There was afemale on her knees alongside his bed, her rump raised in the air. And,Lord help him, but he recognized those ivory satin skirts and that mouthwatering rump. He would recognize them anywhere.
Fortune’s fickle wheel had finally given Rand a good turn.
That was the sole explanation for the presence of Grace Winter in his bedchamber this evening. She was still dressed in the luscious gown that had set off her figure to perfection at dinner. He supposed he could not argue with that, but he would not lie. Finding her naked, awaiting him in his bed, would have been an even greater treat.
This incredible view would have to suffice, however. The odds of ever seeing Miss Grace Winter naked, or in his bed, were indeed quite slim. He could admit these things to himself, if to no one else.
Thank Christhis valet, Carruthers, was nowhere to be found. The saucy chit would have caused the scandal of the age. What the devil was she doing in his chamber, anyway? And, more to the point, what was she doing beneath his bed?
Suddenly aware of the fact that he was lingering stupidly in the hall, where anyone could pass by and witness Miss Grace Winter’s arse poking out from beneath his bed, he stepped over the threshold. After drawing the door closed at his back with as much haste as possible, he strode forward.
Drawn, it was true, by the mouthwatering sight of her derriere.
Her pale gown with its lace overskirt was a temptation pooled around her bent legs. Her arse was full and round beneath the fall of those skirts, raised as she moved about beneath his bed in search of something.Lord help him, but he wanted to cup her rump. To take it in both hands and squeeze. To lift her skirts to her waist, find the tempting flesh of her cunny with his fingers, part her, discover if she was as wet and hot as he suspected she would be.
Curse it.
His fantasy was getting the better of him. All he could think about now was raising her skirts and taking her from behind, there on the floor. Surely, she could not have planned such a display. He found it difficult indeed to believe that an innocent lady—even one from a family as notorious as the Winters—would have wedged herself beneath his bed in the hopes he would soon arrive and find himself unerringly tempted by the sweet curves of her bottom.
Which, of course, he was.
She had an arse he would love to spank. To caress.
New inspiration struck as he watched her wiggling about. Better yet, he could draw her to her feet, settle her palms upon his bed, kiss her throat right where that heart-shaped mark hid, and slide into her from behind while they stood there together.
But, no. Such thoughts were the work of the devil that sought to distract him from his course. And his course, as he reminded himself quite forcefully now whilst he stalked the rest of the way across his guest chamber toward her, was Tyre Abbey.
Not the beautiful, altogether wrong Miss Grace Winter. Temptation incarnate, though she may be. Amazingly, she had somehow failed to hear his entrance. He could only put it down to the size of the chamber and the softness of the carpet.
He could not stand here watching her rump, fantasizing about the different positions in which he could take her all night. Could he? His breeches were already far too snug.
“What the devil are you doing beneath my bed, Grace?” he demanded, his voice low.
She jerked, and then the unmistakable sound of her skull connecting with the wooden braces on the underside of the bed echoed in the chamber. Along with her muffled cry of pain.
“Christ,” he muttered, dropping to his knees at her side. “Did you hurt yourself?”
She shimmied out from beneath the bed. Her cheeks were flushed, her auburn curls having escaped her coiffure to frame her face. She sat back on her knees as she rubbed her head, pinning him with a scowl.
“You need not have given me such a fright, my lord,” she snapped.
The daring of this woman would never cease to confound him.
“You were beneath my bed,” he pointed out. “What was I to have done? Begun disrobing whilst you were poking about under there?”
Now that he thought upon it, the idea was not a bad one. His fingers settled upon the knot in his cravat and plucked.
Her eyes went wide. “No disrobing, if you please, my lord. I merely meant to say you could have announced your presence with greater aplomb.”
His cravat was undone, lying limply about his neck. Goading her was proving one of his favorite means of passing the time. “And why should I have to announce my presence at all in my own chamber, Grace?”
“Miss Winter,” she corrected primly.
“Grace,” he repeated, with delicious emphasis. “How else am I to refer to a female who has trespassed upon my chamber at such a late hour, hmm?”
She was still rubbing her head. “You know very well why I am here, Lord Aylesford. You need not play games.”
“Oh, I play no games,” he assured her, giving her a slow grin. “Does your head still smart, love? I can kiss it for you, to make it better, if you like.”
