He stopped instantly, splaying his fingers atop his thighs.
She was close enough that he could see her pulse flutter at the base of her throat as her gaze slid from his hands up his arms to the breadth of his shoulders before sliding down the contours of his abdomen. His body hardened under her silent focus. Hardened and strained within the confines of his breeches.
A part of him felt a blush of shame for being brought to such a state under such minimal circumstances. The woman hadn’t even touched him for God’s sake.
But another part of him…
He peered up at her, wondering if she could see his lustful reaction and if it would please her.
“Drop your gaze.” Though her tone was unexpectedly harsh, there was something mesmerizing in her voice. A thread of sinuous silk that tugged at his muscles and drew upon his will.
Ralston immediately followed her demand, angling his focus on the floor in front of him.
“Très bien,” she murmured in a sultry whisper.
The low praise stirred the heat in his loins. Unable to see her, he listened intently to the rhythm of her breath as it grew quicker and less easy. There was tension in her exhales and hesitancy in her inhales.
He scowled, sensing that something wasn’t right, but he forced himself not to look up. And then, he heard her steps on the wood floor. Moving away from him before they went silent. He held his breath. Anticipating her return. Craving it. Needing it.
He had no idea how long he waited before he finally accepted that she was gone.
Chapter Seven
Charlotte rushed alongthe back hall to Amélie’s dressing room, as quickly and as silently as she could manage. Her breath was short. Her legs felt weak and unstable. And her belly swirled with sensations too unwanted to acknowledge.
Merde merde merde merde merde!
Reaching the small room, she was grateful to find it empty. Still struggling to catch a full breath, she stripped herself of the borrowed clothes and redressed in her own. All the while, doing everything in her power to wipe clear from her mind the image of the Marquess of Redington, quietly kneeling before her like some wicked carnal offering.
Sangbleu! How could the man look so strong and forceful while summitting to her every command? It made no sense.
He made no sense.
His body—all lean rippled muscle and tawny shadow.
His gaze—like black burning orbs piercing her soul.
The rhythm of his breath, the light sheen of sweat on his skin, the narrow waistband of his breeches. The thick bulge below.
Charlotte expected to burst into flames at any moment.
Tossing her cloak around her shoulders and pulling the hood over her head, she quickly fled back down the stairs to the ladies’entrance of the club. A small part of her felt wretched for leaving the marquess as she had. But she couldn’t allow herself to feel sympathy for the man. The whole purpose of their encounter was to bring him low.
So why did it feel like she was the one who’d been twisted into a thousand knots?
She had made a mistake. But at least she’d realized it before anything truly devastating happened. Before she’d considered indulging in the dark longing that had been awakened in that room.
Several days later,Charlotte found herself strolling sedately through Hyde Park beside her aunt. The day was exceptionally lovely, so the park was more popular than usual. Groups were spread on blankets for picnics. Children ran about while their nurses kept a vigilant watch. Young ladies promenaded along the many footpaths—some with gentlemen escorts, some in groups—followed closely by their chaperones. And though it was well past the hour for those who enjoyed more vigorous rides, countless open carriages could be seen circling the lanes at casual speeds that allowed for the necessary socializing.
It was a place to observe and be observed. An outing to encourage unexpected encounters where those who were newly introduced could turn a light acquaintance into a friendship. And where courting was conducted in full view of the public and flirtations had to be covert and creative.
Charlotte couldn’t help but chuckle at all the handkerchiefs and gloves that just happened to be dropped by delicate fingers to await a gallant gentleman’s courteous assistance.
“It’s all just a grand performance,” she mused beneath her breath as she witnessed yet another young lady pretend to tripover some unseen obstacle as she walked alongside her suitor, allowing her to clutch more closely to his steady arm.
“Indeed,” Lady Henmere murmured in reply. “Performed under carefully constructed—yet never openly discussed—guidelines designed to preserve propriety while allowing potential matches to test the waters of compatibility and affection.”
“Wouldn’t it be so much easier and more efficient if people could just state their intentions and desires outright?”
