As expected, Lucian found himself seated between the Duchess of Carlyne on one side and Grace Hetherington on the other, with the Duke seated beside her and an obviously disgruntled Francis Wynter placed between his brother and sister-in-law. No doubt before Lucian’s arrival the other man had expected to be seated beside the lovely Grace Hetherington, and so able to monopolise her attention.

      A devilish impulse prompted Lucian to add to the other man’s discomfort by focusing his own attention on the other man’s more than obvious romantic interest. ‘You are on your way to London for the Season, I believe, Miss Hetherington?’ he prompted politely, turning towards her.

      She paused in eating her soup. ‘I am, My Lord.’

      ‘Your first?’

      ‘Yes, My Lord.’

      ‘And have you ever been to London before, Miss Hetherington?’

      Those long dark lashes were once more lowered over those smoky grey eyes. ‘No, My Lord.’

      She really did have the most sensuously arousing voice he had ever heard, Lucian acknowledged, and he found himself continuing to ask her questions just so that he could listen to that husky tone. It was a voice that possessed the potency of a caress against naked flesh. His naked flesh.

      ‘And are you looking forward to all the excitement of your first Season? Perhaps hoping that the romantic prince of your dreams will appear and sweep you off your feet?’

      Grace was frowning as she looked up at Lucian St Claire, having easily heard and taken exception to the light mockery underlining that drawling voice. She could now see the cynical curl to his lips, and the arrogant contempt in his expression towards the absurdity of the Season, and its accompanying plethora of marriage-minded mamas seeking a suitable husband for their daughters.

      No doubt he felt all of those things towards Grace as she ventured into Society. As it happened, it was an unwilling venture on her part. She had agreed to this Season only after her Uncle George had explained to her that it would be a diversion for her aunt, who still suffered deep melancholy over the death of her only son.

      ‘I do not believe in romantic princes, My Lord,’ she assured him softly.

      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.

      That she had been goaded into doing so by Lucian St Claire was in no doubt, but nevertheless Grace accepted that she had been less than prudent in her opinions.

      She lowered her lashes demurely, to hide the flash of temper she knew would be visible in her eyes. ‘My aunt is correct, sir, when she claims I am not yet used to the subtle nuances of the ton. I apologise if you have found my comments in the least insulting. I have perhaps been too—candid in my views.’ She looked up, her temper once again under control, her eyes calmly serene. ‘It is also very wrong of me to have monopolised your