Page 32 of The Return of the Rake

King dipped his spoon into the small mound of ice cream and took a taste. He closed his eyes and sighed. “Delicious,” he admitted.

Mrs Adamson looked like she might dance on the spot with delight but instead took her own spoon and delved into the apricot bowl. “I ought not to admit it, but I could eat all three bowls entirely by myself,” she said sadly, scooping up another spoonful.

I could eat you up entirely by myself, King thought, but did not say so. Though, having her so close to him, and the small sounds of pleasure she made as she ate the ice cream, was doing terrible things to his equilibrium.

Mrs Adamson shivered, though whether from delight or from the far cooler temperatures in the little enclosed room, King was unsure. Still, such gentlemanly instincts as he possessed asserted themselves.

“You’re cold,” he observed, and immediately stripped off his coat.

“Whatever are you—” she began in alarm, only to halt her anxious remark when he settled his coat about her shoulders.

She looked up at him then, an expression of such surprise in her eyes, such vulnerability, that his heart melted quicker than any bowl of ice ever had or ever would. Without thought or calculation, he drew her into his arms and lowered his mouth to hers.

Mrs Adamson gasped, but did not fight him, allowing him the kiss. King felt a surge of possessive pleasure, of triumph, revelling in the feel of her lithe body in his arms, of the cold sweetness of her mouth against his. He knew, however, that he had won nothing, not yet, she was allowing him the kiss, but she gave nothing away.

King pulled back, observing her, still seeing surprise in her eyes, curiosity too, but no fear, no shyness or desire to look away or back down. She held his gaze boldly, and then, bolder still, reached up and sank her fingers into his hair, pulling his head down for another kiss.

He obliged, for there was nothing in this world or any other that he wanted more than to do so. All his ambitions, all his ravening hunger to conquer the world and devour everything in it, abated, sated for one blissful moment by the touch of her lips against his. Such was the remarkable sensation of perfection, the profound connection that he felt, that his touch, which might otherwise have been greedy and all-consuming, became tender and slow and he kissed her with every bit of the reverence a loving husband might show his new and innocent bride.

The clatter of a pan in the kitchen brought him to his senses, reminding him of exactly where they were and that it was hardly the correct environment for a seduction. Yet, as he forced himself to lift his unwilling lips from hers, King could not help but wonder which of them had been seduced by the other. Certainly, he could not tell which of them was breathing faster, only that her breasts rose and fell, swelling against the low neckline of her elegant gown. The sight made him ache with the desire to trail his tongue over the plump mounds that seemed to invite such devotion by constantly drawing his attention to them.

It was the hardest thing to release his hold upon her, but he did so, stooping to pick up his coat, which had fallen from her shoulders during their embrace. Certainly, she did not appear to be cold any longer; he thought with satisfaction as he took in her heightened colour and the lush redness of her mouth. The desire to haul her back into his arms and kiss her again, harder this time, giving her a glimpse of the tumult she had caused inside him was difficult to resist.

But King had not got where he was by giving into spontaneous desire when waiting would serve him better. He was a patient man when he knew waiting would bring him what he wanted quicker and more certainly than grabbing hastily for it ever could.

Her hands moved restlessly, smoothing her gown and checking her hair, taking a moment to compose herself before she met his eyes once more.

“Well, it is late,” she said, sounding rather too serene for his liking when he was still in mental disarray. “I think I shall bid you goodnight, Mr King.”

“Shall you, Mrs Adamson?” he said, a little affronted by her cool dismissal.

She smiled then, a glimmer of warmth shining through her sudden formality. “I must be up early in the morning when others are still abed. It has been a long day, and I am weary, but I have enjoyed our dinner very much, and I thank you for it.”

“You did?” he asked, taking her hands, his voice low, knowing he sounded like an eager boy fishing for compliments and despising himself for it, but unable to resist all the same.

“I did,” she replied with quiet assurance.

“And what part of it did you like best?” he asked, raising first one hand to his lips and pressing a kiss to her fingers, and then the other.

Her breath caught, and she tugged her hands free, but when she answered, there was a mischievous glimmer of delight shining in her eyes.

“Why, the ices of course,” she said, and hurried out before he could say another word.

Chapter 7

Charming strangers and new friends.

The Mermaid’s Tale, Little Valentine, East Sussex, 5th October 1815.

Though she did her utmost to keep her mind from it, Anne could not help but replay those extraordinary moments in the storerooms with Mr King. Throughout the breakfast service she was so distracted that Captain Dearborn asked if she was quite well or if perhaps, she was coming down with something. He suggested she sit down to conserve her strength, or perhaps even have Doctor Arkhurst call upon her. To her shame, she replied that she was a trifle fatigued and would take a walk in the fresh air to blow away the cobwebs, just so she might escape the kindness of his attentions, for they made her want to scream.

Mr King did not make her want to scream, she mused, as she made her way down to the beach. It was a brisk autumnal day, and whilst the sun shone sullenly through a thin gauze of cloud, thicker banks of grey shadowed parts of the sky, threatening rain.

Anne pulled her cloak tighter around her and stood on the damp sand, newly festooned with shingle and shells. The sea crashed about before her, sending damp air rushing over her skin as the waves returned frothing upon the shore and Anne drew in a deep breath. For a moment she closed her eyes, and was back once more in the storeroom, the feel of Mr King’s powerful embrace, the astonishing tenderness of his kiss showing a side to this notorious man that she hardly dared believe in.

Everyone said he was wicked, she reminded herself. The town believed him to be a vile rake who had seduced an innocent girl and left her to suffer the consequences alone.

Certainly, his reputation in London had been that of a dangerous man, albeit for very different reasons. On the fateful night when she had stolen the ruby necklace and fled, Mrs Fairway had led her to believe that Mr King was a criminal, a man who met violence with violence, but one who had his own code of honour. She had believed the kindness she had once done him meant he would deal with her honestly, and so it had been. Without him, Anne could hardly imagine how things might have turned out. Yet that did not erase the criminality, nor the violence, and Anne wanted no part of such a life, such a man.