Except herself, of course…
Grace’s eyes widened in alarm as she acknowledged that it was perhaps her virtue that the intruder was intent on stealing.
Not without a fight on her part, Grace resolved determinedly, her mind racing as she considered how best to deal with the situation. She could just scream, of course—a move sure to bring at least four people running: her aunt and uncle, Lord Francis Wynter, and Lord Lucian St Claire. But that same scream would also alert the intruder to her wakefulness, allowing him the time to make good his escape and so be free to repeat the crime at some later date on a female perhaps less resilient than Grace. No, she would not scream. Instead she would deal with the intruder herself, before alerting her aunt and uncle.
Grace’s movements were slow and quiet as she managed to slip from beneath the covers to crouch on the side of the bed furthest from the intruder, her intention being to grasp the empty water jug on the table before hitting him over the head with it.
Grace executed her move with surprising success, catching the intruder completely unawares as she literally smashed the jug over his head, so that he fell to the floor and ceased all movement.
Grace’s hands were shaking very badly as she attempted to relight her candle, the flint refusing to spark until she had made several attempts, but the wick at last flickering into flame. She picked up the candle and turned to face her assailant.
Grace gasped her complete disbelief as she saw it was Lord Lucian St Claire who lay unconscious—and very naked!—on the floor of her bedchamber!
Chapter Three
Lucian’s first thought upon awakening was that he appeared to be suffering from the worst hangover of his life. Which was strange considering that, despite the brandy he consumed on a nightly basis, he rarely, if ever, suffered the effects of it the following morning.
But the throbbing in his head, like a dozen or more tiny men wielding hammers, was definitely worse than anything he had ever experienced before or wanted to experience again, he acknowledged with a pained groan, as he attempted to move his head from the pillow. Those hammers began to pound even more violently.
‘You’re awake!’
Lucian became very still as he fell back on the pillow. He was sure that he recognised that huskily seductive voice from the previous evening, but just as sure that Miss Grace Hetherington should not—absolutely should not!—be in his bedchamber with him.
He kept his eyes firmly closed. ‘Please tell me that this is just a manifestation of my imagination!’
‘No, My Lord, I am afraid this is very real,’ the voice that definitely sounded like Miss Grace Hetherington’s confirmed wryly.
Lucian’s lids rose abruptly even as he turned his head sharply in the direction of that voice, determinedly ignoring the painful hammering inside his head. His eyes widened accusingly as his gaze alighted on Grace Hetherington, where she sat on a chair beside his bed, apparently wearing only a silk robe over her nightgown, her black hair falling in enticing curls to her waist now that it was unconfined, just as Lucian had imagined it would.
‘What the devil are you doing in my bedchamber?’ Lucian demanded furiously.
More to the point, had he suffered any nightmares in her presence? Those dark, relentless dreams during which he cursed as he stabbed again and again with his sword at the French soldier who had just cut down Simon Wynter, in a bloodlust that left him shaken and numbed by his own savagery…
The fact that Grace had not run screaming from the bedchamber, nor now stared at him in horror, seemed to indicate that he had not.
Dark brows arched over clear grey eyes. ‘I think, My Lord, that you will find that it is for me to ask what you are doing in my bedchamber.’
Lucian frowned darkly before shifting his gaze about the room. What he saw was a bedchamber very similar to his own. And yet strangely not his own…
None of his travelling clothes were draped over the chair, as he had left them the evening before, and his shaving things were not on the dressing table either. In their stead was a cream satin and lace gown—the one worn by Miss Grace Hetherington the evening before—and on the dressing table a silver brush set, obviously feminine, and the pearl earbobs this young lady had also worn the previous evening.
His gaze returned sharply to Grace Hetherington’s face. ‘What am I doing in your bedchamber?’
Those full and tempting lips twisted into a rueful grimace. ‘I was hoping you might be able to tell me that.’
Lucian’s frown deepened. He remembered stumbling up the stairs, and his infinite relief at escaping Francis Wynter’s oppressive company at last. Then his wish for a peaceful night’s sleep, and the opening of the door to his bedchamber—
The candle had blown out as he entered the room—Grace Hetherington’s bedchamber rather than his own, apparently. Lucian remembered that now. He had been thrown into complete darkness, his irritation with Francis Wynter still such that he hadn’t even bothered to grope around and relight the candle, but had instead undressed in the darkness—
He had undressed in the darkness!
Grace watched calmly as Lucian St Claire’s hand shifted. He sharply lifted the bedclothes to look down upon his own nakedness. The same nakedness that had taken Grace completely by surprise when she had first lit the candle and seen him lying unconscious at her feet. The same nakedness that had initially shocked her into being unable to do anything more than simply stand and stare at so much male nudity.
As she had imagined, his shoulders were indeed wide and muscled, his stomach equally taut. And Grace now had her answer as to exactly what this man looked like beneath those cream breeches…!
Beautiful. With a hard, masculine beauty that she could never, ever have imagined. His legs were long and muscled—possibly from the years he had spent in the saddle whilst in the army—and a dark thatch of silky hair surrounded his manhood.
Extremely—manfully—beautiful. There was no other way in which Grace could possibly have described the hard nakedness of Lucian St Claire’s body.
Lucian let the bedclothes drop back over his nudity, his mouth a thin, disapproving line, a nerve pulsing in his jaw as he glared up at Grace Hetherington. ‘Did I touch you?’
‘Touch me…?’ she repeated softly.
Lucian closed his eyes only briefly before grating. ‘Yes—touch you! Did I—before the brandy I had consumed so obviously sent me into oblivion—did I happen to take your innocence?’
Her eyes widened. ‘You do not remember what happened after you entered my bedchamber?’
‘No, I—’ Lucian broke off impatiently as he frowned at her. ‘I remember my candle blowing out as I entered the room—’
She nodded. ‘I had opened the window for some air.’
Lucian scowled at the admission—as if she were not perfectly at liberty to open her own bedroom window if she so chose. ‘Miss Hetherington, did I or did I not make love to you last night?’
Grace stood up to move slightly away from the bed, sure that Lord St Claire would not follow her now that he was aware of his nakedness beneath the bedclothes.
He did not remember coming to her room. Did not remember undressing. Did not remember that, once Grace had helped him into the bed, he had been consumed by the most horrendous nightmares, during which he’d sworn and railed like a man possessed as he battled against a ‘French bastard’…
Nor did he seem to remember that prior to that he had been hit over the head with