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. Charlotte 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?”
He glanced down at her briefly, then returned his gaze to the window for a long moment while his chest rose and fell with a sigh. “Twelve years.”
“I see,” Charlotte replied hesitantly. “Are you here only to visit, Mr. Torrington, or do you intend to stay?”
“I will 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 escorted him inside. “I will have Mrs. March examine him when she is through with you,” Mr. Torrington said.
Charlotte regarded her rescuer curiously in the window’s 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. He bent forward to shake it.
“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 to 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, “Lady Charlotte, I 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, 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 is not for me to say, my lady. You would 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 the 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.”
“I could fetch him and have him bring your coach here.”
“No, please, I’d rather walk. I feel I need to move and breathe some air.”
“Very well.” 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, or to lie 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 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.”
Had she really just said that? Yes, she had.
His 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 that 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 ever 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—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 very 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 Mr. Torrington 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,” he said.
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 4
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 didn’t matter if they were beautiful or not. One of his most enjoyable affairs had been with a woman who was rather plain according to society’s superficial standards, but she understood Drake’s temperament. She made him laugh and cared nothing for the latest fashions or society gossip. In a way, she had 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 there 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 was what made this so intriguing. 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 is a cure for a great many maladies.”
“Well said.” There was something lively about Lady Charlotte 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. 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 such as Lady Charlotte 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 the fact that he was fifth in line to an earldom.
“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?”
He softly chuckled. “But it is not the size of the boat that matters,” he told her, “but rather the skill of the oarsman. A sleek hull can make a difference as well.”
Seduced at Sunset (Love at Pembroke Palace Book 6) Page 3