The Rake's Wicked Proposal

A match Grace could never willingly agree to.

Never, ever willingly.

As Lucian St Claire would quickly learn for himself if he proceeded with this absurdity.

Chapter Five

‘I know this is all terribly exciting for you, Grace, but you really must try to eat something.’ Her aunt beamed at her encouragingly across the breakfast table from Grace, as the two of them sat in the private parlour of the coaching inn. ‘After all, you do not want Lord Lucian to see his betrothed looking pale and sickly when he joins us.’

Grace looked at her aunt numbly. The two of them were alone in the parlour. Her uncle, having recovered fully from his upset the evening before, and Lord Francis had set off early to check on the progress being made on the repair of the ducal coach—it being the Duke’s intention, her aunt had informed her archly, to tell Francis of Grace’s betrothal to Lord Lucian St Claire during their absence, in the hopes that he would have accepted this startling change in circumstances by the time he returned.

As if it were of any interest to Grace whether Francis were informed or otherwise—or indeed what his response was to the news!

Only Grace’s own emotions concerning the announcement of her betrothal to Lord Lucian St Claire, imparted to her by her uncle when he and her aunt had come to her bedchamber in the early hours of this morning, were of any significance. Those emotions had been disbelief and horror. But Grace’s protests had gone unheard as her uncle had proceeded to tell her how fortunate she was in her betrothed. How charming and worldly Lord Lucian was. How prestigious his family. How all the doors of Society would now be opened to her.

The list of advantages of being the wife of Lord Lucian St Claire were endless, it seemed.

Grace’s numbness, following her aunt and uncle’s return to their own bedchamber, had been so absolute it had resulted in her sitting in the window seat all night, staring sightlessly out at the slowly awakening day. It had seemed to her at the time that it was unacceptable that day should follow night, as it usually did, when such a momentous—horrifying!—occurrence was taking place in her own life. To add insult to injury, the sun had come out—as if to shine in blessing upon the union  .

Her union   to Major Lord Lucian St Claire.

He had been absolutely correct in his surmise that her aunt and uncle would look favourably upon such a match. In fact her aunt had gone so far in dampening her memory of exactly why the betrothal was felt to be necessary that she now chose to think of it as a love-match.

The only blessing of the previous night had been that Lord Lucian had not returned to Grace’s bedchamber himself after he had proved so correct in his assessment as to her guardians’ acceptance of his offer. A gloating Lucian St Claire would simply have been too much to bear on top of the other indignities Grace had already suffered that night! She certainly had not forgotten the humiliation of his remark about ‘one with such a passionate nature as your own, Grace’!

Perhaps because she was still shocked at her own response to him the night before…

Indeed, it was the thought of seeing him again, of recognising the mockery in his dark, condescending gaze, that made it impossible for Grace even to contemplate the idea of eating breakfast. The tea she had requested also remained untouched.

‘I am sorry, Aunt, I did not hear what you were saying…’ She gave a pained frown as she realised how inattentive she had been while her aunt continued to chatter on regardless. In her preoccupation she might have missed the purchase of her wedding gown or the date of the wedding—possibly even where she was to go on her honeymoon trip!

‘Your aunt was explaining how unfortunate it is that I have to continue my journey to my brother’s home in Gloucestershire before I am able to return to London to be at your side,’ Lucian drawled with lazy mockery, as he entered the parlour where the two ladies sat together.

Grace Hetherington, he noted frowningly, had stiffened at the first sound of his voice. Not an auspicious beginning to their betrothal, to be sure. But, in the circumstances, perhaps an understandable one.

Lucian was not particularly happy himself this morning. The effects of the brandy—and the blow to his head!—had now manifested themselves, leaving him with much more than a nasty taste in his mouth.