THE FOREST LORD By Susan Krinard

“Most admirable, I am sure, if you truly think—”

Mrs. Byrne appeared in the hall to take Eden’s bonnet and pelisse.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Byrne,” Eden said. “How is Dalziel?”

“Much better, my lady. I’ll tell him you asked after him.”

Claudia signaled to the housekeeper. “Tell Nancy to take Donal up to his room, Mrs. Byrne. He needs his nap before dinner.”

Eden almost protested. She resented Claudia’s interference with her son; in fact, she felt less provoked when Hartley Shaw behaved like a relation rather than a servant.

But she would not quarrel again. They were both suffering the strain of so many rapid changes. “By all means,” she said.

“I’m not tired,” Donal said, continuing to gaze at Claudia.

“Donal, it’s impolite to stare,” Eden said. She recognized within herself a tendency to be overindulgent with Donal, just as she had always indulged herself. It was not a comforting thought. She took his arm and felt the wiry muscles tense under her fingers. “Excuse yourself to your great aunt, and go with Mrs. Byrne.”

Donal pulled free with surprising strength, took Mrs. Byrne’s hand, and went directly to the stairs without a word. Eden felt the helplessness of inexperience, inadequate in the face of a child’s inexplicable moods.

“I fear he dislikes me,” Claudia said dryly.

“He just doesn’t know you,” Eden protested. “He barely knows me. Give him time.” And give me time to learn to be a mother. A proper mother.

“Of course.” Claudia took Eden’s arm and led her into the sitting room. “He is ignorant of manners and proper behavior. A good governess and tutor will correct that problem.”

I shall not argue, Eden reminded herself. “If you wish to discuss the hiring of servants, we might do it before dinner, when Mrs. Byrne comes down.”

Claudia was agreeable, and so they spent a few minutes in casual conversation until Mrs. Byrne joined them. Claudia said little, but Eden knew that she was taking in and absorbing every comment that the housekeeper offered. The more unpleasant discussion of budget and expenditure had yet to come.

An hour before dinner, when the aromas of slightly burned cooking drifted through some ill-sealed cracks in the wall, Claudia went upstairs to dress. Mrs. Byrne lingered.

“All went well today, my lady?” she asked.

Eden sensed that there was more behind her question than idle curiosity. “As well as can be expected, given the state of the dale.” She looked at her hands. “It is every bit as bad as you indicated.”

Mrs. Byrne clucked softly. “Never fear, my lady. I’ve a feeling that things will change for the better now that you’re home.”

Oddly comforted, Eden smiled up at the housekeeper. “I hope that your faith in me is justified.”

“But I do have faith.” Mrs. Byrne glanced toward the window. “Do you know what eve this is, my lady?”

“It is the twentieth of January, I believe. Why?”

“Tis St. Agnes’s Eve. In the old days, young maids were said to dream of the man they would marry if they fasted the day and were sure not to kiss anyone, adult or child.”

Eden laughed. “Well, I shall not be among the dreamers this night. I did not fast, and I’ve kissed Donal at least once today.” And I am most certainly no maid. Her body had reminded her of that nearly every moment she was with Hartley Shaw.

“As you say, my lady.” But Mrs. Byrne had a twist about her mouth that seemed to hide some secret knowledge. “As you say.”

That night, after a dinner somewhat improved from that of the evening before, Eden tucked Donal into bed and retired early. She had thought herself exhausted, but her mind would not let her rest. Long into the night she tossed and turned, her thoughts locked into a whirling pattern made up of Donal, the sad state of the dale, and Hartley Shaw.

She only knew she’d slept when she jerked awake, the sheets wrapped about her and her forehead beaded with perspiration. And then she remembered the dream.

She had dreamed, in stunningly erotic detail, of Hartley Shaw.

Chapter 6

I cannot thank you enough for your generosity, Lady Eden,” Mr. Appleyard said, bowing for the hundredth time. “The poor of the dale will be equally grateful, I make no doubt.”

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