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 a water jug…!
Grace chewed on her lower lip, unsure of what to do or say next.
It was obvious from Lucian St Claire’s initial comment that he had believed himself to be in the privacy of his own bedchamber earlier, when he had moved so stealthily about the room, discarding his clothes before dropping them uncaringly on the floor.
She’d had time to ponder, as she sat helplessly in the chair beside the bed as witness to his nightmares, whether or not Lucian St Claire had meant to come to her bedchamber, and if so for what purpose. Although the fact that he was naked seemed all too readily to indicate that purpose!
But his surprise on awakening, at finding himself in her bedchamber rather than his own, and his anger and impatience with that fact, made a complete nonsense of her initial conclusion.
Disappointingly so? Perhaps, Grace allowed self-derisively. Even if she would have rebuffed his advances, it would still have been exciting—flattering, even—to be the object of the intimate interest of a man as arrogantly handsome as Lord Lucian St Claire.
But his mistaking her bedchamber for his own had obviously been genuine. A mistake—if they were not to be the centre of a complete scandal—that would have to be rectified as quickly and quietly as possible: namely by Lord St Claire’s removal from her bedchamber!
‘How long have I been here?’
Grace turned back to him. ‘Only an hour or so.’ She was reluctant to let him know that she had seen his disturbed dreams, already knowing him to be a man who would see such dreams as a weakness. A weakness he would hate anyone else to witness.
‘An hour—’ Lucian made the mistake of attempting to sit up. A mistake immediately brought home to him as the agonising pain that ensued caused him to place his hands on either side of his head in the hope of holding it in place should it attempt to topple from his neck!
Hell and damnation—what had been in the brandy this evening?
Ah—he had found the cause of the pain, his fingers having encountered a large bump on the left side of his head, just behind his ear. A lump that was tender and sore to the touch, as if—
He looked across at Grace Hetherington accusingly.
She swallowed, her throat moving convulsively, her eyes suddenly enormous grey pools of contrition in the pallor of her face. ‘I—er—I struck you over the head with the water jug,’ she admitted, with a self-conscious grimace.
Lucian winced. ‘If, as you claim, I made no attempt on your innocence, might I enquire as to why you felt the wielding of the water jug necessary…?’
Her small pink tongue moved nervously across the fullness of her lips, moistening them. Enticingly so. ‘I believed you to be an intruder, you see.’
Yes, Lucian did see—and heaven help any man or woman who ever tried to enter this young woman’s bedchamber uninvited! It was certainly a pity he had been the recipient of her wrath this evening, but it was also
