Page 85 of To Seduce a Stranger

“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 disbelief. “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.”