Ivor had removed himself from town under duress a dozen years ago, married and had become, if not respectable, then more restrained in seeking his pleasures. His estate was solvent, his only folly a rather exorbitant bill for his library. Hart didn’t begrudge the man his reading. He was fond of reading himself, and now would have more time to do it.
Hart left the window to peruse the bookshelves, finding the usual fare of a country gentleman. He took down a book on animal husbandry. He now owned a vast quantity of sheep, about which he knew absolutely nothing, save that they tasted delicious and their wool was warm.
But wait. Hart’s mouth twisted. The old devil. Beneath the hand-tooled leather binding was a volume that spoke little to the necessities of a farmer but more to the desires of a satyr. True to the title, animals were involved, and a whole host of other creatures. Hart snapped the book shut. Returning it to the shelf, Hart skimmed more volumes. Book after book shocked Hart, and he had thought himself unshockable. When he unfolded a paper that fell out of what certainly was not The History of Lancashire, he had to sit back down before his knees gave out.
It was a charcoal sketch of Miss Emery. Eden. Fingerprints had smudged the lines, but there was no mistaking her straight brow or the look of unexpected ecstasy on her face. Her body was sin incarnate. She held her sex open for the artist with her elegant hands, splaying her legs.
Her full breasts, tipping to each side as she reclined against a spill of pillows, were rendered in exquisite detail, the nipples shaded and erect.
The same pillows, he recognized with a jolt, that were piled on the leather couch before the fireplace in this very room. Hart closed his eyes briefly, feeling guilty for—what? trespassing? The library and all its contents were his now. He would never have dreamed the virginal, shrewish, skinny Miss Emery to be capable of such a pose. Then he looked more closely, trying to make sense of what he was seeing. The expression on her face, transcendent. The languid lushness of her body. He found the artist’s signature, cleverly entwined within her feminine curls, branding her. Ivor Anthony Hartford.
Surely this drawing was not merely speculative. It was the work of a lover, one who knew every smooth inch and nuance of pleasure to be found on his partner. Hart was ashamed to feel his own manhood responding to the wanton vision before him. He crumpled it up before it burned him, and threw it into the fire.
My God. What was he to do with a harlot in his house? All her starchy reserve and hesitant mumbling was a ruse. She was no more innocent than the women at Mrs. Brown’s. She’d be better off there than here at Hartford Hall, a daily reminder of his family’s debauchery. Even though his uncle was dead, he’d left a poisoned thorn behind.
Hart would uproot Eden from his garden. A woman with a body like that would find a protector with little difficulty. Perhaps he would suggest just that avenue for her.
Hart ran his fingers through his hair. Deuce take it. There was the sister to consider. And perhaps he was jumping to conclusions. By all accounts, his uncle had been no saint, and she was too thin now to match the plush curves he’d just destroyed.
It was time to have a talk with Cousin Eden.
The little party was upstairs in Eden’s mother’s sitting room, a brightly patterned space that gave no quarter to the illness that had pervaded the past. The tea tray had been sacked, its few crumbs attesting to the superiority of Mrs. Burrell’s cooking. Jannah had been allowed to dress and get out of bed and was now quite full of lemon curd tarts, sitting next to Juliet on the little divan, the two of them poring over a week-old gazette from London. Eden was engaged in the more mundane task of mending stockings, one stern eye fixed upon her sister and her companion. Thus far Juliet had made no further mention of London or marriage. She had, however, offered her maid’s assistance in the restyling of both Emery sisters’ hair and had offered to pluck their eyebrows herself. Eden had heard that in the last century women actually removed every bit of hair and pasted on mouse-skin eyebrows, but Juliet assured her it wouldn’t come to that. Eden was willing to give the procedure a try. Jannah had always teased her that her bushy brows made her look grouchy even when she was smiling.
So when Baron Hartford begged admittance some time during their beauty strategy session, he was briskly turned away by his aunt. He found the female laughter within unsettling, and chose instead to take the dogs for a walk.
They were not the dogs of his youth, but they were still too old to keep up with his long stride and soon lost interest. He hiked up a hill and turned to look down upon Hartford Hall in the thin autumn sunshine. The vines were turning rusty on the gray stone façade, the glass windows dark, framed by bright white paint. One day these hip-roofed rectangular boxes set at a right angle would feel like his country home, the home of his future children, should he finally acquire their mother. He expected he’d have to relent and let Juliet do her worst once they returned to town. Perhaps he’d been hasty applying to Mrs. Brown’s. A year was a very long time to postpone the inevitable. He couldn’t hold out against Juliet’s interference, no matter how surprisingly entertaining he found membership at Mrs. Brown’s.
For one thing, he’d discovered to his relief that he was not like his father or his uncle. He was not interested in anything out of the ordinary, not that the goddesses could ever be called ordinary. The delicious taste of sin had not turned him into a glutton. Hart had feared all his life that if he gave in to vice, he’d soon be in its viselike grip. But he was merely a mortal man, finding pleasure in pleasurable things after years spent in self-denial. Someday he hoped to find equal or surpassing pleasure in the arms of a wife.
But what to do in the meantime. There was the vexing problem of the Emery sisters. Maybe he could send them away. Italy. Greece. Somewhere warmer and far away and beyond temptation. For Hart was tempted, and he did not want to be.
He shook his head, trying to clear the image of Eden from his mind. There had to be an explanation for the wanton sketch he had found. Perhaps in his dotage, his uncle had suffered from an overactive imagination.
But the man was not past fifty, hardly elderly enough to fall prey to the vagaries of senility. Hart hoped when he reached that age he’d still be in full possession of all his faculties and manhood besides.
He sat on a conveniently flat rock to contemplate his future. The life of a gentleman of leisure had its appeal after ten years spent at war. He might even sell the small house in Mayfair if the market was good, or let it again for the season as his uncle had. Hart didn’t have much interest in balls and routs and such foolishness. If he could find a serious, virtuous young woman, he thought married life might even be tolerable. They could build a real family together and wipe out the stain of the Hartfords for the coming generation at least. One could always hope. But a bit of prayer might be necessary as well.
Chapter 4
It was now dusk and rather dim in the library, but even in the flickering glow of the lamplight, Hart had to admit his aunt had performed a minor miracle. While she was still gowned in severe performed a minor miracle. While she was still gowned in severe black, Miss Emery’s face looked more open, relaxed. Juliet had given an arch to each of Eden’s brows and her hair was arranged becomingly with some loose tendrils lending an air of near frivolity. She still avoided his eyes, but her modesty wasn’t as effective as she might have wished. Now that Hart had seen Miss Emery in her natural state—at least on paper—he wouldn’t be tricked by her nervous virgin act.
“Thank you for agreeing to see me,” he began. He leaned back in his uncle’s comfortable leather desk chair. The library had seemed the best place to conduct his business with her, but she seemed acutely ill at ease. He suspected he knew why. “Please sit down. I have ordered dinner in an hour. Would you care for some sherry?”
“No, thank you, my lord,” Eden said, prim. “And I shall not be joining you for dinner. Your aunt was very kind today, but I’m afraid she tired my sister out. I shall take dinner in Jannah’s room.”
; “Suit yourself,” Hart said with some annoyance. “I do hope you allow me to at least meet with Jannah once before I leave. I assure you, I’m not a dragon. I wish to see for myself her circumstances and how I might help her.”
“You can leave us alone!” Eden blurted.
Before I discover your secret. But it was too late—he knew already. Not the details, but he would soon ferret them out.
“Now that I cannot do. I feel responsible for you, no matter that you seem to hold me in such aversion.”
“I’m s-sorry to give you that impression, my lord.” She spoke the words, but Hart heard no true apology in her voice. “It’s just that Jannah is so frail. A change in her routine upsets her.”
“I have a proposition for you.” Hart watched as Eden became even more rigid in the chair. “Not that kind of proposition, Cousin Eden. Really, you do have a very low opinion of me. I wonder what has given you reason to distrust me so?”
He waited for her to respond—to call him a man again—but she merely shrugged and fiddled with her hands. He squelched his impulse to reach across the desk and still them. She’d wear her skin right off if she didn’t stop.
“I should like to send you and your sister somewhere more clement for the winter.” He held up a hand to stop her from objecting. “Before you speak to me about routines and changes, consider. The damp weather here cannot be good for anyone with a lung condition. My aunt Juliet is willing to act as chaperone. I spoke to her this afternoon and she thinks it’s a capital idea. You needn’t traipse all over the Continent, either—rather I can procure a villa for you in some quiet spot. Imagine flowers and warm breezes.”
He rambled on, smiling at her, deepening the crease on his cheek, a veritable travel guide for lush holiday spots. Stuart Hartford was a handsome man, far more handsome than
Stuart Hartford was a handsome man, far more handsome than his uncle. Now that she sat across from him, she realized their resemblance was superficial. Stuart’s eyes were larger, more blue green than ice. His nose was narrower, although its bridge had been broken at one time. He had a rakish saber scar and a charming smile. She had to look away. She was thinking like an infatuated schoolgirl, and she knew too well where that led.
If only. If only Ivor had died four years ago. Stuart Hartford might have been the answer to all her prayers. Any girl’s prayers. He was, as she had noted, a perfect gentleman. But it was too late now, because her imperfections had doomed her chances for any sort of respectable life.
“I don’t think it’s possible,” she said at last, when he finally paused for breath. “There has been blood in Jannah’s handkerchiefs. She’s tried to hide them, but the maids have come to me.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“Dr. Canfield told me months ago it was just a matter of time. So you see, L-Lord Hartford,” she said, tripping on the name, “your offer comes too late.”
“What can I do?”
“I wish I knew.” Eden felt the lump in her throat. She could not cry in front of this stranger again. Would not.
Somehow he’d come around the desk and placed a large hand on her shoulder. She looked up and was lost.
“Let me get you a sherry. I insist.” He went to the well-stocked drinks tray.
Her stepfather had not stinted on the quality or quantity of his libations, and had at times used alcohol to make her more pliant to his demands. Even before he had taken her virginity, he had urged the footman to keep her glass full at dinner. “You’re a young lady, now,” he’d say, winking. “Why not enjoy yourself?”
Her mother often took a tray in her room, claiming a heavy meal before bedtime upset her stomach, so Eden would dine alone with Lord Hartford while Jannah was upstairs in the nursery. Often she was dizzy from the wine and disoriented by the conversation, and he would help her upstairs. He’d brush against her private places, seemingly by accident. In her embarrassment, she’d felt somehow at fault. He would kiss her good night. A first, just a fatherly kiss on her temple. He’d cup her cheek and stare down upon her, his cool blue eyes assessing. When he knew she was ready—more than ready—he kissed her on the lips.
“You taste delicious, Puss,” he’d said. “Like spring wine.”
Hart handed her the delicate sherry glass. Eden made a pretense of sipping from it. She’d learned long ago to avoid spirits in the company of a man. She dared not lose her head again or loosen her tongue. Every word she uttered in Stuart Hartford’s company cost her.
“Thank you, Lord Hartford.” She placed the glass on the desk. She fisted her hands in her lap, wondering when she would be allowed to leave this interview.
“I fear we started off on the wrong foot, Miss Emery.”
Thank goodness there was no more “Cousin Eden” nonsense. Eden inclined her head and nodded. She could barely cobble together two words in his presence.
“I am rather used to giving out orders. Perhaps I overstepped my bounds trying to make arrangements for you, but I am concerned. I will of course respect whatever choice you make, but I wish to reiterate that my family is at your service should you require assistance. I should hate to think of you slaving away to earn your bread. I am sure that had my uncle lived longer, he would have settled your future in a more satisfactory manner. He could not possibly have known his time was so short.”
He had stopped speaking, evidently waiting for a response from her. Eden was convinced his uncle had known precisely what he was about. His lack of a bequest was his parting shot to let her know how very little he had valued her. At the end, she was just chattel, like his poor old dogs, collared and cowering.
Think, Eden. But she had lost whatever malleability she ever possessed and remained stiff in her chair. She wondered where the book was. She’d searched throughout the house for it, frantic. She’d found the sketches, thank God, but the book was still missing. Could Kempton have it? She’d never be free of him if he did.
When she didn’t find it in her stepfather’s room, she’d left everything as it was. There was nothing incriminating about brushes and cravats, watch fobs and boots. But the hair on the back of her neck prickled every time she returned to the scene of her many crimes. The book was here in the library somewhere, she knew it. The sooner Lord Stuart Hartford left, the sooner she could begin her hunt again.
“I know I must face the future, but I don’t wish to talk about it anymore. I’ve made plans. But thank you.” She began to rise.
“Very well. Let’s talk about the past, then.”
Eden’s breath hitched. The new Lord Hartford seemed a stubborn man, reluctant to let her go when it must be so obvious she wanted to fly right out of the chair. She sat back down and gripped her shaking hands.
“Perhaps you might tell me a little bit about growing up at Hartford Hall. I only recall visiting once, though I know I was dragged off to church by the housekeeper. Mrs. Kenny, was it? I believe I must have heard your papa, but I’m sorry to say his oratory was probably wasted on me.”
For a moment his crooked smile revealed the boy he had been. In all likelihood she had been there that Sunday morning so many years ago. Perhaps she was wearing her best starched white pinafore, her hair neatly braided beneath her chip straw bonnet, her little gloved hands resting solemnly in her lap. Her mother would have been beside her, jiggling a squirmy Eli in her arms. But in her mind’s eye, Eden saw only the shadowy transept, the leaded glass behind her papa as he exhorted his faithful to do the Lord’s work. The mischievous boy in the Hartford pew was nowhere to be found.
“Mrs. Kensit. She was housekeeper here until my mother married Lord Hartford.”
“She’s no longer working here. Has she passed?”
“No. M-mama and she did not see eye to eye, so Lord Hartford pensioned her off. She’s still in the village.” Eden neglected to mention that the old woman gave her the cut direct every time their paths crossed.
“You were born here?”
“Yes. Not in this house, of course, but at the vicarage.”
“How old were you when you came to live at the Hall?”
“Almost twelve.” Eli had been ten, and Jannah just six. Hartford Hall was quite a change from what she was used to, and Lord Hartford very different from her father.
“Did you get along with my uncle?”
“P-pardon?” Eden was beginning to feel like she was taking an examination for which she had no correct answers.
“Perhaps I’m overly curious. My father contemplated another marriage after my mother died, and I was not enthusiastic. It came to nothing in the end, but I was vastly relieved. It’s difficult for children to make adjustments. Then, of course, when I was older, I thought the woman had got the better bargain. My father was not an easy man to live with. Was Ivor a good father to you?”
Tempting Eden Page 6
