Carole Mortimer - The Rake's Wicked Proposal

‘Indeed you are not,’ he conceded hardly. ‘But I advise you, for your own sake, that the sooner you learn to obey me the better we shall deal with each other.’

‘ Obey you…?’ Grace stared at him incredulously, two bright spots of angry colour in her cheeks. ‘The year is 1817, My Lord, not 1217, and the times of the feudal overlord are long gone!’

‘Not on my estate,’ he assured her coldly.

‘But we are not on your estate,’ she pointed out with insincere sweetness.

‘Yet.’

‘Ever!’

His dark gaze swept over her with chilling intensity. ‘Your stubbornness in this matter is starting to annoy me, Grace.’ His tone was softly warning—dangerously so.

Grace had never felt so consumed with frustrated anger. No matter how many times she told this man she would not even consider the idea of marrying him, he still persisted in talking as if it were a foregone conclusion—as if Grace were already tied to him, answerable to him. Which she most certainly was not. And she never would be.

‘Very well.’ She finally nodded abruptly, her mouth set stubbornly. ‘If your friendship for my aunt and uncle “dictates” it, then you may ask them for their permission to pay your addresses to me. It will be an offer I shall promptly refuse. And there the matter will be at an end.’ She sat down in the window seat to arrange her nightgown as modestly about her as the circumstances allowed. It was a little difficult to look disdainfully elegant whilst wearing only her night attire!

Lord Lucian gave her another of those pitying smiles. ‘Our betrothal will be announced before the week is out,’ he predicted mockingly.

Her eyes sparkled rebelliously. ‘I would rather agree to marry Francis Wynter than consent to enter into a betrothal with you!’

Lucian shrugged with complete indifference, knowing that this particular threat was an idle one. He was sure from watching the two of them together the previous evening that Grace would prefer even the prospect of marriage to him over a lifetime as Francis Wynter’s wife.

‘I am sure your guardians would even agree to that in order to avoid the scandal that would result if the events of tonight were to become public knowledge.’

‘I have already assured you that my aunt will say nothing—’

‘Your aunt, I am afraid, is probably already living in fear of the manifestation of the physical evidence of tonight’s events.’

‘Physical evidence…?’ Grace looked startled.

‘You really cannot be that naïve, Grace.’ Lucian eyed her pityingly.

Her cheeks flamed anew as his meaning became clear. ‘But we did not—’ She gave a fierce shake of her head. ‘Nothing happened tonight of which either of us needs be ashamed.’

‘Shame…’ Lucian repeated the word thoughtfully. ‘Such a small word for the ruination of your life, is it not?’

‘My life will not be ruined over one silly mistake—’

‘Will it not, Grace?’ he mused. ‘I believe you will find you are mistaken about that. You see, Grace, a man is allowed his affairs—his mistresses, even—but a woman’s reputation is a tenuous thing. As light and delicate as gossamer—and as easily destroyed,’ he concluded hardly. ‘I do assure you, Grace, physical evidence or not, if there is even the hint of gossip that you have been found by your guardians in your bedchamber with a naked man you are not even betrothed to, then your reputation will be ruined for ever, and any future marriage prospects completely destroyed.’

‘Then I will retire to the country and remain an old maid—’

‘I would not advise it for one with such a passionate nature as your own, Grace,’ he drawled mockingly, knowing by the way her face paled that he had succeeded in shaking her.

‘You are despicable, sir!’ She glared at him vehemently.

‘Probably.’ Lucian shrugged off the insult. ‘But a life in the country as an old maid really would not suit you, Grace. One day you would be sure to give in to temptation—with a local farmer, perhaps, or possibly a married neighbour. With the possible result that an illegitimate child would then bear the stigma of your shame for the rest of its days. No, Grace, you would be far wiser to accept your fate and marry me.’

She hated this man, Grace decided numbly. Hated him with a passion. With as much passion, if not more, with which she had only minutes ago returned his kisses. Any softer feelings she might have had towards him following his nightmares had completely dissipated in the face of his intractability concerning a marriage between them.

‘Never.’ She roused herself with an effort, so emotionally tired that she just wanted to sleep—to close her eyes and find when she woke in the morning that this had all been just a dream. A horrible, horrible dream.

Lucian St Claire’s mouth twisted humourlessly. ‘You really are not looking at this situation positively at all, Grace,’ he taunted. ‘After all, you will be marrying the brother of a duke—’

‘I am already the niece-by-marriage of a duke.’

‘I am also the son of a duke, Grace. A second son, admittedly,’ he acknowledged dryly, ‘but luckily my father was a man of vision. A man who saw that having three sons might one day present a problem. It was a dilemma that he solved by making provision for all of his children. As a result we are all, my sister included, independently wealthy. My own wealth has been increased considerably over the years by wise investments. I am wealthy enough by far, I do assure you, Grace, for my wife to live the life of a duchess without the onerous duties that necessarily accompany that role.’

Grace stared at him unblinkingly. What did she care for his wealth? Did this man really believe that if she agreed to become his wife she would be happy in the knowledge that at least he had the wealth to ensure her life was a comfortable one!

Comfortable?

Grace could not see any future life for herself as the unwilling wife of Lord Lucian St Claire’s as being a comfortable one!

She gave him a narrow-eyed glare. ‘My own father was also a man of vision, My Lord,’ she assured him coldly. ‘In as much as he did not see any difference between a male or female heir. I am my parents’ only child. As a consequence, all of my father’s considerable personal wealth, as well as his estate in Cornwall, were left in trust to me on his death.’

Lucian St Claire gave an abrupt inclination of his head. ‘Then it appears I am to marry a woman with a considerable dowry, does it not?’

Her chin rose challengingly. ‘The provisions of my father’s will ensure that a portion of that wealth remains in my possession even after I am married, with the rest to be put in trust for my children.’

Her parents could not have foreseen their premature deaths, of course, but it had always been a worry of her mother’s, as well as her father’s, that Grace would one day be pursued on the marriage mart not for herself alone, but for her father’s considerable wealth. The property laws ensured that a woman’s wealth automatically became her husband’s on her marriage. It had been a law that neither of her parents had agreed with, and provision had been made to circumvent that law as far as was possible.

Lucian St Claire gave a brief smile. ‘In that case it seems I will be able to forgo the task of arranging an allowance for you after we are married,’ came his parting shot, as the door of the bedchamber closed quietly—decisively—behind him.

Grace stared after him blankly. His persistence in pursuing that particular line—his absolute conviction that a marriage between them was the only possible outcome of tonight’s events—shook Grace more than she cared to admit. More than she cared for Lucian St Claire to know.