‘He’ll never marry her if that’s the case. Take my word for it—St Claire will find a way out of this coil.’
‘Can’t be done, old boy. Chit has to break the betrothal herself. And what woman in her right mind would do that?’
The other man gave a snort. ‘Bank on it. St Claire will find a way.’
‘The woman’s the ward of a duke.’
‘A passably pretty one, too, according to the mater. She paid a courtesy call on the Duchess of Carlyne yesterday and was introduced to the ward while she was about it. But what else is she? A nobody. A Miss Glynis Heathton? Daughter of an artist, or some such? Not a chance that St Claire is going to marry someone like that!’
‘A wager on it,’ his friend challenged.
Lucian listened to the exchange with rapidly rising displeasure. Not because the two young bucks did not have their facts more or less correct, but because they did. Too much so, in Lucian’s opinion. No doubt he need look no further than Francis Wynter to find the one guilty of spreading such tittle-tattle. Had he not warned Grace over a week ago that Francis, feeling himself scorned, might be a dangerous man to cross…?
But Lucian would deal with that—and exactly whose daughter Grace was—later. For now, he needed to teach these two young bucks a lesson in manners, if nothing else.
He rose silently to his feet before turning. ‘Good afternoon, gentlemen.’
The two young men in question, one blond, one dark, froze like insects on a pin, a look of horrified fascination on both their faces as they realised that Lord Lucian St Claire must have overheard the whole of their conversation.
‘I believe that you will find the name of the young lady under discussion is, in fact, Miss Grace Hetherington.’ He spoke softly, unthreateningly, but the faces of both men paled considerably. ‘It is my impression that one or indeed both of you were just now seriously in danger of insulting my betrothed…’ His voice had all the silent force of the sword he had once wielded with such success—on one memorable occasion with mindless ferocity!—on the battlefield.
Lucian’s reputation had preceded his return to England almost two years ago, resulting in several headstrong young gentlemen of the ton, who had not joined the army, challenging him to prove his skill. When they had failed to conquer him in that field they had moved on to his pugilistic capabilities, which were rumoured to be just as lethal and had indeed proved to be so. In fact Lucian had stood as witness at his brother Hawk’s wedding to Jane the previous year with bruised knuckles, having engaged in one such encounter that very morning!
The sickly pallor on the faces of the two young men now facing him confirmed that they had heard not only the tales of Lucian’s heroism on the battlefield but also tales of those other equally successful encounters with young members of the ton who had not even had the misfortune to insult his betrothed.
They were not much younger than himself, Lucian acknowledged heavily. In years, at least. In experience, both on and off the battlefield, it was another matter, of course.
‘Was that the case, gentlemen?’ Lucian continued in a softly pleasant tone that deceived no one. ‘If I am mistaken please do enlighten me…?’
‘Not–not at all the case, St Claire,’ the blond one stuttered.
‘’Course not,’ his friend blustered at the same time. ‘Merely congratulating you on your good fortune. The mater says Miss Hetherington is a stunner.’
‘Indeed?’ Lucian arched one condescending brow.
‘Well. No. Er…’ The dark-haired young man swallowed hard as he realised he had made yet another mistake. ‘Very gracious and beautiful is how my mother described her.’
‘How kind.’ The hard mask of Lucian’s face didn’t alter by so much as a softening of the lips. ‘Perhaps I will have the pleasure of introducing you two gentlemen to Miss Hetherington this evening, when we attend Lady Humbers’s ball in the company of her aunt, the Duchess of Carlyne?’ he challenged, knowing that rakish young bucks such as these two usually avoided such gatherings in favour of less genteel entertainments