Affair by Amanda Quick Page A

with grave politeness. In the weak glow of the carriage lamps she could not be certain of the expression on his carefully blank features but Charlotte could have sworn that she saw a flicker of amused sympathy on his face.
    Baxter followed her out of the carriage, took her arm, and walked her up the front steps to her door. He took the key from her hand and inserted it into the lock.
    “Good night, Mr. St. Ives.” Charlotte stepped into the hall and turned to face him. She summoned the sort of cool, authoritative smile that was proper for an employer to bestow upon a person in her service who had done a good night’s work. “I must tell you again how very pleased I am with the dramatic demonstration of your professional skills that I witnessed this evening.”
    “Thank you.” Baxter planted a broad hand on the door frame and regarded her with a considering expression. “There is just one thing.”
    “What is that, sir?”
    “Perhaps you should consider calling me by my given name. I see no point in attempting to maintain a great deal of formality between us under the circumstances.”
    She stared at him, speechless.
    Apparently satisfied with her reaction, he reached out and gently pulled the door closed in her face.
    • • •
    T wenty minutes later Baxter was still seething as he strode through the door of his library. He could not believe his stunning loss of self-control.
    “Bloody hell.”
    He crossed the room to the small table near the fireplace and picked up the crystal decanter that sat there. He was the master of his own emotions, he told himself savagely. He was a man of science. He had worshiped at the altar of logic and reason and control all of his life.
    He splashed brandy into a glass. He could not even remember when he had learned to keep all of his feelings under a strict rein. It was something he had always understood, something he had always known how to do. Even in the midst of his brief sexual liaisons he never allowed passion to overwhelm common sense. He had seen firsthand the damage that could result.
    He took a deep swallow of the potent brandy and savored the fire.
    To make matters worse, Charlotte had had the unmitigated nerve to inform him that the explanation for his behavior could be found in Byron’s overheated, melodramatic poetry.
    It was enough to make a man lock himself in the sanctuary of his laboratory and never emerge.
    He threw himself down into his favorite reading chair and contemplated the flames on the hearth. They reminded him of Charlotte. Both produced extremely volatile chemical reactions of the sort that could burn an unwary man.
    He closed his eyes but the threat of the fire did not vanish. In his mind he saw again the flames that glowed red in Charlotte’s lantern-lit hair. He wanted to sink his fingers deep into their dangerous warmth. His hand tightened violently around the brandy glass.
    He had not been the only one who had lost control in the carriage, he reminded himself. Charlotte’s response to him had been unmistakable. If the coachman had not halted the vehicle, the evening would have had a different ending.
    He had a vivid image of Charlotte’s soft thighs wrapped around his waist, her small nails pressed deep into his back.
    He took another swallow of brandy, aware that he could still taste Charlotte. His head was filled with her scent. His palm remembered the shape of one exquisitely rigid nipple.
    It was going to be a long night.
    Logic and sound reasoning would do him little good this evening. He knew he would not be able to banish the memory of Charlotte in his arms. It was too riveting, too compelling.
    But the next time he saw her, he would be in command of himself. He would not allow his self-control to slip again.
    He glanced at his glass and saw that he had already emptied it. He made to set it down on the table beside the chair. A folded and sealed sheet of foolscap was in the way. He recognized it immediately. It was a note that had been