The Rake's Wicked Proposal. Carole Mortimer

Lucian was disappointed at this abrupt ending of his conversation with Grace Hetherington. For once in his life he had believed himself to be having an honest exchange with a woman—his sister Arabella once again excepted; Arabella was even more outspoken in her opinions than Grace Hetherington had been. Heaven help the male members of the ton if Grace Hetherington and Arabella should meet up in London during the coming Season and form a friendship!

      But Grace Hetherington’s introduction of the subject of the Duke’s stables made the conversation less exclusive, and the three gentlemen began to discuss horseflesh, at the same time allowing the Duchess to once again gently reprimand her niece for her lack of discretion. Lucian noted this regretfully, as Grace Hetherington fell silent during the rest of the surprisingly excellent meal. Perhaps, as the Duke had claimed, the food did make up for the inn’s lack of other amenities after all.

      The good food and wine certainly helped to ease the earlier discord in their gathering. Even Lucian’s mood had lightened somewhat by the time the ladies had drunk their tea and the Duchess had risen to suggest that the two of them would now retire for the evening, so leaving the gentlemen alone to enjoy their brandy and cigars.

      ‘I believe I might retire too, m’dear.’ The Duke rose more slowly to his feet than the two younger gentlemen. ‘Forgive me, St Claire, but I’m feeling slightly fatigued. Too much good food and wine, I expect,’ he added in rueful apology. ‘There is no joy in getting older, I’m afraid!’

      Lucian gave the older man a searching glance, noting as he did so the fine sheen of moisture on the other man’s forehead, the slight pallor to his clammy skin, and the blue eyes dulled with pain. Obviously the Duke was suffering some discomfort after eating, but Lucian very much doubted that at the age of eight and fifty the reason for such discomfort could be attributed to age.

      ‘Is it your heart again, George?’ Francis Wynter looked up frowningly at his older brother.

      The Duke’s face became flushed with temper. ‘No, dammit, it is not m’heart—’

      ‘Calm yourself, Carlyne,’ the Duchess soothed placatingly. ‘I am sure that Francis was only expressing his concern.’

      ‘It is a concern I can well do without.’ Her husband scowled his displeasure.

      ‘Remember what the physician you consulted in Worcester said about your heart and becoming too excited, Carlyne—’

      ‘Damned quack,’ the Duke dismissed disgustedly. ‘Excuse the family exchange, if you will, St Claire.’ He smiled across at Lucian ruefully. ‘A touch of indigestion and everyone assumes ’m on m’deathbed.’

      ‘I am sure that the Duchess and Francis meant well,’ Lucian placated. ‘Would you like me to accompany you up the stairs?’ He frowned as he noted the way the Duke swayed slightly as he turned to walk to the door.

      ‘Not necessary, m’dear fellow, when I have my dear Margaret and Grace beside me.’ George Wynter smiled reassuringly at his wife as she took his arm concernedly, Grace at his other side. ‘You two young bucks stay and enjoy your brandy and some congenial conversation.’

      Lucian thought he would rather once again take up his commission and endure cold months in the saddle than spend any time alone with the pompous bore Francis Wynter had undoubtedly become! But as the Duke and Duchess of Carlyne left the room, accompanied by their solicitous niece, Lucian accepted that he had little choice than to partake of at least one glass of the brandy the young maid poured for them before she also left the room. After that he would acquire a decanter of his own to take up to his bedchamber, so that he might drink himself into oblivion.

      Francis Wynter took advantage of the departure of his brother and the two ladies to move into Grace Hetherington’s seat, and the two men were sitting side by side as he leant confidingly towards Lucian. ‘I beg that you will not think too badly of Miss Hetherington for her less than discreet conversation earlier.’

      Lucian looked at the other man coldly, surprised at the younger man’s chosen topic of conversation when his brother had just left the room in an obviously less than well state. ‘I assure you I do not think badly of Miss Hetherington.’

      Francis Wynter’s eyes narrowed. ‘But I am sure you will agree that she is yet slightly gauche when in polite society.’

      Lucian had no idea where this conversation was going, but he certainly did not appreciate the younger man discussing Miss Hetherington in this familiar manner with someone who was, after all, a complete stranger to her. ‘On the contrary,’ he drawled slowly. ‘It is my belief that Miss Hetherington’s nature is such that over the next few months she will come to be considered an Original by the ton.’

      ‘As to that, St Claire—’ the younger man gave a supercilious smile ‘—I am sure it cannot have escaped your notice that Miss Hetherington and I…’ He paused delicately. ‘Well, there is an understanding between the two of us. Of course there has been nothing official announced as yet.’ He grimaced. ‘But I believe I can safely say that an engagement will shortly be announced.’

      Lucian didn’t react to the other man’s self-satisfied announcement by so much as a flicker of an eyelid— but inwardly… Inwardly! Was this young puppy actually warning him off pursuing any interest he might be nurturing in Grace Hetherington’s direction? Did this man actually dare to presume—?

      ‘Grace must be allowed to have her Season, of course,’ Francis Wynter continued airily. ‘But it is only to introduce her to Society. I have every confidence that George will consider no offer but my own.’

      Damn it, he did dare to presume!

      Lucian couldn’t remember feeling this angry for a very long time. Certainly he had never been roused to such emotion before where a woman was concerned. ‘Surely it is Miss Hetherington who will need to consider your offer?’ he said. And from the little Lucian had observed this evening in Grace Hetherington’s manner towards Francis Wynter, he had no doubt she would be in total disagreement with such an offer.

      There was no doubting that such a match would be considered a very good one for a country miss such as Grace Hetherington. Lucian had guessed from the Duchess’s earlier comments about her sister and her husband that Grace’s parents had been simple country gentry. But, easily recalling that spark of rebellion he had seen in Grace Hetherington’s eyes on more than one occasion this evening, and her earlier conversation concerning marriage, Lucian very much doubted that Francis Wynter was going to find it quite so easy to persuade Miss Grace Hetherington as to the suitability of his offer.

      Not that it was any of Lucian’s business who Grace Hetherington chose to marry. Except that it would be a pity to see all of that originality subjugated by Francis Wynter’s pomposity. Or her beauty given to him alone, Lucian allowed grudgingly, recalling those misty grey eyes and the fullness of Grace Hetherington’s mouth, the creamy softness of her skin and the silky darkness of hair that, once unconfined, would no doubt fall in curling disarray to the slenderness of her waist.

      Francis raised his brows. ‘Grace will, of course, be guided by my brother and his wife when it comes to the acceptance of a marriage proposal. And a match between the two of us is more than suitable,’ he claimed with certainty.

      It might be suitable as far as Francis Wynter was concerned, Lucian acknowledged as he repressed a smile, but Grace Hetherington was another matter entirely. ‘I wish you every luck in your endeavour, then, Wynter,’ he drawled uninterestedly. ‘Pass the brandy, would you?’ he added briskly; if he had to endure this man’s company then he might as well drink his fill of brandy now, and so be too drunk to take offence at anything the other man might say!

      ‘You do not think that we should perhaps call a doctor, Aunt?’

      Grace frowned her concern as she looked across the room at her Uncle George, where he lay back on the bed, his eyes closed, even paler now than he had been downstairs.

      ‘Carlyne will not hear of it—claims it is only a touch of indigestion.’ Her aunt looked no less worried