The Rake's Wicked Proposal

‘Oh—of course.’ The blond one nodded.

‘Look forward to it,’ his dark-haired friend agreed enthusiastically.

‘Then no doubt I will see you both later.’ Lucian gave a terse nod. ‘If you two young gentlemen will excuse me?’ He crossed the room in long, forceful strides, no doubt leaving the two younger men to congratulate themselves on their lucky escape.

At the same time he accepted that he had now committed himself to attending Lady Humbers’s ball this evening, and also to seeing Grace again…

* * *

‘You did not tell me that your father was the renowned artist Peter Hetherington.’

Grace’s gaze was cool as she glanced up at Lord Lucian St Claire as the two of them danced together in the crowded ballroom of Lady Humbers’s townhouse.

Grace had been in London for nine days now, and most of that time had been spent at dressmakers, milliners and cobblers as her aunt saw to the acquisition of the new wardrobe she said Grace was so in need of. Indeed, it had proved to be the case. Grace’s three day dresses and two gowns for the evening were in no way sufficient for the at-homes her aunt held three mornings a week, and the numerous afternoon teas they had to attend in response to those morning visitors. And now the evening entertainments had begun in earnest too.

Lady Humbers’s house was positively heaving with people this evening—the ballroom itself full to capacity, it seemed. But the crush of people, the noise of conversation and laughter, were not the reason for Grace’s coolness of manner. No, that was for another reason entirely.

Her aunt had insisted that they did not move far from home these last two days, in the vain hope that Grace’s betrothed, Lord Lucian St Claire, would call upon them—as he had said that he would once he returned to town. This had apparently taken place two days ago, Grace had been informed by Lord Lucian’s sister, Lady Arabella, when she had called on them yesterday morning, in order that she might introduce herself to her future sister-in-law. The fact that Grace had taken an instant liking to the forthright and beautiful Lady Arabella did not in any way alter the fact that Lord Lucian had obviously been avoiding going anywhere near the Duke of Carlyne’s residence, and Grace herself, since his return.

Grace continued to look at him coolly. ‘You did not ask, My Lord.’

Lucian frowned his irritation with her reply. Damn it, it had been left to those two insolent young puppies at his club earlier today to unwittingly inform him that Grace was the daughter of ‘an artist or some such’. The claim had easily been verified once Lucian had made the connection of Grace’s surname with that of Peter Hetherington, a man who had had several of his paintings displayed at the Royal Academy’s exhibitions at Somerset House, as well as hung in the numerous homes of every member of the ton here this evening; Lucian had two of them himself in his own townhouse; beautiful seascapes that captured the wild beauty of the southern coast of England.

‘Perhaps if, as you said you would, you had presented yourself to the Duchess and myself when you returned to town, then there might have been occasion for us to have had such a conversation,’ Grace added, with a sweetness that was totally at odds with the angry sparkle in her eyes.

Ah. Lucian breathed out ruefully. Grace had been aware of his return to town two days ago, and did not appreciate his lapse in not calling upon her during that time.

Lucian had had cause to wonder at the delay himself when he had entered Lady Humbers’s home earlier and spotted Grace across the crowded ballroom. She’d stood so tiny but confident at her aunt’s side, looking dazzlingly beautiful in a satin and lace gown of the palest lavender. The colour was a perfect foil for her ebony hair, and somehow gave her eyes that same misty hue. Her complexion was like magnolia, her lips an inviting rose.

A very inviting rose.

An invitation Lucian was experiencing more difficulty in resisting than was comfortable!

‘Shall we venture outside for some air?’ Lucian’s suggestion was a formality only as he took a firm hold upon Grace’s elbow and steered her unerringly towards one of the doors opening out onto the terrace and garden—the evening having turned rather warm after a typically foggy day