She was shaking, dizzy, unable to think straight, unable to speak. She was having trouble catching her breath, and she clamped her legs together tightly, trying to re-create the feelings he'd been bringing forth. She was so close, so close. . .
"Are you coming in with me?"
It took her a moment, but eventually she released her pent-up breath, forcing herself to relax. Slowly, carefully, so as not to jar her body onto that desperate ride once more.
"You don't fight fair," she said in a small voice.
"No, I don't. Not when I want something. "
She looked at him in the filtered lamplight. He was beautiful, she thought, from his tawny mane of hair to his long, wicked fingers, to that hard, thrusting piece between his legs. Everything about him was beautiful, and she wanted to lie next to him, kiss him, roll in his arms.
She was still wearing her thin kid gloves. She peeled one off, very slowly, looked up at him with a sweet smile and slapped him as hard as she could.
She had a lot of strength. It whipped his head back, and she knew the blow had to have hurt, because her hand was numb. And she didn't have an ounce of regret.
"Now, if you're tired of playing games," she said coolly, "I'd like to go back to my house. "
He didn't move for a moment, didn't touch his face. The mark of her hand was beginning to show, the outline of her fingers against his pale, cold skin. And then he smiled.
Leaning forward, he knocked against the small window that connected to the front of the carriage, and gave the driver the address in Grosvenor Square.
Then he sat back patiently as the carriage moved forward.
The drive was a short one—less than five minutes, and during that time he said absolutely nothing. She could feel his eyes on hers, as tangible as a touch, but he made no effort to move closer, no effort to change her mind. He seemed almost pleased with the outcome of their battle, which surprised Charlotte. Did he want her or didn't he? Was this all some elaborate game? Were there wagers at his club as to whether he could once more entice the red-headed virago into his bed? If so, he must have bet against himself to be so cheerful.
She wouldn't ask him. She was being foolishly fearful. If he had planned this then word would get to Lina, and her cousin would tell her. So he hadn't lied. He'd simply run across her when he had no other, more pressing plans. Doubtless he was telling the truth, that he'd forgotten about her entirely after their brief liaison in the country. Which was a good thing, was it not? Everyone needed to forget about it. Most importantly, she did.
She could see her crumpled loo mask on the floor of the carriage, and she leaned down to pick it up, ignoring the little shiver of reaction that tightening her muscles had given her. She felt exquisitely sensitive, ready to explode, like a mirror shattering into a thousand pieces. He took the mask from her and tied it on her face methodically. Just in time; those ridiculous tears were starting again. She'd be delighted when she finally moved past this absurdly weepy stage in her life. She had barely cried when her parents had died. These tears made no sense—they were totally unlike her.
With a great effort she summoned an impressive scowl, willing herself to be still. When the carriage came to a stop, Adrian hopped down, reaching up a hand to her. She would have liked to ignore it, but the narrow steps were unwieldy, and falling into the mud would be the coup de grace of the night. She took his hand, stepped down and tried to pull away, but his fingers had closed over hers.
He smiled down at her, but she could see that odd, haunted expression in the back of his hard blue eyes. "I expect this has given you a complete disgust of me. ”
"Is that what you wish?"
"It would certainly be for the best. For both of us. ”
She looked up at him in the lamplight. She could see the imprint of her hand quite clearly, and it shocked her. And pleased her.
The street was solid beneath her feet, and she locked her knees so they wouldn't betray the lingering weakness. "Goodbye, Lord Rohan," she said. The door to Lina's house stood open, the footman waitig patiently. "I don't expect we’ll see each other again. ”
His smile was slow, mocking, irresistibly devilish. "Would you care to wager on that, my love?"
18
To Charlotte's relief Lina hadn't returned home yet. She wouldn't have to make excuses as to where she'd been, and by the time Meggie appeared from belowstairs, looking both rumpled and pleased with herself, Charlotte had managed to get her tears in check and regain some measure of composure. Her body still felt on the very edge of exploding, but by taking calm, deep breaths she seemed to be able to maintain her calm. To fight the crazed, irrational urge to run out the front door and down the streets back to Adrian's house.
"You've been tupped," Meggie said flatly, taking one hard look at her. "Miss Charlotte, I thought you knew better—"
"I certainly have not!" she said, managing to sound both innocent and indignant. "Lina and I got separated and I took a hackney home. " She took a closer look at her lady's maid. "If anyone's
been misbehaving, it's you. I thought you swore off men. ”
"Have you seen the new undercoachman?" Meggie said with an appreciative smirk. "He could tempt a saint to lift her skirts, and Lord knows, I'm no saint. But don't try to change the subject. You've got that look about you. "
"'That look comes from being tired. I just want to go to bed. "
"As long as you promise you haven't already been to bed," Meggie said smartly.