Page 80 of To Seduce a Stranger

“Good God, Car—er, Beckley. If you mean to deny that you’re in love with this woman, I may just have to knock some sense into you as well.” He laughed, but Edward had the distinct impression his friend was not joking. Fairfax slapped him on the shoulder. “When you find her, don’t let her get away again.”

Edward gripped Fairfax’s forearm, met his cool blue gaze, and nodded once. “I won’t.”

Chapter 21

At Marlborough, Edward got the hostler of the posting inn to admit that there might have been a lady traveling alone on the west-bound stage. But as it had come and gone more than an hour ago, and the inn was busy, he simply could not be sure. Fairfax’s coachman insisted his horses would be spry again after a brief rest. Edward did not hesitate to urge the man to drive on.

After the punishing pace they had set that day, however, they managed to go only a little farther before the sun began to dip toward the horizon. Which was how Edward found himself stepping into the shabby, all-too-familiar inn in a small village east of Chippenham. No cold rain stranded travelers this time; instead, many had settled in for the night. The place was crowded.

“No rooms, sir,” the innkeeper proclaimed. “Just gave the last to a gouty old gentleman. On his way to Bath, I suppose.” He scratched behind one ear, disordering a tuft of white hair and added, confidentially, “Fellow could hardly make it up the stairs. You seem fit enough, though. You’re welcome to sit up in the pub.”

Edward glanced through the wide doorway into the public room, taking in the scattered tables, the dingy windows, the long rustic settle beneath a series of cheap prints hanging on the wall. The day had been warm, and the hearth was empty now, but he had no difficulty conjuring an image of Charlotte shivering before it, refusing his offer of help.

“All right,” he agreed reluctantly, bothered less by the room’s uncomfortable accommodations than its uncomfortable memories. Ducking under the low beam that served as a lintel, he chose a table on quite the opposite side of the room from where he had once sat with Charlotte, and ordered a meal and a pint, though he had no appetite.

What if she was not returning to Gloucestershire as he firmly believed—or at least, fondly hoped? If he never found her, could he learn to accustom himself to the weight of his memories? He supposed he might someday forget the feeling of her beneath him—the eager exploration of her fingers, the brush of her lips. Mere physical sensations—both good and bad—faded over time, as he well knew.

But he did not think he could ever forget the host of other images his mind seemed eager to call up: Charlotte covered head to toe with mud, twigs and dead leaves caught in her hair, her curiosity warring with her pride. Charlotte coated in a layer of grime, surrounded by a cloud of dust, determined to bring Ravenswood back into the light. Charlotte with mud oozing between her bare toes, watching the minnows in undisguised delight. Just . . . Charlotte.

No wonder Langerton had disapproved of his father’s marriage. When it came down to it, she had nothing more of a duchess’s dignity than the stiff spine. Based on what Edward had gleaned from their conversations, he could guess that particular characteristic had been born of necessity, meager armor against the barbs and slings of her aunt, her stepson, and the world at large. Everyone around her had insisted she was unworthy—of comforts, of kindness, of love.

And though Charlotte had, in large measure, believed them, she had nonetheless found the strength to escape their cruelty, to run away. If she chose now to keep running, how could he begrudge her her freedom? Even if it meant he would never be free again.

Lost in his ruminations, he might not have noticed the innkeeper bustling past if the man had not jostled his elbow, causing him to slosh half the contents of his mug over the food he had been aimlessly pushing about his plate.

The expected apology did not come, so intent was the man upon his mission. “Fanny,” he called to the barmaid, “have you fetched up that tray for Mrs. Cary yet?”

The bottom of Edward’s pewter mug met the tabletop with a thump. Mrs. Cary? No. It must be a coincidence. Or perhaps he had misheard.

“Naw. I plum forgot. Jus’ a mo’,” Fanny called back, juggling an armful of tankards bound for another table. “Room three, in’t?”

“Aye.”

Against his better judgment, Edward snagged the arm of the innkeeper as he turned to go. “Mrs. Cary, did you say? Dark haired or fair? Young or old?”

“A widow lady,” was the man’s answer, as if that decided all other questions.

When Fanny stepped past a moment later carrying a laden tea tray, Edward pushed back his chair and rose. “Is that for Mrs. Cary?”

“Yes, sir.”

“May I take it up?”

He had expected a denial, or at least an obligatory protest. Instead, Fanny blew a stray lock of reddish hair away from her sweat-dampened forehead, took one look around the busy public room, and handed off the tray with a grateful sigh. “Here you be, then. Top o’ the stairs.”

As he walked, the contents of the tray rattled in his hands, a circumstance he blamed on his general lack of experience with fetching and carrying, rather than his nerves. What if he was wrong? What would he say, or do, if a perfect stranger opened to his knock?

Ah, but what if Charlotte stood on the other side of that door?

At the head of the dark, narrow staircase, he hesitated. By the light of a single sconce, he could see six doors, three to either side, all unnumbered and none, properly speaking, at the top, as Fanny’s instructions had indicated. Which one should he choose? To the left or the right?

He hadn’t long to consider. A creak on the steps behind him signaled the ascent of another guest. Drawing a deep breath, he stepped left to allow the fellow to pass, balanced the tray on one palm, and knocked on the door in front of him.

* * *

Having long since accepted that her request for tea had been ignored or forgotten, Charlotte jumped when she heard a knock on the door to her room.

After all this time, the tea was bound to be cold. Poor service was to be expected at a run-down posting inn, she supposed; nevertheless, her breath had quickened as the coach had rolled to a stop before this particular inn. When had she become such a creature of sentiment? Perhaps at the same moment she had forced herself to acknowledge that this journey might end in humiliation and disappointment.