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Moving with freedom among the unfamiliar and intoxicating sights of London.
Ladies in vivid silk gowns with wavering ostrich plumes in their hair promenaded on the arms of gentlemen in cutaway tailcoats and white trousers.
In the distance the famed gardens extended, filled with exhibitions and novelties, tightrope walkers and pantomimes. Lovers sought shadowy walkways and secluded groves.
“The problem with Vauxhall is that these oil lamps strung in the trees aren’t bright enough for me to read by,” said Beatrice.
“You bring a book with you everywhere you go,” complained the duchess. “I don’t think it’s too much to ask for you to forego your precious reading for one evening. Who knows, if you removed those spectacles and lifted your nose out of your novels every now and then, you might even find a husband. Oh, is that Viscount Fitzbart? Perhaps he knows where my second son has disappeared to—I haven’t seen Rafe in days. Excuse me for a moment.” She rose and hastened after the viscount.
“Where can Rafe be?” asked Beatrice.
That was the question of the evening. Mina searched for Drew in the crowd, as if the sights of Vauxhall paled without him by her side.
“Do you think Rafe left London for a spell?” asked Beatrice. “I wonder if he took a foreign mistress? He could be in the graceful arms of a French actress.”
“Perhaps.” Mina was fairly certain that Lord Rafe’s sudden journey had nothing to do with a mistress and everything to do with espionage.
She caught sight of Drew in the distance and her heart flip-flopped. He stared at her as he approached, holding her gaze, a secret smile on his lips meant only for her.
“I ordered a Burgundy instead of that diluted arrack punch,” said Drew, returning to the table and sitting across from Mina. “Where’s Mother?” he asked Beatrice.
“She chased after Fitzbart—thought he might know where Rafe’s gone.”
“I already questioned him. He knows nothing. Ah. Here’s the wine.”
A waiter held out the bottle for Drew to inspect.
Mina accepted a glass and took a small sip. The earthy fullness of it surprised her. She drank more. “Cherries,” she said. “Cinnamon.” She sniffed the glass. “Worn leather.”
“Leather?” laughed Drew.
“Saddle leather. Warmed from body heat.”
He swallowed more wine. “I can taste the cherries but nothing so fanciful as leather. Maybe a hint of coffee? Coffee ground with rose petals.”
“Strong, yet delicate.”
He raised his glass to her. “Like you, MissPenny.”
If you like the taste of roses, you might try my bosom.
Wayward mind, wandering down forbidden walkways.
He stared at her with something hungry and untamed in his eyes. He’d said that he was frozen and he didn’t feel appropriate emotions. But his gaze was heated.
It made her conscious of every movement she made—the angle of her fingers on the stem of the wineglass, the press of her breasts against the edge of her corset.
Her reaction to him was impossible to suppress and defied all logic. It wasn’t something she could control. She longed to touch him.
Tip the brim of his beaver hat up until it toppled off his head. Tear off her gloves. Bury her fingers in his thick, dark hair.
His hands had been between her thighs when she’d been trapped on the chair.
Huge, roughened hands.
She’d wanted them to wander.
He’d become the forbidden, exciting prize and she wanted to drag him off into the shadows and have her way with him, or let him have his way with her, or a combination of both.
