At first, it had seemed quite the noble thing to help Melisande become a little more noticeable, a little less brash, and yes, a bit more amenable as a duchess. Talking up one's friend to the ducal candidates would have been harmless. Or so it should have been. But to employ trickery and deceit in place of honest flirtations and a dash of friendly meddling—all of which could be overlooked once the match was soundly made? Nay.
Mel's decision to rush the game by forcing the duke's hand was unconscionable. Not to mention it would be deuced unfair to Lucien. The raw pain she had seen in his eyes when he had spoken to her about the situation between himself and his sister would be nothing to what she would be forced to witness were Melisande allowed to have her way. He would hate her for her part in Mel's scheme, and she would not blame him for his disfavor one single bit.
If their situations were reversed and the duke dared to assist one of his friends in securing a match with her under such deceitful terms, Claire knew the deep sense of betrayal she would feel would create an irreparable breach between the two of them, and she suspected Lucien would feel no different.
Her fingers picked at the finely sewn cream embroidery atop a sunny yellow tablecloth while her thoughts continued to run amok. She could not refuse to attend the celebration, but she would not be a party to Mel's intended deception, she decided at last. If Melisande was determined to have the Duke of Rothwyn, she would simply have to snare him on her own.
As for Lady Phoebe…
Standing, she cast one last glance at the delicately scrawled signature on the bottom of the invitation and sighed. Had Phoebe agreed to the match with the earl's grandson willingly? Or had Lucien decided the matter for her? She did not want to believe Lucien would blithely discount his sister's feelings in a matter as important as marriage, but if things were truly so strained between them, she had little reason to hope he had given Phoebe a chance to refuse.
“Claire! Do stop dawdling over your tea and get dressed, darling!” her mother called from upstairs at the same moment Claire heard a carriage pull up outside. Hurrying to the window, she pulled the lemon colored drapes aside the tiniest bit while carefully keeping herself from view. Not that it mattered if their caller saw her, for this particular morning visitor was expected, and Claire had actually thought she would arrive much earlier.
Stepping away from the window, she pasted on a warm smile of greeting. “Good morning, Mel.”
The moment she crossed the threshold into the morning room Melisande slipped the invitation from her reticule and waved it excitedly in front of her. “Claire! The duke's sister, Lady Phoebe, is celebrating her betrothal and we have been invited back to Rothwyn House!”
Claire tried to feign ignorance. “Betrothal? But did not Lady Phoebe celebrate her come out just a few weeks past?”
Mel nodded. “Yes, of course, but Lady Phoebe is the daughter and sister of a duke after all, and unlike the two of us, she obviously is not being afforded the opportunity to choose a husband on her own.”
Tragically, what Mel said was true. Phoebe was being forced to accept a stranger, but her cause was noble, at least. She was marrying to save her brother's life.
Claire studied her friend quizzically, wondering if Melisande's blasé tone might have been filled with a bit more concern if she had known the true circumstance behind Phoebe's rushed betrothal. “How terrible for her.”
Realizing her mistake immediately, Melisande colored.
“You know I did not mean that the way it sounded, Claire, but it must be true. We did receive invitations, after all.” Her expression went from one of giddy excitement to momentary panic. “Please tell me you were invited, too, Claire. I need you to be there.”
For a moment, Claire wished she could say no, but she could not.
She nodded. “We were invited, yes.”
But having been invited did not mean she felt the least bit inclined to attend. Feeling more than a little queasy now, Claire sought to direct Melisande's attention elsewhere. She shrugged. “Lady Phoebe is to wed the Vykhurst heir. We met him last summer, do you recall?”
“Mmm,” Melisande hummed, tapping a finger against her cheek as if doing so would help her to think. “Dark hair? Dark eyes. Tall? Elegant, and supremely bored with the festivities despite the fact he was the most handsome devil in attendance? Yes, I believe I do remember the man, though vaguely.”
“Vaguely, yes.” Claire chuckled. “In any case, Rothwyn's sister is to marry him, and you and I are among those first to know. Isn't it exciting?”
Claire started for the stairs to dress before her mother became impatient enough to fetch her herself, and Melisande followed, chattering all the while about how her betrothal to the duke would be next. She was obviously too distracted by her own thoughts to wonder how Claire was privy to the details of the duke's sister's engagement when there had been no mention of it on the invitations they had received at all—and Claire felt no compulsion to enlighten her.
15
Slippers in one hand and her blue silk skirts caught up in the other, Phoebe crept quietly down the few remaining stairs and then tiptoed to the closed door of Lucien's study. Pressing close, she strained to hear the conversation going on inside.
The first words she heard came from Nick, and he sounded annoyed.
“...no further reason to detain him now that the betrothal has been agreed to?”
They were talking about Tristan.
A sudden rush of excitement mingled with relief within her, making her throat ache and her eyes sting with happy tears she dare not shed. Now that she had agreed to wed the earl of Vykhurst's heir, Tristan would be home soon and she could hardly wait for the day to arrive.
There were so many things she wanted to tell him, so many questions she needed to ask, but...
Swallowing past the knot of emotion tightening in her throat, Phoebe moved closer to the door.
“...still have to make it official, which is what tonight's celebration is for,” she heard Lucien say. “Once Claybourne arrives and we make the announcement…”
“I was under the impression Tristan no longer…”
Sebastian's words were a bit muffled. Phoebe frowned and pressed closer to the door until her ear practically rested against the thick oak.
“...better accommodations, but my sources tell me he is–”
Was that Tony? Yes, it had to be. Her heartbeat quickened in fear and she practically forgot to breathe. Some of Tony's sources were frightening. She would never forget the one fellow with the patch over his eye. He had come to deliver a message to Tony when he had visited Rothwyn House before Tristan disappeared, and there had been others, all equally as dreadful. She shivered.
What had his sources revealed about her brother? Had he been harmed? Was he in danger? She did not think she could manage yet another bit of bad news where Tristan was concerned.
Stop it, Phoebe, she chastised. You do not yet know whether the news Tony's sources imparted is bad or good. Perhaps he only plans to mention that his sources affirm Tristan's good health and eagerness to be home again.
Her attempt to calm her fears did not help. Before she knew what she was about, her hand reached for the doorknob. She would only open the door a bit, she promised. Just enough that she did not have to strain to hear what was being said inside.
The thought had barely formed in her head when a clatter from upstairs drew her startled attention, momentarily distracting her, and then a hand swept out from somewhere behind her to clamp tightly over her mouth. Another closed around her waist and she was quickly pulled against a warm body before being dragged along the corridor past the study and the library until finally, she was tugged into an alcove beneath the stairs.
Phoebe twisted and tried to squeal but to no avail. Her captor held firm and she could feel the heat of his breath when he sighed his disappointment at her struggles against the sensitive skin of her neck beneath her ear. “Shhh. I will not hurt you, but neither will I remove my hand unl
ess you promise not to cry out or scream for help. Understand?”
She tried to pull away, to break his hold, but more so she could go back to the study than out of any concern for herself. She needed to hear what Tony's men had said about Tristan!
“Let me go!” she mumbled futilely against a warm palm.
“Stop wiggling and be quiet,” her captor quietly demanded, but he did not release her. Though she was not frightened—no one would dare harm her within her own home, right beneath her brother's nose—Phoebe wanted to clobber the impudent fellow with her shoes. Indeed, she would have done, had both her arms not been pinned solidly to her sides.
Tears of frustration welled, pricking her eyelids. Whatever Tony had been about to say about Tristan was surely said and done by now and it was too late for her to hear. Dejected, she went still. “Release me.”
Her demand was merely a mouthing of the words, but her captor must have sensed her capitulation because he slid his hand from her mouth. The arm holding her close relaxed a bit but only enough for him to turn her within his arms.
“Minx. Did no one ever bother to explain to you it is rude for one to eavesdrop upon private conversa—” His voice was deep, his words spoken barely above a whisper, but at the sight of her tears, his words faltered.
His eyes flared in surprise, but Phoebe did not care. He had kept her from learning what might have been important information about her brother—information Lucien would no doubt keep to himself, and Tony—he would never repeat what had been said to her, even under threat of feminine tears. “Why? Why did you take me away? I needed to know…!”
Her voice was thick, heavy with emotion, which seemed to surprise him further still. Curiosity filled his gaze. His head tilted to one side and his hand—the one which so recently had pressed against her mouth—slid slowly up her bare arm and then his fingers touched her cheek before gently whisking away a curl which had come free from her coiffure during her abduction.
“Yes? What did you need to know?”
A curious warmth started in the pit of her belly and she reached down a hand to better experience the strangely exciting heat of it. “My brother, he could be in danger—or dying! I wanted to hear what they were saying about him, but you took me away, and now I—”
Her voice broke on a quivery sob and he pulled her closer into his embrace. “Shh. I am sorry. I did not realize the moment was truly so important to you.”
His fingers gently gripped her chin, lifting it. “If I could go back and not sweep you away—”
He paused, his eyes locked with hers for a long moment until, finally, a smile turned up one corner of his lips. Phoebe thought there was a sadness, also, in his gaze, but she had no time to question him about it.
Mesmerized by his voice, Phoebe leaned against him without conscious realization while he continued to murmur consoling words near her ear. Allowing his soothing touch and calming tone to lull her, she melted into his embrace, her cheek resting against his chest. The smell of spring and heat and clean male rose up to greet her from beneath the fabric of his coat and she sighed with contentment in the quietness of the moment.
Later, she would wonder at what he had seen in her expression that made him draw in a quick breath before lowering his mouth to hers. Later, she would chastise herself for allowing a stranger to hold her, to touch her, only hours before her betrothal was to be announced to the world. Later, she would wonder a great many things...but for now, she pushed the questions aside to better concentrate on the sensations his unexpected kiss was making her feel.
* * *
It was only half one when Claire and her family arrived at Rothwyn House, but the duke's north drawing room was already practically overflowing with chattering guests.
Due to her previous extended visit, she felt comfortable mingling in the somewhat familiar surroundings though not so much with her reasons for doing so. A betrothal celebration was not exactly a place at which one normally chose to seek a husband but Claire was determined she would make the best of whatever opportunities presented themselves.
Like as not, the selection would be limited, but at this point she realized she could not afford to be choosy. There were few gentlemen near her own age in attendance, she noted, but she would not be hesitant to speak with aught who showed an interest. Lifting her fan to hide a quick yawn of boredom, she looked around the crowded room, surveying the meager selection of young, unattached lords with a new eye.
She had known from the beginning she would not end this Season unscathed but she had fully intended to find some way to escape the trap of a loveless marriage. She never expected she might instead find herself pining over a man she could not, in good conscience, encourage toward a possible courtship, but that was exactly what she had done. What she was, in fact, doing even now she realized as her eyes scanned the crowd for the duke while her heart picked up a beat in anticipation of seeing him again.
Stop it, Claire, she warned herself, as she had so many times since the night she had attended the theater with Micheal and wished she could be with Lucien instead. Her loyalty to Mel must come first. She would not help Mel trap the duke into a marriage he might not want, but neither would she stand in her way—if Lucien was truly the duke Melisande had set her heart upon winning.
From the corner of her eye, she saw Nicholas Locke make his way toward the group where his mother was holding conversation with his sisters and a few of the duke's guests. While he shared the same good looks as both his older and younger brothers, he was a bit too...unsteady for her tastes.
Having already spoken with Julia and Christina earlier, Claire closed her fan and was making her way toward Melisande on the opposite side of the room when she saw Lucien for the first time since her arrival. He was standing in the doorway of his study, quietly watching the milling guests across the way, and then his warm gaze was resting on her.
He smiled and she felt her pulse skitter.
He started toward her and her breath hitched.
Looking quickly away, determined to ignore him and the scandalous things he made her feel, Claire would have fled in the other direction entirely but her mother's gentle nudge from her right silently warned against a hasty retreat. “Do not walk away, Claire. Your father saw him acknowledge you and now he is coming our way. Smile.”
Halting in mid-turn, she forced a twisted half-grimace, half-smile to her lips and waited for the duke to reach their little group. He greeted her parents first, as was proper, and Claire prayed he would simply move on without acknowledging her at all—but her fervent, voicelessly whispered plea to the heavens was denied.
“Lady Claire, it is my pleasure to have you and your family visit Rothwyn House again,” his lips said, but his eyes bespoke an entirely different conversation. Was he angry with her? He lifted her gloved fingers to his mouth and Claire suddenly felt warm—too warm, especially in the presence of her parents. Before his lips could press against the silk, she pulled her hand away.
“Thank you for inviting us, Your Grace,” she murmured. “You must be delighted by your sister's happiness.”
“We all are,” he replied, but she could see a new stiffness to his lips. He retrieved his fob watch and glanced distractedly at it before looking at her again. The earlier warmth she had felt in his gaze had disappeared, replaced now by a wary annoyance. “If you will excuse me, there is something to which I must attend. Countess. Sterne,” he murmured and then made a short bow before walking away.
Confused, Claire watched him go, curious to know what had caused his sudden change in mood. She would have waited to see with whom he spoke next in hopes of gaining some insight, but her mother tugged at her sleeve, nodding in the opposite direction before whispering, “Lord Avigney has arrived, dear. We should say hello.”
And so the afternoon went.
From one settee to the next, Claire tried her best to smile and keep up with polite conversation, but her thoughts were simply not on catering to the social niceties. Though ou
twardly she appeared to be wholly engaged with each group her mother or father led her to, her eyes surreptitiously followed Lucien and her thoughts were entirely occupied with irrelevant wishes that things could be different between them.
She was falling for him, she realized. Or, perhaps she had fallen already. There was no other explanation for the way one look from him could make her feel—as if she were melting inside. No other had ever made her feel giddy with a mere smile, nor shiver from a simple touch, and yet...
Melisande's laughter floated above the buzz of conversation, reminding her she must deny her feelings and set her sights elsewhere because the right to experience those things Lucien somehow managed to make her feel would belong solely to her friend.
The mere idea over-set her with a deep sense of melancholy.
How terrible it was that, having at last found a man who made her believe that perhaps marriage would not be such a bad thing after all, she was not allowed to pursue her new-found yearnings.
Nay, the least she could hope for at this point was to find a man she felt able to respect.
A different man.
A man who did not make her pulse skitter, nor her flesh to warm, or her being to fill with anticipation of their next meeting ere the current one found an end. Aye, she must find a man who was not Lucien—a man she cared but little for because her heart was fully engaged with longing for another.
A quick glance in the direction in which she had last seen the duke had her scanning the room for a glimpse of him but he was no longer there. Another sweep with her gaze and she realized with a sinking sensation in her gut that Melisande, too, had disappeared.
Panic rose up inside her.
Had Mel lured him away with some pretense so that she might spring her trap on her unsuspecting prey? Was she even now playing her hand to ensure she would forever have and hold the duke of her choosing?
An Unexpected Proposal (St Daine Family 1) Page 14
