Then his eyes narrowed with displeasure and he took a step closer.
For some reason, Charlotte quickly backed away, as if he had swung another punch, this time in her direction.
“You’re hurt,” he said, not seeming surprised that she had recoiled from him.
“No, I’m not,” she insisted.
He pointed to a drop of blood on her collar, and only then did she notice a wet sensation on her scalp. The dizziness she experienced earlier suddenly made sense, and when she slid her gloved fingers into her upswept hair and felt a gash just over her ear, her stomach turned over. “I’m bleeding.”
And for the second time that day, the world turned white before her eyes, her knees buckled beneath her, and she began to sink toward the ground.
Though teetering on the muddled edges of consciousness, Charlotte was keenly aware of the man scooping her up into his arms—as if she weighed no more than a bolt of fabric—and carrying her toward his home.
Clinging tightly to the solid frame of his shoulders, she fought to stay awake and not faint in his arms. He was hard as a rock beneath her hands, and he smelled of exotic spicy cologne.
He mounted his front steps lightly, with no effort at all, as if they were both floating on air, and his incredible strength had a strange effect on her. It helped keep her alert, for all her senses were stimulated by his appealing virility.
“That’s it,” he whispered softly in her ear as he shifted her in his arms to rap the lion’s head doorknocker. “Just hold on to me, darling.” Darling?
“You’ll be fine. My housekeeper will tend to you. One shouldn’t ignore a head wound, you know. They can be serious.”
She suspected he was making conversation to keep her conscious, but there was little danger of nodding off, for she didn’t want to miss a single moment of this strangely thrilling ordeal.
Eventually the door opened and Charlotte was carried into the house. She looked around at the walls, the floors, the staircase and the pictures on the walls as she was conveyed into a cozy front parlor, decorated with deep colors and chintz fabrics.
Clearly this house did not lack a woman’s touch. She wondered if the gentleman had a wife, and if so, was she at home? What would she say when she saw her husband carry a strange woman to the sofa and lay her down upon it?
The butler appeared—was he the one who opened the door?—and followed them into the room. “Was there an accident?” he asked.
“Yes,” her rescuer replied as he ensured Charlotte was settled comfortably on the soft cushions. “This woman was robbed, and she requires our assistance. Please send for Mrs. March and tell her to bring warm water, bandages, and a washcloth. Send Richard to fetch a constable, but not before he and Alfred bring the thief inside.” He leaned closer to the butler and lowered his voice. “Tie him up in the kitchen.”
“Yes, sir,” the butler said, and left to fulfil his duties.
While the gentleman looked out the window to keep an eye on the thief, Charlotte attempted to rise up on her elbows, but felt a sudden wave of nausea.
“Don’t try to get up,” he said. “Wait for the housekeeper. She’ll be here soon.” His gaze returned to the street.
Charlotte watched his cool gray eyes sparkle like silver in the sunlight. “If I am going to thank you properly,” she said, “I should at least know your name.”
He faced her, clasped his hands behind his back, and bowed slightly. “My apologies, madam. I am Drake Torrington.”
“Torrington...” Her eyebrows drew together as she tried to place the name.
“My uncle is Earl Lidstone,” he explained.
Ah. So he was a member of the aristocracy. She wanted to rise to her feet and introduce herself properly, but dared not move from her position.
“Your uncle’s estate is near Brighton, is it not?” she asked.
“That is correct.”
“I know of it. I visited there once, when I was a girl.”
“Did you,” he flatly said.
Curious to know more about him, she politely inquired: “Do you have a family, sir? A wife and children?”
“No, there is only my mother, who is mistress here. I am not married, and I have only just returned from America.”
“How long were you away?”
“Twelve years.”
“Oh my. Twelve years... Welcome home, then,” Charlotte replied. “Are you here merely to visit, or do you plan to stay?”
“I’ll be leaving at the end of the summer,” he told her, seeming distracted. “There. A few of my servants are bringing your thief inside now.”
“Is he conscious?” Charlotte asked, trying again to sit up. This time she felt somewhat recovered.
“See for yourself.” Mr. Torrington held the curtain aside for her. She was able to look out the window behind the sofa.
The man was on his feet and walking, though he leaned heavily on the men on either side, who escort him inside. “I will have Mrs. March examine him as well when she is through with you,” Mr. Torrington said.
Charlotte regarded her rescuer curiously in the window light as it reflected off his shiny black hair. Then she realized she had not yet told him her name. “Mr. Torrington, how do you do. I am Charlotte Sinclair of Pembroke.” She held out her gloved hand, and he bent forward to shake it, for she was still seated with her feet up.
“Pembroke Palace?”
“Yes. My eldest brother is the duke.”
His eyebrows lifted. “You don’t say. In that case, I am deeply honored to have been of assistance to you, Lady Charlotte.”
Their eyes locked and held, and she felt a shock of awareness at the thrill of his touch. He had not yet let go of her hand, and she was astonished by the fact that he did not crush it—for she knew the size and strength of those brawny fists.
But there was something else, too, that she noticed—a curious and devilishly charming flicker of light in his eyes that sent a hot and rather explosive spark of attraction into her core.
Just then, the housekeeper entered the room, and Charlotte was forced to let go of his hand. He moved away rather quickly and said, “My lady, allow me to present Mrs. March. This is Lady Charlotte Sinclair of Pembroke Palace, and she has hit her head. Will you take a look at her?”
“I would be pleased to do so, sir,” the housekeeper replied, and pulled a chair up to sit alongside the sofa. She set her bowl of water and cloths on the floor. “Now tell me, where does it hurt?” she asked.
Charlotte indicated the spot over and behind her ear.
“Ah yes, you did some damage, I see. Did you lose consciousness?”
“I don’t believe so, though I did feel very faint.”
“Can you wiggle your feet for me?” Mrs. March asked while she examined the wound.
Charlotte wiggled her feet.
“What about double vision? Or numbness or tingling in your hands or feet?”
“No, nothing like that,” Charlotte replied.
“Very good. Now let me see your pupils. Turn your face toward the light?” Charlotte did as she was told, and the housekeeper examined her eyes. Turning toward Mr. Torrington, who had moved to the other side of the parlor, she said, “She appears to be perfectly fine, sir. I’ll just clean the wound now. It doesn’t look like she needs stitches.”
“That is excellent news,” he replied. “Now, if you will both excuse me.”
He left the room—no doubt to check on the thief who had been brought in through the servant’s entrance downstairs—and Charlotte was left alone with the housekeeper. “Are you a nurse?” she asked. “You seem quite knowledgeable.”
“I have some experience with head wounds, my lady. I know when it’s serious enough to call the doctor.”
“Where did you gain such useful experience?” she asked.
The housekeeper glanced down at her very briefly while she continued to clean Charlotte’s wound. “That’s not for me to say, my lady. You’ll have to ask Mr. Torrington about that.�
��
“I do beg your pardon. I didn’t mean to pry.”
Nothing more was said after that. Charlotte sat quietly and patiently while Mrs. March finished cleaning her wound. Only then did she realize that her coachman was probably very concerned, for she had been gone far longer than fifteen minutes.
When the housekeeper finished her duty, she collected up the bowl of water with bloody washcloth, and returned the chair to its original position by the wall.
“I am grateful for your assistance,” Charlotte said, “but I really must be on my way. My driver is probably beside himself with worry. I only meant to take a short walk.”
“Is he nearby?” Mrs. March asked, crossing to the window to look out.
“He is waiting for me on Park Lane.”
“Then you must wait for Mr. Torrington to escort you. Please do not get up too quickly, my lady, or you may feel faint again. I will go and fetch him.”
“Thank you.” Charlotte waited in the empty parlor while the clock ticked steadily on the mantel and her head throbbed.
When at last Mr. Torrington appeared in the doorway, she did exactly what Mrs. March warned her not to do, and stood up quickly. The room spun in circles before her eyes, but somehow she managed to maintain her balance.
“I was told you wish to be on your way,” said in that husky voice that slid over her like velvet.
“Yes, if you don’t mind. I am sure my driver is quite worried.”
“Of course.” He strode to her, offered his arm, and she took it. A moment later, they were strolling out the door and descending the steps.
“The constable may wish to speak with you,” Mr. Torrington said. “May I have permission to tell him your name and where you live?”
“Absolutely,” she replied. “I will be at Pembroke House in Mayfair. He may come by today if he wishes, as I intend to go straight home.”
They walked along the sunbathed street while Charlotte’s heels clicked sharply across the pavement. She was very aware of Mr. Torrington’s muscled arm beneath her hand and his breath-taking presence beside her.
It had not been a good day. In fact, it had been one of the worst days in recent memory, yet her body was sizzling with excitement. She hadn’t felt this alive in years and knew the reason for it. It was more than the attack and the bump on the head. It was Mr. Torrington. She had never met anyone quite like him and she found herself wondering what it would be like to be held in his arms, to be kissed passionately by him in the dark, to lie naked with him on a hot summer night under the stars. Would he be gentle with a woman, or would he be rough?
Heaven help her, it had been a lifetime since she’d known true passion, and lately she felt as if her body was going to burst into flames if she did not enjoy the erotic pleasure of a man’s touch before she grew too old to want it. She was a spinster. It was not likely she would ever marry, but why couldn’t she take a lover? And why couldn’t it be this man? For he excited her. No one had excited her like this since Graham.
They reached the corner. Charlotte spotted her coach and driver still waiting at the curb not far from Dr. Thomas’s office. She stopped and turned to face Mr. Torrington. “I cannot thank you enough,” she said, “for your gallant rescue today, and for retrieving my reticule. Please thank Mrs. March for her kind attention.”
“I will,” he replied.
“My coach is just there, so I shall walk the rest of the way on my own. But before I go, I wish to say something, and I suspect it may shock you.”
“Yes?” He inclined his head slightly.
She hesitated. “I would like to see you again, Mr. Torrington. In private.”
Had she really said it? Yes, she had.
His silvery blue gaze dipped lower to her mouth, then slowly, knowingly lifted back up to her eyes. “For what purpose, Lady Charlotte?”
He was a man of few words, but there was something about him that required very few of them. Something sultry and seductive. Physically powerful.
“You mentioned you were unmarried,” she boldly said. “I, too, am unattached. You are here for the Season. So am I. Perhaps we could... become better acquainted.”
The corner of his mouth curled up in a small grin that made her knees go all buttery-soft. “Do you wish to thank me again?” he asked.
“Yes, I do.”
She never imagined she would speak so scandalously to a man, but this one was not like other London gentlemen. He had been living in America for the past twelve years. Doing what... she had no idea. And he would be returning there soon. He was also rather rough and unrefined. He was not a member of her social circle, yet he was the nephew of an earl.
If she was ever going to take a secret lover, was he not an excellent choice? If things did not work out, he would soon be gone, but most importantly, he excited her. He was like some sort of battle-roughened Roman gladiator in city clothes. He could be the perfect fantasy.
“Then I am at your service, my lady,” he replied with a small bow.
Charlotte squeezed her reticule in her hands, for she wasn’t entirely sure how this was done. “Do you walk in the park at the fashionable hour? She asked. “Or do you attend the theatre?”
“I do neither of those things,” he replied, not making this easy on her at all.
“Why ever not?”
He squinted toward the park as he answered. “Because I intend to remain on the fringes of Society while I am in Town.”
Even more perfect, she thought. But also odd. “May I ask why?”
His eyes met hers again, and there was a hint of a smile in them—a flicker of playful flirtation and encouragement. “I wouldn’t venture to bore you with it, Lady Charlotte. It’s rather tedious,” he explained.
“I see.” He did not want to share the story of his life with her, but he did not wish to reject her either, and she understood why, for she could feel the attraction sparking between them in the scorching heat of the afternoon. Her body began to perspire, and she felt a rather pleasant ache in the pit of her belly and deep between her thighs—just from looking at him.
She raised a coquettish eyebrow. “Though I doubt anything about you could be tedious,” she said, and felt the heat between them escalate. “But I will honor your wishes and ask no more questions. At least not today. Except for this one. What do you like to do, Mr. Torrington? When and how can we meet? On the fringes, as you say.”
This was all scandalously improper and not at all prudent. Here was a stranger she had just met—a man who had, a short while ago, punched another man with such brutal force, he was left seeing stars—and she was suggesting they meet alone, outside the bounds or good society? Was she mad? Yes, she supposed so. She was mad with lust, for that’s where this urgency was coming from. It was like a sexual explosion in her core, and it was crushing all reason and inhibitions.
“I row on the Thames every morning at dawn.”
No wonder his hands were huge and callused and his arms were so thickly muscled.
“Is there room in your boat for two?” she asked.
“Yes, if you are the adventurous sort.”
She smiled. “I grew up in the country with four brothers, Mr. Torrington. I assure you I have no fear of adventure.”
“Then I will pick you up at six,” he said.
“I’ll be waiting.”
He began to back away. “Take care of that pretty head, my lady.”
A thrill moved through her at the compliment, and she smiled to herself as she, too, backed away to return to her coach.
SEDUCED AT SUNSET - Available March 31, 2013
Books by Julianne MacLean
The American Heiress Series:
To Marry the Duke
An Affair Most Wicked
My Own Private Hero
Love According to Lily
Portrait of a Lover
Surrender to a Scoundrel
The Pembroke Palace Series:
In My Wildest Fantasies
The Mistress D
iaries
When a Stranger Loves Me
Married By Midnight
A Kiss Before the Wedding - A Pembroke Palace Short Story
Seduced at Sunset (Coming in 2013)
The Highlander Trilogy:
Captured by the Highlander
Claimed by the Highlander
Seduced by the Highlander
The Rebel – A Highland Short Story
The Royal Trilogy:
Be My Prince
Princess in Love
The Prince’s Bride
Harlequin Historical Romances:
Prairie Bride
The Marshal and Mrs. O’Malley
Adam’s Promise
Time Travel Romance
Taken by the Cowboy
Contemporary Fiction:
Written as E.V. Mitchell:
The Color of Heaven
About the Author
Julianne MacLean is a USA Today bestselling author of numerous historical romances, including The Highlander Trilogy with St. Martin’s Press and her popular American Heiress Series with Avon/Harper Collins. She also writes contemporary mainstream fiction under the pseudonym E.V. Mitchell, and her recent release The Color of Heaven was an Amazon bestseller. She is a three-time RITA finalist, and has won numerous awards, including the Booksellers’ Best Award, the Book Buyer’s Best Award, and a Reviewers’ Choice Award from Romantic Times for Best Regency Historical of 2005. She lives in Nova Scotia with her husband and daughter, and is a dedicated member of Romance Writers of Atlantic Canada. Please visit Julianne’s website for more information.
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Acknowledgements
Special thanks to my cousin and critique partner Michelle Phillips (a.k.a Daisy Piper) for your constant support and creative assistance, editor Patricia Thomas for helping to make this book shine, and reader Michelle Whitney, whose lovely gift of needlepoint hangs in my dining room where I write and still inspires me with each new project. Thanks also to my agent Paige Wheeler at Folio Literary Management for thirteen years of excellent representation.
Married By Midnight (Pembroke Palace Book 4) Page 18
