An Unexpected Proposal (St Daine Family 1)

by Leighann Dobbs

  the first, she had found him pleasant to look upon, but in evening attire, Lucien St. Daine was nothing short of stunning.

  She felt giddy simply from looking at him.

  Claire knew she should look away, should focus, instead, on the actors below rather than continuing to rudely gawk at what should have been a private gathering of friends enjoying an evening out together across the way, but each time she forced herself to look away, some small movement would bring her attention winging back to him.

  When one of the ladies at his side leaned close to speak with Lucien, she felt her spirits lower a notch. He smiled at the blonde-haired beauty beside Lord Nicholas and her stomach twinged. He laughed at some quip the dark-haired gypsy partnering the Duke of Kelsing had made and a slow fire of an inexplicable anger burned her from the inside.

  Confused by her reactions, angry that she had responded at all, Claire forced herself to ignore the man and turned her determined gaze upon the stage. But it was not long ere her eyes began to wander yet again. Lifting her head slightly, she turned by slow degrees until she found him in her viewing glasses, only this time, their eyes met across the way, and if she had not known better, she would have sworn he was glaring at her.

  Surprised to find him boldly staring at her, she sucked in a quick breath, dropped her viewing glasses into her lap, and took up her fan. She snapped it open to hide her burning cheeks and a slight frown behind the peach dyed feathers and lace.

  “Are you not enjoying the play, Lady Claire?”

  At her side, Michael, Lord Avigney smiled down at her, one brow arched questioningly while he politely waited for an answer but Claire could think of nothing at the moment beyond the dark-haired man on the far side of the theater whom she could see was now watching her from beneath lowered lids.

  “Lady Claire?” Michael prompted, dragging her attention back to him.

  “I—Yes, thank you, my lord,” she murmured, distracted. Glancing away and then back again, she offered him a quick, bright smile, hoping he found her response suitable and that he would refrain from asking aught else—most especially about the specifics of the drama being acted out below them because, caught up as she was by the far more interesting scowl on the Duke of Rothwyn's handsome face, she hadn't a clue as to what was going on on the stage.

  Casting a quick glance toward the duke's box, she shifted, closed her fan, and took up her viewing glass for yet another closer look. Lucien was still peering at her through narrowed eyes. She could not fathom why—until she felt Michael's hand at her temple, and at the same moment, saw the duke's scowl grow darker.

  Her eyes widened behind the viewing lens an instant before she lowered it to find Michael's gaze traversing the length of her, from the ivory combs in her hair to where her matching slippers peeked from beneath the hem of her soft peach gown, before it finally came to rest on her flushed face.

  With gloved fingers, he tucked a stray strand of her hair up, his lips twisted in an almost apologetic smile, but there was sincerity in both his gaze and his tone when he whispered low, “You look very beautiful tonight.”

  Caught up in her musings as to why Rothwyn would scowl at her like a jealous lover, Claire did not answer immediately. When she finally felt able to focus upon him clearly again, Micheal was watching her with an acute interest that made her flush all the more. Claire snapped opened her fan, both to cool the uncomfortable heat in her cheeks and to break away from the direct appeal in his gaze.

  Hiding behind her fan, Claire studied him now, searching for something in his eyes, his face, the way he moved or even in how he held himself that would make her breath catch, or her skin tingle with awareness. She tried, almost desperately so, but could find naught about Lord Avigney that caused her imagination to take flight the way looking at Lucien did.

  He leaned close and she caught herself shifting away in the opposite direction. Not obviously so, but enough that his expression closed and became guarded. He swallowed, his throat working for a moment before he managed the words, “My apologies, Lady Claire. I do hope you did not find my words or actions to be forward.”

  Poor Michael, she thought. He was a real gentleman and his compliment seemed genuine enough. She reached out to squeeze his hand. “Not at all, my lord. I took it for no more than the sincere compliment I believe you intended it to be.”

  She sought to reassure him but then almost felt sorry for him instead when, relieved, he smiled and nodded. Then, obviously overset by the strain of the moment, he turned his attention back to the stage, leaving Claire to surreptitiously lift her viewing glass and peer across the stage into the duke's private box once again.

  The moment her eyes found Lucien's, their gazes caught and held and she felt something inside her quiver to life. Cutting a glance at Lord Avigney from the corner of her eye, she wondered miserably why it could not have been his presence which made her feel all fluttery inside, his smile that made her breath hitch. Why could it not be his touch that made her pulse race and the mere thought of his kisses that she could not forget?

  Alas, while he was certainly handsome enough, Michael was very much an ordinary man.

  She felt tears of frustration prick against the back of her eyelids, and for the first time since the start of the Season, Claire seriously regretted the promise she had made to help Melisande.

  14

  Surly was the only word Lucien could conceive to describe his current foul temperament—and not because his grandmother had used it earlier to explain his black mood to the twins. He had been nursing an ill humor since the night he took the family to the theater on Drury Lane and spotted Claire sitting beside Lord Avigney in the Earl of Sterne's private box.

  The better part of the past three days since the family's return to Rothwyn House Lucien had spent in scowling at windows during the daytime and staring broodingly into fires come evening. When someone dared ask about his troubled thoughts, he merely shook his head and took himself off to the solitude of his study to better skulk in silence—because it made no sense, this irritation he felt whenever he thought of Claire enjoying her evening with another man.

  It was absurd, but the more he mused upon how badly he had wanted to tear her and Avigney apart the night he had seen them together at the theater, the more he considered the merits of making a proposal of his own. If one could overlook his family's most recent criminal history looming overhead, and if one was of a mind to forget the lack of a formal courtship in favor of a rushed ceremony—albeit a quiet one that would not overshadow Phoebe's much more important day...

  No.

  He would not do it.

  He could not.

  The intensity of his feelings (he refused to pronounce them as the jealousy they so closely resembled) were too sudden, too unexpected, and far too unsettling to be taken seriously, Lucien decided. And yet, neither could he abide the thought of Claire spending her time in the company of a man who was not him.

  Like as not, his conscience prompted, your twisted thoughts and emotions are merely the result of an ego once battered rearing its ugly head in a refusal to allow such a bruising to happen again.

  But it was not 'happening again,' as his conscience put it. He had nothing more invested in his acquaintance with Claire but a few conversations and a single—albeit passion-filled—kiss whereas his courtship with Bethany had been a proper one.

  So, why then, his conscience prodded yet again, are you concerned?

  And the bother of it all was that, for the life of him, Lucien could not fathom the answer—at least no satisfyingly logical one. His sudden need to have and keep Claire to himself made no sense whatsoever, and yet, the idea of having the right to do so filled him with the greatest sense of…he wasn't sure what those feelings were and he was rather loath to explore them for clarification.

  Was it truly naught more than a bruised ego prompting him to consider asking Claire Leighton to be his duchess? Whatever the cause, the more Lucien thought upon it, the more merit the idea s
eemed to gather…until he recalled the more pressing, truly imperative problems which required all this time and attention just now.

  Tristan.

  And Phoebe.

  And in a few short years, 'twould be the twins.

  It seemed there would ever be some debacle or dilemma requiring his undivided focus to sort. To even think of bringing a bride of his own into the somewhat mucked up St. Daine family affairs was tantamount to begging for additional struggle, hardship, and pain—with all of which he had no desire to deal.

  “There you are! Amelia said I would find you here. She said you were in a surly temper as well, and that I should tread carefully, but I assured her I had naught to fear,” Tony quipped.

  He did not bother with waiting for permission to enter Lucien's private sanctuary, but rather, strolled boldly into the room, a toothy grin on his face. He took a seat behind Lucien's desk, leaning back before casually crossing his booted feet on the edge of the fine mahogany surface.

  Lucien scoffed at his teasing and easy manner. “Just say what you have to say and go away, Tony. I haven't time for your usual girlish banter.”

  “Girlish bant—?” In mock affrontery, Tony let his boots drop and sat up straight in Lucien's chair. “Whoa-ho! You are in a snit. Women troubles?” he asked.

  “None of your business,” Lucien grumped. He crossed to his desk and motioned for Tony to rise. “If you'll kindly remove yourself from my chair, we can get to what you came for, and then you can leave me to whatever mood I care to express.”

  Tony vacated the chair and moved to take another at the front of the desk. “Hmm. Perhaps you should tell me what happened first? I've not seen you look this dark and moody since… since Bethany, I believe. Did the ebon-haired goddess refuse to dance with the haughty old duke at the ball?”

  Lucien glared at him. “Claybourne. You are here to report on what you've learned about the boy and his grandfather. Let's get to it, shall we?”

  After a questioning look which Lucien met with stubborn silence, Tony said, “Very well. The earl did not lie—he does indeed have several acquaintances who also would not be adverse to repaying a favor or two. One of those happens to be the magistrate and it does seem as if Vykhurst called in more than one of those favors owed him where Tristan is concerned. Apparently, he convinced the fellow not only to turn away your inquiries but also to put your brother's care into his own hands. He then arranged to have Tristan moved into 'better accommodations,' if such is possible within the walls of Newgate, and he personally sees to it that Tristan has all the amenities he is allowed to provide. Fresh bread and meat daily, clean clothing, sheets… ”

  Lucien could feel his scowl darken. “Why? Damn it, Tony, Tristan is nothing to the man. Why would he go out of his way to—”

  “Opportunity, as you no doubt have already guessed.” Tony shrugged and relaxed into his chair, gesturing with his hands to make his point. “He recognized the family name, knew he would have a bargaining tool where his grandson was concerned if he could secure the magistrate's favor in the matter, and took the chance. Wily old bastard, eh?”

  Lucien's reply was barely more than a grunt. “At least part of that statement is true, but what of Claybourne? I'll not have Phoebe sacrificing herself to some upstart lordling who will squander her dowry as surely as his father did the coin already lying in the earl's once vast coffers.”

  “Mister, not lord. Mister Edward Claybourne seems a right enough gent. Unattached. Bit of a hell-raiser in his past but no more or less so than you or I—or even Tristan or Nick for that matter.”

  Lucien bent an even darker scowl on his friend. “If you are trying to reassure me, Tony, your failure is abysmal.”

  Tony's laughter rang out, causing Lucien to wince. Tony, sharp-eyed as usual, damn him, noticed. His eyes narrowed. “We have talked enough about the earl and his grandson. Let us now discuss whatever smarmy maggot is eating at you. It's the woman from that night in the library, isn't it?”

  Lucien rose from his seat and returned to take up his vigil at the window. “That is none of your concern. Whether or with whom Claire chooses to attend the theater is none of our damned business.”

  Tony's brows rose. “Aye, but obviously you have chosen to take offense. Why is that, I wonder? Did you perchance ask to escort the lady to Drury Lane and find yourself rebuffed?”

  Lucien shook his head, his brows drawn ever lower. “Of course not. I took Phoebe. And grandmother and the twins. The Lockes put in an appearance in our box as well, but not Claire. She was rather busily enjoying the attentions of one Lord Michael Avigney.”

  Tony arched a brow at the ire in Lucien's tone. “You think the pup intends to ask for her?”

  Lucien swung his head around to scowl at his friend. “How should I know? One visit to the theater and he is suddenly her perfect match?”

  He scoffed. “I should think Claire has better sense than to base such an important decision on a single outing.”

  “And what do you propose would be better for her to base her decision upon, eh? A kiss, stolen in a darkened library, perhaps?”

  Lucien arched a brow at his drollery. “Of course not. I should never have mentioned it, especially to you, but I could not help but think she deserves better.”

  “So give her better.” Tony shrugged. “You are a duke. A lady cannot hope for better than that.”

  “Hmm. Yes, a duke with a brother in Newgate and three sisters who—”

  “Love you very much and would be delighted to see you happy, at last. It has been years, Lucien. When was the last time you took a moment for yourself, to simply enjoy life?”

  His remark was met with a knowing smirk. “Likely but a day less than you, what? Perhaps you should take your own advice, my friend.”

  “You know me well enough to realize I would not dare propose a course of action for you which I, myself, was ill prepared to follow, and so I have. Unfortunately for me, the situation did not go as well as planned. But I am working on it.”

  Surprised, Lucien arched a brow in question but this time it was Tony's expression which became closed. He rose quickly and clapped a hand on Lucien's shoulder before he had a chance to ask more.

  “Talk to her. Let her know your concerns, at least. Then, if you can control that infernal habit you have of leaving the most important bits unsaid, ask the lady to be your duchess. You will not know how she might respond if you refuse to ask!”

  * * *

  Breakfast at the Leighton household was normally a quiet affair. By the time Claire made her way down to join them, her parents would already be seated at the table; Father with his newspaper and Mother with the latest scandal sheet which she silently devoured.

  Today was an exception, however, for this morning brought with it an unusual, exciting invite.

  From the moment she had joined her parents in the morning room, Claire had been battered with details—she would visit the modiste first thing after breakfast. She would certainly need a new dress if she was to impress the exalted duke who had invited them to his home for a second time this Season. She hadn't missed the speculation in her father's gaze, either, when her mother had so graciously pointed out the fact that this was, indeed, their second personal invitation to Rothwyn House from the dowager duchess and the duke himself. Her parents clearly believed the duke had an interest in her, but Claire knew better.

  Still, long after her mother and father had left the table, Claire sat staring at the card, quietly sipping at her tea while her thoughts wandered. The invitation had been delivered by special courier just this morning, and although she desperately wished she could refuse, Claire knew she would be required to attend Lady Phoebe's betrothal celebration.

  Her mother was full of curiosity, wondering who the duke's sister would wed, but Claire was afraid she already knew—Phoebe was going to marry the earl's grandson...to save her brother. Poor Phoebe.

  Her stalwart allegiance to her brother was to be applauded, but…how could she
accept a complete stranger into her life so easily?

  How shall I, for that matter?

  Claire's eyes misted and she hurriedly placed the invitation aside.

  After her last conversation with Melisande, a cool, impersonal marriage based solely on her obedience to her father's sense of familial duty would now be impossible to avoid. Despite her careful planning to the contrary to avoid the situation for as long as she possibly could, Claire knew she must now face the inevitable—it was time to step aside and allow her father to choose a suitable husband for her.

  She had not yet spoken to him of the matter. Indeed, she had only recently come to the decision herself. But she knew it would have to be soon, for she simply could not bear to stand by and watch Melisande spin her web of deceit around Lucien until she managed, at last, to trap him into marriage.

  The mocking voice in her head told her she would not feel quite so put out had Melisande set her sights upon Sebastian Locke or even the elusive Duke of Ambray, but had she chosen Kelsing or Ambray, Claire felt certain she would have experienced the same sense of dismay. Manipulating a man's life in such a way as Mel now intended was deplorable indeed, but it was somehow harder to bear knowing Mel had decided upon Lucien and no matter the logic of Claire's protests, she had proved impossible to dissuade.

  He was a duke, and to Mel, that was all that mattered. His title was all she cared for or needed; the only thing necessary to make him a candidate fit for her needs.

  But how could Melisande hope to endure a future—indeed, all the years that remained of her life, Claire wondered—trapped with a man whom she had betrayed in such a cruel and dreadful manner?

  Perhaps you should just tell him, Claire's conscience suggested. But she did not see how she could do so without admitting her own part in Melisande's scheme, and her shame at having to declare that she had volunteered to act as Mel's accomplice would be far too much for her to bear.

  Sick now at the very thought of joining the St. Daines to celebrate Phoebe's betrothal, Claire pushed away her half-eaten eggs and toast in favor of another sip of tea, her thoughts on the promise she had made.