Page 51 of To Seduce a Stranger

Markham nodded his understanding and, taking Mari by the hand, turned her back in the direction they had come, but not before she could cast one bewildered glance over her shoulder at Charlotte. Charlotte could only shrug in response.

A few more steps and she was once more entering the Rookery. On either side of the entry was a small, square room: one cold and dark, the other—the one where she had stood and begged him to allow her to stay at Ravenswood—lit and warmed by a crackling fire. It was cleaner than when she had seen it last, the dust of disintegrating plaster and years of neglect having been swept away. But it would be a stretch to call it improved, to say nothing of comfortable. The furnishings had been pared down to a single chair and small table before the hearth. And the poor state of the rest of the house was confirmed by the presence of a straw-filled mattress in one corner, as neatly made as its lumpy, misshapen form would allow.

“Come in,” he said, before withdrawing the papers from inside his coat and spreading them across the mantel to dry, then squatting to stoke the fire.

“I—”

Why did she hesitate? It was not as if she regretted the loss of the dingy butler’s room. Nor had she been particularly eager to spend even one night under the same roof as the Earl of Beckley.

Still, she lingered in the doorway. Sharing this house with Edward would pose an entirely different sort of danger. Not to her reputation, since he was believed to be her husband. Not to her physical safety—unless the roof really did collapse.

No, the danger was all to her heart.

She stepped toward the fireplace, feeling as if she were leaping into the flames.

Chapter 14

When he rose and turned away from the hearth, he realized Charlotte still stood too far away to feel its warmth. She looked much as she had the first time he saw her: her face pale, her hair and skin damp, the hem of her dress caked with mud. Automatically, he reached out a hand to her. “Come! Warm yourself.”

“M-m-mer . . .” The rest of her expression of gratitude was lost when her teeth chattered and she shivered violently. She seemed unable to move.

Without a moment’s hesitation, he went to her and lifted her carefully into his arms. For once, she did not grow rigid at his touch, but clung to his neck with an eager whimper, her body pressed against his chest, as if determined to soak up his heat and his strength.

When she showed no sign of letting go, he carried her to his chair by the fire and held her curled on his lap. He ought never to have brought her out on a night like this. But what might have happened if he had left her alone for the night in Jack’s company?

What might happen if she spent the night here instead? Guilt rose like bile into his throat.

Gradually her trembling lessened, and after a time, she lifted her head. “I’m sorry.” Her lip wobbled. “I don’t know what came over me.”

“Charlotte,” he murmured reprovingly, as he shifted beneath her so he could rise and leave her alone in the chair. “It’s my fault for dragging you out in the rain.”

As he shrugged out of his coat and reached around her to hang it over the back of the chair, her wide, dark eyes followed his movement. “I do think, however, that you would be more comfortable if you would get out of those wet things, my dear.”

My dear.

When had she become dear to him? That was a question he could not answer. He only knew that what he felt for her was something more than the old protective instinct that always flared in the presence of someone who needed help.

She was not some nameless damsel in distress. She was Charlotte.

His Charlotte.

No, he thought, recalling what had happened the night before, never his.

When she nodded her cautious agreement with his suggestion, he helped her to rise, then grabbed one of the blankets from his bed, held it up, and turned his head away while she undressed. Expecting any moment to hear the sound of wet fabric slithering to the floor, what he heard instead was a huff of exasperation. “Oh, I cannot!”

Hesitantly, he lowered the meager shield between them and saw her cold fingers fumbling and failing to unpin her bodice. “May I—?” Dangerous question. He ought not dare to ask it. “May I be of some assistance?”

Unwilling, or unable, to meet his eyes, she kept her gaze fixed on the floor as she nodded once more and dropped her hands to her sides. He tossed the blanket over the arm of the chair, and with fingers he feared would tremble as much as hers, he helped her to undress, tugging the pins free and sliding damp fabric over her shoulders, revealing a shift that was somewhat drier than her dress, but far more transparent. Once her dress and petticoat slithered over her hips and puddled at her feet, she snatched up the blanket, wrapped it around herself, and retreated once more to the chair.

Kneeling at her feet, he gathered up the discarded items and spread them before the fire to dry, then turned his attention to removing her mud-caked shoes, first the left, then the right. “The stockings should come off, too,” he said. She nodded, fumbled beneath the blanket to untie her garters, then rolled her stockings down to her calves. Rubbing his hands together to warm them first, he slipped the ruined silk over her delicate ankles and off her feet. If he had ever allowed himself to imagine Charlotte in her shift, the feel of her skin as he skated his fingertips along her bare leg, this had not exactly been the fantasy his mind had conjured.

“Now,” he said, rising. “Rest there. I’ll make tea.” Any excuse to put a bit of distance between them. A wool blanket was no barrier to his imagination.

But what sort of man would allow his eyes, his mind, any part of him, to wander in that direction under the circumstances?

Without waiting for her reply, he turned and walked toward the kitchen. After he filled the kettle, he gathered a few things on a tray and carried them back to the sitting room. She had tipped her head against one wing of the chair and lay now with her eyes closed, curled beneath the blanket. The top of one bare shoulder glowed in the firelight.

God, he was sunk. Not just because he wanted her. That particular realization had been coming over him for days now—in truth, since that long, cold ride, warmed only by the feel of her pressed against him.