Page 53 of The Count’s Charade

CHAPTER NINE

Henri rolled on to his side, bringing Grace with him. Slowly they came apart, and Grace lay in the slackness of his half-embrace, his arm caught under her neck, blinking dazedly up at the wooden tester, its outline visible in the faintly greying light.

By degrees it came to her what they had done. What she had done! She could not blame Henri; she had come to his bed. Once she was there, and he had kissed her, the rest was inevitable. Grace looked for regret, and did not find it. Had she secretly sought for this? Remembrance of the danger in which Henri stood crept back into her mind. No matter his uncertain future, she had this to cherish.

A movement brought her eyes around to find Henri flexing his fingers. His arm was caught under her. With instant horror, she realised it was the wrong one. She threw herself up and turned to look at him. She did not take in that she could see him, dark hair wild about his handsome face, drenched with sweat. Her eyes went to his wound.

“Your shoulder!”

Only now did she realise he was not wearing a bandage. There was a tear in the flesh, and a seeping ooze of blood.

“It has opened again! Oh, Henri!”

He had shifted his arm, laying it across his chest and rubbing at the flesh. But he smiled lazily. “It makes nothing.”

Grace hunted about for something to staunch the blood, and found her discarded nightgown. Seizing it, she would have put it to the wound, but Henri’s good hand caught her wrist.

“That is foolish, Grâce. Better you find a bandage.”

Naked as she was, she slipped from under the covers, and climbed off the bed, lumbering to the chest. It did not take her long to find the rolled strips of torn sheet that had been used, and re-used after washing, since Henri had come here. Only when she turned with a couple of rolls in her hand, did she become aware of her nudity. Henri was watching her, an expression of appreciation in his eyes.

Grace felt heat rise in her cheeks, and could only think of the pale half-formed thing that was her right leg, so different from the shapely left. Hastily she limped back to the bed and climbed up again. When she would have put on her nightgown, Henri stopped her.

“It is no shame before me, Grâce.”

But she held the gown against herself, horribly conscious of the gathering light. “It is not — it’s not shame.”

The green eyes were speculative. He reached out and gently tugged the gown away from her, exposing her body to his sight. Grace could not look at him.

Henri shifted on to his elbow, wincing a little. With his free hand, he stroked her bad leg. “Ma chère, it is in your head this ugliness. In mine you will not find it.”

He was disappointed that she grimaced and slid the nightgown over her head. What would it take to convince her it mattered not at all? If there was to be time for the effort involved. Remembering, he sighed.

“It is perhaps good that you bandage me now, Grâce. We are late already.”

As she set about applying her bandage, Henri watched her face. There was a tightening beginning to show. Had she seen the consequences of the unplanned coupling they had shared? It was a complication they had not needed, yet he could not wish it undone. There had been too much passion for regret. At a time when he had all to play, and did not know if he would win, it was the act of a scoundrel to have taken her. Not that he’d had any such intention. But it was too late to be thinking of that. It was done, and there was no going back. The die was cast.

After all, he decided in swift content, it was better so. It had clarified what he had already resolved. And it gave him purpose. Not to mention leverage, which one might need with a woman like Grace.

He kissed her quickly as she finished the bandage. “Merci. It needs only to dress myself, and I am gone.”

Grace watched him as he got out of bed, sitting where he had left her, the familiar hollow opening up inside her. Was she to lose him now, just when he had become hers? She thrust the thoughts away, and tried to turn her mind to practical matters.

“Food. I had best pack you some provisions.”

She slid off the bed, and was startled by a sudden patter of footsteps from above. Henri had heard it too, pausing as he drew on his breeches. They exchanged a glance.

“Jemima comes to wake me, I think.”

“A trifle late,” Grace commented, noting the signs of sunlight beginning to seep between the drapes at the window.

There was a pause while the footsteps were halted, and in a moment the maid appeared, poking her head around the door. Her eyes were round, and she glanced from one to the other. “Oh, Miss Grace!”

Grace limped up to her. “It’s all right, Jemima. I woke and came in to Mister Henry, so you need not reproach yourself.”

Jemima sidled into the room, fully dressed, and Grace realised there was fear in her features, as well as distress. “It ain’t that, miss.”

“What troubles you, Jemima?” came swiftly from Henri, alertness in his voice.