Feeling the hot color wash over her cheeks, she took a swallow from her previously untouched sherry. It was time to end this test before she failed it completely.
“Y-yes. But I never, ever thought of him as a father. I was nearly grown when we came to live here, as I said.”
“Twelve doesn’t seem so old to me.”
“My own father had died, and my mother was never very . . . strong,” Eden said, picking her words carefully. In truth, her mother had been addicted to laudanum and her mirror. Her understanding, never acute, was insufficient to deal with three children on her own. “I assumed a lot of the responsibilities for my siblings.”
“Then you must understand how I feel about your present situation.”
“I’m not a child any longer, my lord, and I can make my own way, I do assure you. If you will excuse me, I must sit with Jannah. She is usually in better health in the mornings, so if you would like to visit with her after breakfast tomorrow, I shall tell her.”
She left in haste, her ugly dress crackling. Hart sipped his brandy and gazed into the fire. He’d not gotten far with her, but it was a start. She was hiding something. Getting her to admit to it might prove difficult, but Hart had never been known to resist a challenge. And there was something about Eden that made it impossible for him to do so.
He closed his eyes, and the image of the sketch came unbidden but not unwanted. He may have tossed it into the fire, but he could not toss it out of his mind. What would it be like to see Eden soften before him, shed her hideous dress and show him her greatest secret?
Bah. What had come over him? He was lusting after her like a virginal schoolboy. It was more than time to head back to Mrs. Brown’s and relieve these inconvenient urges. Hart poured himself another glass and waited for the dinner bell.
A good father! Stuart Hartford’s probing words echoed in her head. Ivor Hartford had ignored her until she belatedly grew breasts, then pursued her with a determination that she was ill-equipped to resist. Eden looked out Jannah’s window. It was pitch black now, the last of the dusky purple and gray that had crowned the mountains long gone. Her sister lay sleeping fitfully, a frightening rattle in her chest every time she breathed. It had been so bad at dinnertime that neither of them had eaten much.
Eden blamed the new baron, both for her sister’s decline and the disquieting thoughts that swirled within her. If only he’d stayed away and not come to upset them. Hartford Hall had been here more than one hundred years and wasn’t going anywhere. They didn’t need Stuart Hartford strutting about, even if he did own the place.
He did make a fine figure of a man, however. She’d have to be blind not to notice his powerful physique. Even if he no longer wore the uniform, he was a soldier from top to toe, back straight, shoulders squared, a rather fierce gleam in his blue eyes. His body was honed from riding and swordplay and all the other things military men did to keep fit. Bedsport, for example. Eden was sure the new Lord Hartford had never suffered much from the lack of female companionship. Just like his uncle.
She let herself wander, picking at the scab of the past that never quite healed over. She needed reminding of the betrayal of trust, both her stepfather’s and her own of herself.
One evening not long after Ivor Hartford put her to bed and kissed her in a most extraordinary fashion, he did not leave her at her door, but entered with her. He stood behind her, holding her in front of her mirror, his hand idly slipping beneath the bodice of her new gown. A gown he had ordered for her himself. She had felt very grown-up in it, although Mattie had clucked in disapproval, called it cheap and said it displayed too much of her bosom, which had finally, miraculously, appeared.
“Nonsense,” Eden had said airily. “My stepfather has excellent taste. It came all the way from London!” And she tugged it down an extra inch when her maid left the room.
Her stepfather looked down approvingly at the expanse of flesh Eden had so rebelliously exposed to him. “Look at yourself, Puss. Look at us. You know I cannot help myself.”
Eden’s eyes widened as his hand delved deeper. She felt him warm and large upon her breast. He bent to kiss her neck, watching for her blush and shiver in the mirror as he did so. Their eyes met.
“I should go,” he said softly. “But one night I hope you will ask me to stay.”
He left before her words could come. “Stay,” she whispered.
Shortly after that, she begged him and completed her ruination. She’d done it to herself, by herself.
Eden’s stomach interrupted her misery with a rumble. Mattie had taken the tray away hours ago. Eden was—impossible to believe—hungry. Acutely and shamefully so, when she had so many more things to worry about than a hot meal. But since her stepfather’s death, she was awakening to the taste of food again.
And to the taste for an attractive man.
Oh, but she was a fool. She hadn’t learned a thing, not one. The lonely, awkward girl was still inside her, clamoring for attention. She would not seek it from Stuart Hartford, no matter how valiant and heroic he seemed. If she was lucky, she could avoid him for the rest of his visit and pray she never clapped eyes on him again.
It was her turn tonight to sleep in Jannah’s room, and she was already in her nightgown. However, there would be no sleep unless she did something to feed the monster that was her belly. Eden tiptoed to the bedside. Jannah was fast asleep.
Her unwanted guests were abed, too. The house was dark and still, the clocks ticking rhythmically. Eden picked up the taper and padded down the carpeted stairs in her bare feet. The flagstone kitchen floor would be cold on her toes, but the sooner she got downstairs, the sooner she could come up. She knew Jannah could have a crisis at any time.
The kitchen hearth had been banked, but the room still glowed with golden warmth. Eden set the candle down on the table and headed for the sideboard. Mrs. Burrell always left a loaf of bread, a crock of butter and a pot of raspberry preserves out. It was sometimes the only thing Eden could get Jannah to eat. Jannah loved her raspberries and could no longer pick them herself. Years ago, before the illness, before the baron, Eden and her little sister roamed the estate, filling pails, gorging on the juicy fruit until their lips were stained as red as their mother’s rouge.
Eden cut a thick wedge of bread, slathered it with jam and was about to cram half the slice into her mouth when the kitchen door swung open. She was so startled she dropped it, leaving a sticky trail of scarlet down the front of her white night rail.
“Blast!”
At the same time Stuart Hartford uttered a rather more explicit curse.
“I do beg your pardon, Miss Emery. I did not mean to frighten you and deprive you of your midnight supper. It seems we had the same idea.”
Eden stared down at herself in dismay. Her hair was unbound, flowing to the small of her back, but her front—she may as well have been standing nude before him with a bright red stripe leading him to her sin. The thin batiste nightgown had been washed so many times all her dark bits were visible to a discerning eye. And Lord Hartford looked very discerning indeed. She scooted down to pick up her bread, wrapping her arms around herself as best she could.
“I’ll come back later. When you’re done.” He sounded regretful. And hungry.
“N-no. This is your house. I’ll leave.”
“Nonsense. We both live here for the time being, and I’ll not deprive you of your dinner. I’m a gentleman, remember, not some ogre. Mrs. Burrell tells me neither you nor your sister touched your tray.”
Was he checking up on her? Spying? She felt herself flush. “My sister took a bad turn.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
She looked at his shadowed face. Even in the dark of the kitchen, he seemed sympathetic. How she would like him for a friend, but that was inconceivable.
He waited a beat for her to say something, but she couldn’t find any words.
“Carry on then,” he said, his voice clipped. He turned on his heel and disappeared thr
ough the door.
“Wait!”
His head popped round the woodwork. “What is it?”
“I-I can cut another slice. For you. Mrs. Burrell put up the preserves this summer. They’re very good.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea, Miss Emery. Think of how this encounter would look should a servant find us. Or worse, my aunt.”
He gave her a slow smile. “We are both not dressed,” he explained patiently, seeing her confusion. “Think of the frightful scandal.”
Absurd. He was still in his linen shirt, breeches and boots, although several buttons of his shirt were undone. For a proper young gentleman like Stuart Hartford, he probably considered himself near naked in the presence of a lady without a jacket, tie and waistcoat. She cast her eyes away from the crisp curling golden hair she glimpsed on his exposed chest. She was no lady.
“Oh. You’re teasing me. But you’re right.”
“Of course I’m right. I’m always right. But I really am hungry. Scandal be damned. I warn you, though, I won’t marry you, no matter if we are discovered at our clandestine midnight supper.”
Eden lifted her chin. “If you recall, I told you I will never marry.”
“Then we are in total agreement.” Hart swung a long leg over the kitchen bench and folded his hands on the pine table.
“I suppose you expect me to wait on you.”
“You did offer.”
“A jam sandwich, then?” Eden asked.
“I actually had my heart set on ham.” He grinned up at her and she could not have denied him anything he asked.
She knew her way around the kitchen, and soon presented him with a thick sandwich, pickles and a wedge of cheese. As she put the plate on the table, she detected more than a whiff of brandy. No wonder Hart was so relaxed and playful—he was half-foxed.
But Eden preferred him like this to the way he’d looked at her earlier. As if he knew everything.
That was impossible. He’d had nothing to do with his uncle for years. And if proper Major Stuart Hartford had known what she was to his uncle, she would not still be standing here. He would have given her marching orders as soon as he walked through the door.
She watched as he took an enormous bite, his eyes closing in ecstasy. “Um. Still can’t get used to it,” he said, his mouth full.
“Did they not have sandwiches in the army?” she asked tartly.
“It’s not just the sandwich, dear girl. Or the pickles. It’s everything.” He gestured vaguely toward the stove. “This is my kitchen.”
“All the pots and pans are yours, it’s true, but you best not bother Mrs. Burrell or she’ll take a knife to you.”
“You are making another joke at my expense, Miss Emery, but I don’t mind. I never much thought about the succession here, you know. I always supposed Ivor would have children of his own.”
He’d certainly tried with her mother. Baby after baby had been lost, each one taking more of her mother’s tenuous grasp on reality.
“Well, Hartford Hall is all yours. Will you bring Juliet and her boys to live here with you?”
“Lord. I hadn’t thought about that. The boys are perfect little devils, just as they ought to be.”
Hart launched into an illustrative account of their mischief, describing a recent trip to Astley’s Amphitheatre. Eden found herself laughing out loud, something she hadn’t done in months, perhaps longer. That thought was so quelling, she spent the rest of the time in silence, peeking at Hart through her eyelashes.
He was so perfectly, utterly charming, which only caused her old tension to return. She ate her own sandwich slowly—with food in her mouth, he wouldn’t expect her to talk. Perhaps he’d run out of questions to ask her. She was about to rise when he reached across the table and patted her hand. A ripple of electricity sizzled through her.
“Could I trouble you to make me a cup of tea? It’s damned cold in this house, isn’t it?”
Eden was sure he was staring at her nipples through her night rail. Her feet were bare and frozen to the floor. She could use a cup herself, but she would make tea for him and then flee the kitchen.
“I’m a little drunk, you know. Need something to warm me up and clear my head. That library. The atmosphere. It’s a bit unsettling. You know how it is. I saw how you were in there tonight. It got to me, too.”
Eden’s lips felt frozen now. “I don’t know what you mean.” She got up and put the kettle on.
“Ghosts. Oh, I didn’t see any—I’m not completely cracked. But if you wanted to tell me anything, anything at all, I’d listen.”
And you wouldn’t like what you’d hear. “There is nothing to tell,” she said, trying to keep her voice from shaking. “How do you take your tea?”
Hart put both elbows on the table. “I’m not your enemy, Eden.”
“Of course you’re not. I have no enemies,” she lied.
“What about friends?”
“Jannah is my friend. And I’ve been down here much, much too long. I’m afraid you’ll have to make your own tea.”
“I’ll manage then. Good night, Eden. Pleasant dreams.”
How she wished for an unspoiled night, but she deserved every nightmare that was visited on her.
Hart watched her run away. Did the woman not own a dressing gown? She had been almost as exposed to him in the candlelight as she had been in his uncle’s drawing room. If his aunt had appeared, Hart would have found himself procuring a special license in the morning despite his declaration, for he had surely seen enough of Eden Emery to make him guilty of compromising her.
Not that she had any virtue to compromise. He was almost sure of that. When he’d surprised her, she had looked a perfect wanton, her head tilted back in blissful anticipation, raspberry jam on her already crimson lips, her slender body outlined beneath that flimsy shift in the dying firelight. His inconveniently aroused cock twitched in remembrance. He could imagine her taking pleasure in everything he might offer.
She’d invited him to stay in the kitchen with her—so shy and blushing. Did she not know the picture she presented? No doubt she did, and was attempting to trap him somehow, although once he’d agreed to join her, she’d become mute. It wouldn’t work. She could not alternate between her repressive reserve and artless coquetry and think to seduce him. It might have worked with his uncle, although the man had not rewarded her for her efforts in his will.
He would meet her sister tomorrow—today, now—and get the hell away from Hartford Hall before his uncle’s improbable mistress cast any more dark gazes his way. She would not be compromising him and all he had striven toward.
The sooner he got back to London—the sooner he got back to Mrs. Brown’s—the happier he’d be. Perhaps membership there had opened the Pandora’s box of his lust, for surely he should feel nothing but contempt for his uncle’s mistress.
She should not entice him. She was too skinny. Stern and standoffish. Socially awkward.
But when she smiled, it was as if a rare moonflower bloomed at midnight. And when she laughed, he quite forgot to be suspicious of her.
He put himself to bed without that cup of tea he’d so desired. But not all desires could be ignored. His cock firmly in hand, he sought relief as he had done so many times over the years. This time he didn’t imagine dark Spanish beauties or pink English girls, but a tall young woman whose legs were spread, her folds parted, her ripple of brown hair spread upon his pillow. She touched herself and wordlessly invited him to do the same. There was nothing she would refuse him. Her cutting tongue could be persuaded to gentle his shaft before she guided him into her tight wetness. He would plunge into her again and again until—
His seed spurted on his belly. If she were here, she’d lick him clean and he would let her. She’d be the perfect whore, despite her futile attempt to disguise her true nature. Hart reckoned his uncle had been a lucky man, Eden Emery at his side, the two of them tucked up here away from civilization and reveling in mutual decadence in th
e library.
But a life like that was not for him. Never for him.
Some hours later, Jannah was up with the birds, had breakfasted lightly and now was wrangling with her sister as to what she should wear to meet Baron Hartford.
“He’s just an ordinary man,” Eden said, exasperated. “And you may not wear your blue dress. We are in mourning for Mama and his uncle. What kind of hoydens would he think we were if we were to cast off our blacks?” Privately, Eden loathed the thought of wearing black in honor of Lord Hartford for the next year. It was just one more way he’d keep control over her, even from the grave. He had robbed her of choice, of dignity, of humanity. The marks he had left upon her body were only just beginning to fade.
Tempting Eden Page 7
