Page 6 of To Seduce a Stranger

The stranger did neither. “Vous êtes française,” he merely said. You are French. It was not a question.

Something about his accent disoriented her. He did not speak French like an Englishman—at least, not like an English gentleman, one who had been tutored in the language from childhood, had spent time in Paris on the Grand Tour, and thought himself a fine fellow when he dropped a romantic phrase or two in some unsuspecting girl’s ear.

Still less did he sound like a Frenchman, though.

She mustered the strength to take another step backward, to free herself from his touch, to look at him while she formulated a reply.

If she had imagined his voice unsettling, she was totally unprepared for his eyes, which were the soft, welcoming blue of a summer sky, startling in a deeply tanned face. He must have lost his hat during the rescue, for rain dripped from dark curls plastered to his forehead, and ran in rivulets down his cheekbones and along his strong jaw.

His clothes offered no more enlightenment as to his status than had his voice: plain, well-tailored, but not elegant—even aside from being spattered with mud. No one would mistake him for a man of fashion. A merchant, perhaps. That might explain his having a few French words at his disposal. But he was as broad-shouldered and brown as a farmer.

Zut alors! Had she grown as snobbish as Robert? What bearing did the cut of the man’s coat have on the fact that he had snatched her from almost certain death beneath the hooves of those horses? Even less did it matter how blue his eyes or how broad his shoulders. Although those shoulders, and the strong arms beneath them, certainly had played their part. And as for his eyes . . .

Even as she watched, a shadow flickered across them, and for the second time that day, she found herself being inspected with a sort of curious frown.

Tugging off one glove, he raised his hand and brushed the pad of his thumb beneath her eye, flicking away a clump of mud. Beneath his surprisingly warm touch, her own skin felt cold. She shivered, then darted her gaze away from his face to discover her dress and Jane’s cloak were all but ruined. Although the state of her clothes was the least of her worries, she found herself blinking away tears.

Shock. She drew her shoulders back and lifted her chin. “I must t’ank—thank you for saving my life,” she said, marshaling every trick she had learned to make her English sound perfectly . . . well, English. And failing miserably.

Nevertheless, he paid her the compliment of replying in the same language. “I was simply in the right place at the right time. May I be of some further assistance, Miss . . . ?”

The hesitation at the end of his question begged for an introduction. “Lottie Blake—” she began, unthinkingly. Blakemore, she had been about to say, as if she could afford to go about revealing her real name to anyone who asked.

But it little mattered, because before she could finish, his brows dove downward. “Lottie?” he echoed disapprovingly. “Charlotte, surely.”

She had never really been fond of the nickname. Her aunt had begun it, disliking how Charlotte rolled off a French tongue. Before that, Charlotte could hardly remember having been called anything at all.

It felt doubly strange, then—doubly good?—to hear her given name now, even on the lips of a perfect stranger.

“Yes. Charlotte,” she agreed, “Charlotte Blake.” It was a comfortable alias, at least as fitting as Her Grace, the Duchess of Langerton had ever been. Although the muscles in her legs still quivered, she managed a curtsy. “Very pleased to make your acquaintance, sir.”

“The pleasure is mine, Miss Blake.” He bowed in return. “Edward Cary, at your service.”

Chapter 2

Perhaps if he had not been so foolhardy as to touch her, Edward might have been able to pluck his hat out of the muck and simply walk away. The streak of mud across her pale cheek had been a distraction, but the chill of her skin felt like a call to arms.

“Allow me to take you back to the rest of your traveling party,” he said, bending to pick up her valise and a good portion of Wiltshire clay along with it. He had a few choice words for the person or persons who had left a young woman to wander about a bustling inn yard unescorted on a wet, gray afternoon.

“I thank you, Mr. Cary. But that won’t be necessary.” She reached for her bag, making no move to take his arm. “I am traveling alone.”

Alone? His chin jerked upward as if he had been struck by the word, sending more cold rain where it assuredly was not welcome. A few drops found their way beneath the upturned collar of his greatcoat to trickle down his neck and along the valley of his spine.

So much for the celebrated beauties of England in the springtime.

In twenty years, he had forgotten how the damned chill settled into one’s bones. Or perhaps, when he had last felt it, his bones had been more forgiving.

Doubtless he ought to prepare himself for frequent repetition of the facile assertion that his time in the West Indies had thinned his blood, although he rather suspected that his blood was the same consistency it had been when he had left England as a boy. Suppressing a curse, he turned toward the inn, still carrying her satchel, stepping deftly around a puddle that promised to be deep.

“Sir,” Charlotte Blake called after him, “you have my—”

“Come.” Spoken from between teeth clenched against chattering, the word sounded like a growl, even to his ears. “We’ll sort it out inside.”

After a moment’s hesitation, she followed. He could hear her picking her way across the ruts behind him, then felt her hand tugging on the valise. “I do not wish to go inside, Mr. Cary.” She had managed somehow to hone her soft French accent to a stern English edge.

But they were already to the inn, and he stepped into the warmth and dryness it promised, pulling her with him when she did not release her satchel. Hoping to secure a private parlor for Miss Blake, somewhere she might freshen up, he was forced by the crowd of stranded travelers to make do with the bustling public room instead. Dark walls were adorned with a series of cheap prints depicting charming country scenes that did not bear comparison with the gloom beyond the room’s windows. Fingers of heat beckoned from an enormous stone fireplace, curling just out of his reach. Near it sat two young men who, by their looks, had been traveling in an open gig. Small puddles had formed on the floor around their boots and beneath a third chair, where their coats drooped and dripped. With a jerk of his chin Edward evicted them from their table and installed Charlotte in the seat closest to the fire, facing out into the room.

“How came you to be here alone, Miss Blake?” he asked, taking the chair opposite and setting her bag at his feet.