that, as she had no real experience of the nakedness of a man’s body below the waist, her imagination could take her no further.
But the little she had imagined had only increased the heat of her own body. The tips of her breasts were now tingling achingly, and there was a throbbing moistness between her thighs, a quiver of pleasure trembling through her body when she pressed her legs together, unlike anything she had ever felt before.
She touched herself wonderingly, feeling how slick and wet she was, how sensitive. Even the lightest touch of her fingers against that swollen flesh was sending tremors of feeling through her body.
How much more arousing would it be to have Lucian St Claire touch her in this way—to lie back and wantonly open herself to him as he…
Grace gave an aching groan as she turned onto her side and curled into a ball beneath the bedclothes, her face heated with embarrassment at her own unruly thoughts, and her eyes tightly closed against further imaginings as she willed herself to fall asleep.
He had drunk more brandy than usual during that enforced hour in Francis Wynter’s company, Lucian acknowledged disgustedly, staggering slightly as he made his way slowly up the narrow stairs of the inn by the light of the candle he carried.
The younger man had to be the most crashing bore Lucian had ever had the misfortune to meet—more so even than Lucian had imagined. He certainly did not envy Miss Grace Hetherington if he had been mistaken earlier concerning her feelings and she were to accept the other man’s offer of marriage; Wynter would probably be just as boring in the bedroom as he was in every other way!
Not his concern, Lucian told himself derisively as he concentrated on taking the measure of the stairs. Neither Wynter’s tedium in the bedroom, nor the imagining of Grace Hetherington’s slender loveliness going to such waste. No doubt if such a marriage should occur the two would deal very well together. Lucian certainly did not intend giving that lovely young lady or her future, with or without Wynter as her husband, another thought. All he required at this moment was his bed, and eight hours or so of complete oblivion, his sleep hopefully not visited by any of the nightmares that had so often beset him following that last horrendous battle at Waterloo.
Grace awoke with a start, having no idea why she had woken or indeed where she was for some seconds. Until she remembered the coach journey from Lord Darius Wynter’s home at Malvern Hall with her aunt and uncle, and Francis riding his black hunter in front of the coach, so not noticing the faulty wheel that had necessitated an unexpected halt in their journey. A halt that had brought them to this less than comfortable coaching inn.
And so to her meeting with Lord Lucian St Claire.
Grace shied away from thinking of him again after the embarrassing thoughts she’d had of him before falling asleep, instead turning her attention to trying to discover why it was she had woken so suddenly.
There was someone in her bedchamber!
The realisation that she was not alone, that someone else was moving stealthily about the room, muttering softly under their breath as they stumbled into unseen obstacles in the darkness, held Grace frozen beneath the bedclothes.
Who could it be?
Her aunt, perhaps? To tell her that Uncle George’s condition had worsened and they needed to send for the physician after all? But, no. Her aunt would have knocked on the door of the bedchamber before entering, and she would also have carried a candle to light her way, not be stumbling around in the darkness.
So the intruder was probably unknown to Grace.
A robber, perhaps?
But surely of all the guests staying at the inn—amongst them a duke, a duchess and two lords—the innocuous Miss Grace Hetherington was the least likely to have anything of value in her room?
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
