“Excuse me, Mother. I need a moment,” she murmured, hurrying away before her mother could detain her to ask why. Slipping into the corridor outside the drawing room, she looked up and down the hallway, wondering which direction to take. Had Mel coerced the duke into the library? Or had she invited him to slip into the gardens with a pretty plea for a moment of air?
The thought of Mel and Lucien trysting in the library where she and Lucien had shared their first and only kiss brought a pain to her heart. Before she realized where she was going, she was down the hall and stepping through the opened doorway. “Mel?”
If Melisande were here, she would come up with some reason why they simply must return to the drawing room immediately, Claire decided. And once there, she would not leave Mel's side for the remainder of the celebration. But if Lucien were there instead…
A quick glance told her the room was empty.
Melisande must have escaped into the gardens.
Turning back in the direction she had come, Claire barely managed one step before she came up hard against a solid body.
Lucien.
“Good heavens, Your Grace, you frightened me!” she practically squeaked. Though she had secretly hoped to find him alone, she had not expected him to sneak up behind her!
“Looking for someone?”
Wetting lips suddenly gone dry, she nodded. “Melisande. Have you seen her?”
Lucien moved into the room, forcing Claire to step backwards to avoid being trampled. He closed the door behind him. Leaning against it, he crossed his arms over his chest and arched a brow. “Nay, I saw only you and I thought perhaps you were sneaking in here for a bit of a more scandalous interlude.”
Claire found it ironic that it was the idea of him engaging in a moment of scandal with Melisande was what had brought her here, too, but she would not admit as much to him. “I did not see Mel in the other room and feared she must be feeling unwell. She was a bit out of sorts earlier and I thought she may have come here for a moment of quiet.”
Lucien shook his head. “I haven't seen your friend, Claire, but I must confess my thoughts have been rather preoccupied.”
“With Phoebe. Yes, of course, I understand. If you will excus--”
“Not Phoebe,” Lucien straightly denied. “You.”
“Me?” Claire barely managed to breathe the word before he started moving toward her again, determination in his eyes. He took her hands in his, bringing first one and then the other to his lips. Without looking away, he kissed her fingertips and then her palms before placing both her hands against his chest. His own slid around her waist, pulling her to him.
“You, Claire Leighton. I think of you, and though it should be otherwise, I cannot seem to force my thoughts to dwell for more than a moment upon anything or anyone else.” His fingers had found their way into her curls. He twined one long tress around his finger before tucking it securely behind her ear. His palm cupped her cheek.
“I think about you when I should be thinking of Tristan and how best to extricate him from the mess he has landed himself in, and how to do so without involving our sister. I think of you every time I think of Phoebe and just how much she is willing to give up in order to save Tristan; to save us all, really. I am not quite sure how, but I know it is because of you. And when I lie dreaming—” He closed his eyes tightly and sighed. “You plague my thoughts, Claire, even when I sleep. I dream of you. Of holding you. Kissing you. I yearn for yet another taste of you. Indeed, I cannot seem to exorcise the many, many thoughts of you from my mind.”
His smile was lop-sided and a bit ruefully tinged. His voice was low. Warm. Enticing. And he was standing far too close to her suddenly over-warm body—so close she could feel his heat slowly melting into her own.
“I am going to kiss you again, Claire.” His head lowered slowly toward hers, his eyes mesmerizing. “Do you remember the last time we kissed? Your lips tasted of the sweetest nectar, like the most intoxicating of wine—one that has created a craving inside me I find I cannot deny. Will you protest?”
Claire could barely draw enough breath to satisfy her body's natural requirement for air much less object to his doing the very thing she most desired. She somehow managed to shake her head.
“No,” she whispered, the word leaving her lips on a breath he caught with his own just before his mouth touched hers.
He groaned.
His lips moved over hers once more, softly teasing and yet firm in their insistence she open to him.
Unaware, Claire stepped more fully into his embrace, giving herself over to the moment. Her hands slid upward, her fingers stealing into the silky thickness of his hair while she greedily breathed in the heady scent of him. His tongue slipped along the crease of her lips, feather light in its caress, making her breath catch and her knees go weak an instant before she let him inside.
From that moment, Claire was lost.
Twining her arms about his neck, she lifted herself up on her toes to better fit her body to his, to grant him greater access to her lips.
He nibbled and she soothed the bite with her tongue.
He suckled and she all but swooned from the riot of pleasure his mouth created.
His arms closed around her, fitting her tightly against his strength while his lips left hers to create a fiery trail of sensation along her jaw and down her neck until he reached the hollow where her pulse beat out an unsteady tattoo beneath her skin.
His tongue licked and she shivered.
His heated breath sent a cascade of warmth through her from her head to her toes and then, when his lips closed upon and tugged gently against her earlobe, sucking it into his mouth, she moaned in sheer delight at the wave of sensations rippling through her.
His hands slid from her shoulders to her waist and then lower, to cup her bottom. He squeezed, bringing their lower bodies together, and she sucked in a quick breath in surprise.
He was hard where she was soft, fire where she wanted to be burned, and still she wanted more. Heat pooled in her belly and below, making her impatient for more, for something she did not yet understand.
“Lucien, please,” she all but whimpered, begging for more, and he obliged.
Kiss for kiss, breath for breath, touch for touch, it was as if they had slipped into a world of their own where muted sighs were the only sound and the exquisite sensation of touch their only form of communication.
His fingers trailed along the neckline of her bodice and his lips followed, tugging at the material over her nipple until she strained against him for more.
“Lucien!” She breathed his name, both plea and urgent sigh, and he dropped to his knees, burying his face in the softness of her abdomen while his hands traced a burning trail up the back of her calves to her thighs beneath her skirts.
Her legs trembled at his touch and he groaned.
Lifting his head, he stared up at her, his eyes gone so dark they were nigh unfathomable.
“Marry me, Claire,” he blurted. “Please.”
His words penetrated the heavy fog of desire and passion in which she had been suspended and Claire froze.
As if she had been touching fire, she snatched her hands away from the thick muscles of his shoulders, drawing them tightly to her chest to soothe the burn.
“Wh—what did you say? I—”
She shook her head to clear it, certain she could not possibly have heard him aright and yet, at the same time, terrified that she had. The duke of Rothwyn had just asked her to marry him—her!
For the faintest instant, she was overwhelmed with a rush of joy and a burst of sudden happiness so deep it brought tears to her eyes. But then, she remembered he was supposed to marry Melisande.
Horrified now to realize exactly what she had been doing, what she had already done, and with whom—the very duke she had promised to help Mel win—Claire swallowed hard against the swell of emotions rising up to choke her.
He would marry Mel – not her.
The realizatio
n, in light of what she and Lucien had just shared, was devastating; the sudden, swift pain of her disappointment so excruciating it simply had to be unreal. A tear slid down her cheek, scalding her, and she began to tremble.
Slowly shaking her head from side to side, Claire backed away.
“No,” she whispered, the horror she felt at her betrayal of her friend carrying over through her voice. “No, I will not marry you. I cannot. I—I am sorry, Lucien. So very sorry.”
Grasping her skirts in a tight, white-knuckled grip, she turned and fled the library.
16
Lucien had known something was wrong the moment the hastily spoken words left his lips.
From one moment to the next, Claire went from warm and passionate to shocked, rigid, and then pale.
At first, he thought he had seen a bit of happiness in her gaze, mingled with what could only be termed as outright surprise. But her delight had rapidly dwindled, bringing with it the starched rigidity of protocols and propriety that stiffened her spine and straightened her shoulders.
Her eyes had studied him—his gaze, his expression, and then back to peer questioningly with a haunted look akin to pained sorrow into his eyes. The rosy color in her cheeks and the slight flush which had made her skin glow but a moment before slowly faded into ghastly white. By the time she fled the room, Claire had looked positively miserable and Lucien knew his unexpected proposal was the cause.
Biting back a curse, he started forward to follow her, to bring her back into the library and demand an explanation—for her reaction if not her refusal. He wondered at what, precisely, in his proposal could possibly make her appear most radiantly jubilant one moment and then completely crushed the next. It puzzled him, annoyed him even, but he could not exactly go storming out into the front parlor to demand she explain herself right there in front of his family's guests—guests which he had forgotten were present until just this moment.
Sounds of their merriment slowly pierced the fog of his confusion once the haze of passion which had muted his hearing dissipated, and the significance of his heavy sigh of disappointment was almost as confusing to him as Claire's look of abject misery had been when she had flown from him and his rather ill-timed, awkward proposal.
It was all wrong, he decided.
Not his desire to have her—nay, what he felt for Claire was more perfect than anything had been in his life for a very long time. Rather, it was wrong of him to ask her to marry him without having performed any sort of true courtship or wooing. His hasty proposal was completely unwarranted and clearly unexpected and he should never have done it...not today of all days, and most especially not in the way he had done so—while both their senses were dulled by passion's fine edge.
He owed her an apology.
Again, Lucien started forward, and again he halted with a much belabored sigh. Dammit! His withdrawing rooms were filled to the corners with visitors—guests he himself had invited to Rothwyn House and they were all awaiting the grand surprise—news of his sister's 'secret' betrothal which had supposedly occurred months ago.
He could not simply ignore them and hie himself off after Claire as was his wont.
“Your Grace?”
Frustrated and wholly at a loss as to how to proceed, Lucien turned toward the doorway.
“Pardon my intrusion but your honored guest awaits word from you,” Severn, his butler informed him. “Shall I ask him to join you here?”
Claybourne.
It was time to announce the betrothal. His brows drew downward.
Damn Tony and his ill-conceived suggestions. Today was supposed to be a day of celebration—for Phoebe. How could he have muddled it so by offering a proposal of his own?
“Thank you, Severn, but no,” he said finally. “I will go to Phoebe and you can send him into the front parlor once I've reached her side.”
The butler nodded and stepped aside to allow Lucien to pass before he said, “The young lady has returned to her family, Your Grace. Neither of your guests seemed to notice her earlier disappearance, nor that of Lady Ruebrige.”
Lucien did not understand why Severn thought it advisable to mention her friend but he was relieved to know that Claire hadn't fled the estate entirely. “I appreciate your confidence, Severn. Now if you will excuse me, I believe I have some good news to impart.”
Leaving the loyal Severn to watch from his post outside the withdrawing room, Lucien got to his feet and made his way from the library and then through the crowd to Phoebe's side, but his attention was on the beautiful, dark-haired lady standing far too quietly between the Countess of Sterne and Lady Melisande Ruebrige.
Her pallor had not decreased, he noticed, nor would she meet his gaze. An apology was definitely in order, he decided. But first, he must do his part to secure the continued health and safety of his family.
Leaning down, he pressed a quick kiss against Phoebe's smiling, upturned cheek. “You are certain you wish to do this, my dear?”
His whispered query was met with a brilliant, albeit false, smile.
“Without a doubt, brother. If this is the only way to bring Tristan home, how could I not?” Her voice quivered a bit, and she puffed out an exasperated sigh. “Blasted nerves!”
Lucien's quick, sharp look pulled a chuckle from her. “All is well, Lucien, but I vow I shall feel much better once I actually meet the man with whom I am supposed to be madly in love. How could you put about such a tarradiddle in the first place?”
He grunted. “Trust me, your hasty marriage will be accepted far more easily this way than if we announced to the whole of this lot that you must wed him to save your brother's foolish neck from a noose.”
“I believe I would prefer the latter,” she said, her tone rueful. “Lady Claire came to congratulate me a moment ago. She also offered her apologies that her family would be leaving immediately after supper, and then, she whispered to me that she admired my bravery.”
Her eyes asked questions Lucien was not prepared to answer, and then, her lips did the same. “When we have kept the whole matter of my betrothal a closely held family-and-friends-only secret, I must admit I found myself very much surprised by her knowledge of it. Did you speak with her about it?”
Yes, Lucien thought, distracted. He had talked to her.
He had also kissed her; had practically made love to her in the library while right across the hall, half an hundred guests could easily have wandered in and taken away Claire's choice in answering the poorly timed question he had asked her after.
Phoebe, blissfully unaware of his distraction, pressed for an answer.
Nodding, he chose his words carefully. “In London, after Vykhurst's visit, there was a ball. I was concerned about what your reaction might be, Phoebe.”
He rolled his shoulders in a loose half-shrug. “ You have to admit, after your little display upon learning of Tristan's incarceration, I had a right to be worried, and so I was.”
Her arched brow said more than words could have how ridiculous she found his explanation, but he ignored it. “Lady Claire noticed my discontent and was bold enough to remark upon it. In fact, it was Claire's suggestion that I put the matter before you first, to give you a chance to voice your own opinion ere I—”
“Simply did what you do best and made the decision for me?” Phoebe finished for him.
He nodded.
Her gaze probed his speculatively. “Hmm. And now I find myself curious. What would you have done, Lucien, if Claire had not spoken on my behalf?”
His slight frown became a scowl. “Is that really important, Phoebe? I—”
“My lady, I do most sincerely apologize for my tardiness,” a voice interrupted, “but there was a matter of great import to attend ere I was free to join you here. Your Grace.”
The last was offered in an aside and Lucien felt his eyes narrow out of pure distaste—not for the man who had uttered it, but rather for the situation which had brought him into their midst. He forced a smile and turned to clap
the fellow on the shoulder in an exaggerated, hearty greeting.
“Claybourne! It is high time you joined us. We were beginning to think we would need to begin dinner without you.”
He leaned down to discreetly whisper to Phoebe, “Allow me to introduce the Honorable Mister Edward Claybourne—your betrothed.”
Phoebe's eyes went wide, but she quickly recovered from the surprise, offering her gloved hand to Claybourne as calmly as if she had done so every day since birth. “Do not fret, Mister Claybourne. Whatever urgent matter kept you from my side, you are here now, at last.”
She smiled up at the man and Lucien wondered at the quick flash of temper he saw in her eyes a moment before she asked, “Shall we go in to dinner? I fear I am feeling quite famished.”
* * *
“Lucien was brilliant to put your betrothal forth as a love match, Phoebe,” Alaina told her later that evening, after dinner and the dancing was done and she and Emily had followed Phoebe up to her room. “And you played the part of a lady smitten far better than I ever would have thought!”
Distracted, Phoebe turned her head this way and that, pondering over the way her eyes seemed brighter somehow and wondering if anyone else had noticed. She cut her gaze toward her sister, who was lying side-wise across the bottom of her bed. “Oh? And what makes you the expert on how a woman in love should behave?”
“Experience,” Alaina offered. “Not personal experience, mind you, but I have seen so many ladies pining over fellows since your debut, I am practically an expert at this point. It is just too bad they are all doing it wrong.”
“Would you care to share which ladies have given you this expert status granting experience?”
“Well, look at Lady Melisande. Clearly she feels more than a passing fancy for Uncle Tony, given how often she slips away to steal a moment or two with him whenever she is here.”
“Alaina, you cannot know who Lady Melisande is spending her time with whenever she is out of your sight. Nor should you carry such scandalous tales! She would be ruined if someone should hear what you have said,” Emily chastised. “Your time would be better spent getting to know the elder ladies among the ton. That way, when the time for your own betrothal comes, you will know precisely which of the Season's eligible males to choose for yourself.”
An Unexpected Proposal (St Daine Family 1) Page 15
