Page 45 of To Seduce a Stranger

At the words, she jerked around to locate the speaker. A handsome stranger with a warm complexion stood just inside the doorway. He was slight of build, and half a head shorter than Edward, at least.

But he could only be the Earl of Beckley.

“Your lordship,” she said, dipping automatically into the sort of curtsy that had been required of her in Aunt Penhurst’s household.

But her previous fears were quickly put to rest. This man was too young, and too fashionable, to move in the circles of old men and women. She felt certain she had never seen him before.

“I am glad of the chance to meet you, ma’am. And to express my gratitude for your care of Ravenswood Manor in my absence.”

“You are most welcome, my lord. It was nothing at all,” she lied, still aware of her aching arms and back as she bent her knee once more.

“Vous êtes française.”

Unlike Edward, this man spoke with the accent of a native. Although his eyes were heavy lidded, almost drowsy looking, she could tell he missed no detail of her appearance. She had had too many men look down the lengths of their Roman noses at her to have any doubt on that score. Steeling herself against the judgment that typically accompanied those words, she nodded. “Half-French, my lord. Yes. Your driver brought up your things,” she added quickly, hoping to divert his attention. “I had him put them in the dressing room. Your valet—”

“Haven’t brought one.” He crossed the room as he spoke, inspecting its dusty furnishings, drawing closer to her with every step. Carefully, she eased her back away from the window and sidled along the edge of the bed. Once he reached the window, he paused to look down at the landscape. “The steward’s house is in better condition than this one, I hope?”

“Worse, I’m afraid,” she said, shaking her head. “In fact, the condition of the Rookery is such that my husband felt it would be best if I stayed here—”

“In the manor?” His head turned sharply to look back at her.

She hesitated. “In the servants’ quarters, yes.”

Interest piqued, he grew suddenly still, like Noir when his prey was in sight. “Without your husband? I must say, it would take something worse than a bit of chipped plaster and shabby furniture to keep me away from my beautiful wife.”

She backed another step toward the door, thankful he had not closed it when he entered. “I shall make other arrangements immediately. I would not wish to impose.”

“Please,” he said, tilting his head, “stay.”

Something about the way in which the offer was tendered made her even more eager to leave. She did not know him. But she knew his type. Before she could pass into the corridor, however, he raised a hand to halt her. “Though I wonder if I might impose upon you in turn? Would you—? No, I cannot ask it . . .”

Expecting that he would find the words to make his request, despite his supposed reluctance, she held her tongue. And her breath.

“Might you be willing to tidy up my chambers and unpack my things? You have done such an excellent job downstairs.” His voice was warm and rich, almost a purr.

How many women had he persuaded to do his bidding with it?

How could she refuse?

If she denied the earl’s request, it might anger him, might even jeopardize Edward’s position here. What would become of Tessie, Peg, and the others then? In the face of Ravenswood’s desperate need, her own dignity was a matter of little significance.

Before she could make an answer, however, the coachman came in, huffing under the burden of the second trunk. Lord Beckley’s eyes flicked toward him. Seizing the opportunity provided by this momentary distraction, she curtsied once more and left without a backward glance.

In the kitchen she found Mari and told her what Lord Beckley had asked. “It will be the merest nothing,” she insisted, ignoring Mari’s skeptical glance. “The work of an afternoon.”

Mari laid aside the pestle with which she had been grinding some aromatic seed into powder and dusted off her hands. “What would Mr. Edward say to that?”

He would tell her to refuse, of course. Would insist that she was not now a maid—if she ever had been.

For that reason, she had no intention of telling him anything about it.

* * *

Edward threw open the door to the Rookery and stormed inside, desperate for some means to vent his spleen, a part of him wishing he had had the time to set the little house to rights merely to give himself something to tear to pieces now.

As his father had done at Ravenswood Manor.

Horrified that his own frustration could have taken such a turn, he instead slapped his hat on his head and set out in the direction of Markham’s farm. He would put his energy into something productive rather than destructive. A warm spring wind whipped at his duster as he strode across the field. “Put me to work,” he shouted as soon as the farmer was within sight.