Affair (23 page)

Charlotte kissed him again. He was lost.

“Next time,” he heard himself promise in a hoarse whisper. He began to move more quickly within her. “Next time …”

But he did not have to make her wait until the next occasion for her release. He heard her cry out, a wonderfully triumphant scream of delight and satisfaction.

And then she turned to molten gold in his hands.

She convulsed around him, tiny spasms kneading his engorged flesh. He slammed into her one last time and spilled himself into her warm, welcoming body.

The workbench trembled and shook.

Baxter was dimly aware of the sound of breaking glass. Another flask had been knocked to the floor. Something heavy, the cast iron pneumatic trough, perhaps, toppled and fell. A metallic clang echoed through the room as two brass instruments rolled into each other.

Baxter ignored the chaos around him and lost himself in the whirlpool.

• • •

C
harlotte floated gently down out of a world that was composed of pure sensation and found herself sitting on the edge of one of Baxter’s workbenches. She opened her eyes.

Baxter was no longer embedded within her body but he still stood between her legs. He was watching her with a shuttered, fiercely intent expression.

“You should have told me that you had never had a lover.”

The eerily emotionless quality of his voice washed away the last traces of warmth.

“It was my business,” she said. “I do not see that the facts of the situation need concern you in any way. You need assume no responsibility as a result of having been my first paramour. I am not a girl, I am a mature woman.”

“Granted.” His expression hardened. “But I do not appreciate being surprised by that kind of information.”

For some ridiculous reason, she was suddenly on the verge of tears. She blinked the moisture away with an act of sheer will. She refused to cry simply because Baxter had reverted to his customary brusque nature.

This was not how things should be after such an exhilarating experience, she thought. There should be great tenderness between them now. At least for a few moments they should both be able to indulge themselves in the wonderful sense of intimacy that had enveloped them during the passionate encounter.

Perhaps her emotions were still in an unusually volatile state due to recent events. But, damnation, here she was falling in love with this exceedingly difficult man and he stood there between her thighs, scowling as if she had done something unforgivable. Had their passion meant nothing to him?

“Baxter, you are making far too much of this.”

His jaw tightened. “Perhaps I am. After all, you were as eager as I for what occurred.”

“Indeed,” she said stiffly.

His mouth twisted. He glanced down, apparently amazed to discover that his fingers were still curved around her upper thighs.

A wave of acute embarrassment swept over Charlotte. She was keenly aware of a disturbing scent that she knew must have resulted from the lovemaking. And there was a great deal of dampness between her legs. She shifted gingerly and fumbled with her skirts.

“Wait,” Baxter muttered. “I’ve got a clean handkerchief here somewhere.”

He fished around in his clothing until he produced a large square of neatly pressed linen. Charlotte flinched and blushed furiously when he used it to wipe away the traces of their passion. She submitted for a few seconds and then pushed his hand away.

“If you’re quite finished.” She managed to get her legs closed. She jerked her skirts downward and slid off the workbench.

Her knees threatened to give way. She put out a hand to catch her balance.

“Why?” Baxter asked.

She glanced at him. “I beg your pardon?”

He crushed the wet handkerchief in his fingers. His alchemist’s eyes blazed. “Why did you choose me to be your first lover?”

Damn him. Two could play at this game. She dredged up what she hoped was a cool smile. “You, of all people, sir, should understand that sometimes the urge to conduct an experiment proves quite overwhelming.”

Eleven

He had been nothing more than an experiment for her. A damned
experiment
.

Baxter’s initial rage was now inextricably bound up with a gut-wrenching sense of frustrated despair. He fought hard to conceal both behind the veil of emotionless detachment that had worked so often and so well for him in the past.

He escorted Charlotte home with a brusque civility that clearly annoyed her but it was all that he was prepared to give. She sat across from him in the carriage, her spine elegantly straight, and refused to meet his eyes during the whole of the short ride. She kept her attention fixed on the street. There was a flush in her cheeks but Baxter concluded that it was not a result of the fact that he had just made love to her. She said not a single word.

Her lack of conversation suited him perfectly, he
thought. God knew he’d had more than enough of strong emotions today. He certainly did not want to discuss them.

He followed her up the steps of her little town house in silence. It was a relief to retreat into the deep, remote place where feeling was muted, distanced, and far easier to contain.

Mrs. Witty opened the door with alacrity. “About time you got home, Miss Charlotte. Miss Ariel and myself were starting to fret. Wondered if we ought to send word to Mr. St. Ives—” She broke off as she took in the sight of Baxter standing on the step behind Charlotte. Her face cleared. “Oh, I see you found her, sir. Well, that’s a fortunate turn of events.”

“That depends upon one’s point of view.” Baxter ignored Charlotte’s glowering, sidelong glance as he stepped into the hall.

He stopped short as the overpowering fragrance of a vast quantity of massed flowers hit him in a scented wave. “What the devil is this? Have you turned the house into a bloody conservatory?”

Mrs. Witty grimaced as she followed his gaze. “They started arriving this morning. Used every vase and bowl we had in the house. Quite a sight, eh?”

Rank upon rank of vases filled with innumerable blooms were clustered in the hall. Pots of marigolds marched up the staircase. Tulips framed the mirror. Roses and orchids and lilies were massed against the walls.

Baxter was abruptly incensed. “Who the devil thinks he has the right to send you all of these damned posies, Charlotte? The only man you danced with last night was old Lennox.”

“I sent some of them to myself.” Charlotte untied her bonnet strings. “I made a bargain with the young boy
who drove the flower cart, you see. He only agreed to help me follow Miss Post after I said I would purchase all of his wares.”

“Ah, yes. The bloody flower cart boy.” Baxter scowled at Mrs. Witty. “Were you a party to that episode?”

“Don’t look at me, sir.” Mrs. Witty took his hat. “I’m entirely innocent. I suggested that chasing after Miss Post was not the wisest course of action, but who listens to the housekeeper? In any event, not all of these flowers are from the flower cart. A good many were sent around this morning by Miss Ariel’s admirers.”

Charlotte brightened. “Of course. Ariel was the toast of every young man in the ton last night. The gentlemen fell at her feet in droves.”

“Charlotte, you’re back.” Ariel’s voice sang out from the rear of the hall. Quick footsteps sounded on the tile as she hurried toward the front of the house. “I was starting to become concerned. Mrs. Witty said that you’d gone haring off after some woman who claimed that Mr. St. Ives had seduced and abandoned her—Oh, Mr. St. Ives.” Ariel blushed as she emerged from the corridor. “I did not see you, sir.”

“Think nothing of it.” Baxter folded his arms and propped one shoulder against the door frame. “I’m accustomed to being ignored.”

“Pay no attention to him.” Charlotte marched briskly toward the stairs. “Mr. St. Ives is in an ill temper. Show him into my study, Mrs. Witty. I shall be down in a minute. I want to freshen myself. It has been a somewhat hectic morning.”

“Hectic.” Baxter watched Charlotte hurry up the staircase. “Yes, indeed. Just another busy morning in the
laboratory observing the results of one’s experiments, eh, Miss Arkendale?”

She paused on the landing to give him a brittle smile. “As you say, Mr. St. Ives.”

“Bear in mind that occasionally the results of certain experiments take some time to develop,” he said. “As long as nine months in some instances.”

He had the satisfaction of seeing her eyes widen in shock as his meaning sank home. Bleakly satisfied, he turned and walked into the study.

Another scented wave swept over him. This room, too, was filled with blooms. A particularly large bowl of pale pink roses dominated the scene.

Nine months
. His own words struck him with the impact of a hammer blow. What if Charlotte was pregnant?

He made for the brandy table.

Charlotte’s outraged yell sounded from the floor above just as Baxter got the top off the brandy decanter.

“It’s gone.” Footsteps pounded overhead. “The bastard took it.”

Baxter put down the decanter with a long-suffering sigh. A man could not even take a medicinal draught in this household without being interrupted.

He made his way back to the doorway of the study. Ariel and Mrs. Witty were gazing up at the landing in openmouthed astonishment. Charlotte stood there looking as though she had just received a strong jolt from an electricity machine.

“What is it?” Ariel demanded. “What happened?”

Mrs. Witty stared at her. “What’s wrong?”

Charlotte flung her arms wide. “I just told you. Didn’t you hear me? He took it.”

“Calm yourself, Charlotte,” Baxter said. Everyone fell
silent and turned to look at him. “Now, then, why don’t you tell us precisely who took what?”

“The villain we surprised here in this house last night,” she said impatiently.

“What about him?”

“I concluded that he had not managed to steal anything, but I was wrong. I only thought to check those items that I believed would appeal to a thief, the silver and such.” Charlotte drew a breath. “I did not bother to check Drusilla Heskett’s watercolor sketchbook. I stored it in a wardrobe drawer.”

Baxter went cold. “Are you saying it’s gone?”

“Yes. That was no ordinary housebreaker, Baxter. He was after that sketchbook. And he got it.” She leveled an accusing finger at him. “I told you that book contained a valuable clue, St. Ives.”

Baxter adjusted his spectacles absently as he considered the implications. “When you have finished refreshing yourself, come down here at once. Kindly do not dawdle.”

“Damn you, St. Ives. Don’t you dare give me orders in my own house. Furthermore, I do not dawdle. I’m the one who followed Miss Post this morning, if you will but recall. When I attempted to tell you about the incident, you created a … a great distraction right there in your own laboratory. Any dawdling done this day was done by you, sir.”

Baxter closed the study door very gently and went back to the brandy table.

F
ifteen minutes later, feeling vastly more composed, Charlotte swept into the study. Ariel and Mrs. Witty followed on her heels. Baxter was seated in the
wingback chair in front of the fire. He glanced at the women and put down the half-finished brandy.

“About time,” he murmured as he got to his feet.

Charlotte ignored him. “It is extremely fortunate that I thought to tear out the page that contained Drusilla Heskett’s little drawing.” She went around her desk and opened a drawer. The torn sheet of sketch paper was inside, right where she had put it last night after Baxter had left. “This has got to be the clue. It was the only odd thing in the sketchbook.”

“I thought there were a number of oddities in that sketchbook,” Ariel said cheerfully. “Some of them quite interesting.”

Charlotte scowled at her as she put the ragged page on top of the desk. “That is precisely why I removed this particular sketch.”

Mrs. Witty peered at the pen-and-ink drawing. “Looks like so much nonsense to me. A triangle within a circle, three worms swimming about, and—” She squinted. “What’s that thing in the center? A dragon?”

“Some sort of winged creature, I believe.” Charlotte pursed her lips. “Difficult to be certain. Mrs. Heskett did not possess a great talent for drawing. Except for certain types of anatomical studies, that is.”

Baxter crossed to the desk. “Let me see the picture.”

Charlotte felt a stirring sensation on her skin as he came to a halt and stood gazing down at the sketch. She had his full attention now, she thought. The news of the theft of the sketchbook had caused him to focus his considerable intellect on the situation.

It seemed to her that the quiet power he radiated when he was this intense shimmered around him in an invisible aura. She wondered how Ariel and Mrs.
Witty
could fail to notice. And then she saw that both of them
had moved slightly, as if to give Baxter more room. But in truth there was ample space at the desk. Neither seemed aware of the subtle change in position.

Charlotte almost smiled. Most people might not be conscious of Baxter’s solid, inner strength, but that did not mean they failed to respond to it in an instinctive fashion.