Page 24 of A Perilous Passion

It was hard to find a name for what he’d detected in her tremulous response to his kiss, but his primal, masculine senses had regarded it as an invitation—one his higher self had struggled to resist.

Charlotte cried out to be loved. Her body—whether she knew it or not—was eager to welcome a man’s touch and possession.

After meeting her mother and hearing about the so-called Unfortunate Incident, he’d cornered her more sympathetic aunt at the inn, where she was waiting to catch the stagecoach into Dorchester. He’d cajoled her into confessing about her niece’s failed elopement with one Mr. Justin Jessop. It was clear the young pup hadn’t satisfied her, at least not physically.

Now Rafe had taken her in his arms and kissed her properly, he’d opened the lid on a welter of sensual feelings the girl was battling to come to terms with.

His throat tightened. He could be going away very soon and a greedy part of him wanted to spend just a little more time in her company. Partly to enjoy the pleasure of it…but also to discover if he was right about her eagerness for his touch.

Because her behavior toward him earlier in the leafy arbor suggested she did, indeed, want him just as badly as he wanted her.

Chapter Ten

It was now early September, and nearly three weeks had passed since Charlotte had last seen Lord Beckport. She’d peeped out of the window frequently and wandered around the garden in a very obvious fashion when the weather dried up, but if he’d been watching for her, he gave no sign.

Truth be told, the very space around her felt empty. She would have sensed his presence, she was sure.

Not that she cared he was ignoring her. He’d kissed her—that was all. What of it? Kissing was what rakes did, and he undoubtedly was an inveterate one. With his good looks and physique, not to mention the benefit of wealth, he was bound to be.

It was all too easy to sink into a fit of the blue devils. Not only had she lost Justin, but she’d also lost the distraction from her loneliness and heartbreak that Rafe had presented. But moping about wouldn’t do.

To fill the emptiness, she threw herself with gusto into chores around the house—repainting a screen, changing sleeves in gowns, and re-trimming a bonnet. She also stepped up her visits to the poorer homes in the neighborhood, where she read from the amusingly illustrated Tommy Tagg to the younger children, and helped the older ones with their letters and numbers.

Fortunately, she had a strong stomach, for the interiors of the hovels she visited generally smelled vile, and sometimes she was obliged to douse the children under the village pump. It was ghastly when they just sat there scratching themselves. Despite steeling herself against it, she always felt exactly the same itch.

Today she was visiting the widowed Mrs. Scadden and her five progeny. No sooner had she entered their cottage than the woman handed her a letter that set her heart racing painfully. She instantly recognized the handwriting.

Good heavens!

She took it in trembling fingers and asked, “How came you by this?”

“Thomas the Carrier came by and said he’d been told not to deliver it to you direct, but to give it to me, secret-like, to pass on to you. Whoever wrote it must know you visit often. Miss Allston, have you come over queer? I’ll get you a cup of water.”

She shook her head, capable of just enough rational thought to remember she shouldn’t chance drinking from one of Mrs. Scadden’s cups. Fanning herself vigorously with the letter, she willed her heart back to a steady beat, with limited success.

Only one person she knew wrote in that romantic, flowing script.

Justin.

Tucking the paper into the pocket of her gown, she took up her book and wandered out into the sunshine, nearly tripping over one of the children, and almost missing the old milking stool when she went to sit down.

Justin! He’d written to her!

Despite the threats of disownment from his father.

Somehow, he had managed to send a letter all the way down from deepest, darkest Scotland. It was a good thing Thomas Harris—the village mail carrier, grocer, and coal merchant—knew how to be discreet. Mama would have a fit if she found out.

Charlotte hurtled through the children’s lesson, then hurried back to the cottage, hoping for a few moments alone in her bedchamber. Though she should be thrilled to receive a letter from her exiled sweetheart, she couldn’t help a feeling of dread.

How could it possibly contain news that would please her? If he was coming home on furlough, she’d never be permitted to meet with him. And even if they were able to arrange a meeting, it would just open old wounds best left alone.

She’d said farewell and adieu once to him. She wasn’t sure she could cope with having to do it again. No, whatever the letter said, she mustn’t allow herself to be upset by it. She was stronger now.

And she’d also discovered that Justin was not the only man on earth who could make her heart miss a beat.

Any hope of peace and privacy was shattered on her arrival home, however, when she discovered the parlor carpet awash with brown paper wrappings, in the midst of which her mother and aunt were sitting.

Aunt Flora was barely able to raise a smile in greeting. She’d been depressed since her return from visiting Frank Veale’s parents in Dorchester. Her unfortunate suitor had been dead these three years, but the memories must be thinly buried.