The Rake's Wicked Proposal

Those dark brows rose over eyes that seemed to laugh at her. ‘You do not?’

‘Not at all, My Lord,’ Grace confirmed lightly. ‘Divest even a prince of his title, and what do you see?’

Lucian St Claire’s eyes were openly amused. ‘Perhaps you would care to enlighten me, Miss Hetherington?’

She shrugged dismissively. ‘That he is a man—like any other.’

Those sculptured lips curved appreciatively. ‘You sound—contemptuous, Miss Hetherington?’

‘Should I not? Perhaps I am wrong, My Lord, but it is my understanding that the rich and titled gentlemen of the ton are looking only for beauty in their future wives, for a woman of suitable lineage to produce their future heirs.’

‘Really, my dear Grace!’ her aunt interrupted sharply. ‘I am sure that Lord St Claire does not wish to hear the—the perhaps less than genteel—’ She broke off as Lord Lucian raised a placating hand.

‘On the contrary, Your Grace, I find myself very interested in Miss Hetherington’s conversation,’ Lucian drawled assuringly, and once again found himself being surprised by Grace Hetherington. Especially as she had just described the sort of arrangement he had decided would most suit himself!

It was rare indeed to hear a young woman express herself so frankly when in public. Well, apart from his sister Arabella, of course. But, having grown up with three older brothers, Bella tended to be slightly different from the usual.

He gave Grace Hetherington a considering look from beneath hooded lids. ‘You do not hold with the opinion that a titled gentleman is duty-bound to take himself a wife?’

‘A wife he does not love nor perhaps even like?’ Grey eyes frowned across at him. ‘No, My Lord, I do not hold with that opinion.’

‘This really is not suitable dinner conversation, my dear,’ the Duchess of Carlyne reproved her again, lightly. ‘You must excuse my niece, Lord St Claire; she has lived all her life in the country with her parents—my dear deceased sister and her husband. She does not yet know how to go on in Society.’

‘On the contrary, I find Miss Hetherington’s conversation very—refreshing,’ Lucian assured her, his gaze fixed intently on the now slightly flushed face of Grace Hetherington. ‘Tell me, Miss Hetherington, what is your opinion of the less financially fortunate gentlemen of the ton?’ he prompted softly.

Grace was well aware that Lord Lucian was playing with her, deliberately provoking her into voicing her less than enamoured opinion of the Society in which he lived. And played. Even on such brief acquaintance Grace knew that this man played with words when no other diversion presented itself.

It was an arena in which her liberal-minded father and mother had encouraged Grace to hold her own. ‘Those gentlemen are, of course, not so concerned with the way a woman looks, or indeed her lineage, so long as she has the fortune necessary for them to live the lifestyle they consider theirs by right.’

Lucian St Claire gave up all pretence of eating and pushed his soup bowl away from him to focus all his attention on Grace. ‘And which of those categories do you suppose I fit into, Miss Hetherington?’ His voice was soft—dangerously so.

Grace pretended to give the question due consideration.

Pretended because, after Francis’s description of the other man, she believed she already knew what type of man Lucian St Claire was.

Grace pushed her own soup bowl away from her before turning to meet that mocking dark gaze. ‘It is my belief that there is a third category of man amongst the ton.’

‘Which is?’ The amusement was less in evidence now, and the darkness of Lucian St Claire’s eyes had taken on a cold glitter.

Grace shrugged unconcernedly. ‘It is, I believe, those gentlemen who have both money and a title but no use for a wife of any kind. They see women—married or otherwise—merely as playthings.’

‘And you believe I am one of that category?’ There was a definite edge to Lucian St Claire’s voice now, a challenge in those sculptured lips as they thinned above the squareness of his arrogantly angled jaw.

‘That really is not for me to say, My Lord,’ Grace told him softly. Having glanced at Francis Wynter, she easily recognised the expression of malicious glee on his face as he listened avidly to the exchange. And another glance at her aunt’s disapproving face told Grace that she should not pursue this conversation any further. That she had already pursued it too far