Page 52 of To Seduce a Stranger

But this was more than wanting. Or another kind of wanting altogether. It was the sudden realization that he wished all their lies were truth. He wanted simply to push aside their hidden, horrible pasts and imagine a future in which they grew old together. In this very cottage if need be, curled companionably before the fire. He had seen how she could make a broken-down place a home. The home he had been longing for all his life. She would be his home. Mrs. Cary.

There was, of course, the complicating factor of his being Beckley. His father’s son.

After placing the tray on the floor near the hearth, he drew the blanket over her shoulder. She stirred slightly, burrowing into its warmth, but her eyes did not open. For a moment, he simply watched her sleep, knowing that, despite the fantasies of their future his mind seemed intent on conjuring, he was unlikely ever to have the chance again. When her lips parted on a soft sigh, he dragged his gaze away.

As quietly as he could, he placed the kettle on the hob, then spooned tea into the pot. Since he kept no sugar in the house, he added a splash of brandy—marginally better, at least, than that served by roadside inns near Chippenham—to the bottom of each cup. While he worked, he hummed a song he had not thought of for years, a haunting melody his mother had often sung to him.

“The cuckoo is a pretty bird,

She sings as she flies;

She bringeth good tidings,

She telleth no lies;

She sucketh sweet flowers

To keep her voice clear,

And when she sings Cuckoo,

The summer draweth near.”

Strange that he should think of that old song now. Or perhaps not so strange, really. Surely the last time he had heard it had been the last time he had sat by a crackling hearth and felt something like domestic comfort. Once, he had asked Mama about the other verses, but she had told him they were too sad to be sung—about false loves and partings and deceit.

When the kettle boiled, the sound roused her. “Is that—?” She shifted more upright in the chair. “Is that toast?”

He nodded. “And cheese.”

A treat for a child, but her eyes did not disguise her eagerness. “Merci,” she murmured, taking a plate from his hands, devouring the first morsels quickly and sipping tea while he sat with one leg tucked under him—half turned toward her, half turned toward the fire—and made more. It was a pleasure to watch her eat—a pleasure he had denied himself, even when they took meals together. The way her plump lips drew up in the most delightful pout as she blew impatiently to cool her food, the way she closed her eyes when she swallowed, the way she kissed the last crumbs from her fingertips.

He could not disguise his smile when she held out the plate for the third time. “More?”

She blushed, such that he almost regretted teasing her about her appetite. But he could not regret the sudden color in her cheeks. “No. I couldn’t possibly—”

But he was already sliding the last of the toasted bread and cheese off the fork and onto her plate. After taking two bites in rapid succession, she pinched the remaining cube between finger and thumb and held it up as if she were going to pop it into her mouth, then smiled, not seductively, not coquettishly, but sweetly, and held it out to him instead.

As he leaned forward to accept the gift, she placed the morsel into his open mouth and her fingertips brushed across his lips. Intimate as a kiss. More so. He was tempted, almost, to close his eyes.

If he had, perhaps he would not have noticed that the blanket had slipped from her shoulder again, baring the soft curve of her upper arm, the sharper angle of her collarbone. Without conscious thought, he reached to cover her once more, this time allowing his fingers to caress her skin. As pale as marble. As smooth, too.

But not cold. How could he ever have thought her cold?

At his touch, she shifted slightly—not a flinch, not a cringe, but hesitation, nonetheless.

He withdrew his hand. “Ah, my dear. I am sor—”

“No.” Her voice cut across his, forestalling his apology.

When he searched her face, her eyes darted to her lap, watched her thumb trace the edge of the empty plate. “It will not happen again,” he promised.

“Please don’t say that.” Still, she did not lift her head.

He had to remind himself to breathe, and when he drew air into his lungs, the ragged sound was loud to his ears, even over the crackle and hiss of the fire. “Why not?” It ought to be true.

In place of an answer, another shake of her head. Fighting the impulse to gather her into his arms once more, he rocked back on his haunches and sat on the floor instead. She laid the empty plate aside and drew her arm beneath the blanket, so that no inch of skin remained exposed. “Lord Beckley is not the man you were expecting, is he?”

If only she knew. “No.” He lifted his cup to his lips and drank deeply, wishing he had foregone the tea entirely in favor of the brandy. “It would seem that the man with whom my . . . arrangement was made has been some months in the grave.”