Page 133 of A Perilous Passion

“How do I mean it?” he asked softly. “Surely, you’re too innocent to know.”

Frustration—of more than one kind—boiled up in her. The temptation to dig her fingernails into that powerfully masculine shoulder until he yelped was hard to resist. As was the urge to run her hands over the flesh exposed by his Greek tunic. His feet and ankles were bare. Heavens. Was he wearing anything under that tunic?

A lump of anticipation lodged in her throat, and she had to cough several times before she was able to say, “The dance is ending now, so make your bow and let us part.”

“Will you come outside?”

“No.”

“Later, then, in your garden. I’ll wait for you by the laurel bushes.”

He was not a man who gave up easily. But what exactly did he want with her?

“I shan’t come,” she assured him.

“If you don’t,” he said, releasing her slowly, “you’ll never know the answer to your question.”

What question? He couldn’t read her mind, could he?

Before she could collect her scattered thoughts, he bowed to her, strode off through the crowd, and was quickly lost from view.

She wafted back toward her friends, barely aware of where she was going. A few moments later, she found herself in a seat—with no particular memory of having sat down—not only fanning herself vigorously, but being fanned by others.

“Oh my goodness, who was that gentleman?” asked Thea. “Did he speak to you? What did he say?”

“Charlotte, are you in need of the salts?” inquired Hester.

“Or a sip of nostrum?” Aunt Flora suggested helpfully.

Thank heaven Mama was out of the room—she’d have read the situation in the blink of an eye. She still might, if Charlotte didn’t make a gargantuan effort to pull herself together.

“No, thank you,” she said. “Please don’t fret about me. I’m a little discomfited by the crush, but I’ll be fine directly.”

“Had you better sit out the next few dances?” Aunt Flora asked.

“Well, maybe a couple.”

“But don’t renege on our host,” Hester advised. “It would be frightfully rude.”

“Where did he mark your card?” Aunt Flora queried, taking her wrist and perusing the little rectangle of ivory. “You’re not due to stand up with him for a good half hour. Plenty of time to cool down and eat. There’s a very good peppered ham on the buffet table.”

“I don’t see Lord Culverdale about,” declared Thea. “But Lady Culverdale is dancing over there.”

“He’s probably at cards or smoking a cigar on the terrace or drinking port,” said Hester. “A proper host would never leave his own ball.”

“I’m sure he won’t let Charlotte down. Ah, here comes Lucinda with some of the ham,” said Aunt Flora.

When Charlotte’s turn about the floor with the Earl of Culverdale finally came, it could not have been more different from her dance with Rafe. Their host arrived just after the music started, so they had to force their way into the crowd of dancers and try to catch up. Culverdale’s hands were chilled, and he was out of breath before they even began the dance. Which might have accounted for the fact that he didn’t engage her in conversation—which, as patron of the ball, he might be expected to do.

It brought a wry grin to her face to think how warm she’d felt in Rafe’s arms, compared with how cold she felt in Lord Culverdale’s. She hoped, for the sake of his wife, that he didn’t have some torpor of the blood. Whereas Rafe had felt stunningly alive and full of vigor, this man gave off as much vibrant energy as a cadaver in a tomb.

Another irksome fact was that his shoes were depositing a gritty substance on the dance floor. Her silk slippers crunched on something like salt, or more likely, sand. How could he have come across sand in the middle of Dorchester, unless he’d taken a moonlit gallop to the nearest beach? But she really didn’t care what he might or might not have been up to.

She’d rather think about Rafe’s invitation. Should she go to him? He’d be taking a risk coming to her house tonight. Why put himself in danger? Perhaps the danger was now past and he wanted to let her know.

Even so, they really shouldn’t meet. Not after Mama’s unequivocal veto. Besides, Charlotte fully expected to be exhausted from the night’s exertions, wanting nothing more than to collapse into bed.

Rafe was a presumptuous rake, undeserving of her worry. It would serve him right if he waited outside the cottage for hours and was chilled to the marrow. That would be his own fault, not hers.