Slowly, he began to move, and her body caught the rhythm almost effortlessly, their hips meeting and retreating as the pace grew more frantic, their breathing more ragged. In that moment, it felt as though everything she had thought she was, everything she had thought she understood, was being cast out to make room for something new.
All at once, his head lifted, exposing his neck corded with strain. He pressed deeper and went still as his seed spilled from him on a groan, its heat branding her as his.
* * *
While he slept, Charlotte listened to the rain slow, then stop. Gradually the sky began to lighten—first gray, then white, then streaks of pink, hints of blue. The storm was over. The morning light showed her Edward’s face, stubbled with more than a day’s growth of dark beard, but peaceful. Did he always sleep so soundly?
“Je’taime,” she whispered as she swept a dark lock of hair away from his eyes. The words felt strange on her tongue. But they felt true, nonetheless—even if she could not expect to hear them spoken to her in reply. Perhaps, given the life he had led, those words were not part of his vocabulary. In any language.
At the first merry notes of the birds, she slipped out from beneath the warmth and weight of his arm, collected her shift, her dress, her hairpins. As she braided and coiled her hair, she caught herself humming Tessie’s song. But why should those sad notes be in her heart this morning? It felt somehow as if she had heard them recently, as if they hung on the air in this very room . . .
With a quiet gasp, she turned toward Edward’s sleeping form. He had been humming that song last night while he made tea. The sound of it had called her back from the edge of sleep.
It might have been a coincidence, of course. Perhaps everyone in Gloucestershire knew that old folk song. Perhaps mothers sang it to their babes in their cradles.
And went right on singing it when their children were gone.
What was it Mr. Markham had said? People thought she put on airs . . . Said she acted more high and mighty than the Countess of Beckley herself, God rest her soul.
The Countess of Beckley. The Countess. Tessie.
She thought of that horrible bloodstained room. The terrible crime of which Edward had accused his father.
And she thought of the pattern on the china. The silver. The scars. That poor woman hiding in the hermitage couldn’t possibly be . . .
But what if she were?
Hastily, Charlotte tugged on her stockings and shoes, though both were stiff with mud. She would go to Tessie, and say—what? It would be cruel indeed if her suspicions were wrong. But if she could convince Tessie to leave the hermitage, to come as far as the Rookery, they would see each other. And if Charlotte’s suspicions were right, they would recognize each other.
Hugging the surprise to herself, she slipped out the door with one backward glance at Edward, his sleeping form flung across the narrow mattress. If she hurried, she might be back before he awoke.
Just a few steps down the path, however, she met Mari, returning from the village, similarly rumpled and mud-stained and . . . smiling to herself.
“Good morning,” Charlotte called.
Mari started. “Good morning, Mrs. Cary.”
At the end of every branch, every blade of grass, raindrops turned into prisms at the touch of the rising sun. “That was quite a storm last night.”
“Was it?”
Tilting her head to the side, Charlotte studied the other woman’s expression. “You didn’t notice?”
“I—” Mari’s chin tipped, a little defiantly. “I think the walls of the pub must be very thick.”
“So, you stayed at the Rose and Raven all night.”
“Peg offered to share her room,” Mari explained, “but Mr. Markham and I were talking, and . . . before we realized it, it was dawn.”
“I suppose he had to set out for his farm at first light. But I am surprised he would leave you to return to Ravenswood alone.”
Mari’s expression shifted slightly; Charlotte might have called it sly. “I think he expected I would stay where I was. But I had to do something.” Together, they walked a few steps before she added, “He didn’t go back to his farm. He set out in search of the curate. About... about the reading of banns. He—he’s asked me to marry him, and I—I’ve said yes.” Her hesitation suggested she expected not to be believed, or could not quite believe it herself.
But Charlotte did not mistake Mari’s uncertainty for unhappiness. “That’s marvelous. Mr. Cary told me last night that you and Mr. Markham had formed an attachment, but I did not realize . . .” She extended her hand, and after a moment, Mari took it. “I wish you both well. I think you will be very happy.”
“Yes. We are. Mr. Markham is so . . . so very . . .” But adjectives seemed to fail her. For the first time, Charlotte wondered if Mari, too, sometimes struggled to find words in a language that was not the language of her heart. “It was not what I was expecting when I came here. I would have said it wasn’t what I wanted. But, now . . .” Mari’s eyes darted back in the direction of the village. “I’m glad I came.”
Although it was not her intended destination, Charlotte allowed Mari’s limping stride to lead her farther in the direction of Ravenswood Manor.
“Did the storm keep you awake last night?” Mari asked after a moment, her tone cautious.
“We—” Charlotte began, “that is, I—” But she was saved from having to give any answer at all by their arrival at the back of the manor. She recalled Edward’s insistence on keeping both Mari and her away from Jack last night. “Is it safe to go in, do you think?”
Mari reached for the door. “I’m not afraid of him.”
After her various encounters with the supposed earl and last evening’s revelation, Charlotte was not willing to say the same. But she did not think it was her place to tell Mari that Jack was not Lord Beckley—or that Edward was.
Fortunately, the kitchen was empty. Mari turned to go to the housekeeper’s apartment, while Charlotte headed farther down the corridor toward the butler’s room. It was still very early. As long as she was here, she might as well freshen up and change her dress before going to Edward’s mother.
Then, once she had revealed them to each other, she would muster the courage to reveal herself. And once she and Edward had been completely open with one another, was it too much to hope that last night might lead to—?
Her ruminations were brought up short by the discovery that Jack blocked her way.
He gave her a somewhat lopsided smile in greeting. “Ah, Mrs. Cary. Good morning.” Based on appearances, he had managed to find a second bottle of wine last night. Perhaps a third. His eyes were shadowed, his hair mussed, his clothes unchanged.
She half curtsied, half sidestepped back in the direction of the kitchen. “Good morning.”
The knowledge that he was an imposter did not make him any less threatening. Desperate men did desperate things.
“Wait.” She froze as he took a step closer, his dark eyes sweeping over her with the same interest they had shown in his dressing room yesterday. “I’ve been thinking. You look rather familiar to me. Might we have met once? In town, perhaps?”
“No.”
The hastily spoken denial produced quite the opposite of the desired effect. Clearly intrigued, he ran one hand through his hair, mussing it further as he pulled a pencil from behind his ear. Reaching into his breast pocket, he withdrew a folded scrap of newspaper. “Mind if I—?” Without waiting for an answer, without even finishing his question, he pinned the paper to the wall and began to sketch. The pencil swept across the paper in practiced strokes, its scratch loud in the quiet corridor.
Instead of giggling nervously, as she was wont to do, she felt herself blush under his scrutiny, just like the model for that strange portrait she had found upstairs. Those drawings must be his work. The mere thought of someone stumbling upon her own face and form in that portfolio made her want to clutch her arms around her body, to shield herself from h
is gaze, from the gaze of strangers.
But she forced herself to keep her hands at her sides as she took a step in the direction of the housekeeper’s rooms, where she could hear Mari bustling about.
Then he stopped abruptly and extended the paper to her.
It was a rough sketch, hasty, unfinished, but unquestionably her face. And unquestionably the product of the same hand that had drawn the others she had seen.
He stood so close that she could smell the wine he had drunk. She longed to step back. But whatever remained of her good sense warned her that movement would be a mistake, the final act of some frantic creature before the predator struck.
Making no move to take the picture from him, she lifted her gaze from the paper just enough to glimpse the loose knot of his cravat, one of those she had earlier unpacked and placed in a drawer. How she wished she had refused to see to the arrangement of his room. Had left his trunks untouched where they sat.
“Oh, how careless of me.” He snatched the picture back. “Such a striking portrait deserves a title, don’t you agree?” Using the palm of one hand for his easel this time, he scribbled down a few hasty words at the top of the sheet. “There.”
She shook her head, refusing to look. But earl or not, the man was unaccustomed to taking no for an answer.
Slowly, she raised her eyes and took the paper into her hands.
The Disappearing Duchess.
“I don’t—”
Before she could claim ignorance, he pointed at a spot beneath his sketch, directing her attention to what was printed there: last week’s society gossip. The print had been smudged by his pencil and by his hand, but the words were still legible:
Our newest duke was seen in Town yesterday, sporting the latest fashion, though we recommend he dismiss his tailor, for this particular suit—half Chancery, half ecclesiastical—seems to have more than a few loose threads. Meanwhile, the Disappearing Duchess
A fold in the paper hid the rest of the item from her eyes. For that, she felt oddly grateful.
Our newest duke. It could only be a reference to Robert. So, he had gone ahead with his plans to challenge his father’s will, even if it meant annulling her marriage.
Although the paper trembled in her fingertips, she lifted her chin and met Jack’s eyes. “It sounds to me as if this particular writer, at least, seems to think the duke’s suit frivolous.”
But Jack’s sardonic expression wiped even that meager reassurance away.
Convulsively, her fingers tightened, crumpling the paper into a tight ball that fell from her nerveless hand and onto the floor between them. “Wh-what do you w-want?” Fear was a chestnut burr in her throat. Trying to swallow it, to speak past it, was torture.
“Your . . . cooperation.” An unpleasant smile curved his lips. “The Duke of Langerton has offered a substantial reward to anyone with information that leads to your return. You’ve seen the state of this place. I could use the money, Your Grace.” Charcoal- and ink-stained fingers reached out to curl around her upper arm.
“You’re right. I am the Duchess of Langerton. But you’re not the Earl of Beckley.”
Her charge was nothing more than a whisper, but it was enough to make him drop his hand, to drive him back a step. In his less-than-sober state, he stumbled, lost his footing, and wound up on the floor.
Seizing the opportunity, Charlotte raced along the corridor, through the empty kitchen, and into the blinding morning sun. Instinct told her to get far away from him. Until she saw Sykes’s horses harnessed and Garrick leading them toward the drive, however, she did not realize how far she could go.
“Wait!” She waved a frantic hand. The carriage wheels creaked as they came to a halt. “You are returning to London, Mr. Sykes?”
About to leap onto the driver’s perch, he paused with one foot on the step. “Aye, missus. This moment.”
She had been a fool to run from one stranger in a dark coat. How many desperate men were now chasing her, hoping for a reward? Her days of hiding must be at an end. Robert would run her to ground like a fox and stand by while the dogs of Society ripped her to shreds. It was past time for her to meet him face-to-face, answer his accusations with dignity, and hope that the resolution of the matter would bring lasting peace, and with it, freedom.
“Will you take me with you, Mr. Sykes?”
A wrinkle of surprise flickered across his brow. “No baggage, missus?”
She shook her head.
For a moment, she thought he meant to refuse. Glancing over her shoulder, she scanned the yard, fearing to see Jack on her heels. When she turned back, Sykes gave a nod. “All right.”
As she hurried forward, Garrick sprang to open the carriage door. “I’m afraid I have nothing to offer you for your trouble, Mr. Sykes.”
From the coachman’s box, he called down, “No trouble, missus. Jus’ don’ keep the horses standin’, if you please.”
“Oh. Oh, no. I wouldn’t.” She clambered in with a nod of thanks to Garrick. “Merci.”
Only as Sykes chirruped to the horses and the carriage lurched forward did Charlotte consider what Edward would think when he discovered she had gone. And from there, her mind did not have far to go to wonder what he would say if—or when—Jack told him who she was.
Would he forgive her for not telling him the whole truth?
Last night, her words had felt like all the truth that ever needed to be told. She had bared her soul to him, had explained who she was in every way that mattered. In every way but one. And really, how much did a title signify? After all, she was a duchess in name only, as Robert was so desperate to prove. And she certainly bore Edward no ill will for keeping his title a secret.
She glanced out the window at the scenery that had already begun to slide past. In leaving Ravenswood she was leaving half her heart behind. But she couldn’t go back. If she did, she might soon find herself headed to London in Jack’s company instead. And if anyone was going to claim some sort of a reward for her return, it would be she.
Only this time, she was not thinking of the money.
With fumbling fingers, she dropped the window in the carriage door and leaned out. “Garrick!”
Sykes checked the horses, but did not stop them. Garrick came loping to the side of the carriage, out of breath. “Aye?”
“Tell—” she began as the carriage rolled slowly forward and Garrick jogged alongside. “Tell Mr. Cary—” But the words that came to her tired, anxious mind were a jumble of French and English. They could not be entrusted to another to relay. As Sykes’s spry horses leaned into the bit, Garrick struggled to keep up. In another moment, he would be too far away to hear her words. “Tell Mr. Cary I’m sorry.”
Once she’d dealt with Robert, she would come back to Ravenswood, explain everything in person. She would make Edward understand how she felt.
In the meantime, however, there was one parting gift she could give.
“And go to the hermitage,” she shouted to Garrick. “Tell Tessie that the one she has been waiting for has finally come home.”
Chapter 16
Abeam of morning light slanted across the room, chasing away the last fragments of Edward’s dream. In it, he had been fifteen or sixteen again, listening with half an ear to Tempest practicing her conjugations, the rest of him lost in some book her father had lent him.
“To love. Aimer.” A giggle, which he had ignored. “J’aime. Il, elle, on aime. Nous aimons. Vous . . . vous aimerez?” She rattled through the forms quickly, with little regard to accuracy or accent.
“Vous aimez,” he had corrected automatically.
“No, no. You misunderstood. I was asking. Do you think you will ever fall in love, Edward?”
The question had succeeded in capturing his full attention. Snapping shut his book, he had dropped to one knee beside the chair across which she had carelessly draped herself, caught up her slight, girlish hand, and said, with exaggerated passion, “Mais oui, ma chérie. Je t’aime.”
&n
bsp; And, as he had hoped, she had squealed in protest, jumped up, and left him to his reading.
A dirty trick, of course. One of many they had played on one another, growing up together as they had. It would be years before the thought of anything more than brotherly love would cross his mind in regards to Tempest Holderin, and when it had, she had rebuffed his overtures just as thoroughly as she had that day.
Je t’aime. I love you. The words every young man with a passable command of French dreamed a beautiful woman would someday speak to him.
But why had that particular memory come back to him this morning?
As he brushed his hair away from his face and rubbed the heel of one hand against his eyes, he remembered. Charlotte.
He shifted on the lumpy mattress, half turned, expecting to find her still curled beside him. But the other half of the bed was cool and empty. Bright light flooded the room. It must be an hour or more past dawn. For the first time since returning to England, he had slept like the dead. She must have woken early, grown restless, gone out.
Not back to the manor? Hurrying to his feet, he found his scattered clothes and tugged them on. Surely she knew better than that.
When he could see no sign of Charlotte around the Rookery or walking in the nearby wood, he made his way to the manor house, entering through the kitchen, expecting to find it unoccupied. Instead, Mari was within, lighting a fire. A lithe black cat—Noir, had Charlotte called it?—was playing at her feet, swatting a balled-up piece of paper.
It was on the tip of his tongue to scold Mari for returning, but this was not the time. “Have you seen Charlotte?”
“This morning?” Mari turned away from the hearth, a curious slant to her head. “Yes. I met her just leaving the Rookery, and we walked back here together. She’s in her room, resting, I believe.” Something like a smile played around her lips. “She looked . . . tired.”
Before he could muster a reply, Jack stumbled into the room, looking—and smelling—the worse for a night of drinking. He rubbed a hand over the back of his head as he sat down heavily on one of the benches and grunted, “Coffee.”
To Seduce a Stranger Page 20
