the conventions. But how did a respectable widow set about finding a lover without finding a scandal at the same time?
This intriguing train of thought was cut short by Hubert. ‘How dare you mention such a thing in front of Clara?’
‘Clara is a married woman. I hardly think she is going to be corrupted by mention of subjects which are common knowledge.’ Clara was like all the married women of Caroline’s circle, regarding sensual matters as shocking, and apparently considering that respectable women could take no possible pleasure in them. Clara Morvall would certainly not be titillated or tempted by the prospect of a lover.
Caroline got to her feet and gathered up the book she had been reading—Travels Through Ancient Anatolia by Andrew Fenton—her notebooks and her reticule. ‘My mind is quite made up, Hubert. I am leaving tomorrow.’
The rain spattered against the window as she turned to leave her fuming stepson, and she drew her sombre black shawl defensively around her shoulders. It seemed a year had gone by when she had hardly glimpsed the sun or felt true human warmth; now she was determined never to feel cold again.
The Sea of Marmara: five months later
Caroline leaned on the rail of the ship and narrowed her eyes against the sun-dazzle on the waves. Over there was Asia. Asia. She could hardly believe that she was here at last. The long sea voyage, the excitements of calling at Naples and Malta, the discomforts, all faded into unreality as the shore that was her destination drew closer.
She turned a little, away from the Asian side, straining to make some sense of the jumble of minarets, spires and domes that crowded the skyline of the city ahead. Which mosque was the Blue Mosque? Where was the Sultan’s harem located? Where was the Golden Horn? The other passengers, apparently familiar with this amazing scene, were all below, packing or gathered round piles of belongings further back near the hatches. Her courier was somewhere below too, and there was no one to ask which building was which.
Before her, inching closer through the haze, was Constantinople, an exotic city of Muslims and Christians and Jews, all worshipping and trading and existing in a city large enough to swallow the population of Essex. It could not be real. It must be a dream, a mirage.
The warm wind picked up a little, shifted and brought with it the scents of spices and woodsmoke, fish and more than a hint of drains, and the dream vanished, replaced by exotic reality. Caroline found herself sighing, as though a weight had been lifted from her shoulders—one she had hardly been aware of carrying.
She truly was here at last. A strange shiver passed through her: part fear, part excitement, wholly—and strangely—sensual. This was not a place to be alone. This was not a place for buttoned-up English restraint and respectability. This was a city for all the senses. Faintly, the sound of music from some unfamiliar high-pitched flute drifted across the water.
The breeze ruffled her thin skirts around her legs, caressed her unveiled face like the touch of soft hands, warm fingers stroking languidly down her limbs, teasing and soothing. Involuntarily her own fingers tightened on the rail as her breasts became heavy with the memory of skilled kisses and, stirring from long months of celibacy, the achingly familiar, intimate pulse of desire began to throb.
In a sensual daydream Caroline was scarcely aware of the tip of her tongue running over the fullness of her lower lip, of the soft flush rising in her cheeks. I wish I had a lover. The thought whispered through her mind. A tall, handsome, charismatic man.
It is incredible how powerful the imagination is, she thought hazily. It was conjuring him up even as she dreamed. Her heavy-lidded gaze, which had fallen to the deck as she mused, travelled up a pair of long, well-muscled legs to narrow hips and a flat belly. Her fantasy was even obliging by responding to her in a way that the cut of his snug-fitting trousers made quite outstandingly clear.
Caroline felt the pulse in her throat beat harder and let her eyes drift up, away from that disturbing piece of imagination, up to a white shirt exposed by a carelessly open coat, up to broad shoulders, a firm chin and a mouth that was curved in a slow smile of lazily erotic recognition of her needs. Oh yes.
With a little sigh Caroline met the grey eyes. The grey eyes fringed with black lashes. The very amused, very real grey eyes, belonging to the very real, completely non-imaginary man who was leaning against the rail six feet in front of her.
Oh my God… Caroline could feel the blush flooding her face and stared round wildly for some sort of salvation. A tidal wave, a pirate attack, a raiding party of Circassian slavers. Nothing. And the man was straightening up and coming towards her.
She was the most beautiful, most desirable, most erotic thing he had seen in a very long time. And, given years spent in one of the most exciting and cosmopolitan cities in the world, that was saying something. Drew kept very still, willing the tall blonde to hold the trance she was locked in. He did not flatter himself for a moment that he was the object of her heated—very heated—thoughts. If she could see him at all through that haze of desire, then her imagination had taken over and was superimposing some other man on his form.
But, even so, it was a thoroughly arousing experience to be on the receiving end of all that carnal longing, and Drew felt more than a twinge of envy for the lucky man who would benefit from it.
He was aware of the very physical effect she was having on him, and tried, without any success at all, to control it by making himself focus on those wide, mistily unfocused blue-grey eyes. They were wandering up his body like a caress, and the soft lips were parted, with the tip of her tongue just touching the fullness of the lower one. He tried to ignore the enticing swell of her breasts and the long, slender legs outlined as the breeze whipped her muslin skirts tight against them.
Hopeless. Sooner or later he was going to have to break this spell, or they were both going to faint from the sheer strain of it. Despite the potential embarrassment of appearing in public in a state that could only be described as seriously over-excited, and an increasing feeling of jealousy of this woman’s lover, Drew’s sense of humour was beginning to get the better of him. He knew that, despite his best efforts to remain both still and expressionless, his mouth was curving into a smile.
That delicious gaze moved to his mouth, hesitated. There was an answering curve of her own full lips that nearly had him moaning aloud, then the grey-blue eyes met his and he caught the precise moment that she came to herself, snapped out of her daydream and realised she was staring lasciviously at a real flesh-and-blood man—and a complete stranger.
How would she react? She was experienced; there was no doubt of that. Whatever had been going through her mind it had not been the romantic daydreams of a virginal young lady. He found himself hoping against hope that this delicious girl was not going to turn out to be a hardened woman of pleasure, and was rewarded by the wide-eyed shock in her eyes and the furious blush which stained her face.
She was exquisitely confused, her eyes darting round in search of escape or rescue. Drew got his face under control, straightened up and strolled over to close the narrow gap between them.
He was going to speak to her. Caroline’s hands closed together in an agonising grip, as though the pain might punish her for her wanton thoughts, and as a reward this man would vanish. It did not work. He kept coming.
He lifted the wide-brimmed straw hat he was wearing to reveal black hair and a tanned face. He was still smiling that devastating smile, half gentle mockery, half unblushing recognition that she was a woman and he was a man and that there could be consequences of that fact.
‘Sir—’ Her voice
