Seduced At Sunset (21 page)

No, no, no!
Dorothea massaged
her temples. Drake could not continue with this affair!

Dorothea paced back and forth in front of the fire while
her blood blazed hotter than the flames in the hearth. This sordid connection
to the daughter of William’s old flame simply could not continue. Drake must
leave England immediately and return to America. There was no reason for him to
stay. Their finances were secured, and she certainly did not need him for
anything else. He had to leave London, and Lady Charlotte needed to take her
mother straight back to the country dower house where she bloody well belonged.

Drake would
not
be meeting Lady
Charlotte for a wicked rendezvous on the river tomorrow. Not if Dorothea had
anything to do with it.

Overcome by a jealous rage, she threw the letter into the
fire and watched it burn to ash.

Chapter Eighteen

Charlotte was awake with the birds on Thursday morning.
She dressed without ringing for her maid and tiptoed downstairs to watch for
Mr. Torrington’s coach through the front window.

Her heart beat fast when a vehicle pulled into the square,
but it was not Mr. Torrington, and she sighed with disappointment and
impatience.

It seemed like forever since they had parted at the
palace, and she longed for him desperately. It was the worst sort of
deprivation. She was miserable one minute and bursting with excitement the
next. Before her carriage left Pembroke Palace for the station, it had been all
she could do to keep from saddling a horse and galloping all the way to London
on her own to see him again.

At last, the waiting was over. He would be here soon and
she would run out to his coach and throw herself into his arms. She had been
dreaming of such a moment for days. Perhaps she would tell him how she truly
felt—that this had become more than just a casual affair to her.
Somewhere along the way, she had fallen quite madly in love with him.

Could she dare say it?
Should
she? Or would it frighten him away?

No, she decided, it would make him smile. She was certain
of it, for she remembered the tenderness of his lovemaking at Pembroke,
especially that evening in the rain at sunset.

He had teased her once about a forced marriage between
them. It had been a hint. He wouldn’t have said such a thing if he hadn’t at
least thought about a future with her. Men didn’t joke about matters of
marriage unless they were serious and inclined.

Growing impatient, Charlotte glanced up at the clock on
the wall. It was nearly quarter past six. It wasn’t like him to be late. He had
never been late for any of their secret meetings before.

She forced herself to take a seat and wait patiently.
Every sound outside in the square brought her to her feet to peer out the
window, but it was always the same—a milk cart or a merchant delivering
fish, meat, or dry goods.

The next half hour was pure hell.

When the clock chimed seven o’clock, Charlotte rose from
her chair one last time with a heavy, aching heart.

Mr. Torrington was not coming.

He did not wish to see her.

There was nothing to do but go back upstairs and ring for
an early breakfast.

But why had he not come?
And why didn’t he send a note, saying so?
Wondering about
his absence, Charlotte climbed the stairs. Had she been mistaken about the sincerity
of his affections? Or was it possible that he had not received her letter?

By twelve noon, Charlotte couldn’t bear another moment of
not knowing. Her mother had gone off to a hospital charity event, and Charlotte
had been left behind to wonder what had happened to Mr. Torrington that
morning. Had he indeed not received her letter, or was this his way of sending
her a message to communicate that the summer was almost over, and it was time
to bring a swift, clean end to their affair?

For all she knew he may have already departed for America.
Perhaps she had pushed too hard at Pembroke, behaved too much like a woman in
love, and he had recognized the depth of her emotions. She was not the sort of
woman who loved halfheartedly. When she gave her heart, she gave it with all
her might. Perhaps they should call her The Iron Fist as well, for she was no
lightweight lover. She fairly hit the roof when she was at the height of her
passions.

But just as she was passionate, she was also honest and
forthcoming. If Mr. Torrington wanted to end it, she needed to know, for she
was a master at moving on with her life. And she deserved to be told, face to
face. She had been preparing herself all along—
steeling
herself—for the end of their affair since the moment it began. So she
simply needed to know. Was this the end? Or had his coach broken an axle on the
way to her house?

At two o’clock, she had the driver bring the curricle
around to take her to Mr. Torrington’s London townhouse, for Charlotte could
not go another moment without knowing the answers to those questions.

The last time Charlotte entered this house, she had come
through the front door in a strange man’s arms, like a bride on her wedding
night, with one notable difference—she had been bleeding from the head.

Today she had all her wits about her, but felt as if her
heart were bleeding as she was shown into the parlor to meet Mr. Torrington’s
mother, who rose with the utmost politeness. She invited Charlotte to take a
seat, then offered her a cup of tea.

“How is your head, Lady Charlotte?” Mrs. Torrington asked
as she poured the steaming tea into the cup. “What a horrendous ordeal it must
have been for you. I am relieved the culprit is in custody.”

Charlotte was not at all sorry to be meeting Drake’s mother
this afternoon, for she had wondered what sort of woman she was. Drake had
spoken of the rift that existed between them, which Charlotte found most
troubling. She couldn’t imagine not seeing her own mother for twelve years.

Perhaps there was a way to bridge that gap somehow. Though
she supposed she was looking to meddle again, wasn’t she...?

Charlotte smiled at Mrs. Torrington and couldn’t help but
sense something familiar about her. She was certainly an attractive woman with
thick, wavy dark hair, very much like Drake’s. Her eyes were a slivery blue as
well, and she possessed an uncommon beauty that made it difficult not to stare.

Perhaps her familiarity was simply a result of the fact
that she was Drake’s mother, and Charlotte could see him in her eyes.

“Indeed,” Charlotte replied as she accepted the cup and
saucer and took the first sip. “I cannot thank you enough for your son’s
assistance and for your housekeeper’s kindness that day. I don’t know what I
would have done otherwise.”

“It is all in the past now,” Mrs. Torrington said as she
regarded Charlotte with a narrowing gaze over the gold rim of her teacup.

An awkward silence ensued. Charlotte quickly filled it
with some polite conversation. “You have a lovely home,” she said. “I quite
like the colors you have chosen for the walls in this room. It is very cozy.”

“Thank you for the compliment,” Mrs. Torrington coolly
replied and sat back in her chair.

Charlotte felt as if an iceberg had just floated into the
parlor, though perhaps it had been there all along. Was the woman naturally
aloof? Or did she have some reason to dislike Charlotte?

Perhaps it was the fact that Charlotte
was making love to her son.
Good God. Did she know?

Charlotte swallowed uneasily and set her teacup down on
the table. “Is Mr. Torrington at home?” she asked. “I came to wish him well
before he leaves for America.”

Mrs. Torrington tapped one long fingernail on the arm of
her chair and regarded Charlotte with unmistakable derision. “No, my son is not
at home, and you should count yourself lucky that he is not.”

“Why is that?” Charlotte asked.

The woman glared at her. “Because he is not the sort of
man with whom a lady like
you
should keep company.”

The walls seemed to suddenly close in around Charlotte. “I
don’t understand.”

Mrs. Torrington sat forward again and scoffed. “Surely you
know that he has a violent streak. You must have seen it for yourself when you
were robbed and he stopped the thief from getting away. It’s why he left here
all those years ago, because the entire country knew what he was capable of. He
would most certainly have ended up in prison, or dead, if he had stayed.”

“That was a long time ago,” Charlotte argued in his
defense. “From what I understand, it was a difficult time for him.”

He had just lost his wife. He had taken his grief out in
the boxing ring, while Charlotte had dealt with her own grief by hiding away
from the world and despising it. People changed with the passing of time and
new life experiences. She was not the same woman now. He, too, had changed. She
had recovered and she was stronger. She believed Drake had also found peace
again. “And I do not believe he has a violent streak. I believe he is a good
man.”

Mrs. Torrington stood up. “Lady Charlotte, you are not
hearing me.”

Charlotte also stood. “What is it, exactly, that you wish
me to hear, madam? I prefer frank words, if you please.”

They stared at each other fixedly.

“Very well, then,” Mrs. Torrington said. “I know all about
your secret meetings with my son. Obviously I am shocked and scandalized by the
nature of your acquaintance. I assure you he did not come home to enter into a
cheap and torrid affair with a desperate spinster. He has been through enough.
Therefore I respectfully suggest that you end it immediately and keep away from
him, otherwise you will soon find your reputation in ruins—whatever is
left of it—when word of this gets out. I advise you to return to the
country and stay there. For pity’s sake, Lady Charlotte, go home and behave
yourself.”

Charlotte frowned with disbelief. “How dare you.”

Mrs. Torrington’s cheeks turned red. “It’s over. He
doesn’t want to see you anymore.”

“I don’t believe you. Where is he?”

“Oh, dear girl. Spare yourself the humiliation. Go back to
Pembroke and forget him.”

Feeling numb with shock, Charlotte stared vigilantly at
Mrs. Torrington. This made no sense at all. Charlotte was not some cheap
harlot. She was the daughter of a duke! Perhaps Mrs. Torrington was simply a
controlling woman who could not bear for her son to be happy on his own. Or
perhaps she truly was scandalized by Charlotte’s modern attitudes and
self-reliance—both sexually and socially—for Charlotte was
independent, and had earned her own fortune through her creative ingenuity.

“I believe we are done here,” Charlotte said. “Good day,
Mrs. Torrington.” She turned and walked out.

It was not until she climbed into the curricle that she
paused to consider all the hideous things that woman had just said to her.

‘He doesn’t want to see you... Spare yourself the
humiliation.’

Charlotte remembered how she had felt that morning when
Drake did not arrive to take her rowing on the river. Was it true? Was she a
desperate spinster, blind to the fact that he had only wanted her for one
thing, and now he was done with her?

She squeezed her reticule in her hands.
No.
She would not accept that.

Yes, her heart had become involved, which had never been
part of the plan. But so had his. She was certain of it. His mother was wrong.

Oh, God! Charlotte had wanted so badly to admire the
woman—and for the feeling to be mutual—for she was Drake’s mother.
The person who had brought him into the world. The reason he’d returned to
England.

She was his
mother
.

Why was she so dreadfully mean?

Charlotte slumped back in her seat, barely able to
comprehend what just happened. And what in the world was she going to do about
it?