Rogues to Lovers: Legend of the Blue Rose

by Laurel O'Donnell

  “Mama, this is Manchester, Marquis of Sterling. My lord, my mother, Dulcina Haverden.”

  “The Duke’s younger son?”

  “I am.” Chester inclined his head. “I am honored to make your acquaintance, and I pray you make a swift recovery.”

  A wadded handkerchief pressed to her mouth, the woman coughed, her thin shoulders quaking from the tremors.

  Folding his arms, one elbow atop his forearm, Chester rested his chin on his fist. For certain he wasn’t a physician, but he recognized illness when he saw it. What exactly was her ailment? Her prognosis? Was it as grim as his sire’s?

  Was that another thing he and Eden had in common? The looming loss of their remaining parent? But in her case, she adored her mother, while every jot of affection he’d ever held for Father had long since shriveled up and died.

  Truly? Wasn’t there an inkling of regard left for the duke?

  Not any that he’d felt in a very long while.

  That truth sobered him all the more.

  Eden draped her wrap over the foot of the bed, her face creased with silent concern.

  “Have a drink of water, Dulcina,” Mattie said, extending a full glass.

  After taking a sip, Miss Haverden passed it back. “I’m sure your father is delighted to have you home, my lord. Even when they’ve become adults, parents worry about their children.”

  The love-filled glance she gifted Eden with caused a twinge of envy behind Chester’s breastbone.

  Miss Haverden waved her blue-veined hand toward her daughter.

  “Go on, Eglantina. I’m perfectly fine.”

  Smoothing another quilt over her mother’s lap, Eden produced one of her famous infectious smiles, and despite the sobriety of the moment, Chester’s lips twitched in answer.

  “I’ll be back in a few minutes, Mama. I’ll bring tea too, and Jane sent hot cross buns for you.”

  How Eden could command such poise when her brother had just turned her out and her mother had collapsed, Chester couldn’t fathom, but he admired her even more for her valor.

  Once in the sitting room, he examined the furnishings again. Everywhere he looked, he observed signs of stark poverty. A blanket covered the sagging settee’s cushions, and except for two oval-framed dried flower arrangements, nothing decorated the stained and chipped walls. No gew-gaws cluttered the lone, sparsely filled bookshelf either.

  Just then the squirrel, a small crust of bread in her mouth, zipped up his leg, over his torso, and onto his chest before becoming tangled in the folds of his neckcloth. The little beast’s frantic cries weren’t nearly as sharp as the claws trying to shred Chester’s cravat, his neck, or his chin.

  “Acorn. No.”

  Eden flew to Chester.

  “Don’t move, my lord. I’ll untangle her. Can you tilt your chin up?”

  And have the terrified vermin down his shirt in a trice?

  God help him.

  Obediently notching his chin toward the ceiling, he scrutinized the shabby roof that, if he wasn’t mistaken, badly needed repair. Bare beams supported the sagging structure. He swore he could see daylight between the cracks in a few places.

  The sweet essence of roses and irises floated upward from Eden’s hair, and unable to resist, he glanced down.

  “Acorn, hold still. You’re going to scratch his lordship.”

  Too late.

  Lower lip pinched between her white teeth, she worked to free her panicked pet. More than once her fingers brushed his neck and chin, and though the touch wasn’t in the least meant to be seductive, his body responded like a stag in rut.

  A dip in the chilly lake was in order. As soon as possible.

  “There we are.” Holding Acorn tucked below her chin, Eden met his eyes, her expression adorably contrite. “I beg your . . .”

  Her gaze dropped to his mouth and lingered.

  What would she do if he kissed her?

  Right here? Right now?

  For nearly twenty-four hours he’d imagined doing so. Ever since her mouth parted in surprise at the Fox and Falcon.

  He dipped his head until a mere two inches separated their mouths.

  She hauled her gaze to his.

  He wasn’t able to conceal his scorching desire swiftly enough, and she retreated a step.

  Too much too soon.

  “Pardon. I beg your pardon, my lord.” she said, her voice breathy even as she dared another peek at his mouth. “Acorn quite ruined your cravat, I fear.”

  The squirrel scooted farther into her hair, scolding Chester all the while.

  Impudent little vermin. Admonishing him when she’d mistaken him for a tree.

  Touching his neck, he tried to determine just how many scratches he’d sustained. Something slid down his shirt, landing where the fine lawn was tucked into his trousers. The bread no doubt. Likely why Acorn continued to fuss and fret.

  “You wanted to speak with me?” Eden raised one side of a sewing table and set Acorn within. “She’s made herself a nest inside,” she offered by way of explanation.

  He cut a speculative glance toward her mother’s room. “I must return to Perygrim to meet with my father’s physician and the bailiff. Please allow me to have the doctor look in on your mother too. At my expense.”

  “That’s very gracious of you, but Dr. Munson visited last week and prescribed new medication. I couldn’t possibly permit you to pay in any event. It wouldn’t be proper.”

  She straightened a limp needlepoint pillow, the stitching missing in several places and the corners looking to have been nibbled.

  The squirrel again? Or other vermin?

  “I understand,” he said. “Perhaps later in the week if she hasn’t improved?”

  Her mother’s rasping breaths carried into the small entry.

  Just how ill was Dulcina Haverden?

  “I don’t know where we’ll be in a week.” Despair drove the light from Eden’s eyes.

  He had a thought about that. A solution, perhaps. If she were agreeable.

  Not entirely respectable, but there were far worse propositions.

  “Oh, I almost forgot. Wait here. I’ll be right back.” She disappeared through a doorway to what must be the kitchen. A few moments later, she reappeared carrying a small jar of umber colored honey. She handed it to him. “I know I’m a day late, but birthday felicitations to you.”

  Such a simple gesture, but something welled in his chest, making speech impossible for a moment. It had been a very long while since he’d received a gift. A very long while, indeed. This jar of glistening honey mightn’t be the most elaborate or costly he’d been given, but it was the most meaningful, because she’d given it out of the goodness and generosity of her heart.

  She, who had so little, and was about to lose her home, had thought to remember his birthday. Because she was kind and good and thoughtful.

  “Thank you, Eden.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  Neither did she apologize for the simplicity or humbleness of the gift, and he was glad. That would’ve diminished its specialness.

  She’d crossed to stand before one of the windows. Her profile and drooping shoulders revealed the great weight she carried.

  Silence fell between them, not uncomfortable, but filled with questions neither dared to ask.

  “Eden?”

  “You really shouldn’t address me by my given name, my lord. Miss Eden isn’t all that proper, but two Miss Haverdens proved much too confusing. I also wanted to try to lessen my mother’s humiliation.”

  “I shouldn’t, I vow, but I like saying your name. I promise to only do so when no one can overhear us. Is that acceptable?” The smile he slashed her wasn’t the least repentant.

  “I suspect you’ll do what you like no matter what I might say. I’ve generally found it to be so.” She glanced toward her mother’s room. The slightest jot of acrimony tinged her words.

  Life had taught her that bitter truth, and it didn’t sit well with him that he sh
ould be lumped with other nobles and gentry.

  “I should check on Mama.”

  “I have another matter I’d like to discuss with you. Outside, please.”

  Eden gazed at him expectantly as they crossed to the door. “Yes? Can you give me a hint?” Sudden wariness slowed her steps. “It’s not more bad news is it?”

  “No, nothing of that nature.” He opened the door and stood aside for her to pass. “Perygrim is in need of a housekeeper, and our gardens are not what they once were. I thought perhaps . . . What I mean is, given the regrettable turn of events . . . That is perhaps . . .”

  Could he be any more fumbling or inept?

  An uncertain expression, part hope and part skepticism skated across her features. She grabbed his arm and all but hauled him over the threshold with her. After closing the door behind them, she ventured in a quiet voice, “Are you offering Mattie and Old Ronald employment?”

  He’d actually thought Eden might consider the housekeeper position herself, but given her immediate assumption he’d meant Mattie to fill the position, she likely would’ve been insulted at the suggestion.

  Make her your mistress

  That devilish part he kept well-subdued dared to whisper the provocative notion.

  He soundly kicked the taunt to the stable manure pile where that kind of filth belonged.

  Diligence and discipline, old chap.

  Tucking the small jar of honey into his jacket pocket, he nodded. “I am, if you—”

  “Oh, thank you. Thank you.”

  Her grateful smile didn’t quite reach her sad eyes, now a shade closer to eggshell rather than the palest periwinkle blue they were when she was happy.

  What color would they be filled with passion? Sapphire?

  “I didn’t know what was to become of them, for I cannot hire a solicitor to fight Simon in court. And I simply do not have the means to feed two more people.”

  He’d venture to guess, she didn’t even have the resources to feed herself or her mother.

  “With your permission, I could retain a solicitor for you.”

  Eden shook her head, her curtain of hair swirling around her shoulders and back as she made her way to the chicken pen.

  He yearned to run his fingers through the thick mane. To gather her in his arms and assure her that she needn’t worry or fret over her future. But he had no business making any such promise on such short acquaintance. Any promises at all, truth to tell.

  By the time he caught up to her, she’d tossed a few handfuls of cracked corn to the excited chickens, rushing here and there, pecking the grain and occasionally each other in their rush to gobble the most food. Brushing her hands together to rid them of the grain dust, she regarded him for a discomfiting moment, as if considering his offer.

  Then with a slow sweep of her dark lashes across her sun-kissed cheeks, she shook her head again.

  “Thank you, but I cannot accept. For even if I should prevail in court, my lord, I could never repay you. And though my station is humiliating, and it may seem ridiculous to you, I do retain a degree of pride. I’ve kept us out of debt this long, and I shan’t venture down that path now.”

  He wasn’t surprised she’d refused. Eden’s pride wasn’t puffed up arrogance, conceit, or misplaced self-importance, as was often the case. Hers was more about dignity and self-respect, which showed in her strength of character and lack of self-pity.

  “What will you do then?”

  Her further reduction in circumstances abraded his composure. The unfairness chafed his sense of justice, and the dark temperament he’d meticulously kept under control, except for fleeting interludes, pulsed in his veins, demanding vengeance.

  Another idea sprang to mind, but the inkling was so outside the bounds, Chester wanted to ponder it a bit more. Consider the feasibility. The ramifications for her as well.

  “I have a few options.”

  She stared into the orchard while toying with a dull, silverish button at her throat. Emotions played across her gentle features as she silently pondered her circumstances.

  “I haven’t enough education, nor do I play any instruments or speak French, and my singing induces loyal Mr. Wiggles to howl. So that eliminates the possibility of becoming a governess. I might find employment as a companion if it weren’t for the need to care for Mama. Perhaps Jane Stewart will hire me to wait tables or clean, even cook. I don’t mind hard work.”

  Not likely. Even as goodhearted as they were, the Stewarts couldn’t afford to pay her the wages she’d need to provide for her mother.

  “What about your mother?”

  “If I let a room at the Fox and Falcon, I could check in on Mama throughout the day.”

  He wasn’t going to crush her hope. She’d little else to cling to.

  “Have you any other possibilities?”

  It wasn’t any of his business, but he couldn’t abandon her. More on point, he doubted she had anyone to talk to, to share her worries and concerns with.

  She closed her eyes and swallowed before putting a delicate hand to her throat.

  “I . . . Vicar Wright has proposed marriage more than once. He assures me Mama is welcome too.”

  Something akin to a stone-laden wagon smashed into Chester’s middle.

  Marriage?

  Why hadn’t he considered that?

  Eden was an attractive, desirable woman, and from what he’d learned about her in their short acquaintance, spirited but considerate as well.

  “Do you love him?”

  Way beyond the mark asking such a personal question.

  She wet her lower lip, darting her pink tongue out and tracing it across the plump pillow.

  Ferocious lust gripped him, and he imagined sinking his mouth onto her sweet, moist lips.

  Had she ever been kissed?

  Had the Vicar ever dared taste those dewy lips?

  He would, and much more, if Eden wed him.

  Again, a sensation akin to a plow horse’s kick to Chester’s gut cramped his middle. That ugly blackness welled up inside, but he doggedly squelched the feeling. He had no claim on Eden Haverden.

  Flattening the line of her mouth, she shook her head and sighed.

  “I wish I could. He’s kind and decent. Generous and gentle and quite handsome too.”

  A proverbial saint, blast the honorable cleric.

  “But you don’t?”

  An inkling of hope rekindled.

  “I do not. I’ve tried to, believe me. He’d make a wonderful husband, and I’m quite fond of his daughters.”

  She’d be a wonderful mother.

  She wandered to the bench situated before the roses. Sinking onto the white paint-chipped seat, she looked overhead, her expression contemplative. Mr. Wiggles trotted to her and laid his scruffy head on her knees. She absently petted him whilst gazing at the sky.

  “I fear the parish would object. Because of my birth.”

  She probably had that right. Even commoners oft’ frowned upon those born out of wedlock, though why anyone thought it appropriate to blame the progeny baffled him. Of course, if she had a rich father—well she had, but he’d not bestowed a dowry upon her—she might’ve married well. Blueblood by-blows often made good matches. Or she might’ve chosen to remain independent, had Walter Andrews bequeathed a yearly allowance on her.

  Yes, but Eden Haverden wasn’t aristocracy. She had no dowry or one hundred pounds a year. Her choices were neither plentiful nor pleasant.

  Chester sank onto the wobbly bench, and because her small hand was within reach, he covered it with his palm. But only for instant. That was enough time for another jolt to sluice through him and another notion, this much more wicked than his prior one to leap to the forefront of his mind again.

  She’d make a splendid mistress

  He could set her up in her own house. Arrange for someone to care for her mother. Hell, even let her have her chickens and bees and that terror of a squirrel too.

  Where had his control, vigil
ance, his discipline scampered off to?

  Even his carnal urges and randy thoughts were refusing to bend to his will.

  More on point, where had his decency and chivalry got to?

  In his very bones he knew Eglantina Eden Haverden would never agree to be a kept woman. She’d hate herself, and at the moment, he didn’t regard himself with any great fondness for even minutely entertaining such a degrading thought about her.

  “And you’ve no other family or friends?”

  She’d said she didn’t, but he wanted to be sure before he made his proposition.

  “None. Simon’s sisters have always been much kinder than he, but neither has ever showed any interest in a relationship with me. Mama’s brother died five years ago.”

  “So, you truly have no alternatives?”

  She pursed her lips and assumed a thoughtful mien. “There’s always a soiled dove or mistress, though I’m not entirely sure how one goes about either.”

  A moment ago, he’d very briefly entertained the same notion, and now coming from her sweet mouth, the suggestion sounded as vile as any he’d ever heard.

  Eden would never stoop so low.

  Not as long as he drew breath.

  She crossed her ankles and flicked that blue-eyed gaze over him.

  In reproach?

  “You needn’t look so affronted. I’m but teasing, my lord. My, but you do blow prickly one minute and jovial the next. It’s a bit disconcerting.”

  Years of carefully constructed walls and embedded behaviors, brought about by deliberate intent, crumbled with her observation.

  “Eden, I would never let you be reduced to such desperate circumstances.”

  “I appreciate the noble sentiment, but we both know I’m not your responsibility.” She winced slightly, then coughed into her hand. “I beg your pardon.”

  Her voice held the merest bit of scratchiness. Was she becoming ill? On top of the other blows she’d been dealt today?

  Chester slapped his knees.

  By God he’d do it. Toss common sense and decorum to the four corners of the earth.

  Father very well might suffer an apoplexy.