Page 50 of To Seduce a Stranger

Her eyes darted to Edward, who stood closer to the window, cloaked in shadow.

When he stepped forward, she was shocked by the state of his clothes. How long had he been out in the rain? If she had not sent Garrick to return his other coat, she might have offered it to him now. She longed, even so, to go to him and slip the wet coat from his shoulders. She was believed to be his wife, after all. It would be only proper.

But after last night she no longer wanted the proper things where Edward was concerned.

“I confess I was not expecting you to answer my summons, ma’am,” the earl said, stepping closer and drawing her attention back to him. He was studying her expression carefully, his gaze moving between her and Edward with obvious interest.

“You’ve met, then.” Edward’s voice was sharp with disapproval.

“Your wife was so kind as to see to things in my bedchamber this afternoon,” he explained to Edward.

Surely her eyes were playing tricks on her. Surely she had imagined the way Edward’s brow furrowed at the other man’s words.

“Do you know, Mrs. Cary, that your husband and I are related? Cousins, or some such thing.” The earl tilted his head in the light, offering himself for her inspection. “Do you not fancy a family resemblance?”

The two men’s features, their coloring, their... demeanor were all too dissimilar. Charlotte dropped her gaze to the carpet and shook her head—or tried.

“You will excuse us.” Edward’s firm voice managed to penetrate over the clatter of her pulse and the rattle of the windows. “The weather seems to be growing worse. You must allow me to return my wife to the comfort of our own fireside.”

The earl snapped his gaze to Edward. “I understood from Mrs. Cary that the steward’s cottage is almost uninhabitable.”

“Was,” Edward corrected mildly. “As I said earlier, I’ve made some improvements.”

Resentment radiated from Lord Beckley’s posture. Too pampered, too used to having his own way to know how to respond to Edward’s self-assurance.

After a long moment had passed, Edward held out his arm. “Come, Charlotte.” With obvious reluctance, the earl bowed his head to excuse them.

“Good evening, my lord.” Charlotte made her curtsy and laid her fingertips on Edward’s damp sleeve. The forearm beneath was every bit as hard as it had been the last time she had touched him there, the morning she had suspected he was about to knock Garrick down.

“Wait.” Beckley’s sharp command made her stumble at the threshold, forcing Edward to yield as well. “Take these things away with you,” he said, waving a hand at the table before him. “I don’t care where you find the money. Just see that you find it.”

“Sir.” Feeling the sharp edge in Edward’s voice, she readily released his arm so that he could gather the papers the earl had indicated. Lord Beckley, too, looked perturbed—and not only by his steward’s tone. The man must be having money troubles. No doubt it was what had brought him to Ravenswood. She could not say she was surprised. It was how these young noblemen lived, from debt to debt. Was not Roderick forever begging Aunt Penhurst for something to supplement his allowance? Had not George told her that Robert had been much the same?

Well, from what she had seen and what Edward had said, Lord Beckley was bound to be disappointed.

When Edward returned to her side, the papers tucked securely beneath his greatcoat, she slipped her hand through the crook of his elbow. Once through the door, she turned automatically toward the rear of the house, the quickest route to the servants’ quarters and her own room.

Edward pulled her in the opposite direction.

In another few steps, she found herself on the other side of the front door, in the pouring rain, without even the meager protection of Jane’s mantle, hurrying to keep pace with him as he set out on the stone path that led away from the manor. “Where are we going?”

Edward did not answer.

Farther along, they met Mr. Markham and Mari hurrying along the mud-slick path as quickly as Mari’s lame leg would allow. Despite the rain, Edward stopped them. “Don’t go back to the house, Mari.”

Something in his voice—instinctively, she would have called it anger, although it seemed uncharacteristic of him—rooted her to the spot. She recalled what Mari had said of the fear deep within him. And she wondered again, fear of what?

“And why not, I’d like to know?” Mari said, stepping past him. “Maybe your English blood has learned not to mind this cold rain, but I—”

With his free hand, he caught Markham’s shoulder. “Take her back to the village, and keep her there.”

The whites of Mari’s eyes shone in the murky evening light as she looked first at Charlotte, then at Edward. When she would have turned to Mr. Markham, her gaze seemed to falter.

“Why?” Markham asked. “What’s happened?”

“Nothing. And I’m determined that nothing will. If he”—Edward tipped his head toward the manor to indicate Lord Beckley—“wishes to travel without servants, then let him see to his own comforts.”

So it was as she had feared. She had angered him by agreeing to tidy the earl’s chambers, and perhaps had involved Mari in his displeasure.