The Rake's Wicked Proposal

‘No, I most certainly do not think!’ she snapped, even as she crossed the room in three impatient strides. She’d ignored that outstretched hand even as she glared at him, her shortness in stature meaning that their faces were now on a level. ‘There—I have done as you asked. Now will you please leave?’

Easier said than done, Lucian acknowledged self-mockingly as his arousal hardened to an almost painful degree; if he were to stand up now, erection magnificently on display, this innocent young miss would probably have a fit of the vapours. Or perhaps not…? She had, after all, already dealt quite capably with someone she had considered an intruder to her bedchamber.

‘I think perhaps I would like you to kiss me better first.’ He tilted his head invitingly.

Temper darkened her cheeks; those grey eyes were stormy. ‘You are a man of almost thirty years, not three!’

Lucian gave an acknowledging inclination of his head. ‘My years do not make the pain of my injury any less.’

‘You are impossible, My Lord—’

‘Lucian.’

‘The familiarity of your name does not make your behaviour any less outrageous!’

He bared his teeth in a grin. ‘A kiss, Grace. A single kiss. And then I promise that I will leave your bedchamber immediately.’

Grace’s pulse was already racing at his proximity, and her heart was beating frantically in her chest just at the thought of placing her lips anywhere upon this man—even on the dark silkiness of his hair, where she had struck him with the water jug. To touch him in any way, while alone with him in the privacy of her bedchamber, would be highly improper—and yet if it meant that he would then vacate her bedchamber…

‘One kiss?’ She gave him a severe look.

His grin became boyish once again. ‘One kiss, Grace.’

Her pulse began to race faster as he easily held her gaze. She leant towards him, her heart beating even more erratically as she breathed in the male scent of him, her legs shaking so much that Grace was no longer sure they would support her.

And then they didn’t need to as, instead of remaining seated, Lucian St Claire surged powerfully to his feet, barely giving Grace time to register his nakedness before his arms moved about her like bands of steel. He pulled her body close against the heat of his and his head lowered towards hers.

Grace began to struggle against the strength of those arms. ‘You said you wanted me to kiss you better—’

‘Ah, but I did not say where, Grace,’ he murmured huskily, before his lips claimed hers.

Grace became suddenly still in his arms, forgetting to breathe altogether as those lips moved purposefully, seductively, against hers. His tongue teased her own lips apart, deepening the kiss to intimacy as it continued on its marauding path, tasting her, claiming her, seeking out every soft and delicate contour of her mouth, his tongue running erotically along the edge of her teeth even as his arms tightened about her and he curved her body more intimately against his own.

Grace had been encouraged by her parents to have friends of both sexes during her adolescent years, and several of those friendships had developed into slight crushes as they’d matured. One of the boys had even dared to kiss her chastely on the lips on one memorable occasion.

But Lucian St Claire was no boy. And there was nothing chaste about this kiss. The imprint of his body seemed to sear into hers, even as he encouraged her to return the intimate caress, his tongue sweeping lightly across her sensitised lips an enticement in itself.

Grace felt as if she were on fire. Aflame. Pleasure rippled across and through her body as her fingers tightened on the bareness of his shoulders. His kiss was wondrous. Ecstasy. Beyond anything Grace had ever thought or imagined in her innocent musings of being kissed by a man.

‘Please…!’ she groaned achingly as his lips left hers to trail a path of arousal down the column of her throat.

The sound of Grace’s voice—that softly husky voice that moved across Lucian’s flesh like a caress—brought him back to the reality of exactly what he was doing. And with whom.

He raised his head abruptly, deeply shocked at the realisation of how aroused he had been by Grace Hetherington—Miss Grace Hetherington, the young, unmarried ward of the Duke and Duchess of Carlyne!

The shock Lucian could see upon her own face told him that Grace was just as stunned by her own response.

How could Lucian have forgotten, however briefly, that Grace was but twenty years of age? That she was an innocent about to enjoy her first Season?

What sort of man was he to use her in this familiar fashion? Lucian wondered with a self-disgusted groan. What sort of man had he become?

Was he now so armoured against the emotions of others, so centred on self, that he would have allowed himself to take this young woman’s innocence without a qualm? Without a care for the consequences of such an action? Without a thought being given as to what that taking would have done to her? Made of her?

His hands tightened painfully on her waist and he scowled down at her darkly. ‘Grace—’

‘Grace, dear, I saw your candle was alight and—’

Margaret, Duchess of Carlyne, entered the bedchamber after the briefest of knocks—only to come to an abrupt, shocked halt in the doorway, her eyes wide and her cheeks paling as she took in the intimacy of the scene in front of her.

‘Oh, my…!’ she breathed faintly, even as she raised a stricken hand to her throat. ‘Oh, my goodness…!’ she groaned weakly. ‘I—’ She gave a dazed shake of her head. ‘I—if you will excuse me…!’ She turned and fled.

Chapter Four

Grace stared after her aunt in shocked dismay, even as she stumbled back to drop down weakly upon the windowseat, taking care, even in that numbing shock, that she didn’t sit on the clothes of Lucian St Claire’s, which she had so neatly folded and placed there earlier.

Not only had she forgotten every shred of caution the moment Lucian St Claire had taken her into his arms, but her Aunt Margaret—her Aunt Margaret—had been a witness to that wantonness! What must her aunt be thinking? What must she now think of Grace?

Grace closed her eyes as the hot tears rushed forward, aware of Lucian St Claire standing briefly beside her before he moved away again, the only sound in the room now her own heated sobs of mortification as she buried her face in her hands.

She had behaved the wanton in Lucian St Claire’s arms. Had encouraged him. Had returned his kisses. Had relished the feel of his lips and tongue against hers. With absolutely no thought of denial.

She—

‘You will remain here, Grace,’ Lucian St Claire rasped into the silence.

‘Where are you going?’ Grace lowered her hands, her head snapping up, and she saw that he was dressed now—in shirt and breeches and black Hessians, at least.

What manner of man was he that he could even think of leaving her to face this alone? She could not believe he was such a coward as to—

‘To talk to your guardians, of course.’ Lucian’s expression was grim as he pulled on his tailored waistcoat and jacket. He might as well be dressed for the part, at least.

‘My—?’ Her face was stricken. ‘What are you going to say to them? How can you possibly explain—excuse—? What are they going to think of me?’ She gave a woeful shake of her head, her hair falling forward about her face like a black silky curtain.

Lucian eyed her coldly. ‘No doubt they are going to congratulate you on succeeding in enticing the brother of the Duke of Stourbridge into a betrothal!’

Lucian could not believe he had been so stupid. So absolutely, bloody stupid! What game had he thought he was playing with this young woman? ‘One kiss’ be damned! He should have made his escape from her bedchamber whilst he still had the chance!

Instead, this surely had to take the place of honour as the most wanton piece of self-destruction he had ever allowed himself to fall into! A betrothal, followed by a marriage, to exactly the sort of young, inexperienced woman he had always been at such pains to avoid!

But there was no other way out of this situation that Lucian could see. Absolutely none. For either of them.

His mouth curled disdainfully. ‘Do try to look a little happier, Grace, when I am about to ask your guardians for your hand in marriage.’

Grace stared at him dazedly, sure that she could not have heard him correctly. He could not seriously think—Could not imagine—’ But I have no wish to marry you!’

‘Wish?’ He arched scathing brows. ‘Wishes, Grace—either yours or my own—do not enter into the situation we now find ourselves in,’ he assured her scornfully. ‘We have broken the unwritten law of Society—’

‘But we have done nothing that could result in—Well, in—’ Grace was not so naïve that she did not know how babies were made. She was well aware that she should not have allowed this man the liberty of kissing her—had no idea how she was going to face her aunt again!—but surely that did not mean they had to actually marry each other?