Page 25 of To Seduce a Stranger

Certainly Edward had never expected to have to use Thomas Holderin’s generous bequest to shore up his own family’s estate, to right the wrongs his father had committed. Last year, he had given the better part of it to a ship’s captain, bribing him to take Tempest—Holderin’s daughter—away from the dangers of the island. But just a few days ago, in London, that small fortune had been returned to him, Captain Corrvan seeming to feel he had got a better prize out of the voyage.

“And you mean to invest that inheritance here?” Charlotte asked. His explanation had done nothing to budge the skeptical look on her face.

“I have every reason to believe that any investment of mine will be returned with interest.”

Charlotte pulled the empty plate across the table and swept her forefinger across the scattering of crumbs. “I hope Lord Beckley knows how fortunate he is to have you in his employ. I understand very little about the management of property, but I do know that honest, hardworking men are in regrettably short supply,” she said.

He did not even know this woman’s name, yet somehow she seemed to know him, or claimed to. It was flattery, he reminded himself. Even flirtation. She hoped to ingratiate herself so that he would not turn her away.

In what was either a calculated display, or a totally un-self-conscious act—and damn him if he could tell the difference—she slid her crumb-speckled finger between her lips and licked it clean, then rose to carry the empty plate to the drain board.

“Was Mr. Blake a scoundrel, then?” he asked.

At his question, her gait hitched, but she did not turn. “My husband was . . . naïve. No—that is too strong. He did not always see people for what they truly were.”

“And what did he see when he looked at you, Charlotte?”

“That, I could not say.” The lift of her shoulders was almost imperceptible in the dimly lit kitchen. “I think, perhaps, he did not see me at all.”

The chair scraped across the stone floor as Edward rose, and in the stillness that followed, his boot heels rang as he crossed to stand behind her. At this distance, nothing escaped his eye, not even the way her knuckles whitened where they gripped the plate.

I see you.

The words begged to be spoken, but he would not part his lips and set them free. Were they even true?

Along the back of her neck, a streak of grime marked the place where she must have rubbed her hand in a moment of uncertainty, or to ease an ache. Dust still coated her hair. Surely, the gentlemanly thing to do would be to offer to fetch her water for a bath.

But even the thought of making that offer brought with it a host of other, far less gentlemanly, ideas. If he were not careful, he was going to find himself seduced by a perfect stranger. Or seducing one.

“We can never really know another person,” he said instead. His breath stirred a loose tendril of hair that brushed her cheek. “At best, we can hope to know ourselves.”

And he knew himself well enough to realize he should leave before he did something he would regret. “Good night, Charlotte,” he said, stepping away from her and toward the door.

In the dusky shadows of the yard, he met Dobbs.

“Ah, Mr. Cary, sir,” the driver said, hurrying toward him. “I was jus’ comin’ to find you. Miss Mari gave me some sort o’ potion for Prince’s fetlock, and it looks good as new. Can you be ready t’ go first thing?”

Some would have called Dobbs’s announcement providential. The perfect excuse for Edward to absent himself from temptation and focus on more pressing business.

Of course, his tenants would not see it in that light. For one thing, he had promised Markham his assistance in putting in more crops.

Behind him, a square of light fell across the ground, a candle shining in the window of the butler’s room. Charlotte’s room.

Whatever the truth of her story, he had no doubt she was hiding from something.

Gloucestershire was, on the whole, not a bad place to hide from trouble. The undulating landscape and thick forests had provided him an occasional refuge when he was a boy. So, of course, had the old house, medieval at its core but with hundreds of years of haphazard additions that had left nooks and crannies, rooms within rooms, known only to a few.

He thought with no particular pleasure of setting out on the journey to London. Maybe he was still hiding in Gloucestershire, at Ravenswood.

And maybe a part of him was glad not to be hiding alone.

“I’m obliged to you, Dobbs,” he said with a tip of his head as he turned toward the Rookery. “But my plans have changed. I’m staying here.”

Chapter 7

When Charlotte awoke the next morning, the aroma of frying bacon lured her from her bed. Did dreams have scents? Surely, not even Mari could manage to conjure such a breakfast out of thin air.

Just as she entered the kitchen, Garrick stepped through the doorway opposite, carrying two buckets brimful from the well. “Good mornin’, Mrs. Cary,” he said, although his eyes never left Mari, who was bending over a skillet near the fire.