Seduced at Sunset (Love at Pembroke Palace Book 6)

by Julianne MacLean

  She thought about regret and second chances for love.

  Love was a precious thing, not to be guarded against or squandered. But isn’t that what she had advised herself to do with Drake? To guard her heart? Wasn’t she letting go of love when she should try to grasp it and hold onto it forever?

  Suddenly her path seemed clear.

  “Will you come back to London with me?” Charlotte asked. “I have two weeks to spend with a man I am mad about, and life is too short to throw away such precious opportunities.”

  “Of course I will come,” her mother replied with enthusiasm, and Charlotte felt a marvelous swell of hope—though it was still a cautious one.

  Later that night, Charlotte sat down at her desk to write not one, but two letters. She began with the one that would be most brief.

  Dear Mr. Torrington,

  I will return to London on Wednesday. May I join you at dawn the following morning for a rendezvous on the river? I will be waiting at the usual time.

  —C

  She sealed the letter, quickly penned the address, and set it aside.

  Next, she considered how best to begin the second letter, for this one was a bit more complicated, and she was rather conflicted about whether or not she should even send it. Surely it was wrong to meddle in other people’s lives, but wasn’t it important for everyone to possess all relevant information before making important decisions that could affect their future happiness?

  Charlotte and Adelaide had been gone from London for nearly a week, and Charlotte could not bear to think that Dr. Thomas’s ‘lady friend’ might be sinking her hooks deeper into him with every passing moment. Charlotte needed him to know that Adelaide would be returning soon. So, she began to write…

  Dear Dr. Thomas,

  I know it is wrong to meddle, but there are times when a lady can do nothing but follow her heart, so meddle, I must…

  Chapter 17

  William was tired after his evening at the opera, for he had been up until dawn the previous night with a patient suffering from seizures. No other physician in the city could ascertain the cause of the seizures. He had his own theories of course, but could confirm nothing at this early stage, and the family was most distraught.

  His spirits were lifted, however, when he noticed two letters in the salver by the door, both of which must have been delivered while he was out.

  He picked them up and recognized the penmanship on each one and sighed with a welcome feeling of serenity. He would take both letters to the library, pour himself a brandy, and put his feet up on the upholstered stool to read them by the fire.

  A short while later, he was doing just that. First, he read Adelaide’s letter, for he could not resist it. He had been waiting for news about her time in Pembroke with Charlotte and her young gentleman caller. William was riveted by every word. Then he read the letter a second time.

  Adelaide sounded cheerful, so much like the young girl he knew and loved in Yorkshire. It was as if not a single day stood between past and present. She was still the same, and the connection he felt to her defied reason and science.

  Adelaide… As he ran a finger over her elegant penmanship, he felt as if she were there in the room beside him. He felt the warmth of her presence, and he almost believed she could read his thoughts from afar. That somehow, she knew he was reading her letter at that very moment, and she was thinking of him, as he was thinking of her.

  Then William thought of Dorothea and pinched the bridge of his nose. He took a deep swig of the brandy, set down the glass, and opened Charlotte’s letter.

  Dear Dr. Thomas,

  I know it is wrong to meddle, but there are times when a lady can do nothing but follow her heart, so meddle, I must. Mother and I have decided to return to London on Wednesday.

  William’s heart leapt. That was tomorrow. He continued to read.

  I am not certain how long we will stay, but I suspect a fortnight or so. There is another reason for my letter, however. I feel I must reveal an important truth to you.

  I still remember what you said to me in your office the last time I visited, and I understand that you have moved on with your life and do not wish to return to an existence of hopeless dreams and disappointments. I understand it very well, for you and I have both been forced to build fortresses around our hearts. We do not dare to dream or fight for a happy ending, for we know too well the unbearable agony of such a defeat.

  For that reason, I write to tell you this vital fact, my dear, beloved father. There will be no defeat this time, only triumph if you choose to seek your happiness. I spoke to Mother this evening, and she told me that she would marry you tomorrow if you asked. She loves you, and always has.

  Yes, I am betraying her confidence by revealing this to you, for she does not know I am writing, but I am certain that she will forgive me if it brings the two of you together at last. I simply could not risk the possibility that you might take steps in another direction if you did not know the full truth and have a chance to contemplate the absolute certainty of your success.

  She loves you, as do I. Now it is up to you to choose your path. Whatever you decide, I will honor it. I will embrace your lady if she is the one you truly want, but I could not let you move forward without knowing all the relevant particulars.

  —Charlotte

  William set down the letter, gazed into the dancing flames of the fire, and wept.

  When he recovered his composure, he poured himself another drink and pondered the two letters he had just received.

  There was still a part of him that was angry with Adelaide for all the pain she had caused him throughout his life, and for betraying the undying love that had existed between them—at least on his side. A part of him wanted to disappoint her, but that was his pride bucking.

  All his life he had been there for Adelaide, steady and devoted, forgiving her for the choices she had made. But had it really been her choice to marry the duke? She had once told him she’d had none, and he did believe that she walked down the aisle only to save him from her father’s brutality. If only she could have trusted William to survive and come to her rescue.

  But he had not come to her rescue, had he? Not after she signed her name to that marriage certificate. Instead he had fled the country and thrown himself into a pit of despair. Oh, how he had loathed her at times. So much so that he had left her to the duke, who had turned her life into a living hell. Perhaps William should have returned for her instead of leaving...

  So, who was to blame for their separation? For all the lost years? They had both played their parts, contributed to the sorrow, yet here they were, decades later, and life was not so wretched. Adelaide had raised five beautiful children, and he had been free to devote his entire life to the study of science and medicine. He was pleased with what he had accomplished, and he knew Adelaide would never regret the life she had lived.

  What path should he choose?

  He thought of Dorothea again, who had been such an agreeable companion this Season. She was in love with him. There was no question about it, and he had been flattered by her attentions. But he did not love her in return. Not as he loved Adelaide, the true mate of his soul.

  Yes. There it was. The truth in all its radiant glory. Adelaide was his one true love.

  Better to end it now with Dorothea, before promises were made.

  Oh, Lord. He knew exactly how it felt to be rejected. He would not enjoy hurting her.

  Dorothea Torrington had just handed her opera cloak over to the butler when she spotted a letter on the table in the hall. She moved quickly to pick it up, read the return address, then slipped it into the folds of her gown and said, “Is my son at home?”

  “No, madam. He has been out all evening.”

  “I see. And when did the mail arrive?”

  “A private courier came an hour ago.”
<
br />   “Very good. Thank you. Will you have Mrs. March send up some claret and warm biscuits?”

  “Right away.”

  A few minutes later, she was alone in her boudoir, unfolding the letter addressed to her son.

  Dear Mr. Torrington,

  I will return to London on Wednesday and would like to join you at dawn the following morning for another rendezvous on the river. I will be waiting at the usual time.

  —C

  Wednesday? That was tomorrow! Dorothea clenched her jaw and crumpled the letter furiously in a fist. A rendezvous at dawn. It was just as she suspected—a torrid affair that could quite possibly ruin everything.

  Oh, how could Drake be such a fool? He was here for the summer only. What was he thinking, becoming involved in that way with the daughter of a duke?

  More importantly, the daughter of Adelaide Sinclair, Dowager Duchess of Pembroke, of all people.

  Oh yes, Dorothea knew the history behind the dowager’s acquaintance with William. Recently Dorothea had watched him dance with Adelaide at the Halloway Ball. She had seen the spark of familiarity between them, and the attraction. There had been some whisperings of a former courtship between them. According to gossip, they had been raised on neighboring estates in Yorkshire and were once promised to each other… All speculation of course.

  No, no, no! Dorothea massaged her temples. Drake could not continue with this affair!

  Dorothea paced back and forth in front of the fire while her blood blazed hotter than the flames in the hearth. This sordid connection to the daughter of William’s old flame simply could not continue. Drake must leave England immediately and return to America. There was no reason for him to stay. Their finances were secured, and she certainly did not need him for anything else. He had to leave London, and Lady Charlotte needed to take her mother straight back to the country dower house where she bloody well belonged.

  Drake would not be meeting Lady Charlotte for a wicked rendezvous on the river tomorrow. Not if Dorothea had anything to do with it.

  Overcome by a jealous rage, she threw the letter into the fire and watched it burn to ash.

  Chapter 18

  Charlotte was awake with the birds on Thursday morning. She dressed without ringing for her maid and tiptoed downstairs to watch for Mr. Torrington’s coach through the front window.

  Her heart beat fast when a vehicle pulled into the square, but it was not Mr. Torrington, and she sighed with disappointment and impatience.

  It seemed like forever since they had parted at the palace, and she longed for him desperately. It was the worst sort of deprivation. She was miserable one minute and bursting with excitement the next. Before her carriage left Pembroke Palace for the station, it had been all she could do to keep from saddling a horse and galloping all the way to London on her own to see him again.

  At last, the waiting was over. He would be there soon and she would run out to his coach and throw herself into his arms. She had been dreaming of such a moment for days. Perhaps she would tell him how she truly felt—that this had become more than just a casual affair to her. Somewhere along the way, she had fallen quite madly in love with him.

  Could she dare say it? Should she? Or would it frighten him away?

  No, she decided, it would make him smile. She was certain of it, for she remembered the tenderness of his lovemaking at Pembroke, especially that evening in the rain at sunset.

  He had teased her once about a forced marriage between them. It had been a hint. He wouldn’t have said such a thing if he hadn’t at least thought about a future with her. Men didn’t joke about matters of marriage unless they were serious and inclined.

  Growing impatient, Charlotte glanced up at the clock on the wall. It was nearly quarter past six. It wasn’t like him to be late. He had never been late for any of their secret meetings before.

  She forced herself to take a seat and wait patiently. Every sound outside in the square brought her to her feet to peer out the window, but it was always the same—a milk cart or a merchant delivering fish, meat, or dry goods.

  The next half hour was pure hell.

  When the clock chimed seven o’clock, Charlotte rose from her chair one last time with a heavy, aching heart.

  Mr. Torrington was not coming.

  He did not wish to see her.

  There was nothing to do but go back upstairs and have an early breakfast.

  But why had he not come? And why didn’t he send a note, saying so? Wondering about his absence, Charlotte climbed the stairs. Had she been mistaken about the sincerity of his affections? Or was it possible that he had not received her letter?

  By twelve noon, Charlotte couldn’t bear another moment of not knowing. Her mother had gone off to a hospital charity event, and Charlotte had been left behind to wonder what had happened to Mr. Torrington that morning. Had he indeed not received her letter, or was this his way of sending her a message to communicate that the summer was almost over, and it was time to bring a swift, clean end to their affair?

  For all she knew he may have already departed for America. Perhaps she had pushed too hard at Pembroke, behaved too much like a woman in love, and he had recognized the depth of her emotions. She was not the sort of woman who loved half-heartedly. When she gave her heart, she gave it with all her might. Perhaps they should call her The Iron Fist as well, for she was no lightweight lover. She fairly hit the roof when she was at the height of her passions.

  But just as she was passionate, she was also honest and forthcoming. If Mr. Torrington wanted to end it, she needed to know, for she was a master at moving on with her life. And she deserved to be told, face to face. She had been preparing herself for the end of their affair since the moment it began. She simply needed to know. Was this the end? Or had his coach broken an axle on the way to her house?

  At two o’clock, she had the driver bring the curricle around to take her to Mr. Torrington’s London townhouse, for Charlotte could not go another moment without knowing the answers to those questions.

  The last time Charlotte had entered this house, she had come through the front door in a strange man’s arms, like a bride on her wedding night, with one notable difference—she had been bleeding from the head.

  Today she had all her wits about her but felt as if her heart were bleeding as she was shown into the parlor to meet Mr. Torrington’s mother, who rose with the utmost politeness. She invited Charlotte to take a seat, then offered her a cup of tea.

  “How is your head, Lady Charlotte?” Mrs. Torrington asked as she poured the steaming tea into the cup. “What a horrendous ordeal it must have been for you. I am relieved the culprit is in custody.”

  Charlotte was not at all sorry to be meeting Drake’s mother this afternoon, for she had wondered what sort of woman she was. Drake had spoken of the rift that existed between them, which Charlotte found most troubling. She couldn’t imagine not seeing her own mother for twelve years.

  Perhaps there was a way to bridge that gap somehow. Though she supposed she was looking to meddle again, wasn’t she…?

  Charlotte smiled at Mrs. Torrington and couldn’t help but sense something familiar about her. She was certainly an attractive woman with thick, wavy dark hair, very much like Drake’s. Her eyes were a slivery blue as well, and she possessed an uncommon beauty that made it difficult not to stare.

  Perhaps her familiarity was simply a result of the fact that she was Drake’s mother, and Charlotte could see him in her eyes.

  “Indeed,” Charlotte replied as she accepted the cup and saucer and took the first sip. “I cannot thank you enough for your son’s assistance and for your housekeeper’s kindness that day. I do not know what I would have done otherwise.”

  “It is all in the past now,” Mrs. Torrington said as she regarded Charlotte with narrowing eyes over the gold rim of her teacup.

  An awkward silenc
e ensued. Charlotte quickly filled it with some polite conversation. “You have a lovely home,” she said. “I quite like the colors you have chosen for the walls in this room. It is very cozy.”

  “Thank you for the compliment,” Mrs. Torrington coolly replied and sat back in her chair.

  Charlotte felt as if an iceberg had just floated into the parlor, though perhaps it had been there all along. Was the woman naturally aloof? Or did she have some reason to dislike Charlotte?

  Perhaps it was the fact that Charlotte was making love to her son. Good gracious. Did she know?

  Charlotte swallowed uneasily and set her teacup down on the table. “Is Mr. Torrington at home?” she asked. “I came to wish him well before he leaves for America.”

  Mrs. Torrington tapped one long fingernail on the arm of her chair and regarded Charlotte with unmistakable derision. “No, my son is not at home, and you should count yourself lucky that he is not.”

  “Why is that?” Charlotte asked.

  The woman glared at her. “Because he is not the sort of man with whom a lady like you should keep company.”

  The walls seemed to suddenly close in around Charlotte. “I don’t understand.”

  Mrs. Torrington sat forward again and scoffed. “Surely you know that he has a violent streak. You must have seen it for yourself when you were robbed and he stopped the thief from getting away. It is why he left England all those years ago, because the entire country knew what he was capable of. He would most certainly have ended up in prison, or dead, if he had stayed.”

  “That was a long time ago,” Charlotte argued in his defense. “From what I understand, it was a difficult time for him.”

  He had just lost his wife. He had taken his grief out in the boxing ring, while Charlotte had dealt with her own grief by hiding away from the world and despising it. People changed with the passing of time and new life experiences. She was not the same woman now. He, too, had changed. She had recovered and she was stronger. She believed Drake had also found peace again. “And I do not believe he has a violent streak. I believe he is a good man.”