An Unexpected Proposal (St Daine Family 1) (10 page)

“Lucien?”

Turning back, he opened his mouth to reply but the sight of her on the settee, her back straight while her shoulders quivered and rivers of silent tears spilled unchecked down her cheeks, struck him temporarily dumb. His mouth worked, but no sound issued forth. Finally, he cleared his throat to ease the tightness there enough to ask, “Yes?”

She lifted her watery gaze to his, a look of utter misery on her face, and he felt his heart squeeze painfully in his chest.

“I'm scared, Lucien. So very scared.”

As if the words she spake somehow caused her fragile hold on her control to break, Phoebe began to sob. She lifted her hands to cover her face, though doing so did nothing to hide her momentary loss of restraint from him.

His jaw clenched tight.

What was he to do with a sobbing female? Should he walk away and allow her to shed her tears in private? Or should he remind her that tears served little to help in situations such as this? Father would immediately have known how to handle the moment, Lucien thought, and Tristan as well. But
he
was entirely unprepared for dealing with this new crisis.

She needs you.

Claire's words rose up in his thoughts, urging him to at least try, and he crossed the room to sit rather awkwardly beside his sister on the settee. Drawing her into the circle of his arms, he pressed a brotherly kiss upon the crown of her head before wrapping his arms around her to hold her while she cried.

“As am I, Phoebe,” he quietly admitted. “As am I.”

I
n London
again for less than a week after the Duke of Rothwyn's house party had disassembled, and having danced almost every dance since her arrival at the Rindal's soiree this evening, Melisande was quite winded. Pausing to catch her breath and regroup her thoughts, she made herself comfortable on the settee nearest the doors leading outside so she might catch a breeze or two while resting.

All this dancing was doing her very little good in the “win-a duke” area of her life, she thought, covertly slipping a sliver from her reticule to read, now that she had a moment alone. Her gaze flitted around the ballroom, searching for the Duke of Rothwyn since Kelsing had left the affair almost as soon as he had escorted his sister through the doors. Disappointed, she glanced surreptitiously at the scrap of paper in her palm.

M
elisande stared
down at the note given her by a footman after her last dance, determined to ignore the command written there in flawlessly scrolled, expertly formed letters despite the quick thrill of excitement she felt just from looking at it.

The 'T' stood for Tony, she realized, but his given name was the only thing about him she knew—and even that could prove to be false, she feared.

She wasn't going to do it.

No good could come from a moonlit meeting with the outrageously handsome…pirate captain? Ship hand? It occurred to her belatedly that she still had no idea precisely what the man who had cornered her on the darkened stairwell at the Duke of Rothwyn's house party did, but whatever it was, she was certain it must be bad. Very bad. After all, there had to be some reason he had not taken part in the festivities there, preferring instead to keep to the shadows and skulk around as he had.

Given the care he had taken to avoid the duchesses guests, Melisande assumed he was not the sort of man the dowager duchess would want associating with her guests, though he and the duke were clearly friends. She should have counted herself among the “
avoid—that—man—at—all—costs
” group as well, considering her current aim in life. Her every waking moment was spent in seeking opportunities to garner the affection of and an offer of marriage from the dukes of Rothwyn or Kelsing. To court foolishness by meeting the secretive and mysterious though delectably handsome man who called himself naught but
Tony
in the Rindal's garden, well...

She thought of Rothwyn and the fact that if Kelsing did not come up to scratch soon, she would be forced to seriously revise her tactics to win him. He was Tony's friend, she repeated to herself, and no man wanted the ghost of another love in their marriage bed. Of this she was certain. But if that ghost also happened to be one of his best friends?

Melisande scoffed at the nonsense in her head.

She was neither in love with the mysterious “Tony—who—had—given—no—surname” nor was she about to wed the duke. All her prior attempts in that direction had fallen far short of the mark, despite Claire's assistance. Though she had learned everything she possibly could from friends, family, and acquaintances about
the Graces
, Melisande was no closer tonight to winning a second glance from either of them than she had been a month ago—and Ambray continued to remain as elusive as ever.

Despite her resolve, however, her gaze slid to the doors leading out to the terrace and the gardens beyond.
What is he doing here?
She had thought never to see or hear from him again once she left Rothwyn House. Had he followed her to London?

Crushing the note in her palm, she hid her fist in the folds of her skirt until she could find a moment of privacy during which to tuck it securely into her reticule. Although she would not meet him, as he had requested, she could not bring herself to throw the note away. He had written it in his own hand, after all. And he had called her beautiful. Again.

Later, in her room, she would open the note again so that her fingers could carefully trace the beautifully formed letters while she allowed herself to dream of things she should never entertain, but for now....

Her cheeks flushed and she straightened, hurriedly scanning the sea of faces around her, looking for him among the countess's guests despite her better judgment. Was he here, amidst the throng somewhere despite the appalling shock his presence would surely cause? Nay, even he, bold though he was, would not dare to crash the Countess of Rindal's ball.

What a scandal that would be, she thought as she moved toward the edge of the ballroom. A pirate on the prowl among the ton's most elite. Countess Rindal would swoon at the very least. A grin started to form on her lips, making her mouth twitch at the corners, and Melisande paused, checking herself before she did something she knew she would regret.

To Tony's credit, resisting his summons was difficult.

He was so beautiful, a girl could forget herself in doing naught more than drinking up his loveliness. Add to that his sultry tone and the naughty appeal in his eyes, and she would be lost. But his kisses... oh, his kisses....

Seconds later, the door leading out onto the terraced gardens beyond the ballroom opened beneath her hand and Melisande stepped out into the clear moonlight, waiting with baited breath to hear the click that would assure her she had, indeed, remembered to close the door behind her.

Careful now, she kept to the lighted areas, glancing down along the length of the house in both directions to ensure she was alone. Assured of her privacy, she leaned against a column and lifted her wrist to hurriedly tuck the note into her reticule.

A sound in the darkness to her left caused her head to snap around. Eyes narrowing sharply, she surveyed every inch of the terrace but found nothing. Still, her heart had picked up its rhythm and she could not help but notice how her entire being seemed to have become incredibly aware of her surroundings. He was there somewhere. She could feel him. Her skin veritably tingled with reaction to his nearness, and yet...

Where is he?

“I knew you would come. Did you miss me, darling?”

The sound of those words, drawled low and so near to her ear in his sensuous voice, made her breath catch in her throat and her body simultaneously flood with heat. Swinging around, she demanded in a strained whisper, “What are you doing here? You could be caught!”

One look at his attire confirmed her suspicions. He looked positively evil, dressed in all black from his neck to his toes. If not for the teasing gleam in his blue eyes, Melisande was sure she would have fled. This man was as far from civilized
ton
as a demon from the choirs of heaven. Being alone with him was sheer foolishness, and yet she somehow felt secure enough to relax in his presence. She was far,
far
more at ease with him than their brief acquaintance should warrant, she warned silently. Perilously so.

“Worried, sweetness?” he teased. His arm slid around her and before she realized his intent, she was being led away from the torches along the lighted paths through the gardens toward the back of the house where no light dared to stray.

“Yes!” she hissed, every ounce of her current anxiety reflected in the word. She was worried someone would realize she had disappeared from the ballroom and come looking for her. Worried he would try to kiss her in the darkness. Worried that he would not. But most of all, she worried she was becoming obsessed with this man.

“You should take me back now and leave before your presence is realized and you are caught! The earl would not hesitate to report you to the authorities. You must know your friendship with the duke will only get you so far.”

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.

L
ucien 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.