Читать книгу Improper Pleasure - Charlotte Featherstone - Страница 4

He could not recall the precise date when he had first glimpsed her through his carriage window, yet that day was still so fresh, so evocative in his mind. Time seemed to stop as she stood aglow in the center of a glittering sunbeam that had found its way through the gently waving tree limbs.

As his carriage had bounced and swayed its way down Swain’s Lane, he watched the lone figure of the woman, her head bent as if she were reading, or praying, or perhaps even silently weeping. He had fancied her a mystical faerie or angel as she sat down on a bench beneath a stone seraph, the stippled sunlight dancing off her black bonnet and netted veil. He had been unable to move his gaze from her, a lone figure amidst the statues.

“Stop the coach!” he ordered his driver.

How long he had his coachman hold his team of blacks in the middle of the lane while he watched her that day, he had no idea. How long had he been waiting now, at the gates of Highgate Cemetery, desiring a glimpse of her, he knew not. Since that fateful day when he had first discovered her, he had made the weekly trek to Highgate, hoping for another stolen glimpse of her. That was nearly a month ago.

She came only once a week. On Tuesday mornings she arrived, dressed in a drab woolen gray gown, the skirts of which were bustled high in the back. Her long cloak was plain and unadorned, giving nothing away of her shape. Her bonnet, a simple black confection, was tied primly beneath her chin. Black satin ties whipped in the breeze beneath the long lace veil she used to cover her face.

Once a week he saw her from beyond the bars of the iron fence. Once a week he silently watched her—studied her, never allowing himself to give in to his impulse and go to her. Once a week he allowed himself to see her. The other six days he was consumed by thoughts of her.

The sound of his mount’s reins jangling in the quiet of the peaceful morning brought him abruptly back to the present. The gelding, stepping sideways, snorted and pranced, anxious to be cantering off to Hyde Park and his morning run on Rotten Row. “Just another moment,” Adrian muttered, tightening his gloved hand around the leather reins. “She has only just arrived.”

Pressing forward in the saddle, he inched to the right and saw her walking amongst the seraphs that stood sentry around the grove. Find me beyond these black bars and see me, he whispered to her.

Somehow she heard him from across the sunlit space that separated them. Slowly, she looked at him over her shoulder. With a small nod and tip of his hat, he acknowledged her, then pressed his knees into the gelding’s sides. She was aware. He would let that awareness grow into something stronger—need. And when he was certain her need was at least half as strong as his, he would go to her. Only then would he learn everything there was to know about this woman who made him dream such beautiful, erotic dreams throughout the night.

She was playing a very dangerous game by returning to Highgate week after week. Yet she could not stop herself from coming, from experiencing those few minutes of his undivided attention. He would never know how she clutched those memories of him to her breast. Those minutes alone with him, despite the distance, were so very dear to her—as if she were the only woman in the world to him.

Yes, but what if he was to discover what you are, the nasty voice inside her asked. What if, contrary to her beliefs, he had recognized her? Her life would be ruined. Yet here she sat, wishing to see him, feeling her blood heat at just the thought of him.

What a fool she was to delude herself that he would feel anything for her, least of all desire. She was not a beautiful woman. She was plain. She wore spectacles. She was nobody. That was her reality.

This morning, she had neglected to wear her spectacles in hope she might actually come face to face with him. But he had not come today, and as a consequence she had stumbled about the grove half blind.

Grumbling over her stupidity and unusual pride, Amelia stood up from the bench and reached for the strings of the reticule that dangled from her wrist. As she looked down, a blurred image of a gloved hand resting atop her fingers swam before her. With a gasp she looked up and faltered back a step.

“At last we have come face to face.”

“I didn’t think you were coming today,” she whispered. As soon as she said the words, she wanted to kick herself for being so foolish—so transparently needy.

He took a step closer to her, she felt his gloved hand encase hers before he raised it to his mouth. “I have been here all morning, waiting.”

Reluctantly she turned her gaze from his face in order to watch his lips press against her gloved knuckles. “I didn’t see you.”

“I did not wish for you to see me. I wanted to watch you unseen. I wanted to discover everything I could about you before this moment.”

What had he discovered? Did he know her secret? Panic gripped her and her fingers began to tremble in his hand. She tried to pull away, to run, but his long fingers encased her palm, holding her tight.

“Tell me your name,” he asked in a silky voice that felt like a caress—a sensual, tempting touch she felt snaking along her body.

She shouldn’t be doing this. He was a lord, a peer of the realm. Again, she reminded herself that she was no one, and if he were to discover her identity and expose her secret, she would be thrust back to the same horrific world she had once crawled out from.

“Your name?”

“Emmy,” she told him, using the name her father had called her when she was a small child. He cocked his head to the side and studied her with his blue-green eyes.

“I am Adrian, Emmy.”

She shuddered at the intimacy of hearing her voice murmur his name; wished she possessed the strength to say it aloud, but she couldn’t bring herself to.

“Who are you, Emmy?”

“No one,” she replied, savoring the gentle touch of his fingers running along the back of her hand.

How many nights had she dreamt of this, his touch, his large warm hands caressing her? So many nights. So many long, cold—empty—nights.

“Do you come here to write?” he asked. “I’ve seen you with pen and book.”

“No.”

“An artist, then? You study the statuary as if you were a connoisseur.”

“I am just a woman.”

“Not just. If you were just any sort of female I would not be here. I would not have come every week for over a month just to see you and watch you from afar. No, not just any woman, Emmy.”

“I…I must leave,” she stuttered, pulling away from him, fearing her weakness. It frightened her, this unbridled response to him. It terrified her to know it was not only her body responding to this man, but her mind, her heart—her soul.

“Don’t run, Emmy. We have both waited for this moment.”

“I…I can’t.”

“Next week you will be here. You won’t run and never come back to me?”

When she did not immediately answer, he brought her chest up to his and held her close. Her body absorbed the heat radiating from his broad chest, chasing away the dampness of the morning. “You will promise me now, that next week you will be here. You have to return, Emmy because I have to see you. I have to.”

Her heart soared upon hearing his low, fervent words. Dazed, Amelia nodded, unable to do anything else but clasp his words to her breast and hold them tight. One more week, she told herself, just once more, and then she would never again return to Highgate.