Though, in fairness, the scoundrelwaslying on her bed.
She stopped when she reached him, heartened by the sight of the rhythmic rising and falling of his chest and the sound of his breathing. He was not ill, it would seem, merely—
He let out a loud, undignified snore.
Merely asleep.
In her chamber.
She poked his shoulder with her forefinger. The heat emanating from his big body seared her through the fine lawn of his shirt. So, too, the strong and delicious rope of muscle leading down his upper arm.
“My lord,” she tried again. “What are you doing in my chamber?”
He shifted. “Mmm.”
The low sound of his voice was a pleasant rumble. Decadent to her senses. She could not deny the warmth it sent washing over her. The need unfurling from deep within her core. Nor could she seem to stop staring at his lips and recalling how they had felt, firm and masterful, moving over hers.
One thing was certain.
The viscount had to go.
She gave him another firm prod. “Lord Aylesford.”
“Mmm,” he murmured again, the sound so low and satisfied she could not quell the answering ache it produced within her. “Grace.”
Her name.
He had saidher name.
Was he dreaming of her?
Half-awake and half-asleep?
She was about to give him another poke when he shifted, his large hand going to the fall of his breeches. To theburgeoningfall of his breeches. Where his manhood was, to be precise. Where he was growing stiffer and harder by the moment.
Lord help her, but the sight of those long, elegant fingers stroking over his—she searched for the wicked word fromThe Tale of Loveand seized upon it—prick…
She swallowed, frozen. Caught in the helpless throes of her own desire. Surely it was wrong to watch him thus. Just as wrong as it was for him to be in her bed. As wrong as it was for them to be alone.
“Grace, love. Kiss me,” he said, his baritone nothing more than a velvet rumble. A promise of the wicked.
Her cheeks were on fire as her gaze shot to his face. But he was still sleeping. It would seem he was dreaming of her. She ought to be irked. But somehow, she could not summon up a modicum of irritation or outrage.
Another stroke of his hand goaded her into action at last.
She shoved his shoulder with more force than necessary. But her mind was warring with her body. Telling her she had to act and fast, or she would be running headlong down the path she had so recently promised her sisters she would not tread.
He jerked awake with a start, his eyes blinking open to reveal those sky-blue orbs that haunted her in her own sleep. His expression was confusion mixed with irritation—no doubt at being jostled awake so rudely.
“Grace? What the devil are you doing in my chamber again?” he demanded.
The utter rogue. His hand had not even strayed from the fall of his breeches.
“Youare inmychamber, Lord Aylesford,” she informed him, doing her best to infuse her voice with disapproval. “And that is a question I should be posing to you. How dare you sneak in here and make yourself at home upon my bed? If my lady’s maid or anyone else had ventured in here and found you awaiting me, our feigned betrothal would turn into a real one all too soon.”
“I am in your chamber, you say?” he asked, at last lifting his hand from where it rested over his manhood and scrubbing it along his jaw.
“Yes,” she hissed. “And you must go. At once.”
