She chuckled, a lyrical warble, causing a weird flitting about in his chest again.
He really must leave off strong spirits if this was how they’d begun to affect him.
Or perchance the expectation of seeing his sire after a decade was causing his heart palpitations.
As she straightened, she passed Jane the soiled toweling.
“Eden is my middle name.”
She bobbed a curtsy that would’ve earned even Almack’s stern peeresses’ approval.
“Eglantina Eden Aster Haverden.”
Eglantina?
Chester couldn’t prevent his gaze from falling on the unbroken eggs.
Egg?
Zounds, why would anyone name a child that? He could well imagine the teasing her name had inspired.
A delightful laugh escaped her as she caught his reaction.
“I know, it’s uncommon. Mama says it means wild rose. I prefer my first middle name, Eden.” She dipped into a shallow curtsy. “I beg your pardon again, my lord.”
After another brilliant smile that left him blinking like a codpated buffoon, she picked up her baskets and whisked into the kitchen behind Mrs. Stewart.
A grin playing around the edges of his mouth, Chester cut a wave toward Stewart and then made his way outside. Remarkable how that small bundle of feminine energy had lifted his spirits like nothing else had in a great while.
Reins in hand, a young ostler waited with Magnus beside a much-used dogcart pulled by a pretty bay mare—wearing a hideous straw hat, complete with purple and orange silk flowers.
Upon the wagon’s seat sat the most pathetic excuse for a canine Chester had ever seen. Of an undistinguishable breed, one raggedy black ear stood straight up and the other ear—this one grayish-beige—drooped onto its forehead. Its brandy-colored gaze remained fixed on the doorway Chester had just exited. And the whole while, its tongue peeking from the side of its mouth, the dog appeared to grin. A bright yellow ribbon tied in a large floppy bow graced the mutt’s mottled neck.
Still ugly as sin, and a waste of good ribbon.
Chester angled his head toward the creature, which spared him the briefest glance before training his avid attention on the pub once more.
“Eden Haverden’s?”
An ear-to-ear grin split the groom’s face, and he nodded.
“Yes, m’lord. His name is Mr. Wiggles. Miss Eden found him dumped outside Newbury—oh, I guess it’d be about three years ago now.”
Wiggles?
Her dog’s name was almost as charmingly awful as hers. And God help him, who put a hat—a hideously ugly hat—on their horse?
Eglantina Eden Aster Haverden, that’s who.
Who was she?
He knew her name of course, but what had brought her to Newbury? When had she come? What was her story, for everyone had a tale? Often more than one. Some they’d rather keep secret.
Why, devil take it, was he so interested?
He surveyed the street as he accepted Magnus’s ribbons.
“Your lordship?” With a jerk of his shaggy head, the ostler indicated the horse’s sore foot. “I removed the rock and packed mud, but he has a nasty hoof bruise. You can ride him if you must, but I’d advise stabling him in Newbury for a few days until he heals. Another mount can be had yonder.” He pointed down the street. “Or mayhap, Miss Eden can give you a ride. She lives close to Perygrim Park.”
He wouldn’t risk laming Magnus. The horse meant too much to him, and at thirteen, with proper care, had many good riding years left.
His mount’s injury provided Chester a legitimate excuse for delaying his arrival at Perygrim, but at this juncture, he just wanted to have done with the confrontation. Delaying another day or two was cowardly, and he’d never again give the duke an excuse to call him a poltroon.
“Very well. See that he has the best care.” He passed the groom a crown as he handed the reins back. “There’s double that for you when I return for him.”
“Thank you, m’lord. I’ll treat him like the prince he is.”
With another wide grin, the chap eagerly pocketed the coin.
Chester let Mr. Wiggles sniff the back of his hand, then scratched the dog’s scruffy neck.
Miss Haverden swept out the door, calling lively farewells to those inside.
“I’ll be back at the end of the week. The hens are laying better now that it’s lighter longer, and the hothouse asparagus is nearly ready.”
Pulling up her hood, she glanced at the sulky sky before approaching her wagon.
“I fear we’re in for more rain, Benjamin. Peony won’t like that at all, even with her hat.”
The horse wore a hat because she didn’t like the rain?
“For certain, Miss.”
Chester hadn’t missed the flush tinting Benjamin’s freckled face or the swiftly concealed look of adoration he gave her.
Unfamiliar chagrin jolted down Chester’s spine. Not only hadn’t it occurred to him to ask the groom his name, but something prickly and unpleasant and very much like jealousy needled him.
A first, and he didn’t like the sensation.
Her guileless attention swung to her dog.
“Ah, I see you’ve met Mr. Wiggles. He’s quite a love.”
Whining, the animal stood as she approached, shaking his scraggly tail furiously.
In that instant, Chester made a decision and dispensed with etiquette.
Discipline and vigilance, his conscience upbraided. Vigilance and discipline.
Bugger off, he silently retorted.
Nothing and no one had intrigued him or piqued his interest as much as this imp in a goodly while.
“If it wouldn’t be a terrible inconvenience, may I prevail upon you for a ride?” He flashed her a smile designed to liquefy steel. He didn’t normally bother with such calculated drivel, but something about the enigmatic Miss Eden was causing him to cast off his usual reticence.
Her soft, kissable mouth slackened in surprise at his brazen request.
“My horse has injured his foot, and I fear bearing my weight will lame him. Benjamin said you live near Perygrim Park.”
“For certain you wouldn’t want to injure him further.”
She approached the horse, and cooing softly, let him catch her scent.
Which, Chester recalled, smelled wonderfully of roses and lilies. Lucky beast.
She ran her petite palm down his neck.
“I’m going to take your master home, but he’ll be back to get you in a day or two. All right? I’ll send an apple with him for you. Would you like that?”
It mattered naught whether Magnus adored or despised the fruit, for now Chester had an excuse to see this enchanting creature again.
Peony tilted her ears back and whickered.
As she angled toward the cart, Miss Haverden chuckled, and an answering bubbling rose in his chest at the musical, mirth-filled sound.
“No need to be jealous, Peony. You can have an apple, too. As if I don’t give you one every day.”
Before he could offer his assistance, she dropped her baskets in the wagon bed and deftly climbed into the seat, revealing a trim calf in the process. At once, Mr. Wiggles clambered to her side, and she kissed his forehead whilst scratching his scruffy ears.
She cocked her head and indicated the remaining bench.
“My lord, if you please. The sun is setting, and with the mucky road, it will take at least five and forty minutes to reach Perygrim Park.”
“You know the way?”
He settled himself on the seat, feeling oddly chastised, and Mr. Wiggles thumped his tail once in a cautious greeting.
“I do, though I’ve never actually been as far as the manor house itself.”
Clucking her tongue, she shook the ribbons once.
“Walk on, Peony.”
The horse swished her ebony tail, then with a groan and creak, the cart lurched forward. For a few minutes, only the clattering of the wheels and the clopping of Peony’s hoo
ves broke the companionable silence.
Staring straight ahead, Miss Haverden skillfully maneuvered the wagon along the busy street. Every now and again, a villager raised their hand, and she waved in return. Many more stopped and stared as the dogcart rattled past, their avid curiosity evident.
“I’m afraid I can only take you as far as the outer drive.” She cut him a swift sideways glance before returning her attention to the cobbled road. “I’m forbidden to go farther.”
Forbidden?
That was an interesting turn of phrase.
He angled toward her to better see her expression. Running a hand down Mr. Wiggle’s spine—for which he was rewarded with a doggy grin—he regarded her.
“Forbidden? Why?”
A small smile quirked her lush mouth.
“His Grace has banned all Andrews from his property.”
“But you aren’t an Andrews.” Premonition had Chester tightening his buttocks on the inhospitable seat. “Are you?”
She turned that clear azure-eyed gaze upon him and peered straight into his soul.
“I’m Walter Andrews’s illegitimate daughter.”
A Rose for a Rogue
Collette Cameron
Eden swallowed a giggle at the utterly flummoxed expression on the sharply hewn angles of Lord Sterling’s beautifully sculpted face.
Even Mr. Wiggles cocked his head and twitched his ears.
Perhaps she ought to have couched that tidbit about her bastardry with a warning. But she’d wanted to test Lord Sterling’s response. She’d better hope he remained the gentleman, too, since she’d unwisely agreed to take him, an utter stranger, to Perygrim, and they’d no chaperone.
Bosh. What balderdash. Three and twenty-year-old spinsters didn’t require chaperones.
Lord Sterling stared at her, those eyes, gray one minute and green the next, his firm lips pressed together just the merest bit, further testament to his consternation.
She’d really flabbergasted him, poor man.
Her stomach flip-flopped peculiarly. Just like it had in the pub when his lordship had turned those gray-green, black-lashed eyes on her with such intensity. She was hard pressed not to squirm on the seat. At least she was prepared for her response to him now.
Then why did dragonfly wings flutter in her pulse, even as his masculinity snared her reluctant attention?
Really, it was most unfair that he should have such beautiful eyes. Soft and gray, like a baby bunny’s silky fur one minute, and jeweled green the next. How was a woman, especially a country sparrow unaccustomed to lords, supposed to resist their intoxicating draw?
That awkward moment when she’d plowed into him in the Fox and Falcon, he’d so disconcerted her, she’d dropped her egg basket. Or maybe it had been the disturbingly wide spans of his solid chest beneath her cheek that knocked her breath from her momentarily and caused her to lose her grip on the handle.
A pleasant, clean, masculine smell with a hint of horse and leather surrounded him. She’d battled the oddest urge to nestle closer and sniff.
He’d blamed her clumsiness on haste.
She far preferred that misconception to his knowing the immediate and overwhelming attraction engulfing her. That instant magnetism, the awareness of him as a virile man in a way no other man had ever affected her, utterly terrified her.
Hot, intoxicating temptation radiated from him.
Until now, she’d never understood nor experienced sexual desire, but what other explanation could there be for these errant flickers or the heat sidling about in her veins?
Resolution thrummed through her, and she pulled her spine straight whilst erecting a barrier of self-protection.
She would not end up like Mama.
Well, of course she wouldn’t.
First and foremost, Mama had never found Walter Andrews the least appealing, and secondly, to all intents and purposes, Lord Sterling was the enemy.
Not Eden’s enemy exactly; she scarce knew the man.
But any relation of the Duke of DeCourcy was an avowed adversary of the Andrews. The reverse was true as well.
Only she wasn’t an Andrews.
Not legally, in any event.
How Simon Andrews would gnash his teeth if he learned she had even spoken to the marquis, let alone given him a ride. Well, what her half-brother didn’t know couldn’t hurt. Besides, not only was she past her majority, it was far past time this stupid feud between the Andrews and the DeCourcys ended.
She wasn’t sure she knew how it had begun a decade ago, but she had heard whispers and rumors. Mostly from the townspeople. Something to do with Simon and the duke’s eldest son claiming to have downed the same trophy stag.
Sheer ridiculousness if that was truly the cause of the rift. To declare an affair of honor over a red deer’s antlers. Certainly not worth a man dying for, or families—once the closest of friends—becoming sworn enemies.
Tattle also claimed Lord Sterling and the duke were estranged.
His Grace’s failing health was no secret, and for days the village had been atwitter in anticipation of the marquis’s imminent return.
“I wasn’t aware Andrews had another daughter.”
Clearing his throat, his lordship repositioned his hat atop his wavy auburn hair, a rich dark mahogany. Quite the most unusual shade she’d ever seen.
She lifted a shoulder whilst steering Peony through the neat mossy stone pillars on the village outskirts.
“It’s a poorly kept secret, of which I’m certain everyone is aware. Mama and I have lived at Briar Knoll Cottage for a number of years. I was away at school for seven of those. I’ve been back for eight now. Mama summoned me home when Walter Andrews died.”
“I heard of his passing. My condolences.”
“Thank you, but they are wasted on me. I never considered him my father.”
She would not call that fiend Father. Not even in death.
He’d never been anything more than the man who ruined Mama, despite his regular visits to the cottage, the occasional gifts, and his footing the bill for her boarding school.
Familiar disquiet washed over her, but repeated practice at controlling her expression and temperament around her mother to prevent distressing her, enabled Eden to mask her outrage and resentment.
Everyone believed she possessed an amiable disposition. Fortunate no one could see her gnarled, ugly thoughts. Still, it was one thing to entertain uncharitable musings and another entirely to act upon them.
“I was away at university as well,” Lord Sterling remarked in that dark honey baritone, while canting his head contemplatively.
Lord, those eyes.
She looked away, lest he catch her ogling.
“You must concede, it’s a rather unusual arrangement. You living on the same property as his heir.”
Keeping a forced mistress—the former governess to Walter Andrews’s daughters—and a child born on the wrong side of the blanket in a cottage just ten minutes’ walk from the manor?
His lordship didn’t know the half of it.
If ever a man was dicked in the knob, it had been Walter Andrews. Even his other daughters, Florence and Harriette, the ones Mama had been governess too, had rarely visited when their sire was alive and did so even less frequently since his death.
Giving Lord Sterling a considering look, Eden detected none of the typical censure or judgment the upper class generally bestowed upon her. Interest more than anything glinted in his compelling gaze.
“It is unusual, I concede.”
“It is.”
They jostled along in silence again for several minutes. After his extended absence, likely his lordship had much on his mind. Niggling worry about Mama’s fainting this morning continued to plague Eden.
She doubted they’d make Perygrim before rainfall began again. A swift perusal of the grumpy heavens confirmed her suspicion.
“Miss Haverden?”
She glanced at Lord Sterling, sitting but inches from her.
He wasn’t looking at her, but instead gazed at the road before them.
Mr. Wiggle’s torso and snout lay across his lordship’s lap.
“My mother is Miss Haverden. I’m simply Miss Eden.”
He acknowledged this with a slight nod.
“I would hope that the quarrel between my father and your brother doesn’t prohibit us from furthering our acquaintance.”
The apologetic smile he sent Eden reminded her of Simon’s sons: eight-year-old Timothy and six-year-old Prentice. Such sweetly disposed boys, and polite. A true wonder, given their haughty and difficult parents. Every chance they could, her nephews sneaked to Briar Knoll for hot chocolate, Mattie’s Shrewsbury biscuits, and to play with Mr. Wiggles and Eden’s pet squirrel, Acorn.
When next they came, there’d be newly hatched chicks too.
Mayhap, she’d let them each choose one for a pet, since neither Simon nor his wife Candace permitted the boys that rite of passage.
As they approached the small-planked bridge spanning Black Beck’s swollen banks, she adjusted her rump, braced her feet, and slowed Peony.
“My lord, the squabble aside, why would you want to further our association? You’re the next Duke of DeCourcy. I’m the by-blow of landed gentry. The daughter of a governess. And in case you hadn’t noticed,” she waffled her hand at Peony, Mr. Wiggles, and finally her streaming hair, “I’m a bit unconventional. Such association would only incite gossip, something I’d rather avoid. I’m certain you can appreciate why.”
“May I speak plainly?”
The breeze teased the slightly curly hair skimming his collar.
“I’d prefer that you do. I cannot abide hedging.”
She nodded, and her hood slid off. They’d made the old stone-sided bridge, so she didn’t dare take a hand off the reins. Neither Simon nor the duke would pay for a new overpass, and every time she crossed the rickety planks during flood season, her nerves tightened taut as harp strings. The stream wasn’t more than four or five feet deep, but the rushing water frightened her nevertheless.
She couldn’t swim. Not a stroke.
After falling from the dock and nearly drowning as a six-year-old, she’d acquired a tremendous fear of water.
Rogues to Lovers: Legend of the Blue Rose Page 44
