He ran his thumb lightly across her lips. “Secret lovers, then,” he said.
“Yes, but just to be clear, I will not be your love slave. You may not wish to fraternize with London Society, but I do not wish to become a recluse either. I have a life you know, and there are always invitations to balls and whatnot. So please do not be surprised if sometimes I am not available at your beck and call.”
“Understood,” he replied, looking amused.
“Excellent. On that note…” She tossed the covers aside and swung her legs over the edge of the bed. “I must go before the sun comes up.”
“Not yet.” He leaned across and reached out to massage her shoulder. “Ten more minutes…”
Intrigued, she glanced back at him. “I know what you have in mind, sir, and ten minutes is not nearly enough.”
“Anything is possible, darling, when passion is involved. Now lie back down, and I promise I will make it worth your while.”
Naturally, Charlotte surrendered, for it was an offer she simply could not refuse.
Chapter 9
The Halloway Ball was an absolute crush the following night. Everyone who was anyone was in attendance, for the Prince of Wales had announced he would be there to enjoy the famous Halloway turtle soup.
The ballroom, located on the second floor of the fashionable Mayfair mansion, was marvelously illuminated by four crystal chandeliers that reflected the light from hundreds of candles and a number of shiny brass sconces on the walls.
As Charlotte entered the ballroom with Adelaide, they were greeted by their hosts. Once inside, they helped themselves to glasses of champagne, brought around by a handsome liveried footman, and spoke to many acquaintances, old and new.
Charlotte was invited to dance a quadrille within ten minutes of their arrival, and Adelaide was escorted to a half circle of chairs with an excellent view of the floor, where some of her oldest, dearest friends had staked their territory.
It was the Earl of Whitcomb who first invited Charlotte to dance. He was a friendly and handsome older gentleman with four grown children and had been widowed just over a year ago. He was often the object of speculation, for he had his heirs. Now all he needed was a pretty young wife on his arm to make his life complete. Charlotte had always rubbed along well with him, but considered him a friend, nothing more.
The fact that she was not attracted to him in that way was doubly obvious tonight, after experiencing the throes of true passion in the arms of a man who excited her beyond comprehension. As she danced through the steps, she found herself wishing that Mr. Torrington was not so against making appearances in Society, for it would have made her night more than special if she could have met him in this ballroom and danced with him. Perhaps they could have escaped onto the balcony alone and flirted secretly.
But he would not be in attendance tonight, or any other night for that matter—so Charlotte vowed not to let it spoil her mood. She would dance as much as she liked, and she would enjoy herself.
When the set came to an end, Lord Whitcomb escorted her back to her mother, and in that moment, she spotted a familiar face and felt her heart leap with joy. The earl bowed politely and took his leave, and Charlotte tugged at her mother’s sleeve.
“Look who is here,” she said, gesturing toward the small cluster of guests on the far side of the room, nearer to the orchestra. “It’s Dr. Thomas.”
“Oh yes,” her mother replied. “He lives nearby. Of course he would be here.”
He was kissing the gloved hand of another lady, however, and escorting her onto the floor. A heavy lump of disappointment dropped into Charlotte’s belly. She glanced at her mother, who was also watching.
“He is always so popular,” Adelaide said, without the slightest display of ‘woe is me.’ “You can hardly blame the ladies, can you?” she added. “He is such a handsome and amiable man.”
Charlotte studied her mother’s countenance. Sometimes she was not certain how Adelaide truly felt about Dr. Thomas. Perhaps she did consider him a friend and nothing more.
As Charlotte watched him dance, she wondered if his partner could be the woman he had spoken about in his office. The one he had been courting. She was younger than he was, perhaps in her late forties, and was blessed with a slender figure and strikingly dark features. They made a handsome couple and spoke to each other as if they were very well acquainted.
A short while later, Charlotte saw him escort another lady onto the floor. She was equally lovely, and he was equally charming.
Then there was a third lady, at which time Charlotte decided to give up keeping count.
Truth be told, she was angry with him. Surely, he was aware that she and her mother were in attendance. Charlotte had been out on the floor a few times, yet he had not come over to say hello.
“Why won’t he at least acknowledge us?” Charlotte whispered in her mother’s ear when they had a moment to themselves.
“Who in the world are you referring to?” Adelaide asked with some displeasure as she sipped her champagne.
“Dr. Thomas, of course. He has danced with every pretty lady within ten paces of his person since the moment he arrived.”
“You sound jealous,” Adelaide said with a laugh. Then she leaned very close to Charlotte. “Darling, you must forget about this and not imagine that we will ever go back to what we once were. How many times must I say it? We are friends now, and that is all we will ever be.”
Charlotte suddenly felt very foolish with her lofty dreams of romantic destiny and clever matchmaking. But how could she simply let it go? She knew everything about their broken hearts all those years ago. They were like Romeo and Juliet. For once, Charlotte wanted that story to have a happy ending. She wanted to fix the past. To rewrite it, if she could.
Just then, someone spoke her name. “Lady Charlotte, I wonder if you would do me the honor of joining me for the next set?”
Managing a courteous smile, she set down her glass and laid her gloved hand upon the gentleman’s arm. “How kind of you to ask, Mr. Tremont. I would be delighted.”
She followed him onto the floor.
As her daughter, Charlotte, began the first steps of another quadrille, Adelaide set down her glass and turned toward the large bank of French doors at the rear of the ballroom, for they opened onto a wide flagstone balcony lit by torches at each corner. There were few people outside, for a fine mist hung in the air. It was the sort of weather that could cause a lady’s hair to frizz instantly and give her a chill. Adelaide could not care less about her hair, and she was so angry, a good shiver in the cold might serve her well.
She was angry with Charlotte for pushing her toward William—as if she were some young debutante experiencing her first London Season, and was on the hunt for a handsome gentleman with whom to begin a thrilling courtship. Adelaide was hardly a young girl, and she’d had enough life experience to understand her own heart and manage her life. She had been married for over forty years and had given birth to five children. She had survived that tumultuous marriage, and somehow, in the end, had made a success of it. Then she had nursed her husband through a long and devastating illness in the final decade of his life. She had stood by him faithfully and devotedly.
Adelaide had suffered a great deal of heartache and tragedy in her younger years, yet she felt blessed with what she had achieved, for she had five wonderful children and a home filled with grandchildren. If given the choice, she would not change a single thing about the past, for it could alter the present, and she firmly believed she had lived the life she was meant to live.
“Adelaide…?”
She was standing at the balustrade looking up at the cloudy night sky, when the sound of her name, spoken so familiarly, caused a tremor in her soul. She turned around to see William standing in the doorway, looking as handsome as he had over forty years ago, when he had come home from Italy and tried
to convince her not to go through with her wedding.
“You must be freezing out here,” he said, removing his jacket and approaching her with it. He draped it over her shoulders. It was still warm with the heat and musk from his body, and it felt…heavenly.
“Thank you,” she said, hugging it about her. “I was just beginning to shiver.”
“What are you doing out here?” he asked. “I was frustrated just now, for I wanted to dance with you. Unless your card is full? Am I too late?”
She looked up at him in the flickering torchlight. He was not wearing his spectacles and looked not a day older than… Oh, what did it matter? He would always be the same young man she had known since girlhood. His eyes, his smile, the sound of his voice… They would always be the same.
“Charlotte tells me you have a lady in your life now,” she said, for she and William knew each other well enough to be honest and open, and it would not do her any good to pretend she was not aware of it.
“Yes,” he replied, as he moved to sit upon the balustrade. “I have been courting someone.”
“I am very happy for you,” Adelaide replied. “I hope she is everything you deserve, and you deserve the very best, William. Will I get to meet her one day?”
He gave no reply, and instead turned to look out over the dark lawn. “It was such a pleasure to see you in the park earlier in the week,” he said. “I am sorry I did not return the following day when you said you would be there.”
She waved a dismissive hand through the air. “Please, do not worry yourself. I know how busy you are.”
He met her gaze again, and she was unnerved by the fluttery response of her heart.
But how could she not be amazed by him, by his friendship especially, when it had survived so many challenges? He had been a loyal, devoted presence in her life—so helpful, and most importantly, so forgiving. She was not sure she could have behaved as he did if the roles had been reversed and he had married another.
“It wasn’t that,” he said. “I was not so busy, but I wasn’t sure it would be wise, for I had a previous engagement that evening—to escort my lady friend to the opera. I feared my head would be spinning in circles.”
“How so?” Adelaide asked, though she already knew the answer. He did not wish to stir up painful memories of the past.
After all I put him through, I cannot blame him.
She sighed heavily and pulled his coat tighter about her shoulders.
“Charlotte is playing matchmaker, you know,” she said with a light tone that overturned any proper social distance between them.
He chuckled. “Yes, I know. She came to my office last week and tried to casually suggest that we meet at the theater. And at the park the next day.”
“Oh, my dear girl. She never told me that. What did you say to her?”
“I told her that she should mind her own business.”
Adelaide smiled. “Well done, William. And yet you came to the park regardless. You are just encouraging her, you know.”
He nodded in agreement, and she was intensely aware of his hands curling and flexing around the edge of the balustrade rail he sat upon.
“Why did you come to the park?” she daringly asked.
He rose to his full height and turned to look out at the darkness beyond the lawn. “Because I wanted to see you,” he said. “You know how deeply I care for you, Adelaide. I needed to see your face and assure myself that you were well.”
“I appreciate your concern,” she said, “but my happiness is not your responsibility.”
“I know that,” he said, “but I will always need to know how you are.” The orchestra began a waltz, and he turned to look back at the ballroom. “Will you dance with me?”
She, too, watched the swirling array of light and colorful gowns as couples swept past the open doors. Then she removed his jacket from her shoulders and handed it back to him. “I would be delighted.”
He smiled and slipped his arms into the sleeves, then gallantly escorted her inside.
When Charlotte woke the following morning, she was torn between feelings of happiness and frustration. She wanted to shout joyfully from the rooftops, for she had watched her mother enter the ballroom on Dr. Thomas’s arm and waltz with him after a lengthy conversation alone on the balcony. At the same time, she was confused, for he had danced with every other woman in the room before making his way to speak to her mother.
Charlotte’s emotions were a mixed bundle indeed, for she had gone to bed dreaming of Mr. Torrington and wishing that he had been at the ball as well, so that she could have waltzed with him the entire night, instead of dancing with countless other partners who did not stir her blood the way he did.
By noon she was starving for a mere taste of him, the smallest glance, even from a distance. When the footman delivered a letter to her shortly after luncheon, she snatched it from the silver salver and tore it open in a matter of seconds, reading it in its entirety before looking up to dismiss the young man.
This afternoon. Torrington House, 2pm. Come around to the stables at the back.
—D
The stables? Did he wish to go riding with her? In public?
Erring on the side of caution, Charlotte donned her black riding habit with the silver buttons, her fashionable new boots, which had been polished to a fine sheen since the last time she wore them, and brought along her riding crop as well.
At precisely two in the afternoon, she alighted from the family coach in front of Mr. Torrington’s London residence and instructed her driver to return for her in one hour, and to wait on the street.
The vehicle pulled away from the curb and she watched it reach a fair distance before she ventured around to the back of the house. She crossed a small gravel courtyard, taking note of the fact that there was no one about—no grooms or other servants from the household—and the stable door was slightly ajar. She could hear an odd pounding noise from within.
Pulling the door open with her leather-gloved hand, she peered inside.
The stable was empty. There was no carriage in the center corridor, or any horses in the stalls, yet she could still hear the repetitive sound of hard pounding.
Quietly she walked toward the back and found the source of the racket. It was Mr. Torrington and his iron fists. He was moving about in the last stall, punching a large leather sack full of sand or some other heavy substance, which was secured with a rope and suspended from one of the rafters above. An old Persian rug covered the stone floor beneath his feet.
Charlotte stood for a moment watching him, until he circled around and noticed her standing there. He was crouched slightly at the knees in a defensive stance with both fists wrapped up in white gauze. When their eyes met, he straightened and laid a hand on the bag to stop it from swinging. Her body flared with exhilarating awareness at the sight of him, for he wore a pair of tight pale gray breeches, black boots with laces, and nothing else. His bare chest and arms glistened with shiny drops of sweat, and Charlotte could almost feel the fierceness of his attitude as fighter.
She said nothing while he caught his breath. Then slowly she moved closer until she could lay a hand on the giant leather bag. “I think you killed it.”
Without cracking a smile, he wiped a forearm across his sweaty brow and spit off to the side.
Charlotte inclined her head at him, feeling suddenly as if she were not welcome there. “You sent me a note,” she reminded him. “It’s two o’clock. Here I am.”
He exhaled sharply. “Yes.”
He began to unwrap the gauze from his hands and tossed it carelessly onto the floor, which was swept clean of straw.
The sight of his naked chest and the smell of his sweat were not things a lady should be presented with—yet she was fascinated and aroused by both. “Are you practicing for something?” she asked.
“Not practi
cing. This is a punching bag. I prefer it because it doesn’t bruise or bleed, and it doesn’t punch back.”
“A definite advantage,” she replied. “You could go all day with it.”
He approached her, slung a hand around to the small of her back, pulled her hips tight up against his own, and planted a hard, salty kiss on her mouth.
By the time he was finished devouring her like a midday meal and released his grip on her body, she was breathless with delight and could have fainted right there.
“I’m glad you came,” he said, his mood lifting. “Dressed for a good gallop, I see?”
She should have been shocked by the wicked innuendo, but to the contrary she was thrilled by the implications, for they were lovers now. She was surprisingly at ease with the open sexuality that pulsed like a steady heartbeat between them.
“You said to meet you in the stables,” she explained. “I was raised in the country, sir, and learned at a very young age that an invitation to such a place usually involves a saddle and stirrups.”
He took her riding crop from her, tossed it aside, then removed her top hat and hung it on a nearby rung.
“Will you be disappointed if there is no horseflesh involved?” he asked.
“That depends.”
“On what?”
“On whether or not you can lock that stable door.”
Drake’s eyes narrowed in on her with devilish intent, and while he strode to the door, she began to undo the buttons of her bodice. She was shrugging out of it by the time he returned and hung it on a second rung next to the one where he had placed her hat. Now she stood before him in her heavy riding skirt, corset, and white cotton chemise.
She moved slowly around the punching bag, circling it to stay just beyond his reach.
Eyes fixed on each other with feverish desire, they ran their hands over the smooth worn leather.
“What does it feel like to punch a man in the ring?” she asked.
Seduced at Sunset (Love at Pembroke Palace Book 6) Page 8
