Improper Pleasure. Charlotte Featherstone
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Improper Pleasure
Charlotte Featherstone
MILLS & BOON
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Prologue
London, 1876
It was a day like any other. Yet there was something enchanted in the air that made Amelia think that this particular Tuesday would be very different from all the others.
Despite the real unease gripping her, Amelia looked about her surroundings, recognizing the fact that everything was just as it ought to be. There was nothing, not even a warning softly whispered through the tree branches that predicted what was to come.
Wiping away the dew on the bench, Amelia sat on the stone slab and looked around the little copse which was awakening to life after the long winter. With a sigh, she lifted her face to the cool breeze and closed her eyes, relishing the sounds of chirping birds, the rustle of the wind through the leafless tree branches and the promise of a beautiful spring day that scented the air. Even the funerary statues surrounding her seemed to glow with beauty, wonder and life.
Most would say that a cemetery in the heart of London was a macabre and disturbing place to spend a few hours of solitude. But Amelia found comfort in the quiet, in the privacy of her little spot, as if it were her very own garden.
How long it was before she heard the sound of carriage wheels clacking against cobbles, she had no idea. Despite the dew smudging her spectacles and the black lace veil she used to cover her face, Amelia could make out a well-appointed carriage with shining black lacquered doors and an elaborate gold crest. Tassels, fixed in the center of the window shades, swayed gently back and forth, drawing her eye to the lavish length of gold bullion fringe that edged the scalloped contours of the crème velvet shades. She recognized the carriage and the regal crest it bore. Knew the features of the occupant as well as she knew her own.
Yes, she knew the man inside the carriage, but did he know her? Could he see her? Did he know who it was standing amid the statutes with her face veiled?
There was a flicker of darkness—a shadow—that moved across the pale interior, compelling her to look deep within the carriage. She had never seen him like this, at this time of day. It had never been just the two of them, looking at each other. And even though a lane and fence lay between them, Amelia had never felt more intimate with him than she did now.
The shadow shifted once more in the depths of the carriage interior. Then she saw him, another movement of sifting light that revealed him and his black, wild-looking hair and penetrating eyes that seemed to burn straight into her as if he could see through her lace disguise.
What she wouldn’t trade in order to have him see her—to notice that she existed.
He settled back against the cushions and the carriage moved on, rolling down the cobbles. Amelia could no longer see his beautiful face, and she was glad for it. For this obsession was only one-sided. It could never be more than that—a secret, forbidden fantasy—no matter how much she wished for it to be otherwise.
Turning, Amelia walked away from the copse, toward the path that would lead her back to the gate—and the reality of her life.
Chapter One
He could not recall the precise date when he had first glimpsed her through his carriage window, yet that day was still so fresh, so evocative in his mind. Time seemed to stop as she stood aglow in the center of a glittering sunbeam that had found its way through the gently waving tree limbs.
As his carriage had bounced and swayed its way down Swain’s Lane, he watched the lone figure of the woman, her head bent as if she were reading, or praying, or perhaps even silently weeping. He had fancied her a mystical faerie or angel as she sat down on a bench beneath a stone seraph, the stippled sunlight dancing off her black bonnet and netted veil. He had been unable to move his gaze from her, a lone figure amidst the statues.
“Stop the coach!” he ordered his driver.
How long he had his coachman hold his team of blacks in the middle of the lane while he watched her that day, he had no idea. How long had he been waiting now, at the gates of Highgate Cemetery, desiring a glimpse of her, he knew not. Since that fateful day when he had first discovered her, he had made the weekly trek to Highgate, hoping for another stolen glimpse of her. That was nearly a month ago.
She came only once a week. On Tuesday mornings she arrived, dressed in a drab woolen gray gown, the skirts of which were bustled high in the back. Her long cloak was plain and unadorned, giving nothing away of her shape. Her bonnet, a simple black confection, was tied primly beneath her chin. Black satin ties whipped in the breeze beneath the long lace veil she used to cover her face.
Once a week he saw her from beyond the bars of the iron fence. Once a week he silently watched her—studied her, never allowing himself to give in to his impulse and go to her. Once a week he allowed himself to see her. The other six days he was consumed by thoughts of her.
The sound of his mount’s reins jangling in the quiet of the peaceful morning brought him abruptly back to the present. The gelding, stepping sideways, snorted and pranced, anxious to be cantering off to Hyde Park and his morning run on Rotten Row. “Just another moment,” Adrian muttered, tightening his gloved hand around the leather reins. “She has only just arrived.”
Pressing forward in the saddle, he inched to the right and saw her walking amongst the seraphs that stood sentry around the grove. Find me beyond these black bars and see me, he whispered to her.
Somehow she heard him from across the sunlit space that separated them. Slowly, she looked at him over her shoulder. With a small nod and tip of his hat, he acknowledged her, then pressed his knees into the gelding’s sides. She was aware. He would let that awareness grow into something stronger—need. And when he was certain her need was at least half as strong as his, he would go to her. Only then would he learn everything there was to know about this woman who made him dream such beautiful, erotic dreams throughout the night.
She was playing a very dangerous game by returning to Highgate week after week. Yet she could not stop herself from coming, from experiencing those few minutes of his undivided attention. He would never know how she clutched those memories of him to her breast. Those minutes alone with him, despite the distance, were so very dear to her—as if she were the only woman in the world to him.
Yes, but what if he was to discover what you are, the nasty voice inside her asked. What if, contrary to her beliefs, he had recognized her? Her life would be ruined. Yet here she sat, wishing to see him, feeling her blood heat at just the thought of him.
What a fool she was to delude herself that he would feel anything for her, least of all desire. She was not a beautiful woman. She was plain. She wore spectacles. She was nobody. That was her reality.
This morning, she had neglected to wear