To Seduce a Stranger

by Susanna Craig

  Relief swept over him when she heeded his command. He scrambled to sit upright, held out one hand to her, and ventured another. “Come.”

  She did. Slowly, rather warily. When she stopped a foot or so away from him, she did not take his hand, so he patted the bench beside him and invited her to sit instead. With care, she arranged her skirts as she took a place farther down the settle.

  “Thank you for encouraging me to talk to my father,” she said after a moment. “He is . . . eccentric. But he was able to tell me things no one else ever would or could. About my mother.” A pause. “They were married.”

  He could hear the relief in her voice, and it irritated him beyond measure. She should never have been shamed or mistreated, even if her parents had not been wed. He swept the palm of his hand across the expanse of wood between them, feeling the ridges and ripples of the grain, worn smooth by a century or more of patrons’ abuse. “For your sake,” he managed to say, “I am glad.”

  “He has been searching for me for some time. I saw him here, that day—though of course, I did not know him. I thought him one of Robert’s spies.”

  “So you ran.”

  Her gaze dropped to her hands, folded neatly in her lap. “After my husband died, I promised myself that I would never again let my happiness, or my misery, depend on another person. My stepson intended to make me the center of a terrible scandal. I wanted nothing more than to be left alone.” As she spoke, her fingers twisted themselves into knots. “So when the chance to disappear presented itself, I took it. At first, Ravenswood seemed an ideal hiding place. Remote. Secluded. Then Jack showed up.”

  “And threatened to expose you.”

  “I realized I could not go on living that way. When I saw that Mr. Sykes was leaving, it seemed the perfect chance to return to London and confront Robert once and for all, so I took it. I worried that if I delayed, even a moment, Jack would catch me. Or I would lose my nerve. Or you would try to stop me from doing what I meant to do.” Although he could see the effort it cost her, she forced herself to lift her eyes to his face. “I spoke to my stepson. I gave up my inheritance in exchange—I hope—for my peace.”

  “I know.” He reached into his coat pocket, pulled out the folded parchment, and handed it to her. “That is the letter you wrote. I feared Langerton might have forced your hand. You may return it to him, if you wish. Or you may destroy it.”

  With restless fingers, she traced the edges of the document. “You believe I ought to fight him?”

  “His case is weak. With your father’s revelation, I believe the tide of public opinion will turn in your favor. But only you can decide what to do, and I will respect your decision.”

  After a long pause, she rose and stepped toward the hearth, clutching the folded note in one trembling hand. Holding it out toward the candle, she hesitated, then touched the paper to the feeble flame. The sudden flare of light showed him her expression—half fear, half determination—before she tossed the burning note into the empty fireplace, where soon nothing more remained of it than a few cinders.

  “I made a terrible mistake once where you were concerned, Charlotte,” he said as she returned to her seat. Her strength and her bravery awed him. “When I met you here, I assumed you needed to be saved. I swooped in, as if you were a damsel in distress and I fancied myself your knight in shining armor.”

  Once more, only a faint, flickering light limned her profile. “Mari says it has always been your way.”

  “It has. And do you know why?” A quick shake of her head made her dark hair gleam. “Because when I saw others as vulnerable, it made it easier to deny my own vulnerabilities. You saw through that. When we met in this musty little inn, I believed I was rescuing you. Instead, you rescued me.”

  Her chin dipped downward, and after a tremulous breath, she said, “I lied to you.”

  “Were we not both guilty of keeping secrets, Mrs. Cary?”

  Those words returned her gaze to his face. “I—I suppose.”

  “You did not tell me your full name. Nor your title. But you were honest about what mattered. You showed me who you are.”

  “Yes,” she whispered, sounding resigned. “Aunt Penhurst always said my ill nature was stamped on my face for anyone to read.”

  “That is not what I meant.” Good God, but Lady Penhurst ought to thank her lucky stars that he was not prone to violence. “I will not pretend I was not shocked to discover your identity. Shocked, and disappointed to think that you did not think me worthy of your trust. But even if you’d introduced yourself from the first as Duchess of Langerton,” he insisted, “it would not have revealed anything more important to me than what you showed in so many other ways. The respect with which you spoke to Mari. How hard you worked to restore Ravenswood Manor, merely because you sensed my pain and hoped to ease it. And my mother . . .” The lump that rose in his throat made his words sound thick. “For all those years, she had been hiding in plain sight, scarred beyond recognition. You saw past the scars. And even when you were desperate to flee, you made sure she knew that I—that I had come home.” He wished it were not too dim to see the expression in her dark eyes. “I told myself that if you did not care for me, at least a little, you would never have done it.”

  As always, she held herself immobile. He could not decide whether his words had surprised her. “You followed me.”

  Sliding closer to her, he tilted his head and held her gaze a long moment. “I love you, Charlotte.” When her lips parted, he touched them with one finger to silence any protest, any reply. “No. Don’t speak. Just listen. You have heard those words too rarely in your life. Hear them now. I love you for seeing beyond the surface of things to what is beneath . . . to what is beautiful. I love you for marching straight toward whatever frightens you. I love the way you laugh.” Sensing that one of those little giggles was about to bubble from her lips, he drew his finger away to let it escape. “I love you. And I was not about to let you get away.”

  With an awkward motion, she slid across the smooth seat of the wooden bench, far enough that they were no longer touching. “If you hope to resume your place in English society, you must distance yourself from me. It is bad enough that people will say I duped you into . . .” If the light were better, he would have sworn that she blushed. “That I hoped to make it more difficult for my stepson to prove my marriage was a sham.”

  “And is that why you gave yourself to me?”

  “No. Non.” More emphatic the second time, as if the English word had been insufficient to express her feelings. “I did not even know until I got to London that I was believed to be in search of—of a gentleman willing to do a most ungentlemanly thing.”

  He could not deny feeling somewhat relieved. “Then why?”

  A pause. “Je t’aime aussi.”

  Although he was certain of what she said, she had spoken so low that he was tempted to ask her to say it again. Thinking better of it, he moved closer and kissed her instead, his lips caressing hers, then skating across her cheek to nuzzle her ear. Her fingers crept up his arms, over his collar, to curl in his hair, coaxing him with gentle pressure to return his mouth to hers.

  When their lips parted, she looked at him with wide eyes. “How strange that chance should have brought us together here.”

  “I have never been a great believer in coincidence.”

  She smiled. “The first time I came to this inn, I wanted a place to be by myself. But now, I realize that what I truly craved was a place where I could be myself. A home.”

  “And have you found one, Charlotte?”

  “Yes. With you.” She leaned closer and whispered across his lips, “I love you, too.”

  He stopped just short of returning her kiss. “The other night, I longed to ask you an important question, but a foolish fear kept me from speaking the words. You see, I swore never to marry. That way, no woman would risk becoming to me what my mother was to my father.”

  Her eyes widened and she shook her head in di
sbelief. “You are nothing like him,” she insisted.

  “No. I’m not. When I was a boy, I thought he was powerful. Now, I realize he was weak. But I’m strong. Strong enough to confess how frightened I felt when you left without a word.” He tangled his fingers with hers where they lay in her lap. “Strong enough to admit how much I need you. I know your life as a duchess has not always been what you hoped. And I cannot promise that life as my countess will always be easy. But—”

  “Oh no, you mustn’t,” she said, though she made no effort to pull her hand away. “I am nothing more than scandal now. Look at what happened to poor, dear George. People will say you are mad to—to—”

  “To marry a clever beauty of noble blood? Madness, indeed,” he murmured, dipping his head to press a string of kisses along the turn of her throat.

  He felt a giggle ripple through her. “Perhaps you forget that I am in mourning, my lord,” she said, as she smoothed her inky skirts with her free hand.

  “Mm.” His lips moved higher. “In six months the scandalmongers will have moved on to something new.”

  “Six months? We must wait a year, at least.”

  He thought—hoped—he had caught a teasing note in her voice. “A year?” He nipped at her earlobe. “However shall we pass the time?”

  “I suppose I might take up residence in Little Norbury,” she suggested, studiously ignoring his kisses. “Perhaps the hermitage, now that Tessie—excusez-moi, Lady Beckley—has been restored to her rightful place. I promise I would not trouble you.”

  “I beg to differ,” he whispered against her hair. “If you were living in Little Norbury or the Ravenswood hermitage, it would trouble me a great deal.”

  “Then I might . . .” She drummed her fingers on the bench as she contemplated her options. “I might go back to Bath. I could take your mother, act as her companion. The waters would no doubt do her good.”

  “Bath?” He drew back. “Worse and worse.”

  “Why, whatever do you mean? It’s only a half-day’s ride from Ravenswood. You might visit us whenever you choose. And though it would not be proper for us to correspond, when your mother writes to you, as I’m sure she will, I might sneak in a postscript, now and then.”

  Remembering the story of their supposed cross-Atlantic courtship, he said, “About the weather, I suppose?”

  “No. I cannot think the differences between the weather in Bath and the weather in Gloucestershire would be anything to speak of. I was thinking of the usual subjects.” Her eyes glittered rather impishly in the near darkness. “Pump Room gossip. The latest fashions. You can tell us about the work on the manor, and whether the Toomeys’ baby is teething, and . . .”

  “Sheep?” he suggested wryly. “Oh, no, my dear. I can promise that any note I write to you won’t be fit for my mother’s eyes.”

  She tilted her head in a way that suggested a scold, though the room was too dark to allow him to see her expression. The effect was further spoiled when she laughed again. “In all seriousness, mon cher, I need a little time. Things have changed so fast. I am . . . overwhelmed. My father. My stepson’s suit, and”—she twisted her wedding band with her thumb—“I would not wish to become the person the gossips believe me to be. My husband was a dear man, worthy of honor, and I—”

  “I will wait,” he assured her, stopping her words with a fingertip, brushing away her worries. “As long as you need. As long as I have your promise. Will you marry me, Charlotte? Just one word. Yes or no.” The gentle reminder of their night together was only half in jest. Then, as now, the choice must be hers. “In French or in English. It does not matter.”

  Curling into his embrace, she laid her head against his shoulder. “Yes,” she breathed. “Oui. Always.”

  Later, when the candle had guttered and the only light came from a rising moon, he swept the hair from her cheek and lifted her face to his. “You should go back to your bed.”

  “I would much rather stay here with you.”

  “Aren’t you at all worried we’ll be caught in this compromising position?” he teased. It was not a cozy spot for lovemaking. It was not even comfortable. But he made no move to let her go, either. “I might be forced to make an honest woman of you.”

  With a sly smile, she reached for the blanket she had brought down, and wrapped it clumsily around them both. “You can try.”

  Epilogue

  Ravenswood Manor

  Some years later

  Soft morning light filled the earl’s bedchamber, bringing with it birdsong and the first stirrings of wakefulness. Clinging to sleep, Charlotte burrowed deeper under the covers, closer to Edward. He pulled her into his arms with a drowsy murmur, and she rested one cheek against his chest. When his hand began inscribing lazy circles on her back, a sigh escaped her lips. As the hand slid lower, its touch grew more focused, and the lingering desire for sleep gave way to the desire for something else entirely.

  “Bonjour, madame. Fancy finding you in my bed.” With a low laugh, he hitched her higher against his hard body. She lifted her lips to his face, and—

  “Mama! Jamie won’t let me play with Nana’s soldiers.”

  Reluctantly, Charlotte shifted back into a sitting position, half propped against Edward, and faced their younger son. “Kit,” she admonished. “I’ve told you a dozen times that you boys must work it out between yourselves.” The basketful of toy soldiers, found and preserved so many years ago by Edward’s mother—who had been happy to give up her renewed claim to the title of Countess of Beckley in favor of Charlotte’s assumption of it, and now much preferred her new title of Nana—had long been a source of conflict between the boys. But she hadn’t the heart to punish them for it.

  “And did he give a reason?” asked Edward, scrubbing the dark stubble on his jaw and mustering a yawn Charlotte knew must be false. Positioned as she was, she could tell very well he was wide-awake.

  “He says I’m too old,” Kit sobbed.

  Edward cast off all pretense of drowsiness. “He said what?”

  “Now, now,” she began, recognizing the reason for her husband’s sharp reaction and trying to soothe both of them at once.

  But Edward spoke first, and his voice was gentle. “Too old, eh? Well, you might remind him about that battle I saw him waging with Grandpapa just yesterday.”

  The boy pushed his unruly mop of dark curls out of his damp eyes. “Really?”

  “Really,” his father confirmed. “Now, back to the nursery with you.”

  “Aww . . . Can’t I climb in bed with you?”

  Tilting her head in what she hoped was a show of sternness, Charlotte pointed toward the door. “You heard your papa.” With a huff and a scowl that made her want to gather the boy into her arms, Kit turned to go. “Oh, and Kit?” she added. “You’ll never be too old for those soldiers. But Letty is still too young. Make sure to keep them out of your sister’s hands, or they’ll find their way into her mouth.”

  “Yes, Mama.”

  When the door closed behind him, Edward wrapped his arms around her. “Now, my dear. Where were we?” His kisses down her neck and along the top of her shoulder worked their magic, as they always had, but as if unsatisfied with mere magic, he shifted away from the head of the bed, allowing her body to slide down into the mountain of pillows as he transferred his kisses to her lips, her jaw, the turn of her throat. Lower . . . lower. Her breast, the curve of her waist, her—

  “Ow!”

  Tail fluffed and eyes bright, Noir prepared to pounce on her feet once more. Beyond the end of the bed, she could see that the heavy oak door had been pushed open just enough to allow the cat to slip into the room. Kit must not have closed it tightly behind him.

  “Ignore him,” Edward advised, sliding lower still, until he was entirely lost beneath the blankets and quilts which he insisted were necessary in all but the warmest months—for he was still inclined to find England a bit chilly, even after all these years.

  “Really, though . . . Noir and Ki
t have the right of it. I should get up. I’ve a million things to do. The Corrvans will be here this afternoon, and . . . oh, I do hope Thomasina has outgrown that terrible phase she was in at Christmas. I don’t think Noir ever forgave her for that tug on his tail.”

  Studiously ignoring her, Edward traced one fingertip along the curve of her belly, then followed its movements with his lips.

  “And Lord and Lady Fairfax, and their children . . . Oh, why did I ever think an Easter house party was a good idea? I haven’t had a moment to look at those illustrations Jack sent for my latest book of stories . . .”

  “Charlotte.”

  She glanced down at him. “Oui?”

  “That’s more like it.” When he began idly stroking the soft skin of her inner thigh she forgot to mind the cat nipping at her curling toes. And when his kisses followed his fingers, she forgot everything else. Until—

  “Milady?”

  Peg Eakins’s head poked around the edge of the door that Noir had opened. Startled, Charlotte shuffled more upright, propping herself against the bolster. But Edward did not follow suit. He stayed nestled between her spread legs. The shadows cast by the bed hangings and the mountain of coverings on the enormous bed perfectly hid him from Peg’s view.

  “Sorry, ma’am. But the door was open. Nurse sent me to look for the boys,” she explained. Though she had never quite got the knack of knocking, she had turned out to be a fine housemaid in all other respects.

  “Ah. Well, they’re not here, I’m afraid. Kit popped in a moment ago, but he’s gone again.”

  “All right, then.” Just as Peg turned to go, Edward’s fingers struck a ticklish spot, and Charlotte could not contain a giggle. Peg’s head twisted around. “Was there something else you wanted, milady?”

  Charlotte managed a quick shake of her head.

  “Oh,” said Peg. Struck by some recollection, she paused on the threshold. “Would you happen to know where Lord Beckley is, ma’am?”

  “I—ah—”

  “Because Mr. Markham’s below. Said he hoped t’ meet with his lordship before his comp’ny arrived. Somethin’ about the wheat field on the Westons’ farm.”