the entire night, instead
of dancing with countless other partners who did not stir her blood the way he
did.
By noon she was starving for a mere taste of him, the
smallest glance, even from a distance. So when the footman delivered a letter
to her shortly after luncheon, she snatched it from the silver salver and tore
it open in a matter of seconds, reading it in its entirety before looking up to
dismiss the young man.
This afternoon. Torrington House,
2pm. Come around to the stables at the back.
—D
The stables? Did he wish to go riding with her? In public?
Erring on the side of caution, she donned her black riding
habit with the silver buttons, her fashionable new boots, which had been
polished to a fine sheen since the last time she wore them, and brought along
her riding crop as well.
At precisely two in the afternoon, she alighted from the
family coach in front of Mr. Torrington’s London residence and instructed her
driver to return for her in one hour, and to wait on the street.
The vehicle pulled away from the curb and she watched it
reach a fair distance before she ventured around to the back of the house. She
crossed a small gravel courtyard, taking note of the fact that there was no one
about—no grooms or other servants from the household—and the stable
door was slightly ajar. She could hear an odd pounding noise from within.
Pulling the door open with her leather-gloved hand, she
peered inside.
The stable was empty. There was no carriage in the center
corridor, or any horses in the stalls, yet she could still hear the repetitive
sound of hard pounding.
Quietly she walked toward the back and found the source of
the racket. It was Mr. Torrington and his iron fists. He was moving about in
the last stall, punching a large leather sack full of sand or some other heavy
substance, which was secured with a rope and suspended from one of the rafters
above.
Charlotte stood for a moment watching him, until he
circled around and noticed her standing there.
He was crouched slightly at the knees in a defensive
stance with both fists wrapped up in white gauze. When their eyes met, he
straightened and laid a hand on the bag to stop it from swinging. Her body
flared with sexual awareness at the sight of him, for he wore a pair of tight
pale gray breeches, black boots with laces, and nothing else. His bare chest
and arms glistened with shiny drops of sweat, and Charlotte could almost feel
the fierceness of his attitude as fighter.
She said nothing while he caught his breath. Then slowly
she moved closer until she could lay a hand on the giant leather bag. “I think
you killed it.”
Without cracking a smile, he wiped a forearm across his
sweaty brow and spit off to the side.
Charlotte inclined her head at him, feeling suddenly as if
she were not welcome there. “You sent me a note,” she reminded him. “It’s two
o’clock. Here I am.”
He exhaled sharply. “Yes.”
He began to unwrap the gauze from his hands and tossed it
carelessly onto the floor, which was swept clean of straw. An old rug had been
laid out to cover the plank floor.
The sight of his naked chest and the smell of his sweaty
body were not things a lady should be presented with—yet she was
fascinated and aroused by both. “Are you practicing for something?” she asked.
“Not practicing. This is a punching bag. I prefer it
because it doesn’t bruise or bleed, and it doesn’t punch back.”
“A definite advantage,” she replied. “You could go all day
with it.”
He approached her, slung a hand around to the small of her
back, pulled her hips tight up against his own, and planted a hard, salty kiss
on her mouth.
By the time he was finished devouring her like a midday
meal and released his grip on her body, she was breathless with delight and
could have fainted right there.
“I’m glad you came,” he said. “Dressed for a good gallop,
I see.”
She should have been shocked by the wicked innuendo, but
to the
of dancing with countless other partners who did not stir her blood the way he
did.
By noon she was starving for a mere taste of him, the
smallest glance, even from a distance. So when the footman delivered a letter
to her shortly after luncheon, she snatched it from the silver salver and tore
it open in a matter of seconds, reading it in its entirety before looking up to
dismiss the young man.
This afternoon. Torrington House,
2pm. Come around to the stables at the back.
—D
The stables? Did he wish to go riding with her? In public?
Erring on the side of caution, she donned her black riding
habit with the silver buttons, her fashionable new boots, which had been
polished to a fine sheen since the last time she wore them, and brought along
her riding crop as well.
At precisely two in the afternoon, she alighted from the
family coach in front of Mr. Torrington’s London residence and instructed her
driver to return for her in one hour, and to wait on the street.
The vehicle pulled away from the curb and she watched it
reach a fair distance before she ventured around to the back of the house. She
crossed a small gravel courtyard, taking note of the fact that there was no one
about—no grooms or other servants from the household—and the stable
door was slightly ajar. She could hear an odd pounding noise from within.
Pulling the door open with her leather-gloved hand, she
peered inside.
The stable was empty. There was no carriage in the center
corridor, or any horses in the stalls, yet she could still hear the repetitive
sound of hard pounding.
Quietly she walked toward the back and found the source of
the racket. It was Mr. Torrington and his iron fists. He was moving about in
the last stall, punching a large leather sack full of sand or some other heavy
substance, which was secured with a rope and suspended from one of the rafters
above.
Charlotte stood for a moment watching him, until he
circled around and noticed her standing there.
He was crouched slightly at the knees in a defensive
stance with both fists wrapped up in white gauze. When their eyes met, he
straightened and laid a hand on the bag to stop it from swinging. Her body
flared with sexual awareness at the sight of him, for he wore a pair of tight
pale gray breeches, black boots with laces, and nothing else. His bare chest
and arms glistened with shiny drops of sweat, and Charlotte could almost feel
the fierceness of his attitude as fighter.
She said nothing while he caught his breath. Then slowly
she moved closer until she could lay a hand on the giant leather bag. “I think
you killed it.”
Without cracking a smile, he wiped a forearm across his
sweaty brow and spit off to the side.
Charlotte inclined her head at him, feeling suddenly as if
she were not welcome there. “You sent me a note,” she reminded him. “It’s two
o’clock. Here I am.”
He exhaled sharply. “Yes.”
He began to unwrap the gauze from his hands and tossed it
carelessly onto the floor, which was swept clean of straw. An old rug had been
laid out to cover the plank floor.
The sight of his naked chest and the smell of his sweaty
body were not things a lady should be presented with—yet she was
fascinated and aroused by both. “Are you practicing for something?” she asked.
“Not practicing. This is a punching bag. I prefer it
because it doesn’t bruise or bleed, and it doesn’t punch back.”
“A definite advantage,” she replied. “You could go all day
with it.”
He approached her, slung a hand around to the small of her
back, pulled her hips tight up against his own, and planted a hard, salty kiss
on her mouth.
By the time he was finished devouring her like a midday
meal and released his grip on her body, she was breathless with delight and
could have fainted right there.
“I’m glad you came,” he said. “Dressed for a good gallop,
I see.”
She should have been shocked by the wicked innuendo, but
to the
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