Tempting Eden

by Margaret Rowe

  “Eden—” he began, then examined his gloved hands as if he’d never seen them before.

  Mrs. Brown waited. When no more was said, she prompted, “Ah. Eden. How is she faring?”

  “Well enough, I suppose. She’s in the country.” He lurched up off the gilt chair. “I have to know. Are you a woman of your word, Mrs. Brown?”

  “I have always thought so.” She looked directly at him. His blue eyes were still clouded with doubt.

  “When she was here in this house . . .” He stopped. No amount of brandy had silenced the thoughts in his bedeviled brain. It was clear he was in some kind of torment. “Was she—was she untouched?”

  “Did she tell you otherwise?”

  “Answer me, damn it!”

  Mrs. Brown looked the baron over. He was disheveled, stubbled, and, if she was not mistaken, much the worse for drink. But she knew Foster was stationed nearby. He had probably asked Tim to come upstairs, too. All of them had some experience with unruly patrons. To threaten the loss of membership would not work in the baron’s case, however.

  “Lord Hartford, you and I came to a business arrangement. There was no deception on my part. The week that Eden was a guest in this house, she was an observer only.”

  “But after,” Hart rumbled.

  “After?”

  “I know she came here after I set her up as my mistress. To teach the children. She explained it all, not that it makes a bit of sense. I followed her, so do not bother lying.”

  Iris didn’t let his offensive words offend her. She was not the one at fault here. She lifted a silver brow. “Stop roaring at me, sir. It is true she came every day without fail for several months and worked with them. You and your mistress, it seems, are both very foolish. You need to sit down and have a cozy chat with her, preferably when you are not foxed.

  “Eden is softhearted. While she was here as a guest, she formed a friendship of sorts with the girls I rescued.” Mrs. Brown shook her head ruefully. “Well, that makes me sound like a saint, and I am far from that. But I have been known to take in child prostitutes and employ them. Get them safe off the street. The pretty ones only, I’m ashamed to say. Some of them stay on as they get older. It is their choice to remain servants or become whores. Most opt for the latter capacity.” She gave an odd smile. “Far less work is involved.” She looked at her timepiece. “I have many other things that need my attention just at present, some of which I can lay directly at Eden’s door. I have been egregiously short-staffed for the past few months. No,” she said, watching his mounting color, “it is not at all as you suppose. Eden came to my house to tutor my young maids. And now she has stolen them, and one more besides.”

  Hart felt as though a swarm of bees were buzzing in his head. “What?”

  “The girls adored her, and when she left, she begged me to let her take some to the country with her. Helen, the newest maid, wouldn’t go unless Eden promised to take a little friend, not a very appealing child. She did not meet my requirements. The last I saw Eden, she was on her way to the stews to pluck up Jane.”

  Deliver me, thought Hart. “I don’t understand.”

  “Eden wanted to continue their education. I have a feeling she used to play schoolmistress with her sister. Eden is a very bright young woman, you know.”

  Hart nodded. He did know. How often had he come across her in their little parlor, books spread out upon the divan? He had thought her a bit of a bluestocking, which was preferable to being enamored with some empty-headed little nitwit. It seemed that he was the nitwit, however.

  “She took whores to Hartford Hall?”

  “She took abused children to Hartford Hall,” Mrs. Brown corrected. “Josie, the oldest, is no more than fourteen.”

  Hart felt the bile rise in his throat. He loosened his already loose cravat. He needed air. He needed a drink.

  “You look very unwell, sir. May I get you anything?”

  “Nothing.” He deserved nothing.

  “They all write to me several times a week. It is part of their lessons. I know how many new lambs were born, and that your cook Mrs. Burrell dislikes children in her kitchen. Josie is trying to change the woman’s mind, with little result I’m afraid. Eden has repapered the parlor in a blue stripe that reminds her of the color of your eyes. Jane cannot spell or read very well as yet, and was never in my employ, but she writes as religiously as the rest of them.”

  “How many are there?” asked Hart, progressively more alarmed.

  “Only four. Josephine, Mary, Helen and Jane. I had high hopes for Josie,” Mrs. Brown added, sighing.

  The world had run mad. He didn’t begrudge the hiring of extra staff. Hartford Hall had been run in rather a slipshod fashion for years. His uncle had spent his money on inventive ways to terrorize Eden instead.

  But girls from the street, being trained for Mrs. Brown’s—his mind failed to understand what Eden was thinking.

  “Thank you for your time, Mrs. Brown. I shall see that the girls are returned to you.”

  “I shouldn’t mind that, if Eden can spare them. But not Jane. She will not do at all.”

  Hart was nearly out the door when she stopped him. “Eden is the most naturally sensitive, sensual girl I’ve ever encountered. She has a wild streak which Ivor sensed and damaged. She may think to tame it, but I don’t think it’s possible. And wholly unnecessary. You may need to go beyond a man’s conventional weaponry with her if you want her back.”

  Hart’s head was nearly split in two. “What do you mean?”

  “Show her that some of the things Ivor taught her can be pleasurable.”

  His head officially broke. “You want me to whip her?”

  “Of course not. You would never be so cruel, although your kindness to her has not served you well, has it? I suspect,” Mrs. Brown said, resting a cool hand on Hart’s scruffy cheek, “that she likes to be dominated. It gives her permission to feel as strongly as she does.”

  Hart shuddered. Eden had made allusions to that side of her nature, but he’d been convinced he could bring her happiness without that sort of thing. And he’d been more or less successful, before he’d bollixed it up with his distrust. “I couldn’t.”

  But he could. That night when he’d taken her against the wall was etched in his mind. She had been pliant, her arms pinned above her head, her eyes shining. He had been rough, brutal—and she’d come apart more quickly that she ever had. He’d temporarily lost his mind in anger, but perhaps that was the key to finding hers.

  And to be honest, it had thrilled him beyond reason to control her . . . except that afterward, she’d left him anyway.

  “We’re not talking chains or canes or anything uncomfortable. A silk blindfold. A soft rope. See if I’m not right. You’ll both enjoy it.”

  Hart had to get out of there before he lost his mind altogether. Iris Brown had been a font of information, none of it welcome. He hoped by morning he’d forget half of it. He’d head for Hartford Hall at dawn and get his life in order. Come to some sort of accommodation with Eden, no matter what it entailed. He’d tried to live without her, and he just could not do it.

  He had come, without warning. Mattie fussed over her but it was a futile hope to bring order to her person. She and the girls had been sketching the morning away, high on a windy hill, when Mattie made the breathless climb to tell her that the master had come home. There was time now for the pursuit of art, music, languages, all the pretty accomplishments expected of a well-brought-up young lady, advantages that Eden had to teach herself. Her girls would be fit to serve as exclusive ladies’ maids, companions or perhaps even governesses once their education was complete. Eden even hoped, if they so desired, that suitable marriages might be arranged somehow. She was perfectly willing to suborn the truth, or fashion it to suit the needs of her charges.

  The art lesson was abandoned. The measured tumble to the bottom of the hill had done nothing but bring more color to Eden’s face and wildness to her hair. She could spend
hours in her bedroom with her maid and still not tame herself.

  The children had been thrilled with Mattie’s news. It was their fondest wish for Eden to reconcile with her lord. The past months had been the happiest of their young lives. Their London cheeks had long ago lost their pallor, and each had grown a bit stouter. Mrs. Burrell claimed she didn’t care for children, but she fed them well enough. They were, however, sufficiently wise to know that Eden did not share their joy.

  “Leave off, Mattie. It’s hopeless.” Eden’s hair refused to stay smooth, and her dress was a rusty black leftover let out at the seams, not one of Juliet’s selections. She had at least removed her apron.

  “Don’t you move.” Mattie went to the dressing table and rummaged through the drawer.

  “Now what? He won’t like to be kept waiting any longer. Collins said he refused to even clean up and change.” Eden bit her lips, both out of worry and the attempt to bring some vibrancy to the surface. “I hope something is not wrong with Juliet or her boys.”

  As well as writing to Mrs. Brown weekly, she also wrote to Juliet, to preserve the fiction that all was normal with her and Hartford Hall. She had come back to a pile of letters that Juliet had been sending since before Christmas. Eden lived for Juliet’s letters, which always contained some small news of Hart. Eden suspected the woman did not know that her notes were the only communication of Hart’s activities she received. His aunt was still under the impression that one day Eden and Hart would be married, and each letter contained suggestions for the wedding that would never be.

  Mattie brandished the tweezers.

  Eden waved her away. “Oh, we don’t have time for this!”

  “Now, Miss Eden, it’s the least you can do to look respectable. You’ve become a right barbarian again.”

  Because it didn’t matter.

  Perhaps she should submit to the plucking, change her clothes from the skin out. Not that she would ever let herself love him again. She was done with that futile exercise. She closed her eyes and nodded. “Very well. And I think I will change after all. You pick something. Ouch!”

  As the minutes ticked by, Hart became increasingly impatient. He had expected Mattie to fetch Eden and bring her directly to the parlor, but most of an hour had passed. She must have entered from a side or kitchen door and gone directly up the servants’ stairs to her room.

  He knew she was back. He had caught the sound of girlish giggling, and one bold little baggage had poked her head around the door frame and stared at him with undisguised curiosity until she was finally frightened away by his glare. He was most tempted to join Eden upstairs just to get the confrontation over with. If he had to wait any longer, he might fall asleep on his feet.

  The blue wallpaper was an improvement, but the stripes were making him dizzy. Perhaps he’d go into the library and wait for her there. Have something bracing to drink. He nodded to Collins, who was hovering in the hallway. “If Miss Emery ever deigns to come down, I shall be in the library.”

  He walked down the dim hallway and opened the door. He was shocked at the transformation. Most of the shelves were now empty, thanks to the quick trip to the country Calvert had made last fall. Hart’s pockets were considerably plumper after the man had arranged a book auction for connoisseurs with tastes similar to Ivor’s. A large new globe had been placed on one corner of the library table. Surrounding it were some maps, carefully drawn in colored pencil. There were small jars of spring flowers, some of the shriveled blossoms picked apart on paper, each part labeled. A set of child’s letter tiles was stacked neatly on top of a primer.

  And there was not a drop to drink. The drinks cabinet was empty. Hart rang for Collins.

  “Where is the brandy?” he asked curtly.

  “Miss Eden uses this room as a schoolroom, my lord. She wished to remove temptation from the young ladies.”

  Hart snorted. Young ladies indeed. “I assume you still have some hidden away somewhere?”

  “Certainly, my lord. I’ll go fetch you a glass.”

  “Bring the bottle, if you please.”

  Collins looked at Lord Hartford with hesitation. Hart had refused the offer of a bath and had not sought the comforts of his bedroom or the contents of his saddlebag. He knew he radiated irritation, perhaps something even more disturbing. The butler probably thought poor Miss Eden would be in for it and wanted to come to her rescue. Eden did inspire rescuing, although it was infinitely too late.

  “Would you perhaps care for a pot of coffee as well? Some luncheon? Mrs. Burrell could prepare a tray, sir.”

  “Just the brandy.”

  Hart walked over to one tall window. Here was last fall’s vision come to life. The grass was a new green, the trees and shrubs were budding and flowering. His sheep dotted the hillside. Puffy clouds as white and fat as they floated across the sky. He had passed the home farm on the ride up the lane to the hall, its fields newly tilled and neat. John Pinckney kept him informed of the estate’s business, but somehow he had omitted to tell him his house was now a foundling home for underage strumpets.

  There was a tap at the door. A solemn dark-haired girl bore a tray with his bottle and glass. “Your brandy, sir. Lord Hartford,” she said, bobbing quickly. “Shall I light the fire? The room is chilly.”

  Hart shrugged. It was much cooler here than in the city, the mountains still snowcapped. He drank a glass of brandy in one long pull, poured himself another as he watched the girl set a taper to the kindling. It wouldn’t do to be foxed when he saw Eden, but he enjoyed the punishing burn right down to his gut. He decided to punish himself further.

  “What is your name?”

  The girl startled and turned. “Mary Bonner, my lord.”

  “You’re new here.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “Come from the village, do you?”

  “No, sir. From London.”

  “Ah.” He simply could not imagine this Friday-faced, flatchested child in anyone’s bed. But some men in their wickedness would be tempted by anything, he supposed. “Thank you, Mary. That will be all.”

  She scurried out of the room, no doubt to impart his description to her compatriots. He wondered how she’d convinced Collins to let her bring in the brandy. His house was upside down and must be set to rights. He looked at his watch again, then at the clock on the mantel. The portrait of the previous Lady Hartford that had once hung there had disappeared. Hart was suddenly struck by the fact that this picture had been on the wall all the while that Eden and Ivor engaged in their complicated games. If only her mother had been truly present, Eden might not have come to such grief.

  Hart shook the sympathy from his head. Eden was a consummate liar. She had lied to her mother, even if in his opinion the woman had been next to useless. She had lied to him. She had not trusted him enough to tell him what she was really up to, because she knew he would have forbidden her. He rubbed his eyes in exasperation, then took a moderate sip of the brandy. She thought so little of herself that she was more at home in a brothel than anywhere. He knew she mourned her sister, but to transfer her affection for Jannah to bawdy house housemaids was really beyond belief.

  But if it made Eden happy—somehow made up for the suffering she’d endured—he could probably allow her anything. He would do—be—what she needed. These weeks without her had been torment.

  He heard the rustle of her skirts and turned slowly from the window. There was no mistaking the faint hope on her rouged face or the depth of her considerable décolletage. She was certainly no longer the reed she had been when he first met her those months ago. If she thought to trap him with her womanly charms, she was sadly mistaken. He was already trapped. He set his drink upon the desk, keeping his expression neutral.

  “Good morning, my lord,” Eden said, curtseying quickly.

  “Is it still morning? I vow I believe you’ve kept me waiting through the afternoon. But it was worth the wait, Eden. You look well.”

  “Thank you. I feel well. What bri
ngs you to Hartford Hall, sir? If you had let me know that you were coming, I would have greeted you at the door and not kept you kicking up your heels. Surely you wish a bath and some refreshment.”

  “Not as yet. Sit down, Eden. I have matters to discuss with you.”

  She spread her skirts, beginning almost immediately to twist her fingers. “How may I help you, L-lord Hartford?”

  The name came so naturally to her in this library, and he heard the tremolo of fear. From her lips, it was not his name now, but his uncle’s. He had somehow returned her to her past. Here she was again, weak. At a disadvantage. He was just another imperious man dictating.

  He hated every inch of the library. It was here Eden had suffered. It was here where her mind broke, allowing her to become disordered enough to come up with this insane scheme with the children. If Iris Brown was right, Eden had been driven across the boundary from her natural inclination to submission to total degradation by his uncle. Hart would not take the same path.