moonlit meeting with the outrageously handsome…pirate captain? Ship hand? It occurred to her belatedly that she still had no idea precisely what the man who had cornered her on the darkened stairwell at the Duke of Rothwyn's house party did, but whatever it was, she was certain it must be bad. Very bad. After all, there had to be some reason he had not taken part in the festivities there, preferring instead to keep to the shadows and skulk around as he had.

  Given the care he had taken to avoid the duchesses guests, Melisande assumed he was not the sort of man the dowager duchess would want associating with her guests, though he and the duke were clearly friends. She should have counted herself among the “avoid—that—man—at—all—costs” group as well, considering her current aim in life. Her every waking moment was spent in seeking opportunities to garner the affection of and an offer of marriage from the dukes of Rothwyn or Kelsing. To court foolishness by meeting the secretive and mysterious though delectably handsome man who called himself naught but Tony in the Rindal's garden, well...

  She thought of Rothwyn and the fact that if Kelsing did not come up to scratch soon, she would be forced to seriously revise her tactics to win him. He was Tony's friend, she repeated to herself, and no man wanted the ghost of another love in their marriage bed. Of this she was certain. But if that ghost also happened to be one of his best friends?

  Melisande scoffed at the nonsense in her head.

  She was neither in love with the mysterious “Tony—who—had—given—no—surname” nor was she about to wed the duke. All her prior attempts in that direction had fallen far short of the mark, despite Claire's assistance. Though she had learned everything she possibly could from friends, family, and acquaintances about the Graces, Melisande was no closer tonight to winning a second glance from either of them than she had been a month ago—and Ambray continued to remain as elusive as ever.

  Despite her resolve, however, her gaze slid to the doors leading out to the terrace and the gardens beyond. What is he doing here? She had thought never to see or hear from him again once she left Rothwyn House. Had he followed her to London?

  Crushing the note in her palm, she hid her fist in the folds of her skirt until she could find a moment of privacy during which to tuck it securely into her reticule. Although she would not meet him, as he had requested, she could not bring herself to throw the note away. He had written it in his own hand, after all. And he had called her beautiful. Again.

  Later, in her room, she would open the note again so that her fingers could carefully trace the beautifully formed letters while she allowed herself to dream of things she should never entertain, but for now....

  Her cheeks flushed and she straightened, hurriedly scanning the sea of faces around her, looking for him among the countess's guests despite her better judgment. Was he here, amidst the throng somewhere despite the appalling shock his presence would surely cause? Nay, even he, bold though he was, would not dare to crash the Countess of Rindal's ball.

  What a scandal that would be, she thought as she moved toward the edge of the ballroom. A pirate on the prowl among the ton's most elite. Countess Rindal would swoon at the very least. A grin started to form on her lips, making her mouth twitch at the corners, and Melisande paused, checking herself before she did something she knew she would regret.

  To Tony's credit, resisting his summons was difficult.

  He was so beautiful, a girl could forget herself in doing naught more than drinking up his loveliness. Add to that his sultry tone and the naughty appeal in his eyes, and she would be lost. But his kisses... oh, his kisses....

  Seconds later, the door leading out onto the terraced gardens beyond the ballroom opened beneath her hand and Melisande stepped out into the clear moonlight, waiting with baited breath to hear the click that would assure her she had, indeed, remembered to close the door behind her.

  Careful now, she kept to the lighted areas, glancing down along the length of the house in both directions to ensure she was alone. Assured of her privacy, she leane
d against a column and lifted her wrist to hurriedly tuck the note into her reticule.

  A sound in the darkness to her left caused her head to snap around. Eyes narrowing sharply, she surveyed every inch of the terrace but found nothing. Still, her heart had picked up its rhythm and she could not help but notice how her entire being seemed to have become incredibly aware of her surroundings. He was there somewhere. She could feel him. Her skin veritably tingled with reaction to his nearness, and yet...

  Where is he?

  “I knew you would come. Did you miss me, darling?”

  The sound of those words, drawled low and so near to her ear in his sensuous voice, made her breath catch in her throat and her body simultaneously flood with heat. Swinging around, she demanded in a strained whisper, “What are you doing here? You could be caught!”

  One look at his attire confirmed her suspicions. He looked positively evil, dressed in all black from his neck to his toes. If not for the teasing gleam in his blue eyes, Melisande was sure she would have fled. This man was as far from civilized ton as a demon from the choirs of heaven. Being alone with him was sheer foolishness, and yet she somehow felt secure enough to relax in his presence. She was far, far more at ease with him than their brief acquaintance should warrant, she warned silently. Perilously so.

  “Worried, sweetness?” he teased. His arm slid around her and before she realized his intent, she was being led away from the torches along the lighted paths through the gardens toward the back of the house where no light dared to stray.

  “Yes!” she hissed, every ounce of her current anxiety reflected in the word. She was worried someone would realize she had disappeared from the ballroom and come looking for her. Worried he would try to kiss her in the darkness. Worried that he would not. But most of all, she worried she was becoming obsessed with this man.

  “You should take me back now and leave before your presence is realized and you are caught! The earl would not hesitate to report you to the authorities. You must know your friendship with the duke will only get you so far.”