Lucian wanted to kiss her.
More than anything he had ever wanted, he needed to kiss her!
Lucian wanted to take Grace in his arms and crush her body against his, even as his lips claimed hers in a kiss that demanded what her eyes already promised she was prepared to give.
But Lucian knew that if he once started kissing Grace he would not want to stop. That he would not be able to stop. And, once again, they were not in a place where it was safe for him to give in to that impulse—let alone lose himself in all Grace’s ripe loveliness.
She was not only a young woman of tender years, but also one of inexperience—certainly no match for the force of the passion that threatened to break loose from Lucian.
Damn it!
Lucian drew in a harsh breath and moved back abruptly, straightening as he once again clasped his hands together behind his back, so that he would not be tempted into touching Grace again. ‘Your aunt explained your absence downstairs earlier was because of a headache. I trust you are recovered now?’ His manner was stiff and unyielding.
Grace frowned, completely ruffled by what had just transpired between them. She was not mistaken, she was sure of it; Lucian had been on the point of kissing her. Yet now he was behaving almost like a polite stranger, his arrogant face remote, even the expression in his eyes hidden by hooded lids.
In contrast Grace was filled with a trembling awareness, her body heated, that familiar tingling in her breasts, the nipples hard and thrusting as she found her gaze drawn to those sculptured lips that had pleasured those aching tips so thoroughly yesterday evening. As she longed for them to pleasure her again…!
Her gaze dropped, her hands trembling slightly as she smoothed her gown over her thighs. She had never thought of herself as a woman who would enjoy a man’s hands upon her body. No, not any man’s hands—it was Lucian’s touch alone that she craved, that she ached for. It was a craving she would not—could not!—see fulfilled.
She moistened lips that felt sensitive to the touch, her gaze no longer meeting his. ‘Unfortunately not, My Lord.’ Her voice sounded strained even to her own ears. ‘To the point that I believe I will now have to lie down in my darkened bedchamber in order to find any relief from the pounding in my head.’
Lucian had been convinced earlier, when the Duchess had made her niece’s excuses, that the headache was nothing but a ruse. But he could see now that Grace’s face was very pale, her eyes having a slightly bruised look beneath them. ‘I should not have intruded when you are unwell.’ He frowned darkly. ‘Please accept my apology—’
‘Two apologies in one afternoon, My Lord?’ Grace’s smile was taunting. ‘Such an occurrence will only bring about a further relapse, I am sure!’
Lucian gave a hard smile at her obvious derision. The previous moment of intimacy between them seemed as if it had never happened. Perhaps for Grace it had not…? ‘I see we are back to our usual daggers drawn!’
Grace gave a dismissive shrug. ‘I am not sure we were ever anything else…’
Lucian’s smile became self-derisive now. ‘Perhaps not.’ He bowed stiffly. ‘With your permission, I will call again tomorrow, when hopefully you will be feeling better.’
Her eyes widened. ‘There is really no necessity for you to be quite so attentive, My Lord. I am sure that a verbal enquiry, carried by one of your servants, will be quite sufficient if you really feel that you must show an interest.’
He appeared very tall and forbidding as he turned in the open doorway. ‘Your aunt and uncle will expect that interest to be of a more personal nature.’
Of course, Grace accepted heavily. Her aunt and uncle would expect it. Society dictated that he must be attentive to the woman he was betrothed to. How silly of her, how naïve of her, to have thought that Lucian might have actually wanted to call on her tomorrow in order that he might be with her again.
She gave a gracious inclination of her head. ‘I am sure you must do whatever you deem to be correct, My Lord.’
His mouth was tight. ‘Must I, Grace…?’
She blinked, sensing another meaning beneath that casual enquiry. A meaning she did not understand. ‘My Lord?’