Seduced At Sunset (5 page)

“Tell me, Mr. Torrington,” she said, leaning back in a lushly
sensual way, “what should I expect from our excursion today? How big is your
boat?”

“It’s not the size of the boat that matters,” he replied,
“but the skill of the oarsman. A sleek hull can make a difference as well.”

Her tongue darted out to lick her lips, and he felt
another surge of rather hedonistic lust that moved from his mind to his groin.

“I suspect your skill with the oars is first-rate, Mr.
Torrington, since you row each morning. Practice makes perfect, they say. How
fast will we go? Am I dressed all right? Or will I lose my hat out on the
water?”

“You are dressed perfectly, Lady Charlotte, and I will
move as fast, or slow, as you desire. I can do both equally well.” He looked
her over seductively.

“I am sure that you can.”

Their gazes remained fixed on each other’s while she
twirled a lock of hair at her temple. She fiddled with it in a deliberately
suggestive manner, and he wondered what the bloody hell he was getting himself
into.

He had come home to ensure that his mother would be taken
care of in the years to come, not to become involved in a scorching hot love
affair with a woman who could turn out to be very manipulative and demanding.
He suspected she’d practiced that hair-twirling gesture in front of a mirror.
He knew nothing about her deeper character. She could be one of those spoiled,
possessive types who throw china vases when things don’t go their way. Heaven
help them both if that turned out to be the case.

The coach rumbled noisily over the city cobblestones on
the way to the river jetty where he kept his boat.

“If you don’t mind me asking,” she said, “what kept you in
America for so long? Did you intend to stay there permanently when you first
crossed the Atlantic?”

“Permanently is too strong a word,” he replied. “I only
knew that I wouldn’t return for a long while.”

“And what is it that you do there? Forgive the questions,
but I have always wanted to visit America. It sounds so very modern and
progressive.”

“Yes,” he said. “It is not like it is here. Americans are
not so steeped in senseless tradition. At least most of them are not. The
country is only just finding its legs, and I have enjoyed being a part of that
growing awareness.”

“How so?”

The questions were taking a personal turn, but he had no
reason to keep anything secret about his life abroad, so he spoke openly.

“I am a railroad investor,” he explained.

“Really?” She sat forward. “How fascinating.”

“I like to think so,” he agreed. “The varying geography of
the country is overwhelming. The American frontier stretches for thousands of
miles, and there are mountains, prairies, and lakes the size of small oceans.
At one time, it seemed impossible to imagine that there could be a way to
connect the two coasts, but the railroad is changing everything. Commerce is
booming. The possibilities there are endless.”

“It must be very exciting to be a part of that.”

It had been both exciting and lucrative, for he had
traveled to America with a significant fortune, and had quadrupled it three
times over since his departure twelve years ago. He was probably richer than
her brother the duke, but he was not the sort to flaunt his wealth.

“But it must have also been exciting to return home after
such a long time away,” she added. “I am sure your mother was pleased to see
you.”

He shrugged at that, for he and his mother were not close.
Not in the least. As her only living son, he was here merely to do his duty by
her. Then he would be gone again.

“It appears we have arrived,” he said as the coach pulled
to a halt not far from the water’s edge. Drake flicked the latch and pushed the
coach door open, then stepped out and offered his hand.

“It’s not too late to change your mind,” he said,
reluctantly releasing her fingers. “You could wait here if you prefer not to
get wet.”

“Why? Do you intend to sink us?”

“I don’t intend to,” he replied with some amusement, “but
there is always some unintentional splashing, and the water is chilly.”

“I shall weather it, Mr. Torrington,” she said as he led
her to the jetty, “but I appreciate your concern for my welfare.”

Mr. Torrington stepped into the rowboat and held out his
hand to her. As she joined him, the boat pitched and rolled. She quickly took a
seat on the bench at the stern.

“It’s a very nice boat,” she said, noting that it was only
recently built, for she could smell the freshness of the wood.

Torrington untied the ropes. He sat down, removed his
coat, set it aside, and picked up the oars. By braking with one oar and pulling
with the other, he turned the small rowboat around to head out onto the river.

There was not a single breath of wind, and the water was
as still as glass. A hint of mist hovered over its surface. Charlotte closed
her eyes, breathed in the fresh morning air, and listened to the sounds of the
oars dipping into the water. The boat thrust firmly forward with each stroke,
and when she opened her eyes, she was astonished by the speed at which they
were traveling.

Mr. Torrington, dressed in a loose white shirt and black
waistcoat, was already breaking into a sweat. Then he began to row even faster.
Charlotte could not fail to notice his big hands gripping the oar handles with
tremendous might, and the strength of his legs as he braced them and propelled
the boat forward. She also noticed that his knuckles were scabbed from the
fight the previous day.

“You’re very good at this,” she said, amazed at the power
of his strokes. The boat cut through the water’s surface like a blade.

“It’s a favorite pastime of mine,” he said.

“Do you race?”

“Yes,” he replied, crunching forward to perform another
impressive stroke. “Whitehall racing is quite the thing in Boston and New
York.”

“Whitehall...?”

“The name of this type of rowboat. Some say it originated
in England, but others argue that it is an American design.”

Charlotte was not sure what she had expected from today.
She thought she’d seen it all when she watched Mr. Torrington knock a man out
in the street, but now, in an entirely different set of circumstances, she was
spellbound yet again... by his broad shoulders in that loose white shirt, his
massive biceps flexing, and his raw masculinity. He was a giant of a man,
brimming with a magnetism that caused her body to shiver with excitement and
promise. He made her feel hungry for something... beyond propriety. She
imagined throwing herself onto his lap, wrapping her arms around his neck, and
devouring him with slow, deep kisses that lasted until noon.

She’d never felt such raw attraction before. No man had
ever aroused her desires in such a way, and she knew that she simply had to
have him. He was the one. She was as certain of that as if she’d selected him
from inside a glass case at the jewelry shop.

“How far do you go each morning?” she asked, working to
distract herself from thoughts of those big hands roaming over her bare skin.

“I row hard and fast for a quarter of an hour.” He
practically grunted out the words. “Then I slow down and turn back, and return
at a more leisurely pace.”

Her head nearly snapped back with the force of each thrust
of the oars. “You’re very strong,” she said with a laugh.

Glancing over his shoulder briefly, he gave no reply. She
could see he was focused on achieving greater speed and ensuring the right
direction.

His hair had grown damp with perspiration, and was unruly.
He flicked his head to toss it back out of his eyes. His shirt stuck to his
shoulders. Shiny beads of sweat were visible on his chest where his shirt
collar was open. What she wouldn’t give to lick the dampness off his neck as
she imagined she would do if he were her lover. Lord in heaven, she had never
before, in her real life, entertained such wicked thoughts about a man.

She felt perspiration on her forehead as well, but not
from any physical exertion. She sat primly with both hands on the gunwale, but
felt all tangled up inside, mesmerized and craving to be closer to his potent
masculinity.

When they reached the end of the quarter hour, he stopped
rowing, lifted the oars out of the water, and paused to catch his breath. It
was at that moment he met her gaze, while his chest heaved and the boat slowly
drifted to a halt.

They floated freely for a moment or two. He leaned back,
rested his elbows on another bench behind him, and grimaced. “I am afraid I’m
not much of a conversationalist this early in the morning. Are you bored?”

Was he joking?

“Far from it,” she replied. “This is tremendous. I am
riveted. You have my attention, all of it.” Her heart was racing and her body
was on fire with exhilaration and anticipation.

He took another moment to recover his breathing, then sat
up and turned the boat around.

“Will this be the leisurely portion of the tour?” she
asked.

He smiled and nodded. “Yes, it’s time to slow things
down.”

She suspected she was going to like it slow, just as well
as fast.

“Lady Charlotte, tell me,” he said. “What were you doing
in my neighborhood yesterday, all on your own?”

She couldn’t very well confess that she had gone to visit
her real father to try and pair him up with her mother, or that she had failed
miserably and needed to be alone because she was brokenhearted. Hence, she
steered the conversation elsewhere.

“I had a meeting with my publisher yesterday, and I needed
to work through some ideas.”

He leaned forward, then pushed back with those strong legs
for a long, slow stroke of the oars. “Are you a writer?”

“Yes. A novelist.”

“You don’t say.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Would I
know your work?”

“Possibly. My book has been selling well in America, they
tell me.”

“What’s it called?”

She hesitated, for she had been using a
nom de plume
. “I write under a man’s name,” she said. “My
publisher felt the book would sell better that way. It’s Victor Edwards.”

He immediately stopped rowing. “Are you having me on?”

“No.” She chuckled.

“
You’re
Victor Edwards?”

“Yes.”

The boat began to drift on the current. “I am sitting in
my boat with Victor Edwards.
The
Victor Edwards. And
he’s a woman?”

“That’s right.”

He stared at her. “I am in shock!”

Charlotte laughed again. “So you’ve heard of me, then?”

He slowly resumed rowing. “Yes, and I’ve read your book.
It was quite...” He paused.

She hated when people paused like that. She always feared
it was because they hated it, and didn’t know how to politely say so.

“Quite...?” She drew a circle in the air to encourage him
to hurry and find the right word.

“It was well researched,” he said.

“Ah. So you didn’t like it.”

“No, you mistake me. I enjoyed the story very much. I was
particularly interested in the main character—Jesse.”

“The boxer,” she said. It was also the title of the book.

“Yes.” He glanced over his shoulder again, then shook his
head in disbelief.

“What do you find so amusing?” she asked. “There is
something you’re not telling me.”

He faced her again and lifted the oars out of the water.
“I read the book because the title captured my attention. I am a boxer myself,
you see. Well... a retired boxer.”

“Not professional, though,” she said, for he was a
gentleman, the nephew of an earl. It was not uncommon for young noblemen to
dabble in the sport, but it was quite another matter to earn one’s living in
the ring.

“I was,” he said, surprising her with his reply. “And I
made a small fortune at it, too.”

“I don’t doubt it, based on what I witnessed yesterday. Is
that why you went to America in the beginning? To fight over there?”

He adjusted the oars in the oarlocks then dipped them into
the water again. “No, I boxed here in England. I only went to America after I
decided to quit the sport.”

Charlotte sat speechless while she did the math. He had
told her yesterday that he had been gone for twelve years, which would have put
him in the ring in 1875, or so.

She had indeed done a significant amount of research for
her novel and had read about many of England’s professional boxers. One in
particular had gained notoriety as a champion until he suddenly went missing
from the news. There was some speculation that he had been murdered, but a body
was never discovered, so the case was closed.

“Forgive me for asking this question, Mr. Torrington,” she
said, “but are you... were you... The Iron Fist?”

The Iron Fist was one of the most celebrated, and feared
sportsmen in the country who managed to keep his true identity a secret. Any
man brave enough to step into the ring with him subjected himself to
incomprehensible violence. They didn’t call him The Iron Fist for nothing, and
eventually the boxing establishment had trouble finding sparring partners for
him, for no one dared go head to head with him. He had never been defeated.