Barely a Lady (34 page)

Canterbury

September, 1815

G
race had had dreams like this before. Vague, anxious fantasies in which a man would make love to her. Where, for once in her life, she was beautiful enough to incite a man’s hunger.

Usually her dreams were indistinct, more suggestion than fact. After living with the army her whole life, she knew what copulating looked like. Her knowledge of lovemaking, though, was vague at best. So, too, were the images in her head, not much more than a lot of kissing and fondling.

This time was different. In this dream, her lover lay tucked against her back like spoons in a drawer, waiting for her to open her eyes. He was nuzzling the base of her neck where the most delicious shivers lived, exploring her body with a callused hand. All of her body.

The scrape of his palm ignited her skin like too-dry tinder. His scent filled her nostrils. Her insides felt as if they were melting, and she couldn’t seem to hold still.

She smiled in her sleep, where it was safe to dream a bit. Just enough to remind her that beneath the gray dresses and pragmatic mien everyone saw, she was a woman. A woman who wanted the same things other women took for granted. Touch. Comfort. Pleasure.

She stretched, a cat in the sun, to arch closer to his hard, lithe body. She gasped at the feel of his hair-roughened chest against her back, at the surprisingly hard shaft that nudged her bottom. Such an alien pleasure, so intriguing. So deeply erotic.

Her breasts filled; her nipples pebbled. Her body opened to the heat he trailed from his hand, a heat that pooled, settled, sank so deeply into her it touched her very womb, like the sun warming a dormant seed.

In her head, she pleaded with him to hurry. To stoke the fire, to ease it. To pull her closer, closer yet, so she could claim this man who fit so perfectly against her. So she would never again have to be alone.

Then she heard it. A moan. A gravelly, low threnody that resonated right through her. His hand slid lower, spreading such heat her body should glow like a torch. Her heart was pounding; her skin was damp. She heard another moan.

Abruptly she stiffened. Her eyes popped open.

She really
had
heard a moan.

She tried desperately to think. She could see the early morning light seeping into the inn room. Yes, that was right. She had stopped at the Falstaff Inn at Canterbury with Lady Kate the night before. She took a careful breath, expecting to smell woodsmoke, fresh linen, her own rosewater scent. Instead she smelled brandy and tobacco and a subtle scent of musk.

Her heart seized. Her brain went slack. She had dreamed him; she was certain. Why could she still smell him?

Then she felt his hand move toward the nest of curls at the juncture of her legs, and she knew. He wasn’t a dream at all.

Shrieking, she lurched up. The bedclothes were tangled around her feet. She yanked at them as she pushed with her feet, trying hard to get away. To at least gain a few feet of space. She pushed too hard. Suddenly she was tumbling off the side of the bed, arms flailing wildly for balance. She might have shrieked again, just as she landed with a thud on the floor.

For a moment she lay where she was, eyes closed, pain shooting up her leg, her stomach threatening revolt. She was dizzy and dry-mouthed and confused. And, evidently, lying on the floor of a strange man’s bedroom trapped by his sheets. Christ save her, how could that be? She had to get away before worse happened.

“Bloody hell!” she heard from the bed, and knew that it was already too late. Worse had happened. No, the worst. It wasn’t a stranger at all in that bed. It was Diccan Hilliard, the single most elegant man in England. The one man who never failed to turn Grace into a stuttering fool.

In the months since Waterloo, Grace had seen him frequently in Lady Kate’s drawing room. He had always been unfailingly polite, the perfect gentleman. But Grace had never felt anything but large and ungainly and unlovely in his presence. The last thing she wanted now was to see his honest reaction to finding her in his bed.

Still cursing, he sat up. The early morning sunlight gilded his skin like a Rembrandt painting, limning muscle and sinew and bone with molten gold, revealing the intriguing shadow of new beard on his cheek and the dusting of dark hair across his chest. Grace wanted to groan. As if she needed any greater illustration of the absurd disparity between him and the horse-faced beanpole who sat on his floor.

Worse, much worse, she saw the exact moment he realized who it was he’d been fondling.

She could still feel his hands on her skin, the unbearable pleasure of his body against hers. His expression of horror made her want to shrivel with shame.

“Miss Fairchild, isn’t it?” he drawled, his voice like ice. As gracefully as a god, he climbed out of the bed and walked around to stand spread-legged before her, his glare formidable. “If I might be so bold, what the deuce are you doing here?”

She was too shocked to answer. Dear God, he was magnificent. He had solid shoulders and arms that had worked hard. His chest was taut and lean, shadowed with curling dark hair that arrowed down his torso right to… She flushed hotly. She had felt the curious spring of that hair against her bottom. That intriguing shaft. He was an ancient statue come to life… well, except for one small difference.

Well. Not so small at all. It wasn’t as if she could miss it. He was stark naked. And, if she knew anything about men, magnificently aroused. Just the sight of his shaft, jutting straight up from that nest of dark hair, made her shiver.

Of course, the minute he got a good look at her, his erection wilted like warm lettuce. Grace couldn’t really blame him. No man of taste would have reacted any differently.

“I’m still dreaming,” she muttered, shamefully unable to look away. “That’s it. A nightmare. I should never have had that second piece of pigeon pie last night.”

She should shut her eyes. She should make a grab for her clothes and run. She should at least defend herself. She couldn’t so much as move.

Grace thought she had never seen a man look so cold. “I expected better of you, Miss Fairchild,” he said, his voice dripping with disdain. “Never did I think you’d be the kind of scheming, brass-faced hussy who’d force her way into a man’s bed. Just what did you slip into my drink?”

Suddenly furious, Grace clambered to her feet, grabbing a bedpost to steady her when her leg cramped. “What did I slip into
your
drink?” she demanded, outraged. “Why, you insufferable, self-centered, overweening park saunterer. You’re the last person on earth I’d let near me—”

Instead of apologizing, he squeezed his eyes closed. “For the love of God, madame, cover yourself.”

Grace looked down and squeaked in dismay. She hadn’t considered her state of undress when she stood up. She’d grabbed the covers because it was frigid in the room. Not because she was… oh, dear sweet Lord. She was as naked as he was, providing him with an unblocked view of her bony chest.

She couldn’t help it. She shrieked again and whipped around, struggling to adequately cover herself with the voluminous blanket.

“Where are my clothes?” she cried, mortified that he should see every unlovely jutting angle of her. Especially her leg. Even her mother hadn’t been able to tolerate the sight of that leg.

“At least you are covered,” he said, not moving. “Thank you.”

They were still both naked. In the same room. Alone. Grace felt panic closing off her air. Her head hurt. She felt sick.

Suddenly the door to the room slammed open and bounced against the wall. In a flash, Grace saw a crowd of people in sleepwear, crowding the doorway like gawkers in a theater pit. Gasping, she dropped to the floor and yanked the covers over her head. If they didn’t see her face, they wouldn’t recognize her.

“Isn’t that General Fairchild’s daughter?” a woman who sounded like Lady Thornton demanded from the doorway, and Grace shrank down even more.

“How delicious,” another woman answered with a delighted giggle. “The horse-faced hussy obviously thinks she’s nabbed Diccan Hilliard.”

Grace heard laughter and wanted to die. There must be a full battalion of social gossips out there.

“Good to see everyone,” Diccan was saying, as if they had come to tea. “My apologies for presenting myself to you in
dishabille.
”

More salacious laughter. Grace squeezed her eyes shut, the thundering of her heart almost drowning out the wags who could be heard taking bets on her future. She was terrified she was going to disgrace herself. Her stomach was lurching as if she were back on the channel packet.

“Well, well,” she heard a new and welcome voice intrude. “Mrs. Maxwell, I had no idea that this was what you wore to bed. Amazing color, really. And, Tommy, what an… interesting nightcap. You all must have been dragged right from your sleep. Which, I’m afraid, isn’t the most attractive time of the day for any of you.”

Lady Kate had arrived.

If this had been happening to anyone else, Grace might have smiled. Leave it to Kate to send the cream of the
ton
scurrying away like embarrassed debs. But it was happening to
her
. She was the one crouched on the floor, naked beneath a blanket as an audience laughed.

She must not have heard the door close, because suddenly she felt a gentle hand on her shoulder.

“Grace?”

If it could be possible, she felt worse. She had so few female friends. Only three, really—Olivia Grace; Lady Bea; and Lady Kate, who had taken her in after her father had died at Waterloo. It had been Lady Kate who had seen her through those terrible days. Lady Kate who had provided safety and support as Grace adjusted to civilian life. She couldn’t betray her friend this way. Even a notorious widow had no business associating with a ruined spinster.

“Grace, tell me you’re all right,” Kate said, sounding distressed.

“I’m fine,” Grace managed, huddled miserably on the floor.

It didn’t occur to her to cry. Soldiers didn’t cry, her father had always told her. At least not after their seventh birthday.

“Is this some joke of yours, Kate?” she heard Diccan demand, sounding like a petulant child.

Lady Kate huffed. “Don’t be demented. I’m even more stunned than you are. I know for a fact that Grace has better taste.”

“Why, you repellent
brat
,” he snapped. “Your
friend
just arranged to make an appearance in my bed before half the
ton.
Naked.”

“Really, Diccan? She must be amazingly sly, then, since neither of us expected to see you or them here.”

“She
must
have, damn it! They’re here. And
she’s
… here.”

Lady Kate sighed. “You might want to get your clothes on, Diccan.”

“What about
her
?”

Still crouched beneath her blanket, Grace sighed. Her leg hurt. The blanket was beginning to feel scratchy. And a draft had found its way inside to bedevil her. And yet, she couldn’t gather the courage to move.

“Grace can dress after you leave,” Lady Kate was saying over Grace’s head. “From
her
bedroom, by the way.”

“Hers?”

“Indeed. I accompanied her to this very door last night.”

That helped Grace a bit. Diccan had been the one to mistake bedroom doors. Not that it mattered now. The damage had well and truly been done.

She heard the rustling of clothing. He must be dressing.

“What
are
you doing here, by the way?” Lady Kate asked as if she were addressing him over tea. “We were supposed to meet you in Dover tomorrow.”

There was sudden silence. “This isn’t Dover?”

“Canterbury,” Grace answered before she thought of it.

“Canterbury?”
Diccan echoed, the sounds of movement ceasing. “Deuce take it. How the hell did I get here?”

“Well,” Kate said, sounding absurdly amused, “once you’re both dressed, that is certainly one of the topics we’ll need to address. Are you still all right under there, Grace?”

Grace felt another miserable blush spread over her. “Do you see my clothes?” she asked.

“Strewn over the floor as if they had been on fire,” Kate informed her. “Which is another reason I know you aren’t the culprit here. Even during those awful days we spent caring for the wounded from Waterloo, you never once failed to fold your clothing like a premier abigail.”

“She could have been anxious to get into bed,” Diccan suggested dryly.

“Not with you, she wouldn’t,” Kate said, sounding supremely delighted. “She doesn’t like you.”

Grace made a sound of protest. It wasn’t polite, after all, even if it was true. She didn’t like him. It didn’t mean she was immune to him.

“Don’t be absurd,” Diccan was saying. “Everyone likes me.”

“Would you
please
get your pants on and leave?” Grace demanded, finally losing her patience. “I’m about to catch the ague down here.”

And damn him if he didn’t chuckle. “Anything you say, Boadicea.”

Which made Grace feel even worse. A month or more ago, Diccan had nicknamed her after the English warrior queen, undoubtedly because he couldn’t think of another female tall enough to look him in the eye. Which, as Grace well knew, was not necessarily a compliment.