Could it be that Miss Grace Hetherington—that paragon of young maidenhood who had claimed their time together in her bedchamber had been an aberration of the moment—was as curious to repeat the experience as he was…?
Chapter Seven
Grace watched Lord Lucian from beneath lowered lashes as they stepped off the lamplit pathway in order to wander amongst the trees. The sound of the music playing in the ballroom was becoming softer, more distant, and the stillness that now surrounded them made it appear as if there were not at least two hundred people in the house such a short distance away, but as if they were completely alone amongst the moonlight-dappled bushes and trees. Completely alone…
Grace came to an abrupt halt. ‘I believe we have gone far enough, Lord Lucian.’
He turned to face her, his face dark and almost satanic in the moonlight, his eyes appearing an unreadable black. ‘Do you?’ he murmured softly.
Grace swallowed hard, aware of the slight trembling of her body, of the erratic rise and fall of her breathing. ‘Do not presume to flirt with me, sir,’ she rebuked sharply, in an effort to hide how disturbed she was by the sheer force of his presence.
Had she really spent over an hour alone in her bedchamber with this man just over a week ago? Gone willingly into his arms? Allowed him the liberty of kissing her intimately? The mere thought of the intimacy of those kisses made Grace tremble with longing.
His teeth gleamed very white in the moonlight as he gave a wolfish smile. ‘You do not care for flirtation, Grace?’
Her eyes flashed silver as she raised her chin in challenge. ‘I do not care to flirt with a man who, despite all claims to the contrary, does not honour his promises!’
‘Ah.’ Such a small sound, and so softly spoken, and yet it conveyed the fact that Lord Lucian was well aware of the promise Grace was referring to.
Grace glared up at him. ‘I have been in town for over a week now, My Lord, and during that time I have, for my aunt and uncle’s sake, behaved as if I am actually pleased, even honoured, to find myself betrothed to you. I have had to suffer the good wishes of numerous people on my good fortune in acquiring such a man as you as my betrothed, and yet you, who have been in town these past two days, have not even had the decency to call upon that so-called fortunate woman!’
Lucian had difficulty in holding back a smile as he looked down into Grace’s furiously indignant face. She really was wonderfully beautiful when she allowed her anger full rein. Even her hair seemed to glow a deeper ebony. ‘Would such a call have been welcome, Grace?’ he prompted softly.
‘Do not be ridiculous, Lord St Claire—’
‘Lucian, Grace. I wish, when we are alone, for you to call me Lucian,’ he explained huskily at her sharply questioning glance.
‘Unfortunately, My Lord, your wishes are not, and never will be, of particular importance to me!’ Her eyes flashed.
Yes, Grace was very angry at his tardiness. But how could Lucian explain to her, without revealing too much of his own unwelcome emotions, that his reluctance to see her again did not arise from a desire not to see her again, but the opposite?
Lucian had known many women in his life since his first initiation into the pleasures of the flesh at the age of seventeen, and his eligibility as the second son of a duke had made those conquests easy and numerous. His years in the army as a so-called hero had only increased the number of women who wished to share his bed and body. A fact that had, quite frankly, sickened him—to the point where Lucian had avoided anything more than brief physical relationships since he had resigned his commission.
But Grace, with her tiny delicacy and lush breasts, had re-ignited his interest, his desire. So much so that Lucian wanted nothing more than to take Grace in his arms right now and make love to her, not gently or courteously, as her innocence deserved, but with a mind-numbing fierceness that would probably frighten her half to death.
Lucian forced down those emotions as he raised a hand and gently cupped the curve of her cheek. Her skin was as smooth and pale as alabaster, but with none of its coldness. ‘Would a kiss suffice as apology for my tardiness?’
‘Certainly not!’ She moved her head back sharply from his touch, her gaze reflecting her alarm at his suggestion. ‘I have not forgotten, My Lord, even if you appear to have done so, that it was a kiss that first placed us in this ridiculous position of being betrothed to each other!’