Page 41 of To Seduce a Stranger

Edward leaned his head backward and let himself float on the water, although the heaviness beneath his breastbone threatened to sink him like a stone.

For many years, the gossips had insisted he was infatuated with Tempest Holderin. He had been her friend, her employee, her protector. He had loved her as a sister. And in other ways, too, if he was being honest with himself.

Precisely because he cared for her, he had sworn to himself he would never act on his feelings—a promise he had broken exactly twice. Once, with a clumsy kiss that had made her laugh in his face. And once with an even clumsier proposal of marriage.

His own interference had landed her in a dangerous situation, and the only protection he could think to offer her had been his name—dubious though such protection might be. He had written to her with a shaking hand, telling himself all the while that her upbringing in a vile, violent world had made her tough enough to withstand what he sometimes still feared he would become.

He had reassured himself with the certainty she would say no.

Which she had done in spectacular fashion: by sending as her reply to his offer the announcement that she had married another.

It was just as well. Tempest was right where she wanted, where she needed to be—with a man who was undoubtedly a bit of a rogue, but who knew from experience the folly of trying to tame the sea.

And he was where he needed to be, as well: at Ravenswood.

When Tempest had finally been able to free the slaves at Harper’s Hill, she had set him free, too. Or perhaps it would be more accurate to say she had set him adrift—although he might have continued in her employ indefinitely, he supposed; might have stayed in Antigua for the rest of his life.

But once he had carried out her instructions regarding the plantation, he had realized that it was time for him to start a new chapter. Or, to be more precise, to pick up a very old book and see if he might begin again where he had left off many years ago. He had never expected it to be easy.

He had failed, however, to understand the precise ways in which resuming his life here would be difficult. Perhaps impossible.

Wanting Charlotte did not make things any easier.

He had glimpsed enough cracks in her alabaster façade—the nervous giggle, the occasional broken-English phrase, the hints of her troubled past—to know that something hid inside that shell. But he ought never to expect to be the one to discover what. Ought never to dream of becoming a Pygmalion to that lovely marble sculpture, to feel her come to life in his arms.

Like any work of art, she changed depending on the angle of the viewer. Even looking straight on, he could not be sure what he saw, who she was.

But if he did not trust her, it was at least in part because he did not trust himself.

He swam to the pond’s edge, then hoisted himself onto the bank and sat there dripping in the cool night air. He was in no position to demand anything from her. Still less could he offer anything to her. Confronting his father, getting his affairs in order, restoring this estate—those needed to be the sole focus of his attention. He could not let desire for Charlotte distract him from what he had come back to England to do.

Gathering up his clothes and boots, he set off in the direction of the Rookery and another long, lonely night.

Chapter 11

At the first pink light of dawn, long before the hour for making calls, Charlotte set out for the little cottage in the woods to visit Tessie. No sense in pretending that sleep would come. A walk in the fresh air was her last, best hope for restoration.

Over her arm she carried a basket filled with food. No doubt Mari would raise a disapproving brow when she woke and discovered her pantry had been raided. Or perhaps not, especially once Charlotte explained. At present, Mari seemed to have other things on her mind.

Although Edward was likely far away by now, she gave the Rookery a wide berth, entering the woods on an unfamiliar path that seemed to point in the right direction. She fought her way along it until she was certain she was lost, then emerged at the edge of a field, where she could see Mr. Markham trudging to work in the distance. Following along the hedgerow, she made her way back to the clearing she sought. Smoke already rose from the cottage’s chimney, and Tessie’s strange, haunting song wove its notes among the cheerier melodies of the birds.

“Tessie?” Charlotte wished she knew another name to call out.

Noir was the first to offer a greeting, but Tessie soon followed, still wrapped in her dressing gown. “Is that you, Charlotte?”

“I’m sorry for calling so early, ma’am.”

“It’s quite all right. Come in. I was just about to pour some tea.”

Ducking beneath the lintel, Charlotte entered the little stone hermitage, warmed this morning by a crackling fire. While Tessie busied herself with finding another cup and saucer, the tea kettle whistled merrily on the hob, competing like the birds with Tessie’s habitual tune. Once Tessie had filled the teapot, Charlotte lifted the tray and carried it to the small, battered table that divided the single room between bedchamber and kitchen.

“How is your husband finding his work at Ravenswood?” Tessie tilted her head to fix Charlotte with her good eye.

“Challenging, I believe. The estate has fallen into disrepair.”

“I know. Lord Beckley has not done his duty by the people here.”

“I wonder at the sort of man who would allow this to happen.” Charlotte poured tea into two cups, surprised by its strength. Tea was dear, and she had fully expected these leaves to have been washed more than once.