Page 23 of To Seduce a Stranger

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Charlotte’s dark eyes glittered in the fading light of the room, but every other inch of her looked as if she had lost a battle with a tin of wig powder. Even her eyelashes were pale. As she worried her plump lower lip with her upper teeth, clearly trying to look serious, even contrite, some of that ghostly layer was scraped away to reveal pink flesh. The bitter taste of the dust—it filled his mouth, too—made her sputter.

Despite the grim mixture of horror and despair churning in his gut, the faintest smile rose to his own lips. “If this is your idea of assistance,” he said, not stepping toward her, not offering to brush her off again, “I believe I should reconsider your offer.”

When she had suggested repaying his help by cleaning house, he had been somewhat skeptical of her intentions, to say nothing of her abilities. He had not considered the possibility she might actually make things worse.

Maybe she and I are two of a kind, he thought, recalling Markham’s words.

In his childhood, the place where they now stood had been known as the Great Room, all things to all people. How many times had he been shooed from this room so his father could talk without interruption to men of local importance; played endless scales on the pianoforte as his mother watched over his shoulder; peered unseen around the doorframe while brightly clad couples whirled and bowed across the dance floor?

But the room’s days of greatness were long past. Edward’s mother was believed to have died of the smallpox, Markham had told him, and gossip suggested his father’s grief had been given vent on his surroundings: They say his lordship wrecked the house and swore never to return. Edward suspected at least parts of that rumor were unfounded. His father was unlikely to have succumbed to grief.

Had disease taken his mother? Or had the wrath that had been released in this room also been turned onto her? If it had, she would have had no more chance of surviving it than the now-shattered instrument upon which she had once played with such grace, or the landscape in oils above the fireplace, which hung in ribbons as if some ravening beast had raked sharp claws across it. Either way, he would likely never know the truth.

“Are you all right, sir?”

He jerked his attention to the figure by the windows. The light of the setting sun streaming in from behind combined with the dust in the air to sketch a hazy glow around her. “Why do you ask?”

“You look pale, and I thought perhaps . . .”

He laughed, then, because to allow himself to do otherwise might reveal much more than Charlotte ever needed to know. “Pale? You should see yourself,” he said, at last holding out one hand to help her over the mountain of moldering velvet at her feet. “But you still haven’t answered my question. What are you about?”

“I intend to give this room a proper cleaning,” she said, brushing dust from her shoulders and shaking out her skirts.

“By yourself?”

Her chin jutted forward. “If I must. I have lived in many places, with varying degrees of comfort, but never in filth, and I do not intend to start now.”

“Are you not comfortably accommodated in the kitchen wing?” She nodded stiffly, obviously reluctant to agree with him. “Then stay there. Don’t wander about making a mess of things that aren’t yours to touch.” An edge crept into his voice as he gestured toward the draperies.

“The mess, sir, was made already,” she said, ignoring his hand and stepping past him.

“And I cannot think your employer would wish to find—”

“I’ve reason to believe Lord Beckley knows the condition of the estate and chooses, for reasons you and I may never fathom, to . . . leave things as they are. We must accede to his wishes.”

“Why then did you bother to meet with Mr. Markham?” she challenged. “Why would he hire a steward at all if he meant to allow everything to continue in ruin?”

“He did not—” Edward began, cutting himself off before he could blurt out the truth. “My position is to manage the farms. Not this house.”

One day, Ravenswood would be profitable again, capable of supporting the surrounding community, as it had been when he had left it. Already, his plans were blossoming following his conversation with Markham. New seed, new tools, oxen if he could find them. If they managed to get a crop in, afterward he would go to work improving the tenants’ cottages, which would better their lives and attract new tenants as well. Once the farm was up and running—and he had met with his father, of course—then he could turn his attention to the manor.

“I can manage the house, if you will let me,” she said.

It would certainly keep her busy, out of his way. Nevertheless, he shook his head. He did not want her poking around these rooms, although he could not exactly say why. Perhaps because it felt too much like inviting another person to sift through his own memories.

“But I must do something,” she insisted.

“Why?”

She shot him a nervous glance. Clearly she imagined herself in his debt. Did she think that if he declined her offer of help with the house, he meant to demand some other form of repayment?

“Let be,” he insisted, ushering her impatiently toward the door.

“Please,” she said as he closed the door behind them. “Leave it open. Like so.” She held up both hands in front of her, palms facing, about six inches apart. “There are mice, and I hoped Noir might, er, dispose of them.”

“Noir?” Edward arched one brow, but he left the door ajar as she had requested.