as yet.’ He grimaced. ‘But I believe I can safely say that an engagement will shortly be announced.’
Lucian didn’t react to the other man’s self-satisfied announcement by so much as a flicker of an eyelid— but inwardly… Inwardly! Was this young puppy actually warning him off pursuing any interest he might be nurturing in Grace Hetherington’s direction? Did this man actually dare to presume—?
‘Grace must be allowed to have her Season, of course,’ Francis Wynter continued airily. ‘But it is only to introduce her to Society. I have every confidence that George will consider no offer but my own.’
Damn it, he did dare to presume!
Lucian couldn’t remember feeling this angry for a very long time. Certainly he had never been roused to such emotion before where a woman was concerned. ‘Surely it is Miss Hetherington who will need to consider your offer?’ he said. And from the little Lucian had observed this evening in Grace Hetherington’s manner towards Francis Wynter, he had no doubt she would be in total disagreement with such an offer.
There was no doubting that such a match would be considered a very good one for a country miss such as Grace Hetherington. Lucian had guessed from the Duchess’s earlier comments about her sister and her husband that Grace’s parents had been simple country gentry. But, easily recalling that spark of rebellion he had seen in Grace Hetherington’s eyes on more than one occasion this evening, and her earlier conversation concerning marriage, Lucian very much doubted that Francis Wynter was going to find it quite so easy to persuade Miss Grace Hetherington as to the suitability of his offer.
Not that it was any of Lucian’s business who Grace Hetherington chose to marry. Except that it would be a pity to see all of that originality subjugated by Francis Wynter’s pomposity. Or her beauty given to him alone, Lucian allowed grudgingly, recalling those misty grey eyes and the fullness of Grace Hetherington’s mouth, the creamy softness of her skin and the silky darkness of hair that, once unconfined, would no doubt fall in curling disarray to the slenderness of her waist.
Francis raised his brows. ‘Grace will, of course, be guided by my brother and his wife when it comes to the acceptance of a marriage proposal. And a match between the two of us is more than suitable,’ he claimed with certainty.
It might be suitable as far as Francis Wynter was concerned, Lucian acknowledged as he repressed a smile, but Grace Hetherington was another matter entirely. ‘I wish you every luck in your endeavour, then, Wynter,’ he drawled uninterestedly. ‘Pass the brandy, would you?’ he added briskly; if he had to endure this man’s company then he might as well drink his fill of brandy now, and so be too drunk to take offence at anything the other man might say!
‘You do not think that we should perhaps call a doctor, Aunt?’
Grace frowned her concern as she looked across the room at her Uncle George, where he lay back on the bed, his eyes closed, even paler now than he had been downstairs.
‘Carlyne will not hear of it—claims it is only a touch of indigestion.’ Her aunt looked no less worried as she glanced across at her husband. Not surprisingly, when there had been several bouts of such indigestion in recent months.
‘The opinion of another physician would perhaps be advisable, do you not think?’ Grace ventured to suggest, knowing that her uncle had absolutely no time for the diagnosis of the local doctor who had been summoned to Winton Hall after his last bout.
Grace had become very fond of her aunt and uncle during the year she had spent under their guardianship, and could not bear to now see her uncle in such discomfort, or her aunt so obviously worried.
‘I dare not go against Carlyne’s wishes.’ Her aunt gave a strained smile. ‘I believe it best if we wait a while and see if this passes, as it has before. You are only next door, Grace. Be assured I will call upon you if I have need of you,’ she added reassuringly as she saw Grace remained unconvinced.
Grace accepted the dismissal for what it was. ‘Please do not hesitate if you are in the least concerned. After all, there is Lord Wynter and—and Lord St Claire to call upon if needs be.’
She felt a slight warmth enter her cheeks just at recalling her verbal exchange with Lucian St Claire at dinner. He had not been at all what she’d expected after Francis’s description of him as a rake. He was very handsome, of course, as well as arrogant and mocking in his conversation, but there had been none of the overt familiarity that Grace had been expecting, nor the flirtation, nor indeed the faintest trace of a debauchee either in those arrogantly handsome features or the hard strength of his lithely muscled body. In fact, if anything, Grace had found him cold and emotionally removed.
She’d had the chance to observe him often from beneath lowered lashes during the course of the meal, and had come to realise that there was much more to Lord Lucian St Claire than the rake Francis had described him as being.
She had no doubt whatsoever that his affection for her aunt and uncle was completely genuine. And she had known that his contempt of Francis was equally sincere. But as Grace wholeheartedly shared that last view she could see no fault in him for that either!
In fact, as Mary, her maid, helped Grace to prepare for bed, before retiring to the room she was to share with the Duchess’s maid, Grace found her thoughts lingering musingly on Lord Lucian St Claire.
She could find no faults in him whatsoever—apart from perhaps an excess of arrogance—and had even, to her shame, enjoyed that lively verbal exchange with him.
Could it be that she was ever so slightly infatuated with him? Grace wondered frowningly, as she sat in her nightgown on the seat before the window. She lifted the catch and allowed the brisk spring air to enter the stuffiness of the small bedchamber. Perhaps, she conceded self-derisively.
The gentlemen she would meet during her Season would certainly pale into insignificance beside his nonchalant elegance and arrogant handsomeness. If Francis Wynter allowed any of those gentlemen close enough for her to be able to compare, Grace acknowledged with a tightening of her mouth as she crossed the room to climb into bed, before blowing out the candle and settling down sleepy-eyed amongst the pillows.
She had found Francis’s proprietorial manner towards her this evening even more annoying than usual, his hopes of a match where she was concerned being more than obvious.
Surely her aunt and uncle would not seriously contemplate such a match for her? It would be the first note of discord in their relationship if that were to be the case. Because Grace had no intention, now or in the future, of accepting any offer of marriage that Francis Wynter might make her. She would not even consider such an offer.
She would think of the more fascinating Lord Lucian St Claire instead, Grace decided, and she hugged a pillow to her, her thoughts drifting off as she fantasised about herself held unwilling captive by a faceless spurned lover, and Lucian St Claire riding to her rescue before carrying her off to his deserted castle. Quite what she wanted to happen once they reached that deserted castle Grace wasn’t sure, but no doubt it would include the placing of those finely chiselled lips upon her own, and the caress of his long, elegant hands upon her body.
A body that now warmed at the thought of such caresses. Her breasts were feeling strangely full, and there was an unaccustomed ache between her thighs as her thoughts wandered to considering what Lucian St Claire would look like without the benefit of the tailored perfection of his clothing. His shoulders would be wide and muscled, his skin soft and yet unyielding to the touch, his chest also, his stomach flat, his thighs—
Grace’s
