Seduced At Sunset (12 page)

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. So 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, she 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.

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 sexual 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. An old rug had been
laid out to cover the plank floor.

The sight of his naked chest and the smell of his sweaty
body 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 practicing. 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. “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 the 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.

“In a bare-knuckled fight,” he replied, “it bloody well
hurts.”

“Hurts you or him?” she inquired further.

“Both of us, I suppose.”

“Then what, may I ask, is the appeal?”

He continued to circle around the bag, his eyes hungry for
sex, while she moved in the opposite direction. “A question I’ve often asked
myself over the years,” he replied. “Was it the cheering crowd? The triumph
when the other man fell at my feet? Or the buckets of money?”

“How big a fortune did you win?” she boldly asked.

“Enough to buy my passage to America and purchase holdings
in three different railroads once I got there.”

“Very impressive.” She ran her fingers over the smooth
brown leather and looked up at the rope that was slung over the beam. It
creaked like an old ship whenever the bag swung back and forth. “How much does
this weigh?”

“Forty pounds, I imagine.”

“That’s heavy.”

His eyes narrowed with amusement. “Are you teasing me,
Lady Charlotte?”

“I don’t know. Am I?”

He stopped his circling and stared at her. “I reckon you
are. A tease, I mean.”

Her pulse thrummed with excitement. “Clearly I am a very
naughty lady. What are you going to do about it?”

His mouth curved up in a devilish grin, and he shoved the
punching bag aside. The next thing she knew, it was swinging back and forth
across the width of the stall and she was pinned up against the back wall,
while his big hand slid over the curve of her hip. She turned her head to the
side to allow him full access to the sensitive flesh at her throat, which he
kissed hungrily, sending a flood of tingling arousal into her core.

Good Lord
... She could barely
comprehend the grandeur of his muscular shoulders and back as she ran her
fingers over the muscles, still slick with his sweat. Then his mouth found hers
and he kissed her roughly, sweeping his tongue inside while his hands tugged
her skirts upward and he worked at the fastenings of his breeches.

Seconds later, he was plunging his thick, rigid length
into her, and she gasped with pleasure at that most welcome invasion. Last
night she had dreamed of this after her return from the ball. While memories of
the music played in her head, she had imagined Mr. Torrington’s hands on her
body, and had trembled with pleasure at the mere thought of being taken by him,
just like this—roughly and quickly, without foreplay, up against a wall.
It was all so expected, yet so very shocking to her lady-like sensibilities.
What had become of her?

She was not a wanton harlot, yet she felt like one
whenever she thought about this man or fell shamelessly into his arms. She
cared for nothing but the hedonistic pleasure of his embrace, the masterful
stroke of his hands, and the sumptuous flavor of his flesh upon her lips and
tongue.

He pumped into her hard and fast, shoving her up against
the stable wall while she gasped with every glorious thrust.

Then a climax rose up within her and her vaginal muscles
clenched tight and convulsed repeatedly around the driving force of his
manhood.

She was still crying out when he shoved deep and hard,
almost painfully into her depths, and grunted like a tortured beast in a cage.

Suddenly weakened, he pulled out of her. Her skirts fell
to the floor while she fought to regain her sanity. He backed away and fastened
his breeches, then sat down on the rug. Legs stretched out, he leaned on both
arms and looked up at her in amazement. “Christ... I meant to pull out sooner.
I don’t know what happened.”

Charlotte decided to join him on the floor to recover.
“Neither do I. That was wild. But I think it’s a fairly safe time.” Her courses
were due soon, but one could never be sure. She was surprised he had taken that
chance.

For a long time they sat in a silent haze of shock and
sensual fulfillment.

“Did you attend the ball last night?” he asked, out of the
blue.

“Yes. It was very enjoyable.”

“Did you dance?”

“Quite a bit, actually.”

He stared at her. “How many times?”

Charlotte frowned at him, for she could sense his
displeasure at the image of her swirling around the floor in the arms of
countless other men. “I couldn’t tell you the exact number—I would have
to consult my dance card—but I saw no reason to refuse any invitations.
The music was lively and the room was festive. It was a crush, but a most excellent
crowd.”