Seduced At Sunset (4 page)

“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, the housekeeper 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 servants’ 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 knowledge?” 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,” he 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, Charlotte’s heels
clicking sharply on the pavement. She was very aware of Mr. Torrington’s
muscled arm beneath her hand and his breathtaking masculine 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 would burst into flames if she
did not enjoy the erotic pleasure of a man’s touch again before she grew too
old to want or need 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 handsome
stranger? 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 were 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
fulfillment of her 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 theater?”

“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
. But also odd,
so she posed another question. “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 between her thighs—from just looking at him.

She raised a coquettish eyebrow. “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 of good Society?
Was she mad?
Yes, she supposed so.

At the moment, she was mad with desire. That had to
explain where this urgency was coming from. Something about him had gotten
under her skin and into her blood. The need for this man was unlike anything
she had ever known and the draw of it crushed all reason and any 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 bring my coach around and pick you up at
Pembroke House at six,” he said.

“I will look forward to it.”

He began to back away. “Take care of that pretty head,
Lady Charlotte”

A wicked thrill moved through her at the compliment, and
she smiled to herself as she, too, reluctantly backed away to return to her
coach.

Chapter Four

Drake was not in the habit of inviting attractive women
along for his morning exercise. It was a time of day he preferred to keep for
himself, though he supposed most times of the day fell into that category, for
he was not a social person. He had retreated from the world many years ago and
chose to live a very private life.

That did not mean he was a complete recluse, however, and
he was certainly not a celibate monk. He often took a lover for a sustained
period of time, a few months at least or even a year if the lady was
particularly amiable and did not expect too much from him—meaning
marriage, of course, or a certain level of togetherness to which he was not
willing to commit. He preferred independent women who had their own interests
beyond his attentions. Women who were intelligent, who possessed a good wit—and
it certainly didn’t hurt if they were beautiful. Though it was not a
requirement.

One of his most enjoyable affairs had been with a woman
who was not tall, blond, or statuesque. Her hair was red, her cheeks were
freckled, and her nose was too large, but she was always smiling and she
understood Drake’s temperament. She made him laugh and cared nothing for the
latest fashions or society gossip. In a way, she’d been an outsider, like him,
and they’d had a good time together while it lasted and remained friends to
this day.

Lady Charlotte of Pembroke Palace was nothing like her,
however, for she was tall, blond, and statuesque, with an ivory complexion,
full lips like sweet ripe cherries, and eyes that, when focused on him, nearly
knocked him backward. Everything about her—the fashionable gown, the silk
shoes, and ridiculous plumed hat—screamed money and rank. She was not
Drake’s preferred type at all. Yet here he sat, pulling up in front of her
family’s London residence at dawn, wondering if he should get out and knock on
the door, or wait for her like a secret, forbidden paramour in the shadows.

This was strange indeed. They had barely spoken more than
a few words to each other before she presented her scandalous offer to thank
him again. Perhaps that’s what made it so titillating. He found himself unable
to resist testing how far this would go.

He sat forward in his seat and peered out the window at
the house, then reached into his pocket for his watch. It was not quite six
o’clock. How long would he wait if she did not appear? Perhaps she had come to
her senses and changed her mind. Perhaps she had thought more carefully about
the way he had chased down her thief and beaten him insensible. If so, Drake
would simply move on, enjoy his morning exercise, and think no more about her.

The front door of the house opened just then and Lady
Charlotte walked out.

Drake flung the door of the coach open and stepped out to
greet her. “Good morning,” he said, surprised by how good it made him feel that
she had kept her word.

“Good morning to you,” she cheerfully replied as she
placed her gloved hand in his and allowed him to assist her into the dimly lit
interior of the vehicle. When they were comfortably seated across from each
other, she said, “I wasn’t sure if you would really come. I thought I might
have dreamed all of that yesterday.”

“How is your head?” he asked as he rapped his walking
stick on the roof and the coach moved on.

“Much better, thank you. A good night’s sleep did the
trick.”

“In my experience, it always does. It’s a cure for a great
many maladies.”

“Well said.” There was something lively about her this
morning. She seemed invigorated. Obviously the early morning hours agreed with
her.

“Did the constable come to see you?” Drake asked.

“Yes, about an hour after I arrived home. I told him
everything that happened, and he wrote it all down.” She gazed out the window.
“I hope they are not too hard on the man. I hate to think that he might have
been desperate, merely trying to feed his family.”

“That wasn’t the case,” Drake assured her. “He is a single
man with a gambling problem and owed money to the wrong people. But your
forgiveness does you credit, Lady Charlotte, considering how he caused you such
injury. You were lucky. Head wounds are unpredictable. It could have been much
worse.”

She turned her eyes toward him again, and he felt his body
flex. God, she truly was astonishingly beautiful, almost too beautiful to look
at.

What exactly did she want from him?
He studied her as they traveled in the gently swaying coach. Was it
presumptuous of him to assume it was something wicked? Something private and
pleasurably depraved, when surely, she could have any man she wanted?

Funny, this was not the first time a woman like her had
propositioned him. The glitzy ones sometimes enjoyed a brief roll in the gutter
with a man like him, for he knew what kind of impression he made. On the
surface he appeared rough and uncultivated. There was something about his
looks—the facial scars, the way he spoke, and carried himself—that
drew women’s attention. He knew he didn’t fit into the glittering ballrooms and
pretentious drawing rooms of the English upper classes, despite that fact that
he was fifth in line to an earldom.