To Seduce a Stranger

by Susanna Craig

  When Edward returned to her side, the papers tucked securely beneath his greatcoat, she slipped her hand through the crook of his elbow. Once through the door, she turned automatically toward the rear of the house, the quickest route to the servants’ quarters and her own room.

  Edward pulled her in the opposite direction.

  In another few steps, she found herself on the other side of the front door, in the pouring rain, without even the meager protection of Jane’s mantle, hurrying to keep pace with him as he set out on the stone path that led away from the manor. “Where are we going?”

  Edward did not answer.

  Farther along, they met Mr. Markham and Mari hurrying along the mud-slick path as quickly as Mari’s lame leg would allow. Despite the rain, Edward stopped them. “Don’t go back to the house, Mari.”

  Something in his voice—instinctively, she would have called it anger, although it seemed uncharacteristic of him—rooted her to the spot. She recalled what Mari had said of the fear deep within him. And she wondered again, fear of what?

  “And why not, I’d like to know?” Mari said, stepping past him. “Maybe your English blood has learned not to mind this cold rain, but I—”

  With his free hand, he caught Markham’s shoulder. “Take her back to the village, and keep her there.”

  The whites of Mari’s eyes shone in the murky evening light as she looked first at Charlotte, then at Edward. When she would have turned to Mr. Markham, her gaze seemed to falter.

  “Why?” Markham asked. “What’s happened?”

  “Nothing. And I’m determined that nothing will. If he”—Edward tipped his head toward the manor to indicate Lord Beckley—“wishes to travel without servants, then let him see to his own comforts.”

  So it was as she had feared. She had angered him by agreeing to tidy the earl’s chambers, and perhaps had involved Mari in his displeasure.

  Markham nodded his understanding and, taking Mari by the hand, turned her back in the direction they had come, but not before she could cast one bewildered glance over her shoulder at Charlotte. Charlotte could only shrug in response.

  A few more steps and she was once more entering the Rookery. On either side of the entry was a small, square room: one cold and dark, the other—the one where she had stood and begged him to allow her to stay at Ravenswood—lit and warmed by a crackling fire. It was cleaner than when she had seen it last, the dust of disintegrating plaster and years of neglect having been swept away. But it would be a stretch to call it improved, to say nothing of comfortable. The furnishings had been pared down to a single chair and small table before the hearth. And the poor state of the rest of the house was confirmed by the presence of a straw-filled mattress in one corner, as neatly made as its lumpy, misshapen form would allow.

  “Come in,” he said, before withdrawing the papers from inside his coat and spreading them across the mantel to dry, then squatting to stoke the fire.

  “I—”

  Why did she hesitate? It was not as if she regretted the loss of the dingy butler’s room. Nor had she been particularly eager to spend even one night under the same roof as the Earl of Beckley.

  Still, she lingered in the doorway. Sharing this house with Edward would pose an entirely different sort of danger. Not to her reputation, since he was believed to be her husband. Not to her physical safety—unless the roof really did collapse.

  No, the danger was all to her heart.

  She stepped toward the fireplace, feeling as if she were leaping into the flames.

  Chapter 14

  When he rose and turned away from the hearth, he realized Charlotte still stood too far away to feel its warmth. She looked much as she had the first time he saw her: her face pale, her hair and skin damp, the hem of her dress caked with mud. Automatically, he reached out a hand to her. “Come! Warm yourself.”

  “M-m-mer . . .” The rest of her expression of gratitude was lost when her teeth chattered and she shivered violently. She seemed unable to move.

  Without a moment’s hesitation, he went to her and lifted her carefully into his arms. For once, she did not grow rigid at his touch, but clung to his neck with an eager whimper, her body pressed against his chest, as if determined to soak up his heat and his strength.

  When she showed no sign of letting go, he carried her to his chair by the fire and held her curled on his lap. He ought never to have brought her out on a night like this. But what might have happened if he had left her alone for the night in Jack’s company?

  What might happen if she spent the night here instead? Guilt rose like bile into his throat.

  Gradually her trembling lessened, and after a time, she lifted her head. “I’m sorry.” Her lip wobbled. “I don’t know what came over me.”

  “Charlotte,” he murmured reprovingly, as he shifted beneath her so he could rise and leave her alone in the chair. “It’s my fault for dragging you out in the rain.”

  As he shrugged out of his coat and reached around her to hang it over the back of the chair, her wide, dark eyes followed his movement. “I do think, however, that you would be more comfortable if you would get out of those wet things, my dear.”

  My dear.

  When had she become dear to him? That was a question he could not answer. He only knew that what he felt for her was something more than the old protective instinct that always flared in the presence of someone who needed help.

  She was not some nameless damsel in distress. She was Charlotte.

  His Charlotte.

  No, he thought, recalling what had happened the night before, never his.

  When she nodded her cautious agreement with his suggestion, he helped her to rise, then grabbed one of the blankets from his bed, held it up, and turned his head away while she undressed. Expecting any moment to hear the sound of wet fabric slithering to the floor, what he heard instead was a huff of exasperation. “Oh, I cannot!”

  Hesitantly, he lowered the meager shield between them and saw her cold fingers fumbling and failing to unpin her bodice. “May I—?” Dangerous question. He ought not dare to ask it. “May I be of some assistance?”

  Unwilling, or unable, to meet his eyes, she kept her gaze fixed on the floor as she nodded once more and dropped her hands to her sides. He tossed the blanket over the arm of the chair, and with fingers he feared would tremble as much as hers, he helped her to undress, tugging the pins free and sliding damp fabric over her shoulders, revealing a shift that was somewhat drier than her dress, but far more transparent. Once her dress and petticoat slithered over her hips and puddled at her feet, she snatched up the blanket, wrapped it around herself, and retreated once more to the chair.

  Kneeling at her feet, he gathered up the discarded items and spread them before the fire to dry, then turned his attention to removing her mud-caked shoes, first the left, then the right. “The stockings should come off, too,” he said. She nodded, fumbled beneath the blanket to untie her garters, then rolled her stockings down to her calves. Rubbing his hands together to warm them first, he slipped the ruined silk over her delicate ankles and off her feet. If he had ever allowed himself to imagine Charlotte in her shift, the feel of her skin as he skated his fingertips along her bare leg, this had not exactly been the fantasy his mind had conjured.

  “Now,” he said, rising. “Rest there. I’ll make tea.” Any excuse to put a bit of distance between them. A wool blanket was no barrier to his imagination.

  But what sort of man would allow his eyes, his mind, any part of him, to wander in that direction under the circumstances?

  Without waiting for her reply, he turned and walked toward the kitchen. After he filled the kettle, he gathered a few things on a tray and carried them back to the sitting room. She had tipped her head against one wing of the chair and lay now with her eyes closed, curled beneath the blanket. The top of one bare shoulder glowed in the firelight.

  God, he was sunk. Not just because he wanted her. That particular realization had been coming over h
im for days now—in truth, since that long, cold ride, warmed only by the feel of her pressed against him.

  But this was more than wanting. Or another kind of wanting altogether. It was the sudden realization that he wished all their lies were truth. He wanted simply to push aside their hidden, horrible pasts and imagine a future in which they grew old together. In this very cottage if need be, curled companionably before the fire. He had seen how she could make a broken-down place a home. The home he had been longing for all his life. She would be his home. Mrs. Cary.

  There was, of course, the complicating factor of his being Beckley. His father’s son.

  After placing the tray on the floor near the hearth, he drew the blanket over her shoulder. She stirred slightly, burrowing into its warmth, but her eyes did not open. For a moment, he simply watched her sleep, knowing that, despite the fantasies of their future his mind seemed intent on conjuring, he was unlikely ever to have the chance again. When her lips parted on a soft sigh, he dragged his gaze away.

  As quietly as he could, he placed the kettle on the hob, then spooned tea into the pot. Since he kept no sugar in the house, he added a splash of brandy—marginally better, at least, than that served by roadside inns near Chippenham—to the bottom of each cup. While he worked, he hummed a song he had not thought of for years, a haunting melody his mother had often sung to him.

  “The cuckoo is a pretty bird,

  She sings as she flies;

  She bringeth good tidings,

  She telleth no lies;

  She sucketh sweet flowers

  To keep her voice clear,

  And when she sings Cuckoo,

  The summer draweth near.”

  Strange that he should think of that old song now. Or perhaps not so strange, really. Surely the last time he had heard it had been the last time he had sat by a crackling hearth and felt something like domestic comfort. Once, he had asked Mama about the other verses, but she had told him they were too sad to be sung—about false loves and partings and deceit.

  When the kettle boiled, the sound roused her. “Is that—?” She shifted more upright in the chair. “Is that toast?”

  He nodded. “And cheese.”

  A treat for a child, but her eyes did not disguise her eagerness. “Merci,” she murmured, taking a plate from his hands, devouring the first morsels quickly and sipping tea while he sat with one leg tucked under him—half turned toward her, half turned toward the fire—and made more. It was a pleasure to watch her eat—a pleasure he had denied himself, even when they took meals together. The way her plump lips drew up in the most delightful pout as she blew impatiently to cool her food, the way she closed her eyes when she swallowed, the way she kissed the last crumbs from her fingertips.

  He could not disguise his smile when she held out the plate for the third time. “More?”

  She blushed, such that he almost regretted teasing her about her appetite. But he could not regret the sudden color in her cheeks. “No. I couldn’t possibly—”

  But he was already sliding the last of the toasted bread and cheese off the fork and onto her plate. After taking two bites in rapid succession, she pinched the remaining cube between finger and thumb and held it up as if she were going to pop it into her mouth, then smiled, not seductively, not coquettishly, but sweetly, and held it out to him instead.

  As he leaned forward to accept the gift, she placed the morsel into his open mouth and her fingertips brushed across his lips. Intimate as a kiss. More so. He was tempted, almost, to close his eyes.

  If he had, perhaps he would not have noticed that the blanket had slipped from her shoulder again, baring the soft curve of her upper arm, the sharper angle of her collarbone. Without conscious thought, he reached to cover her once more, this time allowing his fingers to caress her skin. As pale as marble. As smooth, too.

  But not cold. How could he ever have thought her cold?

  At his touch, she shifted slightly—not a flinch, not a cringe, but hesitation, nonetheless.

  He withdrew his hand. “Ah, my dear. I am sor—”

  “No.” Her voice cut across his, forestalling his apology.

  When he searched her face, her eyes darted to her lap, watched her thumb trace the edge of the empty plate. “It will not happen again,” he promised.

  “Please don’t say that.” Still, she did not lift her head.

  He had to remind himself to breathe, and when he drew air into his lungs, the ragged sound was loud to his ears, even over the crackle and hiss of the fire. “Why not?” It ought to be true.

  In place of an answer, another shake of her head. Fighting the impulse to gather her into his arms once more, he rocked back on his haunches and sat on the floor instead. She laid the empty plate aside and drew her arm beneath the blanket, so that no inch of skin remained exposed. “Lord Beckley is not the man you were expecting, is he?”

  If only she knew. “No.” He lifted his cup to his lips and drank deeply, wishing he had foregone the tea entirely in favor of the brandy. “It would seem that the man with whom my . . . arrangement was made has been some months in the grave.”

  “Will the current earl honor his commitment?”

  Edward mustered something he hoped might pass for a smile. “The current earl has many decisions to make.”

  “But he must keep you on. Ravenswood needs you,” she insisted, leaning toward him. Her dark eyes flickered over his face. “The late earl was your father, wasn’t he?” she said, the words coming slowly as she pieced the story together. “And your mother was . . . some innocent girl from the village, I suppose.” She paused, and he thought for a moment about seizing that momentary silence, correcting her, setting her straight. But she was not as far wrong as she might have been, and as before, he gave in to the temptation of her gift for spinning tales. “We are two of a kind, you and I. My mother, too, was not my father’s wife.”

  Ought he to be shocked by the revelation—or rather, the confirmation of his suspicions? Mostly, he found himself imagining the ways in which her illegitimacy must have shaped her childhood, must have affected the woman she had become.

  “I suppose you favored him—and she could not bear the resemblance, the reminder of what he had done,” Charlotte suggested, drawing surely from her own history. The French uncle, disapproving of his sister’s choices. The English aunt, resentful of her very existence. “So you were sent away. But he promised you the post of steward on his estate if you survived to return.”

  Slowly and deliberately, Edward returned his cup and saucer to the tray and raised his eyes to her face. “And here I am.”

  A quick shake of her head. “Here we are.” Her gaze flitted around the small room before returning to him. “Why did you bring me to the Rookery?”

  Shifting uncomfortably on the hard floor, he drew one knee almost to his chest. “Because I suspect our new arrival is something of a libertine. And I promised you that you would be safe in Gloucestershire.”

  With a faraway look, she nodded. “That’s why you sent Mari away as well. But you and I, at least, are believed to be married. She cannot stay with Mr. Markham all night.”

  “I imagine they’ll make do.” At her quick frown of uncertainty, he explained. “They have formed an . . . attachment.”

  “Oh. That is . . .”

  . . . scandalous? . . . shocking?

  “. . . sudden.”

  A part of him had hoped Charlotte would be swayed by the romance of it—enough to throw caution to the wind herself. He brushed at the mud speckling his breeches. “It’s been known to happen.”

  “Yes. It has. But I thought . . .” A pause. “I have often wondered . . . if you and she ever . . . ?”

  “No.”

  She flinched a little at the abruptness of his reply, although he had tried to keep his voice soft. A gentler response, at least, than Markham had earned earlier, to his similar question.

  How to explain something that lies so far outside Charlotte’s experience? “If Mar
kham asks her to go out walking, to kiss him, to marry him, even, and she says yes—or no—he will have the comfort of knowing she speaks her own mind. Her own heart. But for all the years I have known her, she was a slave. Not my slave, but a slave nonetheless. Even if I had wanted some sort of relationship with her . . .” He paused, seeking the right words. “If I had asked, she might have said yes. But I would always have feared that, circumstanced as she was, she might have felt she dared not say no. I would not want a woman who could not freely choose.”

  Charlotte listened, wide-eyed. He almost envied her ignorance of what went on in places like Antigua. But perhaps it was not all bad to have learned what he had learned. Perhaps it was true that the meaning of freedom became more evident in a world of slavery.

  “Some men seem to,” she said at last.

  And he realized that she understood much more than he realized.

  He had spoken firmly of Mari’s right to choose, but what of Charlotte’s?

  “What do you want, Charlotte?” He pushed the question past lips that were suddenly dry, despite the tea he had drunk.

  Moments ticked past as she considered her answer. “All my life, people have behaved as if it was only a matter of time until I showed myself my mother’s daughter. Until I took up with some man and—” In place of words, she lifted one shoulder. The blanket slid down once more. “I grew up determined to prove them wrong. Then people said my English blood had made me cold, and I prayed they were right.” There was no mistaking the note of defiance in her voice, the note of pride.

  “You were married, though?”

  “Oh, yes. I was married.” The little laugh that bubbled up was nothing short of bitter.

  The sound chilled his blood. “Was your husband a cruel man?”

  “Just the opposite,” she insisted, stretching out one hand from beneath the blanket to reassure him, though in the end, she did not reach far enough to touch him. Her ring winked in the firelight. “He was kind to a fault. He married me to protect me with his name, to banish those cruel whispers once and for all. But he was an old man. We never—that is, he could not . . .” Her voice fell.