Page 35 of To Seduce a Stranger

“I’m surprised you refused Mrs. Weston’s offer of dinner,” Markham said, as they trudged across the open field. “You earned it.”

The sun was no longer directly overhead, but there was no denying that this was the first genuinely warm day since Edward had returned. Some might even have called it hot. Sweat trickled along the valley of his spine, and he stopped to shrug out of his coat, then swung it easily over one shoulder. Markham had long since shed his.

“I might have done.” He was certainly hungry enough. Mari had closed the kitchen three days ago to devote herself to helping with the grand cleaning project. He missed her cooking, and her company, more than he would have thought possible. He would not allow himself to wonder whether he missed Charlotte’s company, too. “But it didn’t seem to me that the Westons had much to spare.”

Markham gave a slow nod. “They don’t, and that’s a fact.” The two men walked a dozen paces before another word was spoken. “They’ll do better now, once they sell that wool. The lambs looked healthy enough.”

“Indeed,” Edward agreed, and Markham laughed, no doubt thinking of the spindly legged, black-faced creature that had butted Edward behind the knees, catching him unawares and knocking him onto the barn floor.

When the empty fields that stretched between Ravenswood Manor and Markham’s farm came into view, Markham paused. “Do you suppose Garrick’ll be back with that load of seed before nightfall?”

Much to Edward’s surprise, Mr. Toomey had walked all the way to the Westons’ farm to inform him that the seed had arrived in Marshfield. The eight-mile journey to Marshfield was more than Toomey himself could manage, not wanting to leave his shop unattended for another day. Garrick—tufts of wool stuck to his sweat-damp skin—had offered to go after it before Edward could ask.

“He could be,” Edward answered. “But he won’t.” Garrick had more than earned his pint today, and Marshfield, by his dim recollection, had at least three pubs.

Markham stretched and resumed walking. “Good.”

In the shadow of Ravenswood Manor, between the kitchen and the separate paths that led to the Rookery and Markham’s farm, they stopped and prepared to part ways. Markham glanced over Edward’s shoulder at the house, but said nothing.

How were they getting on inside? Curiosity prickled at Edward, an affliction almost worse than the scratchy fibers of wool that had found their way beneath his clothes.

“Let’s step into the kitchen and get something to eat,” he suggested.

“But Miss Mari said . . .”

Markham’s voice trailed off when Edward swung open the door. He did not intend to be denied access to his own house.

As luck would have it—or not—Mari was at the fireplace heating water, and Edward prepared himself for a scold. But Markham’s presence seemed to temper her response.

“I knew you wouldn’t last out the week,” she said, hands on her hips. Her normally pristine dress was streaked with dust, and her turban was askew. The day’s warmth, combined with the fire, made the kitchen shimmer with heat.

“Have you eaten?” Edward asked.

“If you think, Mr. Edward, that I’m going to drop everything to prepare your—”

“I’m not asking you to prepare anything, Mari. It’s a beautiful day. Come outside and eat with us.” While he spoke, he began gathering a few things into a basket: bread, cheese, wine. Following his lead, Markham stacked plates in a clean cloth and tied it securely around them.

He could see the protest building behind Mari’s eyes, like steam in a kettle. But before it could boil over, he heard Markham ask, “Will you join us, Mrs. Cary?”

Charlotte stood in the doorway to the corridor, looking from one to the other. When she got to Edward, her gaze dipped away. “I don’t think—”

“Please.”

Edward hardly knew whether the word had actually slipped from his lips. But her eyes lifted to his, nonetheless. “If you insist,” she said, the reluctance in her voice belied by the way her fingers fumbled eagerly at the knot in her apron strings.

He was past wondering whether he would ever see her looking more like a lady than a maid. Correction: He was past caring. She was dusty, yes, although this time, the apron had borne the brunt of it. Her hair was, as always, slipping from its pins. But the hard work had brought a flush to her cheeks and a sparkle to her eyes. No one with eyes could fail to see her beauty.

“I know just the place,” he said, gesturing toward the door with the laden basket. Markham led the way, the bundle of plates in one hand and four tumblers hooked on the fingers of the other. With a sigh—as if the safety of the kitchenware could be secured no other way—Mari followed him.

Charlotte came last, and when she slipped past Edward, she whispered, “Merci beaucoup.”

He chose to imagine she was thanking him for more than holding the door.

Once outside, he took the lead, heading toward the back of the house, striding across the empty terrace and into the wooded area behind. What had once been a fashionable “wilderness” was now genuinely wild, its carefully manicured paths having long since been reclaimed by the undergrowth. On its far side stood a dilapidated summer house overlooking a largish pond.

In his childhood, it had been one of his favorite haunts. “I, er, stumbled upon this when I was exploring the other day,” he told the others to explain his familiarity with the secluded spot. In the shade of a lazy willow, he motioned for Markham to put down his burden. On the square of linen that had contained the plates, he laid the food from the basket. “An open-air feast.”

The men spread their coats on the ground to make places for the ladies, then made themselves comfortable beside them on the soft, long grass. Hard work had given them all hearty appetites, and for many minutes, little could be heard above the sounds of eating and drinking. Afterward, Markham told the story of how Edward had been vanquished by a three-week-old lamb, making Mari laugh—a rare sight, in Edward’s experience. Charlotte tried and failed to hide her smile behind her half-empty glass.