His chuckle danced along the silence and the vibration of it pirouetted on her skin. Finally drawing to a halt, he pulled her into the circle of his arms, holding her there while he peered teasingly down into her eyes. “Calm your fears. There is no cause for worry. The earl will neither call for the authorities nor would he seek to dismiss me from his house.”
“How can you be so sure?” Melisande fretted, pushing against his chest so that she could see his face, though doing so was difficult here in the dark. His boldness was a thing to fear, especially in this place where what one was thought to have done mattered more than what one actually did.
“Let us just say I have friends in all places, both high and low. I'm not worried in the least over what might occur should I happen to be 'caught' here tonight, my little Mellycakes. But what of you? Should you not be screaming in fear for your virtue?”
He leaned close—so close she could feel the electrifying heat of him from her chest to her shins—and peered questioningly down at her. “We are alone. In the dark. Our being here together is positively scandalous. Why, should we be discovered, we would be forced to wed post-haste. So tell me, my lovely Melisande—why are you unafraid for yourself but so very overwrought with concern for me?”
Melisande blanched.
What he said was true. Frighteningly so, she admitted, but the full weight of another truth he had spoken was only now settling upon her shoulders. What if she were forced to marry him—a mere ship hand? Or worse, a pirate?
Every dream she had ever dreamed of finally leaving the painfully lonely obscurity in which she currently lived, of being seen and heard and even acknowledged as someone important, someone who mattered, shattered before her eyes as the cold fist of defeat twisted in her stomach.
Pushing away from his warmth, her head moving slowly from side to side as if she were in a trance, Melisande almost choked on the panic rising within her. No. No! She should never have come here, never have allowed herself to be swayed by his words, charmed by his eyes, or compelled by her own attraction to a man such as him.
“No. Oh no,” she breathed out in a whisper. Eyes wide and stinging with fearful tears in reaction to her realization of what she had done, of what very well could happen if she stayed with him even a moment more and they should be discovered, she twisted with the circle of his arms to break his hold and backed away.
“I could never marry you,” she declared almost vehemently. Turning on her heels, she fled back in the direction from which they had come.
* * *
Lucien had not stopped thinking about Claire—not during the long ride to London, nor the three frustrating days he had spent in Town after, or even today, when he had finally received word from the earl of Vykhurst that, although the magistrate would not be granting him an audience anytime soon, he would see Lucien tomorrow regarding the matter of his brother.
Frustrated beyond belief by the delays, he had spent the greatest portion of his time locked in his study at Rothwyn Manor with Tony, going over every detail of the mission which had brought his brother low. Something about the entire situation bothered Lucien, but, as of yet, he could not name which of the already far-fetched details bothered him most, or why.
To add a bit of insanity to the chaos, yesterday Grandmother had arrived with the girls. His bachelor household had been upset entirely for a time, and then, shortly after their arrival, visitors began to arrive in a steady stream. Most of the callers were gentlemen coming to pay court to Phoebe. More than once Lucien had wished to peer out from his study and see a familiar female face. His wish had been granted late this afternoon when Julia and Christina Locke had stopped in, but their visit was all too brief, and though he felt somewhat heelish to admit it, of little comfort as well because neither of them were Claire. Not only had she not visited, there had been no call for him to drop in on her, either. Yet he could not seem to stop thinking about her—not since the night he had kissed her in the library.
He still was not sure what had possessed him to do so. Perhaps it was the temptation she had presented to him there in the darkness, clutching her robe to her throat with long, nimble fingers while he could think of little more than how the soft skin of her nape would taste beneath his lips should he remove it.
Perhaps he had been thinking far too much of the futility of the situation with his family and had subconsciously reached out for feminine succor? Whatever the cause, he had goaded her, and he had kissed her, and now...
He wanted her.
Despite the situation with Tristan, despite his inept ability to find a way to relate to Phoebe in a meaningful way, and despite this surprising new development with the Earl of Vykhurst affecting his family, Lucien wanted Lady Claire Leighton—so much so, he was having a difficult time keeping her out of his thoughts.
Tony mentioned the kidnapping of the marquesses granddaughter and he immediately wondered how he might feel if it had been Claire who had been taken away.
Tony told him the marquesses granddaughter was a ravishingly beautiful blond and Lucien saw only visions of dark hair and beautiful eyes and the enchanting smile that was Claire's alone.
Tony chided him for mooning over a woman, and Lucien hotly denied doing any such thing while reminiscing over how the light floral scent of her had teased him while he held her in his arms.
For four days now, he had been cooling his heels in London, but not once had he even vaguely entertained the idea to attend any of the many social gatherings which always seemed to be going on at this time of year. Phoebe's arrival, however, set him to thinking of Claire even more and that he might be afforded a chance to see her again if he dared accept one of the many invitations which had begun to arrive at the Manor the moment he had returned to London. Which was why, he decided later as he stood waiting at the door for Phoebe to enter their carriage, he had volunteered to chaperon his sister at the Countess of Rindal's ball this evening.
Now, the hour was growing late and for a third time since he had slipped back inside the ballroom, Lucien watched Claire rise up on her toes, crane her neck, and circle the room with her gaze. He wondered who she could possibly be searching for so diligently. Not him, he was certain, as she had dipped her head in acknowledgment of his presence much earlier in the evening but had neither danced with nor spoken to him throughout the remainder of it thus far. If she had glanced his way after, he would have known immediately because he had spent most of his time at the ball tonight doing exactly what he was doing now: watching her.
Her diligence tweaked his curiosity.
Lucien watched her move to her mother's side for a brief conversation before she turned and made her way upstairs. Assuming she needed a moment in the ladies' retiring room, he positioned himself near the foot of the stairs to wait. She had been out of his sight less time than it took the ornate metal hand on his pocket watch to make a full turn and he glanced up to see her once again coming his way.
The way her steps faltered when she saw him needled his pride. He had known the measure of her regard from the moment of their first meeting. But for her to draw up now at the mere sight of him? Perhaps he should not have sought her out after all.
Peering at her through narrowed eyes, he asked, “Lost something? Or perhaps it is someone you seek? The yellow-haired gentleman you were waltzing with earlier has taken his leave, I am afraid.”
Her brow furrowed. “Barrow? No, it is not Lord Gentry I seek, Your Grace, but Melisande. Have you seen her?”
Feeling a bit awkward now for his erroneous assumption and his misplaced sense of wounded pride, Lucien wanted to kick himself for the accusatory tone he had used. “Ah. Your friend Melisande. I had forgotten about her.”
Claire's expression fell, becoming almost distraught, and Lucien stepped forward to grasp the opportunity she had unwittingly afforded him. “I last saw her near the doors to the terrace. We could look for her together,” he offered. Taking her hand, he tucked it into the bend of his arm and started forward before
she could refuse. But when they reached the doors, she extricated her hand and drew up yet again, obviously concerned about leaving the ballroom. Or mayhap she had an issue with going into the gardens with him? In either case, Lucien knew if a scandal was what she sought to avoid she had likely chosen aright. If she had stepped out into the night with him, he could not have guaranteed he could have gone with her and not succumbed to the desire he felt to kiss her again.
“Could you look for her, Your Grace? I would do so myself, but...” A flush of color spread across her cheeks and he wondered if she had somehow guessed what he had been thinking. He had to applaud her good sense. No proper young lady of good breeding would disappear into the darkness beyond those doors with a man not of her own family and certainly not without a chaperon dogging her heels.
Though he was disappointed by her refusal to accompany him, he would not deny her request. If Lady Melisande had gone through those doors alone, she may well be in trouble herself. A frown puckered his brow at the thought. “Wait here and tell no one about your friend's disappearance. I will return shortly.”
Claire's eyes went wide and she shook her head.
“There is no need, Your Grace,” she whispered, tilting her head in the briefest of gestures toward the doors an instant before Lady Melisande Ruebrige stepped inside, looking both pale and shaken. Lucien took one glance at her and moved to position himself between the crowd and the lady at the door. Whatever had happened to her in the gardens, he thought, it must not have been pleasant.
“Mel, are you alright?” Claire asked, her voice low. “You are shaking!”
When Lady Melisande did not answer right away, Lucien started for the door, but the girl reached out to halt him, shaking her head. “I am fine, really. I stepped out for a bit of air, that is all.”
“But you—” Claire started, and again, her friend cut her off with a shake of her head.
“It is nothing,” she insisted, and Claire, making little progress with her friend herself, turned her imploring gaze on him. Do something, it seemed to insist.
Reluctantly, Lucien turned to offer the lady his arm. “Dance with me.”
Tugging her forward into the crowd, he immediately swept her into a waltz, leaving her no opportunity to resist or disagree. Over her shoulder, he saw Claire disappear into the crowd with her mother, and he sighed.
11
Maren Claybourne, the Earl of Vykhurst, was aged but he did not look elderly. In fact, Lucien thought he looked surprisingly fit for his age. He lounged, one leg crossed over the other and his right hand perched atop a sleek black cane topped with a silver dragon's head, in the chair Lucien himself had often occupied when his father had been alive.
The earl had arrived just before noon and his first words had been an assurance that Tristan was well and in good health—physically. That he'd made it a point to say physically intimated he must be of the opinion something was not as it should be in Tristan's mind, which Lucien refused to believe. “How is it you have seen my brother when I have yet to be allowed the privilege?”
A peculiar expression on his face, the earl studied Lucien. “There is a problem with your brother, Rothwyn. Had he remained silent once I realized his true identity, he would be in your personal care even now. Unfortunately, his situation has now escalated to one in which, if you had all the proof in the world of his innocence it would not matter because he has declared himself fully responsible and guilty. In fact, he orders the guards to hang him for his crimes daily. He has even threatened to do the deed himself more than once, which is why you will find his, ah, lodgings...devoid of anything he could possibly use to be rid of himself prematurely.”
Ignoring the earl's comment as much as the earl had ignored his question, Lucien kept his expression bland. “Why are you here, Vykhurst? You've told me my brother has professed to being guilty with his own mouth. You've assured me once the magistrate gets to this case, my brother is bound for the gallows. And yet, I sense there is more. Something you have yet to tell me...”
A hint of delight lit the earl's eyes, as if Lucien's words had pleased him more than they should, and a feeling of unease tripped along his spine. Biting back a growl of frustration with the cat and mouse game the earl seemed wont to play, Lucien got up and strode to the side cabinet, where he poured two fresh glasses of Scotch.
“I would like to think of it as a favor, actually,” Maren said, accepting the glass Lucien brought him with his left hand. “A gesture among friends, if you will.”
“But we are not friends,” Lucien reminded him unkindly. He sat his own glass on the desk, untouched. “What do you want from me, Vykhurst?”
The earl's expression closed, becoming unreadable. “Your sister, Rothwyn. For my grandson. Assure me your Phoebe will wed my Edward and I will help you save your brother.”
Phoebe? The earl had come here to use Tristan as a bargaining tool for Phoebe? Astonished, confused, Lucien asked, “Why?”
Again, the earl's expression changed. His eyes shuttered and for the first time since his arrival, he seemed less than sure of himself. Sitting forward, he put his own glass aside. For a moment, he said nothing, but Lucien could see his struggle with how to explain clearly on his face. Finally, he began, “It is no secret that my son practically drained the family of resources before his rather untimely death several years ago.”
His gaze lifted to meet Lucien's. There was sincerity in the depths, and something more—an unspoken plea he clearly would not utter—in his eyes before he looked away again, unseeing, toward the windows on the other side of the room. To gather his thoughts, Lucien presumed.
“I am not a young man, Rothwyn,” he began again. “For a second time in my life I find myself in the position of needing to secure the Vykhurst future. Edward is my heir. He will become earl soon and I—”
He paused, turning eyes which now clearly revealed the age his body did not upon Lucien. “I would prefer my grandson not be forced to struggle with restoring the earldom my death will bring him, Your Grace.”
“So you would have my sister wed your grandson for money.” Lucien scoffed. “Why not just ask for a loan?”
Maren drew up stiffly, his expression gone hard. “Marriage is an honorable means to restore both coin and dignity to a name. Your own father did so by marrying your mother, though I doubt you would remember a time when the duchy of Rothwyn lay near ruin. Your father was a shrewd man, Rothwyn, but even more, Victor knew when the cards were stacked in his favor and he never hesitated to act.”
He was correct, Lucien thought. But not remembering and having no knowledge of one's history were not the same. From the moment his father had deemed him old enough to understand, Victor had explained exactly the desperate situation he had faced when his own father died, leaving the family in dire straits indeed. But he was wrong to think Father had married for money. No, Victor St. Daine had been in love with his wife. The dowry she brought to their marriage, though more than sufficient to lift the Rothwyn coffers to previous heights of comfort, had never been touched. It angered him to think this man believed otherwise but he would not enlighten the earl. Instead, he said, “You mean the way your benevolent offer of assistance in light of this situation with my brother is stacked in my favor now? At least, I presume that is your reference.”
Relaxing back against the cushioned chair, Maren nodded. He did not smile, but Lucien could see his sense of triumph in his eyes. “Give it some thought, Rothwyn. Nothing need change for either of you. Your sister will marry as she must do anyway. With her dowry, my grandson's future will be assured but you will also get your brother back. He will be home. Safe. Or is young Tristan's life not worth a few hastily scrawled words on paper to you?”
The earl's shrewd gaze pierced and Lucien scowled. “Marriage to a pauper is a damned sight more than a few words scrawled onto a page and you know it, Vykhurst.”
He tapped out a quick rhythm with his hand against his thigh. “In essence, you are asking me to sacrifice
Phoebe's life for Tristan's. And you still have nt said how you intend to help me bring my brother home...”
“You have said we are not friends, Your Grace,” the earl said, shifting his position to better face down his opponent. “But rest assured I do have them. Some in high offices and others in places you would never dare to venture. I believe I have been a good friend over the years. A very good friend. Good enough, in fact, to call in enough favors to see this through.”
Lucien grunted in lieu of a response. “And your grandson? I have no doubt he is amenable to the idea of wedding my sister but I do not believe I have yet had the pleasure of an introduction. Tell me, Vykhurst, has he no qualms against being played as a pawn?”
The earl was obviously very adept at engaging in manipulation when the matter warranted. Lucien had just had the questionable pleasure of seeing him wield it in top form and he had no doubt Vykhurst would not have kept his grandson exempt from his machinations. He also knew he could not simply consign Phoebe to such a fate. Any man so easily led would be a poor choice for her—she was far too headstrong. Nay, he would never demand that she marry the earl's grandson. Doing so would only give Phoebe one more reason to hate him. On the other hand, if Maren were to be taken at his word, insisting she wed the Claybourne fellow would see Tristan freed and bring him home at last, and that was precisely what she most desired.
“Edward is his own man, if that is what you are asking. That he has sense enough to recognize a great opportunity when presented one is to his credit, I believe, but you will find him very much a man of his own mind.” Maren leaned forward. “As to introductions, or rather, the lack thereof, I am quite certain the boy would much prefer to meet his bride—to—be before the contracts are drawn.”
As if he considered the matter done, the earl got to his feet. “If you would be so kind as to send an invitation around, Your Grace, I will see to it that my grandson offers a favorable reply.”
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