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.