The Taste of Innocence (4 page)

Instead…he’d encountered something he hadn’t anticipated, something strong enough to not change his direction but replot his course. Even as he turned her and they took their positions in the set, arms raised, fingers twined, he was conscious of a certain strength in her, a fluid supple quality, true, yet something he’d be unwise to ignore. However…

The music swelled and they moved into the figures, dipping, swaying, circling, coming together, then gliding apart; with his attention locked on her, on her face, on her graceful figure, he was aware to his bones just how entrancing she was, just how much her svelte curves lured him—even if they concealed steel. Or was it because of that?

She twirled; gazes locking, they moved in concert, then opposition, only to glide together again, side by side, arms brushing. Senses reaching, touching.

Meeting, meshing. Held, commanded, by her cornflower-blue eyes, he felt the intangible caress of the sensual tendrils nascent desire sent weaving between them, twining and twirling as the music steered them through the intricate steps. As he retook her hand and their fingers interlinked, he all but felt the net draw close, and tighten. Drawing them nearer as the dance did the same, as he circled her, their eyes linked, and the beat escalated and his pulse responded—and he saw desire rise and swirl through her eyes.

Abruptly he looked away, then drew in a deep breath. Rapidly reasserted his will and reassembled his wits.

He was more attracted to her than he’d anticipated; that was undeniable. Her unexpected resistance to accepting his suit had focused his attention in a way he hadn’t forseen.

It was, he told himself, the scent of the chase, spurred on by that alluring taste of innocence—something he was keen to savor again. Once he’d gained her agreement, her hand, and her, no doubt his burgeoning fascination would fade.

But that time was not yet.

The dance concluded. He raised her from her curtsy; the movement left them closer than they had been to that point.

Closer than they had been since the moment in her parents’ drawing room when he’d kissed her.

Her eyes, wide, were raised to his. He looked into them, and the impulse to kiss her flared again, stronger, more compelling. For one finite instant there was no other in the room, only them. Her gaze lowered to his lips; hers parted.

They stood in the center of a dance floor surrounded by a horde of others who would be fascinated by any hint of a connection between them.

He hauled in a breath, mentally gritted his teeth, and forced himself to step back—enough to break the spell. She blinked, then dropped her gaze and eased back.

His fingers tightened about hers. Lifting his head, he scanned the room, but there was no chance of slipping away, of finding some quiet spot in which to pursue their aims, if not mutual, then at least parallel. She wanted to get to know him better; he wanted to kiss her again, to taste her more definitely.

But Finsbury Hall was relatively small, and it was raining outside.

Lips compressing, he looked at her, and found his inner frown reflected in her eyes. “This venue is a trifle restrictive for our purpose. If I call on you tomorrow, will you be free?”

She thought before she nodded. “Yes.”

“Good.” Setting her hand on his sleeve, he turned her toward the drawing room. “We can spend the day together, and then we’ll see.”

He called in the morning to take her driving—behind his matched, utterly peerless grays. To Sarah’s intense relief, Clary and Gloria had gone for a walk with Twitters and weren’t there to see—not the horses, Charlie, or how he whisked her from the house, handed her into his curricle, then leapt up, took the reins and drove off, whipping up his horses as if he and she were escaping….

Well wrapped in her forest-green pelisse, she settled beside him and reflected that perhaps they were leaving behind the restrictions of their families and the familiar but sometimes suffocating bounds of local society. At the end of the Manor drive, he turned his horses north. She glanced at him, glad she’d decided against a hat; he, of course, looked predictably impressive in his many-caped greatcoat, his long-fingered hands wielding whip and reins with absentminded dexterity. “Where are we going?”

“Watchet.” Briefly he met her eyes. “I have business interests there, on the docks and in the ware houses behind them. I need to speak with my agent, but that won’t take long. After that, I thought we could stroll, have lunch at the inn, and maybe”—he glanced at her again—“go for a sail if the weather stays fine and the winds oblige.”

She widened her eyes even though he’d looked to his horses. “You enjoy sailing?”

“I own a small boat, single-masted. I can sail it alone—I usually do—but it will carry three comfortably. It’s tied up at Watchet pier.”

She imagined him sailing alone on the waves, sails billowing in the winds that whipped over Bridgwater Bay. Watchet was one of the ports scattered along the southern shore. “I haven’t been sailing for years—not since I was a child. I quite enjoyed it.” She glanced at him. “I know the basics.”

His lips curved. “Good. You can crew.”

He slowed his pair as they approached Crowcombe. They rattled through the village; as the last house fell behind, he whipped up his horses and they rocketed on into open countryside. Once they were bowling freely along, she asked, “What do you do in London? How do you pass your time—not the balls and parties, the evenings, those I can imagine—but the days? Alathea once told me that you and Gabriel shared similar interests.”

Eyes on his horses as he deftly steered them along the country road, he nodded. “Around the time of their marriage, I caught a glimpse into the world of finance—it seemed challenging, exciting, and Gabriel was willing to teach me. I more or less fell into it. These days…”

Somewhat to his surprise, Charlie found it easy to describe his liking for the intricacies of high finance, to outline his absorption with investments and innovations and the development of projects that ultimately led to major improvements for all. Perhaps it was because Sarah wasn’t asking simply to be polite; she sincerely wanted to know—and her occasional questions demonstrated that her understanding was up to the task.

“Infrastructure is currently my principal area of interest, certainly in the sense of looking ahead, in terms of speculative investments. Most of the funds I manage—my own as well as the family’s—are in safe and solid stocks and bonds, but that type of investment requires little time or acumen to oversee. It’s the new ventures that excite me. Dealing in that arena is more demanding, making success more rewarding, in both monetary terms as well as satisfaction.”

“Because there isn’t any danger in the safe and secure—the other has more risk, so it’s therefore more challenging?”

He glanced at her. She met his eyes, her brows arching in question. He nodded and looked back to his horses, just a touch unnerved that she’d seen that quite so clearly.

Still, if she were to be his bride, such understanding would only help.

They rattled through Williton. A little way on, he drew rein on a wide bend in the road, and they looked down on the port of Watchet.

It was a bustling small town, the houses forming embracing arms around the docks and wharves that were the focus of town life. The docks ran out into deep water; the wharves ran along the shoreline, connecting them. Immediately behind stood rows of ware houses, all old but clearly in use.

Beyond the western end of the town, between the last houses and the cliffs that rose to border the sea, a shelf of land was in the process of being cleared and leveled.

“You said you had interests in the ware houses here.” Sarah glanced at him. “In which set of investments do they fall—the safe, sure, and unexciting or the risky and challenging?”

He grinned. “A bit of both. With the industries and mills in Taunton expanding, and those in Wellington, too, the future growth of Watchet as a port is assured. The next nearest is Minehead.” He nodded to the west. “Not only farther away, but with the cliffs to manage.” He looked back at the port below, at the rigging of the ships at anchor, at the steel-green waves of the bay and the Bristol Channel farther out. “Watchet will grow. The only questions are by how much, and how soon. The risk comes in balancing how much to invest against the time needed to make an acceptable return.”

The grays stamped, impatient to get on. The road leading down was well graded with no overly steep sections, perfect for the heavy wagons that trundled down to the docks, disbursed their loads of cloth or fleeces, then took on the wines and wood off-loaded from the ships.

Charlie checked that no large dray was on the upward slope, then flicked the reins and sent the grays down.

He drove into the town and turned in under the arch of the Bell Inn. They left the horses in the reverent care of the head ostler, who knew Charlie well. Her hand on Charlie’s arm, Sarah walked beside him into the High Street.

What followed was a minor education into the business of Watchet port. Charlie’s man on the ground was part shipping agent, part landlord’s agent; he matched the available ware house space with the cargoes coming in and out of the town, passing through the docks.

Sarah sat in a chair alongside Charlie’s and listened as Mr. Jones reviewed the dispositions of goods in the ware houses Charlie owned. All were close to full, earning Charlie’s approbation.

“Now.” Jones leaned forward to lay a sheet of figures before Charlie. “These are the projections you wanted on the volumes needed to make a go of any new ware house. They’re well within range of what we’re likely to see coming through within a year.”

Charlie picked up the sheet, rapidly scanned the figures, then peppered Jones with questions.

Sarah listened intently; Charlie had explained enough for her to follow his tack—enough for her to appreciate the risk and the potential reward.

When ten minutes later they left Jones, she smiled and gave him her hand, aware of the speculation her presence by Charlie’s side had sparked.

From Jones’s office, they walked west along the main wharf, feeling the tug of the salt breeze and with the raucous cries of gulls ringing in their ears. At the end of the wharf, Charlie took her elbow and turned her up a cobbled street; after passing between two old and weathered warehouses, it gave onto the large flat section of rocky land beyond which the sea cliffs rose.

There were pegs in the ground with ropes strung between. Charlie led her on a little way, then they halted and looked seaward. All the town and the ware houses lay to their right. Ahead, they could see the newest and most westerly dock stretching out into the choppy waters of the bay.

“I’m thinking of building a new ware house here.” Charlie looked at her. “What do you think?”

Lifting her hands to tuck back the hair the wind had whipped about her face, she looked at the nearest ware house, thought of the figures Jones had let fall. “If it were me, I’d be thinking of two—or at least one twice the size of that one. I’m not very good at estimating spaces, but it seemed that the anticipated increase in goods through Watchet would easily fill another two, if not three.”

Charlie grinned. “If not four or more. You’re right.” He looked at the dock, then scanned the area in which they stood. “I was thinking of two—very little risk there. The projected volumes will fill them easily. No need to be greedy—two will do. But building one twice the size…” He paused, then added, “That might well be an excellent notion.”

Sarah inwardly preened. “Who owns the land?”

Retaking her arm, Charlie turned back to the town. “I do. I bought it years ago.”

She raised her brows. “A speculative investment?”

“One that’s about to pay handsomely.”

They walked back to the inn, taking their time, casting their eyes over the various ships tied up at the docks, at the cargoes being unloaded. The central wharf was a bustling hive of activity; Charlie helped her over various ropes and between piles of crates until they could turn the corner for the inn.

Once within its portals they were greeted by the owner; he knew them both, but Charlie—his lordship, the earl—clearly commanded extra special attention. They were shown to a table in a private nook by a window from which they could see the harbor.

The meal was excellent. Sarah had expected their conversation to falter, but Charlie quizzed her on local affairs and the time sped by. It was only as they were leaving the inn that it occurred to her that he’d been using her to refresh his memory; much of what he’d asked he wouldn’t have seen over the last ten years—the years he’d spent mostly in London.

Pausing on the inn’s porch, they studied the sea. The wind had dropped to a gentle offshore breeze, and the waves were no longer choppy. The sun had found a break in the clouds and shone down, gilding the scene, easing the earlier chill.

Charlie glanced at her. “Are you game?”

She met his eyes, and smiled. “Where’s your boat?”

He steered her down the wharf, heading east beyond the commercial docks to where narrower piers afforded berths to smaller, private craft. Charlie’s boat was moored toward the end of one pier. One look at its bright paintwork, at its neat and shining trim, was enough to assure her that it was in excellent condition.

The glow in Charlie’s eyes as she helped him cast off, then hoist the sail, informed her that sailing was a passion; his expertise as he tacked, taking them swiftly from the pier out into the open harbor, told her it was one in which he often indulged. Or had. It seemed unlikely that he’d managed all that much sailing over recent years.