An Unexpected Proposal (St Daine Family 1)

by Leighann Dobbs

  “No choice? I do not understand, Lucien. What could the earl possibly have to offer that you would even consider his ludicrous proposal?”

  He glanced away, unable to bear the accusatory look of mutinous confusion in her gaze. The sudden urge to walk out, to wash his hands of the whole tangled mess their family had fallen into, to disappear much the same as Tristan had done tempted him, and he sighed. To be forced to trade one sibling for another was a decision he never willingly would have made, had it not been absolutely necessary, but at the moment, he truly could see no other way. “Tristan's freedom. Or at least a better chance of swiftly obtaining it than I. Phoebe...”

  Her reaction was instantaneous.

  Her eyes went wide, losing the obstinate glint from a moment before. In the same moment, they filled with relief and then uncertainty, and Lucien could see that she understood his dilemma, at last. Still, she nodded, her answer coming without thought or hesitation, her expression melting into one of resolve, of determination. “Yes. Yes, I will marry the earl's grandson in exchange for Tristan's swift release and safe return home.”

  Lucien peered at her questioningly, doubting her resolve due to the swiftness of her reply. “Yes? Are you absolutely certain, Phoebe, because once I have given an answer to the earl, there can be no turning back.”

  “Does it matter, Lucien? If we decline, Tristan will certainly hang. He will die and I could never live with myself knowing there was a chance I could have saved him.” She rose, drawing in a breath as if to steady herself. “I will come with you to visit the earl, to personally declare my willingness to marry his grandson. I—I cannot blithely refuse because doing so could cost Tristan his life.”

  Lucien stared at her, a choked feeling closing his throat even as a sense of pride at her courage filled him. For a moment, he merely stood staring at her in awe, for she had just quietly agreed to sacrifice herself, her future—truly, the rest of her life!—to save their brother and though he had never really doubted she would be willing to do so, the fact that she had agreed so swiftly and without question surprised him. Did she truly understand what was going to be required of her?

  “You have never met the earl's grandson, as you have said, and though Lady Claire assures me the fellow is pleasant enough to look upon, the fact remains that we know nothing about him,” he cautioned, but the relief in her eyes said it mattered not. Tristan would be safe and that seemed to be her only concern. He wondered idly at the depths of her devotion to their sibling while at the back of his mind the question pricked: would she have done the same had it been himself who awaited the hangman's noose?

  It was one question he dare not ask.

  Instead, he crossed to his desk, saying, “We will not be visiting the earl.”

  Drawing several scraps of paper from a drawer, he hastily scrawled three quick notes, sanded, folded, and sealed them, and then called for a footman while, perplexed, Phoebe sputtered in confusion. “But there is not much time! Shouldn't we—?”

  Passing the missives to Jeremiah, Lucien instructed one be delivered to Kelsing Hall, another to the marquess at Wyndham, and finally, one to the Honorably Mister Edward Claybourne, grandson to the current Earl of Vykhurst.

  The footman left to do his bidding and Lucien explained, “I would not risk leaving the matter late, Phoebe, but neither will I allow you to wed a man neither of us have met. We shall bring him to us. I have asked Mister Claybourne to join us at Rothwyn House—to celebrate.”

  Only slightly mollified by his answer, Phoebe asked, “Celebrate?”

  Lucien nodded. “Your betrothal, of course. Now find Grandmother and bring her to me. Alaina and Emily as well. I would not have them in the dark regarding our plans.”

  “And precisely what are our plans, Lucien?” she asked, reminding him with the quick arch of a brow that she was still very much unenlightened as to the turning of his thoughts on the matter.

  He merely stared at her in silence. Then, “Have I told you lately that I love you, Phoebe?”

  Her cheeks flushed and she blinked awkwardly in surprise at his sudden, unexpected declaration. “No, you haven't, and I—”

  “Hmm. Well, I do. I love you, and no matter what may come of our current situation, I want you to know that.” He rocked back on his heels, watching the play of emotions on her face while she tried to fathom the reason behind his sudden admission.

  “You are scaring me again, Lucien.”

  Smiling, he shook his head. With a hand at her waist, he led her toward the door. “All will be well, Phoebe. I promise. Now run along and find your sisters. I have somewhere to be.”

  13

  Though guilty of nothing more than a single, meaningless kiss, if one discounted the many fanciful scenarios she had played through in her mind, Claire could not help but feel as if she were committing the ultimate betrayal every time she allowed herself to think of the Duke of Rothwyn.

  Lately, she spent far too many hours thinking about him and the frightful situation with his brother, not to mention the problems he seemed to be having with his sister, and… blast it! Why could she not erase her few true memories of the dratted man from her mind? What was wrong with her?

  She knew the duke's personal relationships were none of her business, and yet, it seemed she could think of little else. Had he spoken with his sister about the proposal the Earl of Vykhurst had made? If so, she wondered, had Phoebe been amenable to a betrothal between herself and the earl's grandson, or no? After witnessing the girl's reaction at Rothwyn House when she had learned her brother had been imprisoned, Claire felt sure Phoebe would have been willing to do nigh anything to ensure his release, but—would the fact that her elder brother had asked it of her rather than the younger truly make as much a difference as Lucien seemed to think?

  It is none of your concern, Claire Leighton, she silently chastened, but the questions would not leave her be. Or was it more the brief glint of pain she had seen in the duke's eyes when he had mentioned the lack of communication between himself and his sister which kept her thoughts returning to him, again and again, despite the promise she had made to Melisande?

  Frowning, Claire stepped away from the window overlooking the empty street below to pace back and forth in agitation across the small but cozy expanse of her sitting room. She had to put thoughts of the duke out of her mind, but how?

  Perhaps it truly was time she started looking among the eligible gentlemen of the ton for a husband, she decided, just as her father desired? If not, she might well continue with this rather unexpected obsession with the Duke of Rothwyn and allow her heart to become entangled—and that simply would not do.

  Guilt spurred her toward the delicately carved writing desk in the corner where she sat to sift through a number of invitations to various functions this evening. One in particular caught her notice. It was from Lord Avigney—a younger son of a marquess. Her lips twisting in indecision, she considered what she knew of the fellow. Michael was amiable enough, she supposed, though young. His smile was lively and he did seem to be possessed of a rather charming wit.

  She would accept his invitation, she decided at last, but the instant she took up her pen to write out her acceptance, her stomach roiled with the shame of knowing she was doing so only to distract herself from thoughts of Lucien St. Daine. Claire dropped the pen and propped her elbow on the desk, her chin in her hand, and closed her eyes with a groan.

  There must be something she could do other than play through her memories, time and again, recalling every facet and nuance of how she had felt when Lucien kissed her, danced with her, talked to her, or even appeared in the same room with her. Yet no matter how diligently or even what she tried, there was simply no denying the man's presence in her thoughts, and shamefully, neither could she deny her pleasure in having him there.

  But so, too, were thoughts of the promise she had made to Melisande…

  Shaking her head to stop the betraying images from forming in her mind yet again, Claire decide
d she must be the worst sort of friend. She was a deceiver, she thought.

  A trickster.

  A cheat.

  Almost as if to taunt her for her betrayal, even if her guilt did exist only in her thoughts, the sounds of a carriage in the street drew her to the window once more and she sighed. She did not need to see the fall of green silk spilling from the door of the conveyance to know that Melisande had arrived for a visit.

  Claire knew should be happy to see her, even delighted to spend the afternoon with her. Instead, and no matter how severely she chastised herself for it, she was suddenly very uncomfortable with the thought of spending even one moment with her. Hastily pushing such mean-spirited thoughts aside, Claire hurried to the stairs to greet her friend.

  * * *

  Some time later, half lost in thought, Melisande murmured, “There has to be a faster way.”

  “A faster way to do what, precisely?” Claire glanced her way, clearly confused by her having blurted out the words with no prior explanation.

  Melisande hadn't actually meant to speak them aloud, to be honest, but now that she had.... Blinking, she straightened, pushed her palms down the fine mint fabric of her skirts and stood, a wistful sigh whispering from her lips.

  “To secure a proposal from the Duke of Rothwyn,” she explained though, truth to tell, she found the mere thought of it depressing. Still, she fought to keep any hint of the despondency she was feeling from revealing itself in her voice when, glancing back at Claire, she asked, “Can we not simply find a way to lure him into someone's garden or a darkened library and force his hand?”

  “You mean to trick him?” Claire unfolded from her tucked-leg position on the divan, her brow furrowed in a deep frown. “Mel, tell me you are not seriously considering—”

  “Am I not?” she practically snapped and though she had intended no harm to her friend, she could see her tone, if not her words, had offended. Rubbing her palms together, Melisande crossed to the window to stare out at nothing in particular, her gaze as unfocused and lost upon the outside world as she felt on the inside.

  Attempting to maintain a more soothing tone despite the growing inner turmoil she felt, Melisande reminded her friend, “This Season will not linger forever, Claire. Finding a suitable husband as swiftly as possible was already a necessity for both of us, but for me it has become absolutely imperative.”

  The surprise and censure in Claire's eyes asked questions Melisande knew her lips never would, but she was in no mood to explain. Not after yesterday. Not after he had sneaked up behind her at Vauxhall, taking her by surprise to steal her away from her escort for a leisurely stroll along the paths and several moments of uninterrupted conversation which she shamefully had found all too brief. She simply could not—nay, would not—allow herself to fall in love with a man of no consequence.

  Spinning on her heel from the window to face Claire, she said, “I need this to be done now, Claire, and quickly. I thought we could do it more leisurely, that we would have plenty of time, but now...”

  Her voice trailed off, mostly because she hated the sound of regret even she could hear in her tone, but also because of the fine edge of desperation that laced every word, as well. She was certain Claire had picked up on it, too, because the lines of her frown eased though her eyes continued to gleam with the light of curiosity aroused and yet left unsatisfied.

  Biting back a groan, Mel returned to the divan and took Claire's hands, squeezing them tightly between her own. Her propensity for drama was well known, especially among those whom she counted as friend. But this time the dilemma she faced was serious—far more so than at any other time in her life before.

  “We have to do this now. I realize there were supposed to be three dukes to woo and the entire Season in which to do it, but—I choose Rothwyn, Claire. Yes, Rothwyn, and we absolutely must find a way to convince him to marry me quickly.” Before I lose my head completely and do something I know I will regret, she thought, but aloud, she said, “Before something truly terrible happens—something I can neither find my way out of nor change.”

  Allowing some of the desperation she was feeling inside to show in her eyes once more, Melisande brought her gaze up to meet Claire's in supplication. “Please, Claire. You promised to help me.”

  * * *

  Lucien's plans for his sister's betrothal celebration made it necessary for the family return to Rothwyn House indefinitely, which meant Phoebe's Season would be cut short. Too short, his grandmother had complained, and given the sad fact that her first and only Season was about to draw to a painfully premature close, Lucien had reluctantly followed his younger sisters' advice and done his best to ensure that Phoebe's last week in Town was special.

  “A spectacularly grand moment in time,” his sister, Emily, might say—one she could always look back on and remember with fondness, no matter what her future might bring. To that end, the entire St. Daine family had spent the past several days touring the botanical gardens at Vauxhall, visiting the local shops and museums, and had even taken a brief but enjoyable boating trip along the Thames. It was also the reason Lucien had decided a trip to the Drury Lane theater would be just the thing, and tonight, he was leaned back in his favorite seat in the private box near the back of the theater which was reserved for the duke and his family, his gaze resting upon his soon to be wed sister.

  Phoebe had never attended a live performance before and tonight's frolic, popular though a bit risque at times, was turning out to be a perfect choice for her first. She was practically on the edge of her seat and so involved with the antics being enacted on stage she barely noticed his own chuckles were more due to her awe-filled reactions to the spectacle before them than the play itself. But it was when Nicholas Locke slid past her without attracting her attention in the least that Lucien knew she was truly absorbed and fully enjoying the moment.

  “Can you even recall the last time you put in an appearance on Drury Lane?” Nick asked, taking the empty seat beside him after seating his companion. He kicked back, not even bothering to affect a pretense of intending to watch the play. “Sebastian and I have lain odds. I say you cannot remember and he says you are likely never to forget. Be a good man and lie, will you, so that I may have the pleasure and satisfaction of dropping my own coin for ale at Devil's later?”

  Lucien sat up, his smile only slightly fading at Nick's question. Leave it to Nick to bring up a past everyone believed he would much prefer to forget, Lucien thought. But if they were still

  inclined to think him pining for a lost love, he was perfectly happy to allow it, as always.

  “It was the last week of spring, four days before Lady Bethany Strandehope publicly declared her love for and betrothal to Lord Stanley, the current Marquess of Luvelton, of course. But now that I am here, I cannot imagine why I stayed away.” Nodding toward the stage, he said, “Keifer has quite outdone himself tonight.”

  Nick rolled his eyes in response to his answer and groaned his defeat before flipping a coin toward his older brother who was also making his way along the central aisle toward the back row of chairs to join them.

  Sebastian waited for his own companion to settle herself before he, too, dropped into a seat and stretched out his long legs, a gratified smile playing over his lips. “Did I not tell you, pup? The lady had him wrapped so tightly upon the string from which she dandled his heart—”

  Across the way, a flash of coppery red caught Lucien's attention, distracting him from the brotherly banter of his friends and his gaze sharpened. There was only one person in all of Christendom he knew with hair of that particular shade, he realized, and if Lady Melisande Ruebrige were in attendance tonight, it stood to reason that Lady Claire was somewhere close by, as well. Through narrowed lids, he searched the box where she had disappeared until his eyes found the raven tresses of the woman he sought.

  * * *

  Claire tried to focus on the performance, she truly did.

  To attend the theater on Drury Lane was
a delightful treat and tonight's excursion was no exception—but for the fact that her attention was continually caught and held by the group of people seated in the Duke of Rothwyn's private box on the other side of the theater so often she could no longer seem to recall what was happening on stage, or even why it should matter.

  When she had accepted Lord Avigney's invitation tonight, she had not imagined he might attend the play, as well. In fact, she had come with the express intention of distracting her thoughts away from him but he had somehow managed, yet again, to claim and hold her undivided attention.

  It was her own fault, Claire knew.

  If she had not taken a moment soon after their arrival to scan the balcony across from where she sat with Lord Avigney and her parents, she might never have known he was there. But from the instant she realized the rows of the Duke of Rothwyn's private box were filled by various acquaintances and friends, she had immediately sought him out among them.

  The ladies Julia and Christina Locke sat in the front row, one on each side of Lady Phoebe, with Lucien's grandmother seated to their right. The Duchess of Kelsing sat to the left of her daughter. In the back row, Claire recognized Sebastian Locke and his younger brother, Nicholas, as well as Lord Adrien Shelley, the Marquess of Wyndham. The Lockes, however, were not alone, and though she did her best to place the names of the exquisitely beautiful ladies at their sides in her memory, she could not recall ever having been introduced to either of them. Not that recalling their names was even remotely important, considering it was the man in the center of the row of seats farthest from the balcony railing who drew and held her notice.

  Studying the duke in secret from the privacy afforded by her viewing glasses, Claire decided the Lockes' blond-haired handsomeness created a perfect foil for Lucien's darker looks. From