THE FOREST LORD By Susan Krinard

All of them were her kind: of the ton, the sons and daughters of peers and gentlemen. They knew the games as well as she. The glossy veneer of Society lulled her into an illusion of contentment. Suddenly her collection of gowns seemed very modest indeed. She missed the jewelry she had sold to bolster the estate. She found herself at the mirror in her room, looking for new wrinkles or sun spots.

Every hour she rediscovered some forgotten amusement or turn of conversation. Everything she saw was stylish and beautiful and expensive. Dinner was a lavish, sparkling affair that might have been held in one of London’s finest dining rooms. Duchesses and marchionesses, viscounts and earls sat side by side with distinguished knights and wealthy gentlemen. No expense had been spared. Eden felt simple pleasure in just holding the crystal goblets and sipping the costly French champagne, luxuries to which she had once been accustomed and seldom questioned.

That evening, Francis escorted her to her room to say good night. Everyone else must have seen, but he was scrupulously proper and not in the least forward. She tried, and failed, to broach the topic that was sure to give him pain.

In the morning, Eden slept late and was still one of the earliest down to breakfast. The next day went by with the speed and fantastic, unreal atmosphere of a carnival, and once more she was unable to meet the marquess alone.

On the second morning, the men went out to observe a fox hunt with the local fell pack, kept by the neighboring squire.

Among those women who had elected not to join them, Eden sat in the shade of a grand old beech, struggling with the disquiet that had settled over her since she had learned of the hunt. She ought not to have been surprised; this was shooting and hunting season, and it was no wonder that Francis’s sporting friends should wish to partake of his generosity in sharing his coverts. There was already eager talk of a shoot tomorrow, since Lord Rushborough had hardly touched his birds.

This was an aspect of Society she had tried to forget. Who had been a greater sportsman than her father? How many autumns and winters had she been forced to endure the countryside she loathed, and produce great mountains of embroidered handkerchiefs and pillowcases, because he had insisted upon having her with him when the Season was finished?

But she had stayed away from the hunting fields. She had carefully not looked at the bagged birds Lord Bradwell’s servants brought into the kitchen. And now…

Now she knew something of the creatures who lived in those woods and fields. The creatures facing death at the hands of her own kind. They were no longer merely dumb beasts to her—not fox nor pheasant, badger nor rabbit, mouse nor stag.

Hartley would be ashamed of her for permitting such cruel sport. She saw his face, and behind it the noble head of a stag, antlers branching high and wide against a blue sky.

Unreasoning terror halted all other thoughts and left her mind spinning. Hartley. The stag.

It could not be. They had lain together, laughed, loved. She had accepted that Hartley was not an ordinary man, but she would have known if he and the creature who called himself Cornelius were one and the same. She would have felt it in her very soul.

But he knew so many things about her that he should not. He behaved like a peer of the realm, not a laborer. He acted as if he were Donal’s father.

Her stomach in knots, she rose unsteadily and strode away from the house, seeking answers no one at Caldwick could provide.

“Ah, my dear.” She stopped abruptly at the sound of Francis’s voice. He stood before her, looking bemused. “You seem troubled. Is something not to your liking at Caldwick? Please tell me at once, that I may correct the omission.”

“No. No, my lord.” She forced a smile. “Your hospitality lacks nothing. Please forgive my freakish tempers. I have become quite unused to such luxury.”

“How formal we are.” He tucked her arm through his. “Here it is, a beautiful morning, and at last we have a moment to ourselves.”