“I will eat luncheon there and return.” Mama pointed in the direction of Alice’s room. “Go lie down. There is an afternoon of croquet planned today and we cannot have you looking tired.”

“Yes, Mama.”

They parted and Alice slipped inside her room. She pressed her ear to the door and waited, barely breathing, until she heard her mother leave ten minutes later. Then she waited some more, giving Mama ample time to depart.

When certain it was safe, she hurried through the corridors toward the opposite end of the chateau where the men’s rooms were located, far away from the unmarried ladies. No one was about, thankfully, and she soon arrived at Kit’s door. Was he here, or still downstairs?

She knocked, glancing up and down the hallway, praying he answered quickly.

The oak door swung open and a bare throat greeted her.

Blinking, she dragged her gaze higher and met Kit’s amused stare. “Hello.”

He stepped back and motioned her in. “Hello, Alice.” It was then she noticed that he was clad in only a silk dressing gown, his hair wet from a bath.

She couldn’t force her feet to work, her legs frozen. There was too much to see, too much to take in. The bare skin, the dark hair, the bones and tendons creating ridges and angles . . . and she didn’t dare look below his waist. “I—I should come back later. When you’re . . .”

“Stop. Get in here before someone sees you out there.”

She slipped through the door, trying to maintain a proper distance from his scantily clothed form. But really? Was there any distance proper enough for this situation? “I apologize. I should have warned you I was coming.”

“Nonsense.” He closed the door and turned the lock. “I was going to seek you out, so you saved me the trouble. Your mother called for a carriage, I heard. How long will she be gone?”

“Until after luncheon.”

The side of his mouth hitched. “Indeed, that does give us quite a lot of time.”

Her heart galloped in her chest, a frantic rhythm that echoed throughout her body. How was he able to take the simplest of sentences and turn them sexual?

He charms as natural as breathing. It is not aimed at you.

Instead of moving to another room to get dressed, he crossed to the chairs by the fire and settled himself. The dressing gown covered him from shoulders to shin, but the bare feet and throat were enough to weaken her knees. This was the closest she’d ever been to a man in such dishabille and it was disconcerting.

How could she possibly concentrate now, when her mind was fixated on picturing what he looked like under the dressing gown?