The Rake's Wicked Proposal

A kiss.

A single kiss—

No, damn it. It had been claiming a single kiss from this woman that had put them both in the untenable position of finding themselves betrothed to each other in the first place. Because he had not wanted to stop at kissing Grace that night. He had wanted to share so much more than kisses with her—to feel her skin as soft as velvet to the touch, her breasts full and responsive as he cupped them—

‘Shall we stroll in the garden?’ Lucian stood back abruptly even as he made the suggestion, to allow Grace to precede him down the stone steps.

Grace hesitated, eyeing Lord Lucian warily. Being alone with him like this was dangerous. More dangerous than she had imagined even during the times she allowed herself to dwell on the night they had met at the coaching inn. Then he had appeared rakishly handsome to her—if arrogantly so. But this evening, surrounded by the glittering and bejewelled members of the ton, Grace had been made even more aware of the differences between them.

There had been a lull in the conversation when Lord Lucian had appeared in the doorway of the ballroom, looking down his arrogant nose at the company gathered there. Men and women alike had stood aside for him to pass as he made his way determinedly to her side. And those same men and women had watched his every move—the men enviously, the women covetously—telling Grace that Lord Lucian St Claire was a much admired and yet at the same time feared member of this select and prestigious company.

Grace felt a quiver of apprehension down her spine as she recognised that same fear of him within herself—if for a totally different reason.

‘Perhaps we have been absent from the ballroom long enough, My Lord…?’

His smile was hard. ‘We are betrothed, Grace. I sincerely doubt that anyone would dare to accuse me of ravishing my betrothed in Lady Humbers’s garden!’

Grace sincerely doubted that anyone—man or woman—would dare to accuse Lord Lucian St Claire of anything, without fearing the cold retribution that accusation would bring down upon their head.

Why had she not recognised the darkness within him the first time she had set eyes on him? Or, having recognised it in the nightmares she had witnessed, why had she not been sensible enough to avoid a situation that would put her so completely in his power?

Grace straightened her shoulders determinedly. ‘It is my own wish to return to the ballroom, My Lord.’

Lord Lucian returned her gaze just as assuredly. ‘And it is my wish, dear Grace, to go where I might discuss something of importance with you, to a place where our conversation will not be overheard.’ He turned to scowl pointedly at another couple as they strolled out onto the terrace. The man appeared sensible to the darkness of that scowl, and he bent to whisper something into the ear of the lady at his side before the two of them turned and swiftly re-entered the ballroom.

Grace’s gaze was derisive as she turned back from witnessing their behaviour. ‘Did you rout Napoleon’s army single-handed, My Lord?’

He bared his teeth in a humourless smile. ‘Not quite.’

‘That is what I thought.’ Her smile was mocking. ‘Very well, My Lord.’ She gave a gracious inclination of her head. ‘I will walk in the garden with you, so that you might tell me what is so important you have to discuss it with me where our conversation will not be overheard!’

This girl was barely out of the schoolroom, Lucian acknowledged ruefully as he accompanied her down the steps, in experience if not in years, and yet there was no doubting that Grace held his interest, that he did not find her company in the least boring or tedious. In fact, he found himself waiting in a state of anticipation for what she might say or do next!

It was perhaps unwise of Lucian to linger outside with her in this way. Perhaps? It was unwise! But for the moment, with Grace so elegant and beautiful as she walked beside him, Lucian chose to put aside his usual caution.

She barely reached to his shoulder as they strolled away from the house. Those dark curls appeared blue-black in the moonlight, her face an ethereal white, her eyes silver as they too reflected the moonlight, and the firm swell of her breasts was rapidly rising and falling—too rapidly rising and falling?