He turned, brandy glasses in hand, and looked at her. She was seated behind her desk. He wondered if she had any notion of how the lamplight warmed the curves of her breasts and deepened the mystery of her eyes.
“I was disappointed in the results of my questioning of Lennox.” Charlotte frowned. “He seemed more concerned with the risks awaiting the younger generation of gentlemen these days than he did with Drusilla Heskett’s death.”
Baxter put one glass down in front of her. He ignored the page from the sketchbook. “Sounds as if Lennox and Maryann have something in common.”
“I suspect that parents of every generation have worried about the dangers that their offspring must face.”
“No doubt.” He realized that if he stood there drinking in the sight of Charlotte’s bare shoulders and gently swelling breasts for one more minute he would not be able to keep his hands off her.
He made himself walk to the window, hoping that the sight of the moonlit garden would lower the temperature of his overheated blood. But all he saw when he looked into the glass was Charlotte’s reflection.
“Speaking of Lady Esherton,” she said gently, “what will you do about your brother, Hamilton?”
He stilled. “That is the last thing I wish to discuss tonight.”
“I see. I only brought up the subject because it appeared to be preying upon your mind during the ride home in the carriage.”
“Do not concern yourself with my personal problems, Charlotte. I shall deal with them.”
“Yes, of course.” Charlotte hesitated and then, as if she could not help herself, she added softly, “They are right, you know.”
He watched her reflection as she picked up the brandy glass and took a swallow. “Who?”
“Lennox and Lady Esherton.” She set the glass down very slowly. “The younger generation faces many dangers.”
“No offense, Charlotte, but you are in no position to talk when it comes to the subject of danger. May I remind you that you are the one who felt it necessary to hire a man-of-affairs who could also function as a bodyguard.”
“I am a mature woman who knows very well what she is about. It is different for a much younger person.”
Something in her voice caught Baxter’s attention. “You do not sound as if you are speaking generally.”
She was quiet for a long moment. “The night before my stepfather was killed, he brought a monster to our house.”
Baxter turned slowly to face her. “A monster?”
“Winterbourne had lost a great deal of money to the creature.” Charlotte gazed at the brandy glass as though she saw the past in it. “My stepfather intended to pay his debts by feeding my sister to the beast.”
“God’s blood, Charlotte. What happened?”
“I used my father’s pistol to force Winterbourne and the monster out of the house.” The glass in her hand trembled a little. “They did not return.”
He had a vision of her facing down the two men with only a pistol. A jolt of rage and fear went through him. “You are a very brave woman.”
She did not appear to have heard him. “The next morning Winterbourne was found dead. His throat was cut by a footpad, they said. I do not know what really happened after the two left the house that night but I know that my stepfather was afraid of the beast. I have sometimes wondered if the monster murdered him in retaliation for failing to pay his gaming debts.”
“Any man who would deliver a young woman into the hands of a monster in order to satisfy his vouchers deserves to die.”
“Yes.” Charlotte raised her eyes to meet his. “Do not think for a moment that I mourn Winterbourne or that I feel some guilt because I forced him out into the night where he was killed. That is not what troubles me.”
A jarring flash of intuition swept through Baxter. He sensed the secret dread that lay beneath the determined, independent spirit that animated Charlotte. The knowing was not unlike the moments of intense understanding that came upon him once in a while when an experiment allowed him a glimpse of a great scientific truth. This knowledge, however, was of a far more intimate nature than anything that he had ever discovered in his laboratory.
“I understand,” he said quietly. “What truly troubles you is that even after all these years you cannot forget that the monster is still out there somewhere.”
“No. I cannot forget. Sometimes the memory comes back in the guise of a dream. It wakes me in the middle of the night at the same hour that I was awakened on that night when the events occurred. In the dream I see myself in the dark hall outside my sister’s bedroom. I have the pistol in my hand, just as I did then. But this time the monster is aware that it is not loaded.”
“Christ.” Baxter felt his insides go cold. “Are you telling me that the pistol you used that night was unloaded?”
“It had been stored in a chest for years. I had no ball or powder for it. It was very dark in the hall and neither Winterbourne nor the monster knew that I held an empty pistol. But in my dream, the monster laughs because he knows the truth. He knows I cannot stop him this time.”
Baxter took a step forward. “Charlotte—”
“And in my dream, I know that I will fail to protect my sister.”
“It’s only a dream, Charlotte.” Baxter hesitated. “I have one of my own that recurs from time to time and is unpleasant enough to awaken me in the middle of the night.”
She searched his face. “Dreams can be troublesome things.”
“Yes.” Baxter set his glass down on a nearby table. “Let us talk of other things.”
“Of course. Our inquiries.”
“No, not our inquiries. Did you enjoy your waltz?”
“With Lennox?” Charlotte grimaced. “I believe I know why Drusilla Heskett was in the habit of comparing him to a stallion.”
Baxter raised his brows.
Charlotte chuckled. “His lordship does, indeed, possess a great deal of stamina. When the music stopped, I felt as though I had just finished a brisk morning ride on a sturdy jumper.”
Baxter gazed thoughtfully at her for a moment. “Did I tell you that you looked very lovely this evening?”
She blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
“I rather thought that I had neglected to pay you any compliments. My apologies.”
“Do not concern yourself, Mr. St. Ives.” She folded her hands on her desk and gave him a blinding smile. “We are business associates, not intimate friends.”
“There is something else I neglected to do.” He walked behind the desk and reached down to close his hands around Charlotte’s bare shoulders. Her skin was warm and impossibly soft.
“What was that?”
“I did not ask you to dance with me.” He hauled her lightly to her feet. “Do you think that if we had danced the waltz together earlier this evening, you would now be able to call me by my first name?”
Her eyes were very green in the lamplight. She smiled as she put her arms slowly around his neck. “I don’t know. Why don’t you ask me and we shall see?”
“Dance with me, Charlotte.”
“I would be very pleased to dance with you, Baxter.”
This was what he had been waiting for all evening, he thought. This was what he needed.
He bent his head and took her mouth.
Eight
Baxter was conducting some sort of experiment. Charlotte knew it with absolute certainty as soon as his lips touched hers. This kiss was different from the one they had shared in the carriage the other night. Even as he pulled her close against him and tightened his arms around her, she could feel him holding back something of himself.
It was as though he thought to observe and control the results of the embrace. She wondered if he believed that he could regulate his own desire the way he did the flames he used to heat volatile chemicals.
With understanding came a shock of anger. She was not some curious mixture to be tested and examined in a laboratory. Charlotte tightened her arms around his n
eck and pressed herself against him. She was suddenly determined to show Baxter that he could not remain an aloof observer of his own passion.
If this was an experiment, she decided, he was as much a part of it as she.
“Charlotte.” Baxter’s mouth moved on hers, tasting, probing, exploring. His hands moved up to cradle her head. He shoved his fingers into her hair, loosening the pins. “Say my name again.”
“Baxter.” Excitement flowed through her, so bright and hot that she could not believe that he did not feel it also.
“Again.” He slid his thumbs along the line of her jaw.
“Baxter.”
“Open your mouth for me.”
She obeyed. And then gave a soft, muffled gasp of surprise when his teeth sank gently into her lower lip.
“I won’t hurt you,” he whispered.
“I know.” She clutched at him, inviting him to deepen the kiss.
He sifted his fingers through her hair. Pins pinged on the polished surface of the desk. And then he slid his hands downward, pausing briefly on her bare shoulders.
“You are so soft.” He stroked the curve of her throat and moved his mouth to the place just below her ear. “Everything about you is smooth and soft.”
She flattened her hands on his chest, savoring the feel of the sleek muscles beneath his crisp, white linen shirt. “And everything about you is very strong and very hard.”
Baxter lifted his head. He removed his spectacles and set them down on the desk beside the fallen hairpins.
She looked into his eyes and caught her breath. Without the veil of his eyeglasses the alchemist’s fires that burned in his gaze flared more intensely than molten gold. She could see the danger, but the flames fascinated and enthralled her.
“I want to feel your breasts in my hands.” Baxter tugged gently at the tiny sleeves of her gown.
The bodice fell away, baring her to the waist. She shivered, violently aware of the lamplight that revealed her taut nipples. She ached. It was a delicious, thrilling, unbelievable sensation. She heard herself cry out softly when Baxter cupped her in his palms.
“You’re beautiful.” His voice was so low and husky that the words were almost inaudible.
He rasped his thumbs across the tips of her swollen breasts. She could not get any air into her lungs. It was only the driving need to inhale more of his intoxicating, utterly masculine scent that made her draw in another deep breath.
A great urgency poured through her. She crushed the fabric of his shirt in her fingers. Her head fell back. “Baxter. This is incredible.”
“Yes.” He bent his head and took one nipple between his teeth.
“Oh, my God.” Swiftly she untied his cravat and sought the fastenings of his shirt with trembling fingers.
He froze. “No.”
She ignored him. She got the shirt open and pushed her hands inside.
“Bloody hell.” Baxter did not move. It was as if he awaited a blow he knew he could not avoid.
She touched him eagerly, savoring the heat and strength of his body. Her fingers moved through the crisp, curling hair of his chest and then she wrapped her arms around him and flattened her palms against his back.
She felt the roughened skin and knew it for what it was. Baxter was badly scarred.
It was her turn to go very still. She raised her head and looked at him. “You’ve been hurt.”
“Three years ago.” His eyes were grim and unwavering. “Long since healed.”
“What happened?”
“Acid.”
“Dear God. A laboratory accident?”
His smile was completely lacking in humor. “In a manner of speaking.”
“I am so sorry. It must have been very painful.”
“Not anymore. But the scars are unsightly. Give me a moment to put out the light.” He made to step back from her.
“There is no need.” Slowly, deliberately, she peeled the linen shirt off his shoulders and dropped it on the carpet. She could see the pale, rough patches of ruined skin scattered across his right shoulder. She closed her eyes against the pain she knew he must have experienced.
“Charlotte—”
“You cannot possibly think that the sight of your injuries would offend me. The only thing that matters is that your wounds have healed.”
Very gently she touched one of the acid marks on his shoulder. Then she stood on tiptoe and kissed it. Baxter shuddered. She moved her lips up along his throat to his mouth.
“Charlotte.” His arms tightened fiercely around her.
For a moment there was nothing detached or remote about the embrace. She sensed the banked fires that burned within him. There was a raw, aching sensuality in his kiss that threatened to overwhelm her.
She gave herself up to the conflagration with an exultant rush of excitement.
He fitted his hands to her waist, lifted her off her feet, and kissed her breast.
She gasped when she felt his teeth on her nipple. “Baxter.” She clutched at him with a strange sense of desperation.
He carried her toward the sofa. A moment later the room spun on its axis. And then Charlotte felt the cushions beneath her. The skirts of her gown fluttered around her thighs.
Before she could reorient herself, Baxter came down on top of her. He was heavy. Thrillingly so. The weight of his body crushed her deep into the velvet sofa. She could feel the fabric of his breeches against her bare skin above her gartered stockings.
And she could also feel the thickened weight of his aroused manhood. She sucked in her breath.
He raised his head and looked down into her eyes. “I want you.”
She stared into the glowing crucible of his gaze and was lost in the spell of desire that swirled around them.
Surely it was impossible for any man, even one with a will as strong as Baxter’s, to look at a woman with such raging need and still remain a dispassionate experimenter.
She threaded her fingers through his hair and did not bother to conceal her sense of wonder. “I have never known any emotion that was as strong as this.”
“I’m glad.” He kissed her deeply, hungrily.
She felt his hand glide down her leg and slide beneath the skirts of her gown. He curved his fingers around her calf.
She sank her nails into the rigid muscles of his back and shoulders.
He groaned. His hand moved up the inside of her thigh and then he was pressing against the damp, throbbing place between her legs. He dipped one finger into her, pushing gently to force his way past the small, tight muscles.
She shivered in reaction to the exotic invasion. “Please.” She twisted restlessly, seeking something more. “Do not stop.”
He withdrew his finger very slowly and then eased it back into her. At the same time his thumb moved higher, skimming lightly over the firm little nub at the top of her sex.
“Baxter.” She could not think. She was awash in sensation. She clung to him, silently demanding an end to the exquisite torment yet unable to pull away. “Baxter.”
He bent his head to her breast. His finger moved inside her. Instead of pushing deeper into the passage, he pressed upward. Again and again he repeated the caress.
A great tension built within her. She had never known such a coiling, restless, clenching need. She knew intuitively that the sensation could not continue to build. There had to be some release from the ever-mounting pressure.
She clutched at Baxter’s shoulders.
There had to be a release.
She would surely shatter if something did not give. This relentless, driving force could not go on forever.
Without warning she came undone in a series of deep, convulsive shudders.
“Baxter.”
She heard her own scream echo in the study as she fell from an impossibly high cliff.
Baxter held her while she floated down through a liquid atmosphere in which he was the only solid object. She knew a dazed sense of wonder that robbed her of speech.
Gradually she once more became aware of the crackle of flames on the hearth and the feel of the sofa cushions beneath her back.
Baxter’s weight still rested along the length of her body. When she finally opened her eyes she found him gazing down at her with glittering intensity.
“That was amazing,” she whispered. “Quite wonderful.”
He smiled and kissed her brow. “Yes, it was.”
She touched his jaw. “But you did not experience the same sensation.”
“Not this time.” He straightened, carefully extricating himself from her tumbled skirts. “But there will be other times.” He paused to touch the edge of her mouth with one blunt finger. “At least I hope that will be the case.”
“Baxter, wait. Where are you going?”
“We must talk.”
He got to his feet and walked across the room to where his shirt lay on the floor. The firelight flared on the acid scars that marked his back and shoulders. So much pain, Charlotte thought. Thank God the acid had not struck his eyes. He would surely have been blinded.
She watched as he picked up his shirt and shrugged into it with quick, practiced movements. Leaving it unfastened, he went to the desk, found his spectacles, and shoved them onto his nose.
Without a word he crossed to the hearth to stand in front of the fire. He stood gazing down into the flames.
Alarmed by the change in his mood, Charlotte sat up slowly. She fumbled with the bodice of her gown. “Is something wrong?”
“No.” He took a poker from the stand and leaned down to stir the flames. “But I would have an understanding between us before we go any farther down this road.”
She stared at him. His dark hair was tousled from where she had raked her fingers through it. The glow of the flames cast fierce shadows on the blunt planes and sharp angles of his forbidding features. She knew again the disturbing sense of wariness that she had felt the first day she met him.
“What sort of understanding?” she asked carefully.
“Will you have an affair with me, Charlotte?” The quiet words were spoken without inflection. Baxter’s voice was stripped of all emotion.
“An affair?” She suddenly felt so clumsy that she could barely finish fastening the tapes of her gown. “With you?”