I regret that I have neglected to show my gratitude properly these past months. In my distress over recent events, I have behaved intemperately. I hope and trust that my visit to Caldwick will go a little way toward making up for any wounds my poor judgment may have incurred.
Yours in friendship,
Eden Winstowe
Claudia set down the letter and laughed.
Chapter 16
For the first few days after he read the letter, Hartley could not bring himself to return to Hartsmere.
He knew he was unreasonable. He even told himself that it was for the best. But he had come so close to a declaration that would bind him to Eden and her world forever—and it would have been a terrible mistake.
Deep in his woods, he raged and brooded. He beat his antlers against inoffensive trees and tore the ground with platter-sized hooves. The animals fled his company, and he could not blame them. Even Tod avoided him.
Eden. Eden. Eden. She filled his every waking thought and even his dreams. He might stay away for days, but no longer. He was a slave—he, a lord of the Fane—grateful for any scraps she might throw his way.
Scraps left from the lordly table of the Marquess of Rushborough.
After he had exhausted his wretched emotions, he went to Hartsmere’s kitchen, where Mrs. Byrne often spent her evenings chatting with Cook. When the Irishwoman saw his face, she glanced at Mrs. Beaton and quickly left the table.
“Come to my sitting room,” she said.
He slumped in the chair she offered and refused the tea. “How is Eden?” he asked.
“Worried. Waiting for you.”
Mrs. Byrne’s forthright directness was what made her one of the few mortals he could endure as a confidante. He had been aware for some time that she knew of his relationship with Eden and had not disapproved.
Hartley suppressed a scowl. “She has not come looking for me.”
“There was word of an intruder,” the older woman said dryly. “Would it not be unwise for her to venture into the woods at such a time?”
He stared at his boots. “I looked for the villain. He is nowhere to be found, nor did anyone else in the dale see or hear of him. He has not come back.” His first wild thought—that it might even be Eden’s aunt who had set the hunter on him—he dismissed as ridiculous. She was a town-bred lady, with no knowledge of hunting or weapons, and certainly none of the Fane.
“Then he is gone,” Mrs. Byrne said, interrupting his thoughts, “and good riddance.” She sighed and took a sip of tea. “I heard the whole tale from Lady Eden the morning after it happened.” Her knowing gaze hinted that she had surmised much more than she had heard. “But something else besides the attack happened that night. It has kept you away from the woman you love so soon after she almost died.”
He nearly bolted from his chair. The woman you love. How dare she speak so, as if she knew his mind?
He subsided back into the chair, stunned by the intensity of his feelings. Was it love, that he had been prepared to give up Tir-na-nog and stay with Eden until death? That he would sacrifice everything, even Donal’s chance at perfect happiness among his own kind, to remain with a mortal woman?
He could not absorb the idea of it, let alone the emotion. And at the moment his jealousy and anger were sufficient.
“Something else happened,” he agreed heavily. “I learned that Eden has dallied with me while she prepares to go to another man.” The last words came out as a growl, and Mrs. Byrne raised her brow.
“Is that it, now? The other man being the marquess, I presume?”
“Who else?” What was the point of this conversation? He only humiliated himself before a mortal to no purpose.
“Ah, jealousy.” Mrs. Byrne set down her cup. “It makes men do very foolish things, such as reaching false conclusions about those they care for. The greater the love, the worse the fool!”
Hartley bristled. He considered striking Mrs. Byrne mute or calling a mouse to chase her.