Page 61 of To Seduce a Stranger

“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 his 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—”