Lucian frowned darkly. ‘We still have not had an opportunity to talk.’
He had intended telling her of the conversation he had overheard at his club earlier today—of the rumour of their betrothal being a forced one which was obviously circulating around the ton. But after their behaviour this evening, perhaps there was no need for that conversation? Who could now doubt, after their prolonged absence in the garden together, that there was more to their betrothal than expediency?
‘And whose fault is that?’ Her tone was waspish as she bent down to retrieve her fan from where it lay abandoned on the grass.
Lucian’s mouth twisted mockingly. ‘Yours, believe.’
‘Mine?’ Grace’s eyes were wide with indignation.
He shrugged. ‘You should not be so beautiful.’
Those grey eyes narrowed in warning of her rapidly evaporating patience. ‘I told you not to flirt with me, Lucian.’
‘So you did.’ He reclaimed his hold upon her arm as they began to walk back towards the noise and clamour inside the house, noting with satisfaction that Grace did at least address him as Lucian now rather than ‘My Lord’. ‘But it cannot be called flirting when one is simply stating the truth.’
Grace eyed him suspiciously. She was young when compared to this man—and not only in years. Her inexperience with the Society he had lived amongst all of his life, her complete lack of artifice when compared to the other much more beautiful women present this evening, made her appear—and feel—gauche in comparison. Telling her that she could not possibly hope to claim, or retain, the interest of a man of such sophistication as Lucian St Claire.
‘I do not think that I believe you…’
‘You wound me if you believe I would make love to a woman who was not beautiful!’
Grace’s mouth firmed. ‘I believe it would take a lot more than my opinion to wound you, My Lord.’
‘Do you, Grace?’
He was suddenly once again much too close, causing a strange fluttering sensation in Grace’s chest. ‘What was it you wished to talk to me about this evening, My Lord?’
Lucian eyed her impatiently. Although whether that impatience was directed at himself or at Grace he was not sure. If he was to be forced into marrying this chit, then it would be under his own terms, not hers. Certainly he did not intend to become a slave to the desire he knew that he felt for her.
His mouth firmed. ‘Come for a ride in Hyde Park with me tomorrow morning, Grace. We will discuss it then.’
‘A ride in the park?’ Her eyes lit up excitedly. ‘You could not have suggested anything I would enjoy more than the freedom of a brisk gallop upon one of my uncle’s mounts—’
‘I had meant for us to ride in my curricle, Grace,’ Lucian put in dryly, aware that Grace could have no idea of the honour he was bestowing upon her by the suggestion. He did not—ever!—take ladies riding in the park in his curricle.
‘Oh.’ Her excitement faded as quickly as it had appeared. ‘I should have realised.’ She grimaced. ‘Yes—if my aunt allows it, I will certainly join you in your curricle tomorrow morning.’
Lucian felt unpleasantly as if he had just taken something away from Grace, denying her a treat. He also found—irritatingly—that he did not like the feeling. ‘I am willing to exchange the comfort of my curricle for a ride on horseback, if you would prefer that.’
‘Oh, I would!’ Her eyes glowed once again.
Lucian shrugged. ‘However, I should warn you that galloping, briskly or otherwise, is really not the done thing.’
‘Why ever not?’ The frown was back upon her brow.
Lucian gave a mocking smile. ‘Because, my dear Grace, the ladies and gentlemen of the ton who choose to ride in the park do it to see and to be seen—not to gallop!’
Grace grimaced. ‘That sounds rather boring, if you do not mind my saying so.’
‘I do not mind your saying so in the least, Grace.’ His mouth twisted derisively. ‘In fact, I agree with the sentiment.’
‘I suppose I also have to sit decorously side-saddle, wearing one of those beautiful riding habits my aunt has felt it necessary for me to acquire this past week?’