Page 39 of To Seduce a Stranger

“Oui.” Turning her gaze on the room, she said, “I found the remains of a bird. He must have crashed through one of the windows, then injured himself further by struggling for some time to get out.” Her explanation for the room’s ramshackle state seemed to offer little in the way of comfort. At least, the pressure of his hand did not relent. “I will put it to rights first thing tomorrow, if you wish,” she offered uncertainly.

“No.”

The hard reply made her flinch, and the slight jerk of her arm seemed to bring him to his senses, enough to make him release his grip on her hand and step away from her side, at least. Grasping the high-backed sofa, he pushed it aside, almost overturning it, wrinkling the carpet that lay before it, and driving it into the little round table on which the broken pieces of the crystal lamp had lain. They slid onto the floor with a tinkle, but the sound of their fall was further muffled by the louder noise of Edward dropping to his knees in the place where the sofa had been, sweeping his hands blindly across the floor at the carpet’s edge. When they found nothing more, he clutched his fists to his chest with a groan and rocked back onto his heels.

She wanted to ask how he knew his way around Ravenswood Manor so well. How he had known exactly where she had found the toy soldier.

But a woman who kept secrets was in no position to expect others to reveal theirs.

She placed the candlestick on the writing desk and made her way to his side with careful steps, mindful of the broken glass now scattered across the carpet. When she looked down, it was not at him but at the starlit garden, the trees, the very peak of the Rookery’s roof. Despite the neglect, it was a fairy landscape, the stuff of one of Charles Perrault’s tales.

Most of which came to a rather grim end for at least some of the parties involved.

Without touching him, without speaking, she simply stood and waited. If her presence was a comfort, she would stay. After all he had done for her, she could safely offer him that much.

Beside her, she felt him shift. Expecting every moment that he would rise to his feet, she could not contain the gasp of surprise that parted her lips when he instead turned toward her, wrapped his arms around her legs, and buried his face against her hip.

Even the thickest, most practical fabric would have no barrier to the heat of his touch, his breath, his tears. But the thin cotton of a night rail seemed to amplify every sensation. He shuddered against her with the effort of trying to fight off . . . something. The chill of the night air. Frustration at the impossible task he had been set. Grief.

A combination of all three, perhaps.

Or . . . none of them.

Strong, lean fingers kneaded the backs of her thighs, traveling slowly upward, cupping her bottom, drawing her more tightly to him, to his lips, which skated along her hipbone and nuzzled the swell of her belly. His every exhalation was another touch, warm fingers of air that traced across her skin and ruffled the thatch of curls at the joining of her thighs.

Feeling suddenly as if she might collapse—to her knees, into his arms, over some precipice from which there could be no return—she forced herself to stand tall, arms stiff, hands curled into fists at her sides. He rose still higher, following the curve of her ribcage upward until he reached her breast. Pillowing his cheek against its softness, he murmured formless words. A name, perhaps? Beneath the hot rush of his breath her nipple peaked, and in another moment it was between his lips.

As he sucked and nipped, a battle built inside her, and she tightened her grip until her fingernails carved ridges into her tender palms. She knew the proper thing would be to push him away, but oh, how she longed for the courage to draw him closer. Seeming to understand that she was on the verge of splintering into a thousand pieces, like the broken mirror behind her, he stood at last and settled his lips over her mouth instead.

A kiss. Just a kiss. He did not even try, as Mr. Sutherland had, to push his tongue past her teeth—though she now understood, with sudden, shocking clarity, why a woman might welcome the sensation. While his mouth moved over hers, his hands slid up her bare arms, over her shoulders, to cup the back of her head, his fingers slipping through her long, loose hair as they caressed her scalp.

She longed to reciprocate, to give back his touch, but whatever instinct she had possessed in such matters seemed to have flown. Her hands remained locked at her sides.

“Ah, Charlotte,” he whispered when he at long last drew back. “I owe you an apology.”

Her heart jerked in her chest. Of course he regretted what he had done. He had forgotten himself.

While he was kissing her, he had no doubt been thinking of someone else.

Her breath caught as she tried to respond, and in that dreadful moment of silence, he released her. “You must be freezing,” he said, as if he had noticed for the first time her dishabille. He shrugged out of his coat and laid it around her shoulders. Its weight, its warmth was a second embrace.

From within its depths, she clutched the garment closer; the movement did not escape his shadowed eyes. “Have I frightened you?”

Still, no words would come. She shook her head, but the sharpness of the gesture seemed to persuade him of its opposite. “If it helps”—here, his voice broke on a sort of laugh—“I frightened myself a bit, too. But you needn’t worry about a repetition of my bad behavior. I’m bound for London soon—tomorrow, if I can manage it.”

London? Back to Mrs. Corrvan, she supposed, though she made herself ask, “Pourquoi?”

Ever since she had come to England, French had been a sort of refuge from thought, from reality. She had spoken it often in her mind, because her aunt had forbidden it to pass her lips. It had been a shield she could raise and lower at will.

Now, however, even spoken aloud, it no longer felt like adequate protection.

“A matter of business,” he said. “Something I have waited too long to address.” His hand rose, and though his explanation had brought little comfort, she closed her eyes, inviting the stroke of his fingertips across her cheek, brushing the hair from her face.

But the touch never came. In its place, another self-deprecating laugh. “You will be glad to see the back of me, I do not doubt.”

Don’t go. Don’t leave me tomorrow. What would happen to her if he left her here? What would happen to her if he didn’t?

Don’t leave me tonight.