“People of the dale,” she said, lifting her hand for attention. “This is a day of celebration, the beginning of a new age in our dale. I asked you here in the hope that you will share my belief.”
A long silence was broken by a lone male voice crying, “Aye!” Said another, “They ha’ nae sheep in London, I hear, but t’lady is mighty handy with the wee beasties!”
Eden blushed, but her eyes glowed with pleasure. “I have heard that May Eve has always been a time for celebration. And so we shall celebrate tonight, with games and music and prizes for the finest dancers.”
A few in the crowd cheered. Young men fidgeted on their benches and cast mooncalf glances at pretty young women. The murmur of enthusiastic response swelled and then faded into an expectant silence.
The back of Hartley’s neck prickled, and he turned just as the crowd parted to make a path for a new arrival.
The newcomer was no farmer. He paused just behind the outermost table, leaning on a polished, silver-headed cane, beaver hat in hand. He was handsome and dark, hair meticulously coifed, his suit of clothing fitted to his lean frame as if he had been sewn into it.
Hartley had met his like before. Not in this century, as men reckoned the years; when he had courted Eden, they had remained in the country despite all her urgings to the contrary.
But Hartley recognized this man for what he was: one of Eden’s kind. A son of privilege brought up, as she had been, to all the pleasures and comforts money and social connections could buy. The sort of polished dandy to whom Eden would naturally be drawn.
She stared at the visitor. He bowed.
“I beg your pardon for intruding upon your celebration, Lady Eden. Perhaps my call is inopportune, and I may come again at a later time?”
“Lord Rushborough?” Eden said. Hartley could hear the speeding of her heartbeat and the hitch in her breath.
Points of fire burned under the skin of Hartley’s forehead. The primitive, rutting male—the angry and powerful beast that was his other earthly self—recognized a dangerous rival.
With an act of will, he remembered that he was Fane. That he had but one claim on Eden, and it was not her body or soul.
Certainly not her love.
Like one enchanted, Eden waited while the dandy wound his way among the tables and stopped before her. “Lady Eden,” he said, “my deepest condolences upon your loss.”
Eden emerged from her spell. She smiled at the intruder and extended her hand.
“Lord Rushborough. This is an unexpected honor.”
Rushborough took her hand and kissed the air above her glove. “I do apologize. I had thought that Lady Claudia was aware of my visit to the countryside.”
Lady Claudia. Hartley remembered every nuance of his confrontation with the woman. He stared at Rushborough through narrowed eyes.
The dandy ignored him, as he would any servant. And so did Eden.
“You know how slow the mails can be here in the country,” Eden said with a lilt in her voice. “I confess that I did not expect to see you so far from London, in the midst of the Season.”
“But I had an excellent reason to come, Lady Eden.” He took a step back, raised his quizzing glass, and swept the curious gathering with his gaze. “I am not intruding?”
“These are my farmers and tenants. May I introduce you to Mr. Appleyard, our curate?”
“As you wish.”
She led the marquess across the lawn, and Hartley trailed behind. Mr. Appleyard looked up from his conversation as they approached.
“Lord Rushborough, Mr. Appleyard.”
The curate bowed hastily, quite overwhelmed. “An honor,” he said. “A very great honor indeed, my lord.”
Lord Rushborough nodded to the curate with casual condescension and looked at Eden as if nothing else around him was of any consequence. She made a random, uneasy movement that heightened Hartley’s vigilance.
“You have traveled a great distance, Lord Rushborough,” she said. “My aunt will wish to welcome you herself. Where are you staying?”
“I have taken a house in a neighboring dale—though I must say that you enjoy better weather by far. I can only presume that it is your presence here that works such wonders upon nature.”