Above them another clap of thunder boomed with enough force and resonance to be heard from Bath to Brighton. With no immediate thought to propriety, the earl grabbed C.J.’s hand. “Come with me!” he shouted. C.J. struggled to keep up with him as he tore across the open field, hoping to avoid their becoming scorched by the lightning that continued to streak across the sky. Darlington’s only concern was for Cassandra’s safety, and he refused to relinquish his grasp of her hand.
The rain slashed their faces as they sought sanctuary from the violence of the storm. C.J.’s flimsy slippers were soaking up water like sponges. The ground squished and sloshed under her feet, nearly causing her to lose her balance on a slick patch of grass, but Darlington’s strong grasp prevented her from falling. He pulled her, panting, into the shelter of a pavilion, one of the many to be found in the landscaped areas of Sydney Gardens. The little structure was roofed with thatch but otherwise resembled a marble neoclassical temple, encircled with Ionic columns. For a few moments, they struggled to catch their breath as they watched the torrential downpour continue around them.
The earl’s hair was plastered to his head in Titus-style ringlets. He removed his deep blue coat and wrung out a heavy silk-lined cuff, then looked at C.J. apologetically, as though he felt personally responsible for the rainstorm.
C.J. regarded the disheveled appearance of the man who always appeared so fastidiously and unaffectedly dignified and could not contain her laughter. “When you get as wet as this, it no longer signifies as a great disaster,” she said between silvery peals of amusement. “I am quite sure I look like a drowned rat, and my dress is past salvation, but after the first few drops, I had already resolved to accept its ruination.” She looked down at the diaphanous muslin, which clung to her skin in sodden folds, and realized that the effect of the soaking rendered the garment absolutely transparent, her thin stockinette stays utterly useless. Immediately self-conscious, she blushed and folded her arms across her chest.
The unceasing waterfall surrounding them, running in a shhhhhhh off the thatch onto the thirsty ground, created a wash of white sound. It was as though the rush of rain was purifying the air, leaving a sweet, clean fragrance in its wake. In fact, the damp straw gave off the odor of something earthy, freshly transmuted.
In an instant, blushes gave way to desire. C.J.’s arms encircled the earl’s neck, and she pressed her body so insistently against his that they melded together as one. She ran her warm hands through his damp locks, massaging his temples, as her mouth met his in a questing kiss. Guided by sheer want, C.J. took the lead, probing the depths of his mouth with her tongue, sucking and nibbling, then running it gently along his teeth and lips.
“Cassandra,” Darlington uttered hoarsely, as her hand aggressively slipped between his thighs, touching him through the straining fabric. He slipped her wet gown off her shoulders, lowering the bandeau to bare her breasts as he bestowed hot kisses from the length of her graceful neck across her pale throat and down toward her chest, forcing her to arch her back against the support of his strong hands. He hungrily tasted each of her nipples, gently biting the roseate buds to hardness, exploring the perfectly formed globes of her breasts with his practiced hands. She looked into his deep blue eyes, her expression one of glazed insatiability.
“Good Lord!” C.J. exclaimed when their bodies parted for a moment. “I think my frock has shrunk!” Indeed there did not seem to be quite so much fabric as there had been before the drubbing from the thunderstorm.
Darlington drew her close. “Cassandra Jane Welles, what the devil am I to make of you?”
Her eyes sparkled with mischief, commingled with lust. He felt her breath warm against his lips. “Take me home,” she murmured huskily. “Yours.”
Chapter Fifteen
Wherein our heroine experiences the pleasures of the Tantra.
THE RAIN HAD DIMINISHED from its almost biblical proportions to a fine drizzle, and the earl thought it best that C.J. should wear his coat until they were safely removed from all possibility of public scrutiny. It was serious business enough that Miss Welles was not properly chaperoned. In his clinging shirt and soggy, wrinkled cravat, the earl’s lack of presentability did not signify when compared to Miss Welles’s resemblance to the nearly nude Aphrodite at her toilette.
The slick streets were quiet, owing to everyone’s exodus indoors to escape the sudden storm, so Darlington and C.J. were fortunate to be able to make the journey from Sydney Gardens to his town house in the Circus without eliciting censorious comment.
“Wood considered the Circus his finest architectural achievement. It was modeled after both the Colosseum in Rome and Stonehenge in Wiltshire, if you can imagine such a combination, Lady Cassandra,” the earl remarked to C.J. in a very public voice, meanwhile entirely sensible of the energy crackling between them.
The door to the elegant town house was opened by an aging majordomo, tall and rail thin, with a shock of white hair that looked like a comb had never been able to produce much good effect. He seemed unperturbed by the sight of the master of the house—very much looking as though he had been swimming in the Avon—accompanying a scantily clad young lady whose dignity was preserved only by the master’s sapphire-colored superfine coat.
“Good afternoon, Davis,” an equally unruffled Darlington said to the
