Page 84 of To Seduce a Stranger

As before, his good sense tried to resist the claiming. But his heart had other ideas.

For what seemed an eternity, neither of them moved. Perhaps she thought he was asleep. When at last she stepped closer, he could see she held a bundle in her arms. A flicker of fear passed through him. Was she fleeing in the night?

With creeping steps, she came to the far end of the settle and laid down what he now realized was a pillow and blanket, then turned to go.

“Charlotte, wait.”

Relief swept over him when she heeded his command. He scrambled to sit upright, held out one hand to her, and ventured another. “Come.”

She did. Slowly, rather warily. When she stopped a foot or so away from him, she did not take his hand, so he patted the bench beside him and invited her to sit instead. With care, she arranged her skirts as she took a place farther down the settle.

“Thank you for encouraging me to talk to my father,” she said after a moment. “He is . . . eccentric. But he was able to tell me things no one else ever would or could. About my mother.” A pause. “They were married.”

He could hear the relief in her voice, and it irritated him beyond measure. She should never have been shamed or mistreated, even if her parents had not been wed. He swept the palm of his hand across the expanse of wood between them, feeling the ridges and ripples of the grain, worn smooth by a century or more of patrons’ abuse. “For your sake,” he managed to say, “I am glad.”

“He has been searching for me for some time. I saw him here, that day—though of course, I did not know him. I thought him one of Robert’s spies.”

“So you ran.”

Her gaze dropped to her hands, folded neatly in her lap. “After my husband died, I promised myself that I would never again let my happiness, or my misery, depend on another person. My stepson intended to make me the center of a terrible scandal. I wanted nothing more than to be left alone.” As she spoke, her fingers twisted themselves into knots. “So when the chance to disappear presented itself, I took it. At first, Ravenswood seemed an ideal hiding place. Remote. Secluded. Then Jack showed up.”

“And threatened to expose you.”

“I realized I could not go on living that way. When I saw that Mr. Sykes was leaving, it seemed the perfect chance to return to London and confront Robert once and for all, so I took it. I worried that if I delayed, even a moment, Jack would catch me. Or I would lose my nerve. Or you would try to stop me from doing what I meant to do.” Although he could see the effort it cost her, she forced herself to lift her eyes to his face. “I spoke to my stepson. I gave up my inheritance in exchange—I hope—for my peace.”

“I know.” He reached into his coat pocket, pulled out the folded parchment, and handed it to her. “That is the letter you wrote. I feared Langerton might have forced your hand. You may return it to him, if you wish. Or you may destroy it.”

With restless fingers, she traced the edges of the document. “You believe I ought to fight him?”

“His case is weak. With your father’s revelation, I believe the tide of public opinion will turn in your favor. But only you can decide what to do, and I will respect your decision.”

After a long pause, she rose and stepped toward the hearth, clutching the folded note in one trembling hand. Holding it out toward the candle, she hesitated, then touched the paper to the feeble flame. The sudden flare of light showed him her expression—half fear, half determination—before she tossed the burning note into the empty fireplace, where soon nothing more remained of it than a few cinders.

“I made a terrible mistake once where you were concerned, Charlotte,” he said as she returned to her seat. Her strength and her bravery awed him. “When I met you here, I assumed you needed to be saved. I swooped in, as if you were a damsel in distress and I fancied myself your knight in shining armor.”

Once more, only a faint, flickering light limned her profile. “Mari says it has always been your way.”

“It has. And do you know why?” A quick shake of her head made her dark hair gleam. “Because when I saw others as vulnerable, it made it easier to deny my own vulnerabilities. You saw through that. When we met in this musty little inn, I believed I was rescuing you. Instead, you rescued me.”

Her chin dipped downward, and after a tremulous breath, she said, “I lied to you.”

“Were we not both guilty of keeping secrets, Mrs. Cary?”

Those words returned her gaze to his face. “I—I suppose.”

“You did not tell me your full name. Nor your title. But you were honest about what mattered. You showed me who you are.”

“Yes,” she whispered, sounding resigned. “Aunt Penhurst always said my ill nature was stamped on my face for anyone to read.”

“That is not what I meant.” Good God, but Lady Penhurst ought to thank her lucky stars that he was not prone to violence. “I will not pretend I was not shocked to discover your identity. Shocked, and disappointed to think that you did not think me worthy of your trust. But even if you’d introduced yourself from the first as Duchess of Langerton,” he insisted, “it would not have revealed anything more important to me than what you showed in so many other ways. The respect with which you spoke to Mari. How hard you worked to restore Ravenswood Manor, merely because you sensed my pain and hoped to ease it. And my mother . . .” The lump that rose in his throat made his words sound thick. “For all those years, she had been hiding in plain sight, scarred beyond recognition. You saw past the scars. And even when you were desperate to flee, you made sure she knew that I—that I had come home.” He wished it were not too dim to see the expression in her dark eyes. “I told myself that if you did not care for me, at least a little, you would never have done it.”

As always, she held herself immobile. He could not decide whether his words had surprised her. “You followed me.”

Sliding closer to her, he tilted his head and held her gaze a long moment. “I love you, Charlotte.” When her lips parted, he touched them with one finger to silence any protest, any reply. “No. Don’t speak. Just listen. You have heard those words too rarely in your life. Hear them now. I love you for seeing beyond the surface of things to what is beneath . . . to what is beautiful. I love you for marching straight toward whatever frightens you. I love the way you laugh.” Sensing that one of those little giggles was about to bubble from her lips, he drew his finger away to let it escape. “I love you. And I was not about to let you get away.”

With an awkward motion, she slid across the smooth seat of the wooden bench, far enough that they were no longer touching. “If you hope to resume your place in English society, you must distance yourself from me. It is bad enough that people will say I duped you into . . .” If the light were better, he would have sworn that she blushed. “That I hoped to make it more difficult for my stepson to prove my marriage was a sham.”

“And is that why you gave yourself to me?”