Page 38 of To Seduce a Stranger

She tipped her chin in acknowledgment. “It was the only way to reach the corners of those high-ceilinged rooms.”

“I certainly did not intend to deprive the others of their due,” he said, sliding the book into the pocket of his coat. “But I think we both know who deserves the credit.”

Embarrassed, she turned to face the table again, refusing to meet his eyes even in the mirror.

“I am—” Edward continued, “that is, Lord Beckley will be pleased to see everything so well taken care of.”

“I thought you said he had expressed no concern about the house.”

“I said he had given no instruction about it,” he corrected.

“Ah, well. It takes no great skill to sweep and polish.” Absently, she tapped the ragged nail of her first finger against the brush before lifting it to resume her toilette, although she had no more success than before. She still could not raise her arms above her head to make a proper job of it.

“Why do you not ask Mari’s help with that?” She saw him nod toward the brush. “She has never been a lady’s maid, but I am sure she—”

“I will manage. Besides, Mari has gone out walking this evening. As she often does.”

A rumble of acknowledgment escaped his throat; he looked vaguely surprised, or perhaps displeased, by the information, despite the fact that she had spared him the details of where she walked. Or with whom.

Then she heard—no, felt him step closer, close enough that when she dared to look in the mirror again, she could see nothing behind her but the checked pattern of his waistcoat, his loosened cravat, and dark stubble on his chin.

Leaning forward, he curved his fingers around the handle of the brush and drew it from her grasp. His touch was warm and soft, as she had known it would be. “Then allow me,” he said.

“I really don’t think—”

“Surely a husband can do as much for his wife, Mrs. Cary,” he insisted, his voice gently teasing now. “A repayment, of sorts.” Before she could reply, the boar’s bristles tingled against her scalp, sending off little fireworks of ecstasy, followed by ripples of relaxation that seemed to flow from the top of her head through every limb, every vein, every cell. “Relax.”

She had been without the gentle touch of another person for so long . . . forever, really. Though she craved it, she had schooled herself not to need it. Yet here she was, tormented daily by the touch of a man who was all but a stranger to her. She could still feel where his hand had circled her arm and jerked her to safety; where his arm had clutched her waist, brushing the underside of her breast with each bounce of the horse; where his fingertips had skated with care over her injured palms. And now, his deft hands, his long fingers, made her forget the pain of her own hands and the tightness in her shoulders, in favor of an entirely different ache, in a place no one had ever touched her. A place no one ever would.

Realizing it would be a terrible mistake to surrender to his command to relax, she kept her spine straight as ever. Still, her eyes drooped closed and a sigh escaped her lips as he dragged the brush downward, again and again, stroking its bristles through her hair until it crackled and shone.

Too soon, he laid the brush aside. Unwilling to let the moment of pure indulgence come to an end, she refused to open her eyes. When he gathered her hair in one hand and swept it to the side, over one of her shoulders, a few strands caught on his work-roughened fingers. Then she heard the tell-tale creak of leather as he shifted his weight. Caught the scent of him, wool and shaving soap and man. Felt the warmth of his body as he leaned closer still.

Please.

How did her body know to want the press of his lips against that curve of skin he had exposed, at the base of her neck where it joined her shoulder? Were those forbidden cravings a part of her blood, as everyone had always insisted? An instinct, prowling silently along the shadowy edges of her mind, like Noir in search of a mouse? Would she have a moment to react, to save herself, when the tension coiling tighter and tighter within her finally sprung?

“Where did you find this?”

Her eyes popped open, and the bubble of contentment burst. He had picked up the little toy soldier and was turning it this way and that in the candlelight, as if it were a priceless curiosity. Darting her gaze to the mirror, she watched his face, starkly lined with some emotion she could not identify.

“Where did you find this?” Louder this time, each word crisply enunciated, as though he suddenly doubted her understanding of English. As he spoke, his hand tightened into a fist around the little leaden man, driving its sharp metal points into his palm, and she winced for the pain it must be giving him.

“Upstairs. I—”

All at once, he straightened, depriving her of his heat and his scent, leaving her shockingly aware of what a fool she had almost been. Before she could finish her explanation, he lifted the candlestick in his other hand and turned toward the door. “Show me.”

His footfalls were already ringing along the corridor, headed deeper into the house, before she caught up, her bare feet silent on the stone. The moonless night sky left all in utter darkness, and she was glad of the candle, though it drove back the looming shadows only a bit.

For all he had asked her to guide him, he walked like a man sure of his destination, or at least, one unaccustomed to being led. On the landing at the top of the stairs, however, he hesitated. She took the candle from his grasp and moved toward the small receiving room, feeling him follow in her wake. When she stopped before the door, his hand stretched for the knob, hovering over it for a moment before curling his fingers around the patterned brass oval and opening the door.

Candlelight struck the shattered mirror and bounced off it like a prism, casting bright beams in every direction, making the spatters on the wall look almost black, though they were still unmistakably blood. She had not thought it possible that the space could look worse than it had by daylight, and yet . . .

Before she could leave him to his explorations, his ruminations, she felt his hand searching for hers, first tangling with her fingertips, then gripping her like a drowning man. It hurt—her hands were sore from days of hard work. But she did not pull away.

Because when she looked up at his face, she saw unshed tears sparkling in his eyes.

“Here?” he asked, although his tone told her he already knew the answer.