"A liar and a thief," she added graciously. "Clearly you've been as despicable as every man I’ve ever met, with the remarkable exception of your old friend Monty, and you think simply because you no longer whore or drink you've somehow become a good man, a man with the right to pass judgment on other people. I'm afraid I must disagree. You have no right to judge Monty and you have no right to judge me. I will live my life exactly as I choose, and I don't give
a damn what you or anybody else has to say about it. ”
He was watching her, and she had the odd feeling he was no longer listening to her. That something had distracted him in the midst of her tirade.
"Every man you've ever met is despicable, Lady Whitmore?" he said softly. "Then why do you spread your legs for all of them?"
She slapped him. She'd never hit anyone in her life, and yet she reached across the small table and slapped him across the face, as hard as she could.
The sound was shocking in the morning air, like the crack of a gunshot. She froze. Her hand was numb, tingling, and she could see the mark of her fingers on his face.
And then, to her horror, he made it even worse. "I'm sorry," he said. "You're right—I deserved that. ”
It was the last straw. Monty was dying, her own heart was bleeding and God knew what was happening to Charlotte over there on that island of perverts. She rose so quickly the table tipped over, and the china and glassware went crashing to the ground.
"So much for Monty's matchmaking efforts," she said, her lower lip trembling.
And then she ran, before he could see the tears spill over from her eyes, before he could even begin to guess that the wicked Lady Whitmore's excellent exterior had begun to crumble. She couldn’t let it crack until she was alone. And then, if she had to, she'd howl.
Charlotte awoke slowly, cocooned in darkness and warmth, a blissful sense of well-being shimmering through her body despite the peculiar feeling between her legs, at the heart of her sex. She was alone in the bed, and she realized that light filtered through a heavy curtain that hid the sleeping alcove from the rest of the room.
She stretched, carefully, not certain exactly what was going to hurt and how much. Was this strange feeling between her legs going to continue? If she held very still she could almost feel him inside her again. Not the pain, but the deep, filling part of it, that had felt strange and foreign and yet somehow blessedly right.
However, she wasn't convinced she ever wanted to do it again.
She closed her eyes, snuggling deeper into the covers. She was naked. She'd never slept naked in
her life—it added to her odd sense of lassitude. The soft covers caressed her bare skin, the mattress beneath her cradled her body. Everything was strange and different.
She heard the low murmur of voices then. Adrian, speaking softly, to a servant. The light coming through the heavy curtains was daylight. Her ordeal, such as it was, was over.
She looked about her. The torn silk chemise lay tossed in one corner, but there was no sign of the plain brown monk's robe she'd worn when she entered his bed. She could pull the sheet off, wrap it around her nude body like a Roman toga, push the curtains aside and demand her freedom.
She didn't move.
What had happened to Charlotte Spenser, bluestocking, spinster, the practical, no-nonsense, plain and outspoken creature she'd always envisioned herself to be? She'd fallen into the bed of the man she'd secretly, shamefully dreamed about for three years, and suddenly everything had changed.
She no longer felt overtall and gawky. She felt sleek, sensual, her skin exquisitely sensitive to the feel of the sheets, the remembered feel of his hands that went places they should never have gone.
His mouth had gone there as well.
He'd taken her every way he could, he'd said, and she was exhausted, sensitized. And hungry.
Hungry for the smell of food beyond the thick curtain, the unmistakable scent of coffee and toast and bacon. Hungry for the touch of his hands, his long fingers, his body pressing hers down into the mattress.
She was mad. She'd disgraced herself, been ruined into the bargain, and the only way she could possibly redeem herself would be to scramble from the bed, wrapped in whatever she could find to preserve what was left of her modesty, and insist on being released.
She didn't want to be released. She wanted to stay in that bed all day, within the touch and the scent of the sheets. She wanted to make sure she didn't forget any of it—her fear, her anger, her shattering delight. It wasn't going to happen again, he'd already assured her of that. One night was all he'd wanted.
And there was no one else she'd even consider going near. What she'd done in the darkness with Adrian Rohan, what had been done to her, was so private, so darkly wonderful, that the very thought of one of her occasional elderly suitors trying the same thing was horrifying.
No, this would be enough for a lifetime. Even if she was greedy enough to want more, this would do. As long as she could keep things clear in her mind so that she could relive it.
When she returned home she would write it all down in exquisite detail, just so she wouldn't forget anything. She grinned in the darkness. Did women ever write of such things? There were countless French novels on the subject, hidden in rich men's libraries, and she'd always been unaccountably curious, but if Lina's husband had ever possessed such a thing it was long gone.
Besides, reading someone else's experiences would be almost as bad as lying beneath a stranger. She only wanted her own, to relive over and over when the need arose later in life.
She heard footsteps approach the bed, and she swiftly shut her eyes, feigning deep sleep. She could feel him watching her for a long moment, and she would have given anything to see the expression on his face. Whether it was boredom, distaste or impatience.