Chapter 8

CHAPTER 8

O f course, Lucien couldn't sleep. The infernal night had dragged on forever. He had all but physically loaded his father back into the coach, then stood outside in the darkness, until it disappeared down the drive, outriders with lanterns leading the way.

Once the last spark of light winked out, he'd ironed the turbulent emotions from his face and returned to his guests. He'd intended to suggest the party end early, but the company was already dispersing as if the earl carried some malignant fever. Anyone who lived near Everdene Hall made excuses and fled home, while those staying the night had hastened behind closed doors.

Even his family had retreated to their rooms, his last glimpse of his sisters: Cassandra with an arm wrapped around Jane as they disappeared up the stairs. He couldn't blame them. His father's aura hung in the air like a miasmic poison. When he'd climbed the stairs to his own chamber hours later, Jane's bedroom door stood open, the soft green bedcurtains caught back by gold cords, her coverlets smooth. Light shone through the crack at the bottom of Cassandra's bedchamber door. He paused, aware of faint murmurs, and was glad Jane would stay with Cassandra tonight.

His brother's door was closed as well, but he could hear the rise and fall of Simon's low voice and his wife answering. Lucien felt a jab of envy that his brother had someone to talk to about their father's unexpected appearance, about their sisters, about anything that troubled him. Simon would always have Penelope's wise counsel and the comfort of the love that shone in her eyes. But then, Simon was the sort of man to inspire that sort of love. Not that Lucien wanted such intimacy for himself. But tonight, as he entered his solitary room, the silence was deafening. His father's warning to Lucien echoed, dark and dire.

It was not only my head Cassandra was imagining in that painting . Lucien could see it every time he closed his eyes—Cassandra's rendering of Judith Slaying Holefernes , the expression on her face. Her words. Her father watched…

What had happened to his sister? Would she ever tell him? Could he bear to know?

Lucien stripped to his drawers, roughly scrubbing his face and chest at the washstand, then concentrated on the most difficult problems of the estate, hoping they might distract him. It was no use. When the clock struck two, his restlessness could not be contained any longer. He drew on his banyan, retrieved a silver candlestick from the bedside table, then stepped into the corridor. Even the servants were long in their beds, the house silent, the way he usually liked it.

Yet, as he made his way downstairs he realized that someone else was stirring. A sash from what might be a lady's wrapper lay on the bottom step. He picked up the silk ribbon, and the feminine scent of jasmine teased his nose. Experience on the marriage mart had taught him that he should head in the opposite direction, but he paused, listening. Had one of his sisters come downstairs? Or Penelope, after a tiring night with her teething son?

A faint light shone from the kitchen, stealthy sounds drifting out. He set his candlestick on a table and moved silently to peer into the vast, echoing room. A lone candle cast light upon polished copper pots dangling from hooks and crockery that marched along shelves. A vast wooden table in the center of the room held baskets of berries waiting to be made into jam tarts and the neatly covered remnants of last night's repast.

A woman stood at the table's edge, intent on some mysterious task. He knew in a heartbeat it was Grace. She was angled away from him, her wrapper flowing loose without the ribbon sash he'd found, her feet bare on the cold slate floor. Rich curls tumbled free, veiling all but the curve of one cheek, her skin a soft peachy glow.

Lucien knew entering a room where he'd be alone with her in the middle of the night was a spectacularly bad idea. Situations like this could force a man to the altar faster than you could spell ‘compromising position.' But instead of retreating somewhere—anywhere—where he couldn't fall into the matrimonial snare, the ‘Elusive Viscount E' drew closer.

What the devil was she doing? She might have been stealing the silver, she looked so guilty. But after a moment, he realized that she'd peeled the cloth covering a tray aside and was tucking three of the dainty pink-frosted cakes it held into a clean handkerchief. After all the grim happenings of this dinner party, somehow discovering Grace Elliot absconding with cakes unscrewed some of the tension that tied him in knots. Lucien tried hard not to smile, but he couldn't help it.

He held up the sash in his hand. "Missing something, Lady Grace?"

Choking back a shriek, she wheeled toward him, the tray starting to skid off the table, tipping precariously. She spun back toward the tray, trying to avert disaster, but the weight of her hand hit the tray's unmoored edge, catapulting the cakes through the air. He heard the soft thud as they struck her.

She shoved the tray back onto the table, the clatter so loud he could only hope it didn't rouse some overly vigilant servant. For a long moment, Grace stood with her back toward him, peering down at the mess. She looked smaller somehow, more vulnerable. " Why is it that every time I'm near you I make a total mess of things?" she complained.

"It is becoming something of a habit. But at least I know where your brothers inherited their penchant for trouble." Lucien set the silk sash on a chair, then curved his hand over her shoulder and gently turned her to face him. Hot spots of color blazed in her cheeks, flecks of sugar adding sparkles among her dusting of freckles. The cakes had made icing prints on the thin white lawn of her nightgown. Pink frosting clung to her collar bone, and Lucien had an absurd urge to taste it. He shoved the thought away. "You perceive me agog with curiosity. What drove a well-bred young lady such as yourself to kitchen thievery?"

She was staring, but not at his face. Her eyes fixed on the deep vee where the brocade of his banyan exposed a wedge of skin. "I—I meant to ask Penelope for permission," she faltered, "but then the earl came, and your family seemed so upset, it completely slipped my mind. By the time I remembered, everyone was abed. You see, Bennet asked me to bring back cakes. This is the first night I've spent away from him since our mother got sick, and…well…I promised."

Lucien reached up to the wooden rack overhead and pulled down one of the cloths that were drying there. Night air cooled his bare chest as the banyan gaped wider. Fetching a jug of water, he dampened a corner of the towel. She stood, frozen, as he started to clean the icing off of her skin. First, the elegant bow of her collar bone, then upper swell of her breast. He dabbed, then dipped the towel into the water, and returned to begin again.

Her pulse fluttered wild in the hollow of her throat as his knuckles brushed the velvety warmth of her skin. He felt his cock stir. How long had it been since he'd been in a room with a woman in dishabille? Too damned long. And it sure as hell hadn't been with a gently bred lady like Grace Elliot.

He had no business touching her, but he couldn't help himself. There was something about her that made such forbidden intimacies irresistible.

She spoke, her voice a little breathless. "I am not certain what happened tonight, but I am sorry for it," she said. "I know you wanted this to be a happy occasion."

He made a sound that might have been assent or irony. Just having it not blow up like a mortar shell would have been enough.

He waited for an avid spark of curiosity to show in her face, braced himself for inevitable questions. There were none, only a quiet empathy that unnerved him.

"I was thinking," she hesitated, then plunged on. "Doing something familiar might help to ease the strangeness of being in England after so long away for Cassandra and Jane. Perhaps you could all come to The Willows and spend the day. It is lovely this time of year. We could picnic on the lawn as we did when we were children."

His hand went still, the backs of his fingers lightly pressed against her slender throat. He could feel the throb of her pulse. He peered down at her, a crease forming between his brows.

"You are very kind," he said.

A fetching blush colored her cheeks. "I've missed them."

"I have, too." The confession surprised him, but it was true. He missed the sisters he'd known, little girls…who didn't hate him.

Lucien banished the image that haunted him, concentrating on Grace instead. "I'm aware of all you did tonight to help my sisters feel at ease and smooth over awkwardness with the guests. I've seldom seen anyone manage a challenging social situation more seamlessly than you did. It will be no small asset to a husband." The slightest lift of his tone made the last a question.

He knew damned well what he was doing. Probing, because of Arkwright's revelation about her broken betrothal.

Those thick lashes dipped lower, veiling her eyes. She took the cloth from him and busied herself cleaning the front of her nightgown. It clung to her now, in damp patches, the soft peach of skin showing through.

"I learned how to manage such situations by watching my mother, believing one day I would have the kind of partnership my parents had."

With the Honorable Neville Freyne? An intense dislike for the man stiffened Lucien's shoulders.

"Once Mama fell sick, I thought looking after Papa and the boys would be my life."

Lucien's eyes narrowed. "Is that what you wanted foryourself? To remain a dutiful daughter, sitting at your widowed father's knee?"

What a waste that would be, Lucien mused as he peered down into her animated face. All of that laughter, cleverness and courage hidden away in life as a spinster.

"I suppose I've been too preoccupied to consider what I want. It is high time I puzzle it out." There was something about the way she lifted her chin just a fraction. Something brave.

Lucien didn't need any time to discern what he wanted. He'd felt every curve of her body on the lakeshore, but that was pure chance. This pull he experienced now was different. A choice? No, a need . He couldn't take his eyes off of the smudge of icing near her lower lip.

Could a man taste her sweetness? He'd be a fool to try. He'd regret it forever if he did not.

He threaded his fingers back through the silky fall of her unbound hair, tipped her face up, and lowered his mouth to her cheek. Her breath caught as he trailed kisses down to the bit of icing, tasting it. Tasting her . She gasped, and he caught the alluring sound with his mouth, exploring the plush velvet of her lips. Flames licked through him as he traced the seam of her lips with his tongue and she opened, letting him inside, the contact almost too potent, too intense. He gathered her in his arms, molding her body to his, and she kissed him back, her fingertips easing up around his nape to draw him closer. Her palm cupped his neck, brushing the sensitive strands of his hair, her touch devastatingly feminine and eager. The points of her nipples puckered, hard against his chest, only the thin lawn between them. A throbbing began in Lucien, low, primitive and unexpected. So damned dangerous.

After a long, searching moment, he drew away. "You taste like vanilla and sugar and cream," he murmured, tracing a fingertip over her bottom lip. "So damned sweet."

Grace stared up at him, wide-eyed. "It's the cake."

He laughed for the first time in God knew how long, and her face turned scarlet.

"I'd better go," she stammered. "Before…"

Before someone discovered them? Before he kissed her again? Before he lifted her onto the table and did what his body was clamoring to do?

She spun away, but he caught her arm, gathered up the handkerchief with its purloined cakes.

"Don't forget these," he said, pressing the bundle into her hands. She snatched it up and fled.

He watched her, her wrapper streaming out behind her, her feet bare, dainty and doubtless so cold he wanted to warm them in his hands. Her words echoed through him.

No, Lucien thought. It wasn't the cake he'd tasted in that kiss. Grace Elliot tasted like something else entirely. Something he could never have.

Redemption.

Grace pressed a hand to her burning cheek and fled up the stairs, groaning in despair.

It's the cake…?

What kind of absurd thing was that to say after Lucien Harcourt had kissed her until her toes curled, and every inch of her skin seemed afire? There were a hundred things she could have said to him. You taste like sin. You kiss like the devil himself. Why, thank you very much for showing me what I'd have sacrificed if I'd remained cloistered at The Willows. Now, she sounded like an absolute ninny. She'd been embarrassed by their encounter at the lake, but that had been her brother's mischief. This disaster was her own making. How would she ever face him again?

She darted into her room and shut the door a trifle too hard, the sound seeming like a gunshot. She leaned her back against the portal. What if she'd awakened someone? What if someone discovered…. A chill whisked through her nightgown, and she looked down at the open front of her wrapper, suddenly aware she hadn't taken the sash Lucien had set aside in the kitchen. Evidence of her nighttime escapade.

For a moment, she thought of retrieving it, but she didn't dare go downstairs again in this condition. No one would know it was hers, would they? And the sash would be the last of the kitchen staff's concern when they saw the mess she'd left behind.

Lucien had left behind, she amended. He was the one who had startled her. Creeping up behind her in the middle of the night, stealthy as a tiger, scaring the life out of her! Kissing her until she couldn't string three coherent words together. Her heart raced as she remembered every sensation.

It wasn't as if she'd never been kissed. Certainly she and Neville had done so after their betrothal, but those were the tentative fumblings of inexperienced youth. A trifle too eager, a bit awkward. Lucien had kissed her with the skill of a man who knew all the secrets of awakening a woman's body. How to set every nerve ablaze…

And she'd fired off the most ridiculous reply ever, her nightgown smeared with icing as he pressed the handkerchief filled with cakes into her hand. How would she ever face him again? She would have to, she thought. She'd invited the Harcourts to The Willows.

Oh, God, what was she thinking? Her cheeks burned with a mixture of embarrassment and excitement as she remembered those moments in the kitchen.

The truth? Deep down she wanted to repeat the night's escapade…

"You can come out now. The last of the guests are gone."

Lucien looked up at the sound of Arkwright's voice, his friend strolling, uninvited, into the study.

"Seriously, Luce, failing to bid them goodbye is a bit surly even for you."

"It seemed the best course after last night."

"Your father?—"

"No. The encounter in question happened in the kitchen after the clock struck two. Lady Grace and I?—"

"What the devil?" Arkwright gaped at Lucien as if he'd swallowed a rock. "You were in the kitchen with Lady Grace? In the middle of the night? Alone?"

"Isn't that what I just said?"

Arkwright ground his fingers into his temples. "Jesus, Luce! I've been pulling you out of marital traps like that for years."

"It wasn't a marital trap." A smile played about Lucien's lips. "She was bent on thievery."

"Thievery?"

"Lady Grace was stealing cake." Lucien chuckled.

Arkwright stared. "Wait—did you just laugh?"

"My God, if you could have seen her face. She flipped a tray of them when I startled her."

The memory of her was still fresh in his mind. He could picture every line and curve, the precise arch of her brow, the thick lashes. Flecks of sugar spangling her cheekbones. He was not a man given to flights of fancy— any fancy, truth be told—but she'd seemed like the women in tales Nanny Rowley had told in the nursery long ago, a fairy queen, tempting mortal men beyond reason.

Lucien shook himself inwardly, dispelling the absurd comparison. Remembering instead the warmth of Grace's lips, the way she'd gasped just a little when he kissed her.

By any measure of the ton's rules, he'd compromised Grace Elliot. In Everdene Hall's kitchen and at the lakeside when he'd held her in his arms, her lush body covered in nothing but a sheer, wet chemise. "She invited all of us to a day of picnicking at The Willows Thursday next," he added.

"That sounds…pleasurable?" Arkwright ventured, regarding him warily.

"I won't be attending." Lucien's jaw knotted. "I'm going to Bitterne Tower to see what the devil is going on with my father and warn him to stay the hell away from my sisters."

Yes, he resolved, picturing Grace's slender form, her eager lips, her eyes glowing with empathy. There was only one thing to do about a woman who tempted him to such recklessness.

Stay the hell away.