Even to his ears, he sounded frantic.
Just like a love-struck swain.
She turned her head and gifted him with one of her incredible smiles over her shoulder.
The queer fluttering behind his breastbone couldn’t be entirely blamed on his bullish dash from the house.
“I was told you were meeting with your bailiff, my lord. Else I would’ve said good-bye in person. I left a note with Wynby thanking you and the duke for your hospitality.”
Her manners remained impeccable despite Father’s unforgiveable behavior.
Chester caught up to her, and resting his forearm on the cart’s edge, grinned. Only she had the ability to make him smile like a trained monkey. Didn’t she know he had a reputation to maintain as the formidable Marquis of Sterling?
“Who told you that codswallop? My appointment with Jervis isn’t until this afternoon.”
He’d wager he knew full well who had. Dockery, the sour-faced sot. Chester intended to dismiss him right after discharging Jervis. That meant he had to hire a secretary and steward, in addition to a housekeeper. From what he’d seen of the grounds, another gardener wouldn’t be amiss either.
“Oh, well. It matters naught. I need to get home promptly in any event. Mama will be fretting despite the note that was sent. I’ve not been gone overnight since she took ill.” She plucked a dog hair from her clean cinnamon colored gown.
Someone must have seen to Eden’s garments last night. Probably Wynby’s thoughtfulness, done on Chester’s behalf. Byron might’ve been Father’s favorite, probably because he was just like him, but as a gangly lad, Chester had won the hearts of his dear departed mother and Perygrim’s staff.
While Eden looked fetching in her simple attire, her eyes and soft tawny hair truly lent themselves to softer hues. Pale greens, pinks, sky-blue. Now those were the shades for her. Spring colors.
“Might I accompany you?” he asked
The words left his mouth before he could stop them. What was it about her that made him yearn to be with her? What had him casting aside his usual decorum, discipline and vigilance, and brushing aside his duties? They’d met less than twenty-four hours ago, yet he felt as if his spirit knew hers.
Blister and ballocks.
He was the daunting Lord Sterling. Not a mewling wet-behind-the ears milksop prone to fanciful balderdash.
“Given the duke’s reaction last evening, are you certain that would be altogether wise, my lord?”
Was she troubled for him?
“He’d best get used to it. Besides, I thought perhaps you might show me your herbs. I would like our chef to purchase those he needs from you in future. If you have a sufficient supply, that is. Perhaps we could buy honey too? I’m quite fond of quince with honey and nuts.”
A finger on her small chin, Eden tilted her head. After a prolonged moment of her intelligent gaze searching his eyes, probing his very soul, she gave a short nod.
“I have a quince tree too, but they won’t be ripe for months yet.”
He’d seen the reservation in her eyes, seen her mind chugging away, trying to decide if she could trust him. Likely, she’d spent her entire life assessing people in that manner, never quite sure who was friend or foe.
Because she lived between two worlds, fitting into neither, and destined to be an outsider.
Not quite suitable for gentry or haut ton parlors, but neither was she accepted in the lower orders. How difficult her life must be. Judged by everyone for no fault of hers, struggling to find her place in an unkind world. She was resourceful though. He’d learned that much about her in their short acquaintance.
Eggs, honey, herbs.
What else did Eglantina Haverden dabble in?
As he climbed aboard the cart, she tugged Mr. Wiggles closer.
Chester didn’t miss her slight wince. No doubt she was sore from her unfortunate escapade.
Yesterday’s petulant weather had blown through, and a vivid azure sky, with an occasional cottony cloud scattered here and there, had taken its place. A hedgerow, heavy with pink buds, bordered one side of the drive. They’d be bursting into bloom soon, as would the overgrown roses he’d just tramped through.
She hummed and tapped her little feet while she drove. Beyond a doubt, she was the most unpretentious, unabashed woman he’d ever met. Unlike most ladies of his acquaintance, she didn’t seem to feel the need to jabber on about nonsensical things.
He studied her pert profile from her straight, little slightly turned-up nose to her adorable chin.
There was something truly unique about Miss Eden Haverden.
She’d studiously avoided mentioning Gabriella Bickford, and he wasn’t broaching that prickly subject either. Just because his father had commanded it, that didn’t mean Chester would concede to the alliance.
Content just to be near Eden, he surveyed Perygrim’s lands. Until this very minute, he hadn’t realized how much he’d yearned to see these very fields and woods again. Or row a boat across Lake Blackton and swim in it too. Naked as the day he was born, just as he and Byron used to do as youths.
Peony clopped along, her ridiculous hat and silk flowers bobbing with each footstep. What had Perygrim’s grooms made of the accessory? He’d like to have been a barn cat curled in a nest of hay and listened to that conversation.
“Just yonder,” he pointed to a pine stand, “is where the huge stag was downed that spurred the argument between your brother and mine. They fought the duel in that meadow to the right.”
Why he felt the need to address that matter, he couldn’t rightly say. Her brother had killed his, yet Chester felt no animosity toward her.
Why should he? She’d had no part in the feud, which had been fought fairly.
He most assuredly meant to see to it this dispute ended, but as with any disagreement, all parties must be amenable to reconciliation.
He doubted his sire would ever waver in his hatred toward the Andrews.
“I’d heard a little about what caused the rift, but not the whole story. There wasn’t anyone I could ask. My siblings refuse to speak of it, not that I ever inquired directly. And I shan’t resort to rumor-mongering in the village. A story told second-hand is rarely accurate, I’ve found.”
She shifted, adjusting her legs, and her mouth twitched in pleasure as a squirrel dashed across the lane.
“You’ll get to meet Acorn too. She’s my pet squirrel. I rescued her when the oak where her nest lay was felled. She didn’t even have her eyes open yet. I fed her with a pipette.”
Why didn’t it surprise him in the least that Eden had a pet squirrel? Probably had a pet pig named Petunia, a milk cow named Daisy, and half a dozen cats with rhyming names like Suzette, Minette, Annette, and Bridgette. He’d be bound she named her chickens too.
“My lord, you needn’t explain if it upsets you.”
Ten long years ago, and yet as they juddered past the glen, every detail was as fresh as if Byron had died yesterday.
Staring at the trees, at the very place where his brother’s blood had drained from him, Chester sighed in remembered pain and frustration.
Manchester, it should’ve been you who was shot.
You!
Not your brother.
Byron was to have been the duke.
Why didn’t you challenge Andrews in his stead, you poltroon? You were the spare.
Clasping Byron to his chest, the duke had sobbed, Oh, my beloved son.
“In truth, both our brothers shot the stag,” Chester said.
“Both of them?”
Her swift glance contained surprise and uncertainty. She touched two fingers to her forehead and closed her eyes for an instant.
“Eden, are you all right?”
“Yes, yes. Fine. I’ve a slight headache, that’s all. Probably from the sun.”
More likely from him dragging her from the stream by her hair.
A chagrined smile quirked her lips up on one side. “Mama is forever scolding me for not weari
ng a bonnet, but yesterday’s weather required my cloak hood. Much more practical and far warmer than a hat.”
Was she always sensible?
“Tell me more about that day our brothers dueled, if you wouldn’t mind. Perhaps I can better understand the rift between our families.”
“I don’t mind, but the tale’s not pleasant.”
He closed his eyes, picturing the brisk fall morning they’d gone stalking. Frost iced the grass and shimmered in the spiders’ webs. Crisp leaves in shades of brown, gold, and burgundy had crunched beneath their boots. Cheeks whipped red by the autumn wind and fingers stiff from cold, impatient to find their quarry, the trio had separated from the rest of the more sedate hunting party.
Lord, the stag had been a magnificent beast standing betwixt the trunks, his noble head lifted, such wisdom in his knowing umber-eyed gaze.
“I had him in my sights as well. I saw everything. Only I couldn’t pull the trigger. Such a majestic creature ought to have been allowed to live. To die of old age in these woods.” He waved a hand, indicating the woodlands they rumbled past. “I’ve no doubt his offspring yet roam the meadows and copses.”
“I’m sure you are right. I have several deer that visit my orchard every morning. Their gentle beauty never fails to affect me. Once in a great while, I’ll feed them a little cracked corn, but I can ill afford to do so daily.”
No self-pity colored her voice, just the stark frankness that had marked all of their conversations.
Cutting him a sideways glance, she scrunched her forehead, her confusion evident. “So, what happened to cause so much ill-will that a stalking adventure became an affair of honor?”
“Simon and Byron fired at almost the exact same moment. There wasn’t any way to know which shot actually killed the stag. He was such a strong animal, I’ve often thought it took both to down him.”
That day, Chester had forsworn hunting forever.
Two grown men squabbling like intractable children over who slayed an unsuspecting stag. Not because they needed the meat, but because they coveted the superb antlers. Each had wanted to be the man to boast about his great hunting feat. As if killing a defenseless animal for sport made them some sort of hero.
Empathy softened Eden’s features as she peered across the expanse.
“They should’ve let him live.” For a moment, her tender gaze caressed his face, and welcoming warmth spiraled upward from his belly. “I’d vow you tried to tell them what you saw, and they refused to hear it. Their pride and arrogance prevented them from considering you were right. That same pride and arrogance led to the stupid duel too, didn’t it?”
For an instant, he sat dumfounded.
She understood.
“Indeed, it did. Byron, always hot-headed and ready to take offense at the least perceived slight, issued the challenge. Neither would listen to reason, however. He named me his second, and I could do naught but agree in the hope I could persuade him to settle the matter another way. The duel was only to have been to first blood.”
Chester pulled his cuff down even as the scene played out in his mind again, as it had too many times to count over the years. Inevitably, he asked himself the same critical question: Was there anything he could have done to save Byron’s life?
Expertly steering the old cart to the right of a large puddle, Eden crinkled her forehead again. Every time she did that, the mark on her forehead twitched.
“But, if it was only to first blood, then how . . .?”
“Your brother had first shot. He aimed to Byron’s right, but our father arrived and shouted for them to stop. My brother panicked and tried to leap out of the way. Instead, he dove right into the line of fire. Nothing could be done. The wound was lethal.”
If Byron hadn’t been a coward, he’d be alive, and this hatred between two families that had once been friends wouldn’t exist. Actually, if Simon and Byron had put their pride aside and had been willing to discuss the matter, all this pain and turmoil could’ve been avoided.
Another bird soared overhead, and Eden squinted up, marking its path. She rubbed her forehead with her fingertips before sliding her thoughtful regard to the clearing once more.
“So, Simon never intended to kill your brother?”
“I don’t believe he did, but my father didn’t see it that way. He refused to consider that Byron’s own spinelessness cost him his life. Father was overwrought with grief, unable to think rationally. I believe for his sanity’s sake, he had to find someone—something—to blame. Father simply couldn’t accept the truth.” Still couldn’t, and the inability had warped his reason. “That Byron had been a poltroon. Such a black mark against the duchy couldn’t be tolerated or acknowledged. Honor above all else and all that rot, you know.”
His diligence slipped and cynicism weighted his last words, making them more strident than he’d intended.
“And now Simon and his grace are so filled with hatred, logic escapes them,” she said.
A bump in the road sent her hair to swaying. The long strands, hanging past her waist, brushed the curve of her nicely rounded bottom bouncing on the seat.
Chester wasn’t sure which tempted him more—her swaying hair or her pert bum.
He was determined to move on, forge a new reputation for the duchy, and perhaps in time, reconciliation between the Andrews and the DeCourcys might occur. Surely his running into Eden was fate. Well, to be precise, she’d run into him. But the point was, they seemed to be getting on famously.
It was a start at mending the breach between their families.
He hoped it would become much more.
He couldn’t recall the last time he’d talked so comfortably with a woman, was so at ease in her presence. He didn’t have to worry she’d misconstrue an innocent remark in the hopes of snaring herself a dukedom. He didn’t have to feign interest in bobbles and gewgaws nor endure inane conversations about the weather and what the latest on dit circling the upper parlors was.
“Eden, may I ask you something personal?”
“You may, my lord, but I cannot promise to answer.”
Blunt as always. Was she even capable of dissembling?
She hadn’t chastised him for using her given name and not the more proper Miss Eden. That was a good indication, wasn’t it? Yet, she insisted on using his title. Not that he blamed her. Those not born into nobility had decorum drilled into them from birth, always to respect the peerage. Nonetheless, he’d far prefer Eden thought of him as a man and not an aristocrat.
“Why do you defy fashion and wear your hair down? I’ll admit I quite like it.” He did. Even now, he itched to run his fingers through the shiny strands to see if they were as luxurious as they appeared. “Your hair is lovely, such an unusual shade.” Light honey. That was the color. Rich and sleek. “But most women do their utmost to conform to society’s strictures.”
Then again, Eden certainly wasn’t like other women. Most assuredly wasn’t anything like the haut ton’s elites, which was exactly why he found her so deuced alluring.
She gazed at him for another of those long, contemplative moments. So long, he found himself drowning in the pools that were her eyes. At last, she gathered her hair into a long, thick rope and lifted it off her neck. Angling her head, she exposed her nape.
“I have an unsightly birthmark that draws unpleasant attention if I wear my hair up.”
A Rose for a Rogue
Collette Cameron
Chester lifted a finger to graze the smooth brownish-red discoloration but caught himself and instead gripped the back of the seat.
The wine-colored spot covered most of Eden’s nape and extended both into her cloak’s collar and into her hairline.
He could well imagine her chagrin if others hadn’t been kind about the irregularity.
“I don’t think it’s unsightly.”
True, the blemish wasn’t something overlooked upon first seeing it, but neither did the birthmark compel him to gawk.
After
releasing her hair, she picked up the ribbons once more and hitched a shoulder. Her nonchalance about the matter was a learned skill, he’d be bound.
“You are a kind man, and I think perhaps you try to find the good in others and in situations. Unfortunately, people of your character are scarce.”
Her compliment chaffed his conscience. Eden had only seen the charming, roguish Manchester Sterling, not the man he kept well restrained.
As a pair of birds whisked over their heads, she pressed her lips into a rueful closed-mouth smile. Raising up on the seat, she watched the birds’ meandering progress.
“The redwings will be migrating back to Scandinavia soon. I’m surprised they haven’t already. They’re very late in doing so this year. I like to sit outdoors at night and listen to them.”
She’d artfully changed the subject.
So be it.
Chester didn’t want her to be uncomfortable. He squinted at the birds as they swooped onto a Wentworth elm branch. His lack of knowledge regarding avian behavior of any sort chagrined him. He’d never before cared what flitted overhead or amongst the bushes and trees.
Did that make him a self-centered sod like his sire?
The notion galled.
Fighting a yawn, he extended his legs, propped his elbows on the seat back, and after crossing his ankles, lifted his face to the sun. He’d missed the country’s peacefulness and the invigorating freshness. Especially this time of year, with its abundance of foliage in bloom, filling the air with a heady natural perfume.
“At night?” he asked. “They’re nocturnal? I had no idea.”
He’d inquired about the birds simply to hear the low purr of her musical voice as she answered. Her speech lacked the affected air and often high-pitched simpering so many of the ton’s damsels affected.
“Redwings migrate at night.” She flinched again. The wagon seat wasn’t comfortable and the jostling no doubt aggravated her bruised and battered body. “It’s really quite spectacular to listen to. You ought to try it sometime, your lordship.”
With her? Tonight?
A splendid notion. A midnight picnic, just the two of them. With champagne too.
Rogues to Lovers: Legend of the Blue Rose Page 47
