Grace hadn’t even been aware that she had ceased to breathe under the intensity of Lord Lucian St Claire’s dark, unreadable gaze, until he broke that gaze as he turned away from her, in order to accompany her aunt through to the private dining room that had been set aside for their use this evening. Nor that her cheeks were hot and flushed. That her hands were shaking. Her legs feeling less than steady.
Lord Lucian St Claire, Grace had absolutely no doubt, even on such short acquaintance, was exactly the type of man—exactly the type of man!—that her mother had warned her to beware of if she were ever to find herself in tonnish society.
Exactly the sort of man it would be very dangerous—and heartbreaking—for any woman to ever fall in love with.
Not that Grace had any intention of falling in love with him. She definitely aspired a little higher than the tedious Francis Wynter as her lifetime companion, but at the same time she was not naïve enough to consider that a man as arrogantly handsome as Lucian St Claire had proved to be would ever fall in love with and marry someone like her. After the example of her parents’ marriage, as well as her aunt and uncle’s, Grace had already decided she would settle for nothing less than a love-match, either.
‘Grace…?’ Francis Wynter prompted impatiently as he stood beside her waiting to escort her into dinner.
Looking at him from beneath lowered lashes, Grace could not help but once again compare his petulantly blond good-looks to the saturnine handsomeness of Lucian St Claire. Day and Night. Good and devilish. Boring and dangerous…!
But with the mesmerising Lord St Claire now escorting her aunt into the adjoining room, Grace was able to take exception to Francis Wynter’s proprietorial attitude, and she shot him a look of glittering reproof before turning to instead slip her hand into the crook of her uncle’s arm.
‘Shall we go through, Uncle George…?’ She smiled up at him affectionately, all the time aware of the glowering dissatisfied gaze directed at the slenderness of her back as Francis Wynter followed closely behind them.
Chapter Two
As expected, Lucian found himself seated between the Duchess of Carlyne on one side and Grace Hetherington on the other, with the Duke seated beside her and an obviously disgruntled Francis Wynter placed between his brother and sister-in-law. No doubt before Lucian’s arrival the other man had expected to be seated beside the lovely Grace Hetherington, and so able to monopolise her attention.
A devilish impulse prompted Lucian to add to the other man’s discomfort by focusing his own attention on the other man’s more than obvious romantic interest. ‘You are on your way to London for the Season, I believe, Miss Hetherington?’ he prompted politely, turning towards her.
She paused in eating her soup. ‘I am, My Lord.’
‘Your first?’
‘Yes, My Lord.’
‘And have you ever been to London before, Miss Hetherington?’
Those long dark lashes were once more lowered over those smoky grey eyes. ‘No, My Lord.’
She really did have the most sensuously arousing voice he had ever heard, Lucian acknowledged, and he found himself continuing to ask her questions just so that he could listen to that husky tone. It was a voice that possessed the potency of a caress against naked flesh. His naked flesh.
‘And are you looking forward to all the excitement of your first Season? Perhaps hoping that the romantic prince of your dreams will appear and sweep you off your feet?’
Grace was frowning as she looked up at Lucian St Claire, having easily heard and taken exception to the light mockery underlining that drawling voice. She could now see the cynical curl to his lips, and the arrogant contempt in his expression towards the absurdity of the Season, and its accompanying plethora of marriage-minded mamas seeking a suitable husband for their daughters.
No doubt he felt all of those things towards Grace as she ventured into Society. As it happened, it was an unwilling venture on her part. She had agreed to this Season only after her Uncle George had explained to her that it would be a diversion for her aunt, who still suffered deep melancholy over the death of her only son.
‘I do not believe in romantic princes, My Lord,’ she assured him softly.