THE FOREST LORD By Susan Krinard

The opportunity could not have come at a worse time, but she had to take it. “You did not join the hunt?”

“Not today.” His eyes were very warm. “I had promised myself to take you on a drive about the estate upon the earliest possible occasion. I can think of none better than now. If you agree…”

Eden’s stomach completed its plummet to her toes. “Of course.”

“Excellent.” He turned her about and led her to the carriage house, which in itself was fine enough to accommodate a baronet. The waiting horses were the best matched pair she’d ever seen, and the phaeton gleamed with newness. They might as well have been nags pulling a ragpicker’s cart in Seven Dials.

Eden sat beside Lord Rushborough, watching his deft hands on the ribbons. But other hands superimposed themselves upon his spotless gloves: rougher, larger hands, equally skillful, and gentle with instinctive understanding of the beasts he drove.

God help me.

Francis drove the carriage down the lane through the park, over rolling ground that gradually started uphill along a sloping fell. The coppices and woodlands were painted with color, and the smell of woodsmoke drifted on the breeze.

“It is beautiful,” Eden said, speaking the first words that came into her dazed mind.

“Thank you.” He was silent for a moment, clucking to the horses. “I have seen the miracles you have wrought at Hartsmere. I can only imagine what you might accomplish with… greater resources.”

“You compliment me too highly.”

He reined the horses in. “When will you call me Francis again, Eden? Must I beg you?”

“Please, do not. Francis.”

He nodded with an air of victory and urged the horses onward, up a gently winding road that climbed the fell. He kept up a largely one-sided conversation, but Eden knew that he was biding his time for far more serious discourse.

When he stopped the carriage again, it was at a glade beside a lovely little beck, a level portion on the fellside secluded from the outside world by a thicket of alders. Eden braced herself.

“I have had much time to think, Eden,” Rushborough said, “and I have come to realize that my feelings for you have not changed.” He met her stricken gaze. “I think I may reasonably hope that yours have undergone a corresponding alteration since last we were together. I am no callow youth, Eden. I can provide your son with the advantages you wish for him. The boy may not bear my name, but he will have everything else befitting a gentleman.”

He swept his hand wide to encompass all that lay below them. “I bought this estate for your sake. Hartsmere is not a proper setting for you, my dear. I would give you free rein to make any changes you wish. Indulge yourself, with no thought of expense.” He finally smiled at her, certain that what he offered was impossible to refuse.

He knew as well as she that a woman in her situation must be an utter fool, or mad, to turn him down. For Rushborough to promise to give up his carefree bachelor’s life for her sake, and Donal’s—her illegitimate son—she could scarce credit the change in him. It was almost as great as the one in herself.

“What you offer… is beyond generous.”

He seized her hands. “You know what you can do to make my life complete. Ah, Eden… once we are wed, nothing can prevent us from becoming the most sought-after couple in London. Those who cut you before will come begging to your door. You may have all the servants you wish. You need never lift your hand to any labor. You can devote your life to pleasure once again, as you deserve.” He kissed her hands, one after the other. “Say yes, Eden.”

Her throat closed, barring the painstakingly phrased speech she had prepared for this moment. Rushborough gazed at her unflinchingly. Confidently. Believing he had left nothing unsaid.

The same words that Hartley had left unsaid.

Hartley…

The horses shied violently, nearly upsetting the carriage. From the midst of the undergrowth a fox came running, low to the ground and frantic with fear. It dashed between the phaeton’s wheels, through the trees, and onto the open fell.

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