Her face was flushed, her eyes fever-bright when Lucian at last lifted his head to look down at her, with satisfaction in the depths of those dark, compelling eyes.
‘I will count the hours until my return.’ His voice was mockingly low. ‘No, do not ruin the moment with another of your cutting remarks, Grace,’ he added with amusement as he released her, to step back and tap her playfully on the nose. ‘It will be far more pleasing to leave with a pleasant memory to see me on my way, rather than one of your sharp set-downs.’
Grace wasn’t sure that she was at all capable of making one of those sharp set-downs at this precise moment. In fact, she wasn’t sure she was able to speak at all. In truth, this man—his kisses—had the ability to render her speechless!
At the same time, she did not want Lord Lucian to think she was in the slightest degree more amenable to the idea of a betrothal or marriage between the two of them.
‘You would rather take an illusion with you than the truth?’ Her voice was snappily dismissive.
His mouth twisted humourlessly. ‘Most of life, I have found, is an illusion. So a little more will make no difference.’ He drew himself up to his full impressive height. ‘I think I shall leave you now, Grace, before we have the opportunity to argue again. My dear.’ He gave a brief inclination of his head before turning on his heel and walking away.
Grace watched with troubled eyes as he strode to the back of the inn where the stables and his horse were being kept. Lord Lucian St Claire, she was learning, was a man of contradictions. A man who, by his offer for her, placed honour and friendship above his own happiness. Yet he was also a man, from his words just now, who was disillusioned with the world and the people who inhabited it, who wore a mask of civility and boredom to hide that disillusionment. The same mask that no doubt hid the horror of his years spent in the army, and which Grace was sure, after last night, manifested themselves in nightmares instead.
A man who distanced himself from his family so that they should never learn of those nightmares…?
Did that unexpected vulnerability in a man who gave every outward appearance of being coldly controlled, even without emotion, make Lucian a man it would be all too easy to fall in love with…?
God—Grace hoped not!
Chapter Six
Lucian sat with his chair facing the fireplace, elbows resting on the arms, his fingers steepled together as he stared unseeingly into the unlit hearth in the comfortable high-ceilinged room at his club. He was totally unaware of his surroundings, or the comings and goings of the other men who felt the need to take refuge, in the same way Lucian did, from the demands of their womenfolk hell-bent on enjoying the Season.
He had been back in town for two days now, having safely delivered his sister, Arabella, and their aunt, Lady Hammond, to St Claire house, before taking his leave and returning to his own residence in Mayfair.
He was only delaying the inevitable, of course; he knew he could not continue to avoid calling on the woman to whom he had been betrothed for the last nine days. That betrothal was now public knowledge—the announcement, as Lucian had predicted, having appeared in the newspapers a week ago.
No doubt the ton were simply dying to see Lord Lucian St Claire and his betrothed Grace Hetherington together. Which was one of the reasons Lucian had delayed, and delayed yet again, his inevitable first foray into Society since his return to town.
Only one of the reasons.
Miss Grace Hetherington herself being the main one.
For Lucian had found himself thinking of her far too much for comfort while with his family in Gloucestershire.
‘And I tell you there’s something odd about the whole business. St Claire is avoiding her like the plague.’ A man, young from the sound of his voice, announced this with satisfaction as he noisily entered the room. ‘The girl has been in town for over a week, and he has not so much as paid her a call yet.’
‘The whole thing is a sorry affair to my mind,’ his companion came back disgustedly. ‘Whoever would have thought an out-and-outer like St Claire would succumb to the parson’s mousetrap?’
‘I’m telling you that he didn’t,’ the other man assured him impatiently. ‘Rumour has it that her guardian, the Duke of Carlyne, insisted on the marriage after finding St Claire in bed with her.