THE FOREST LORD By Susan Krinard

“But it is what I wish to do. I am not unhappy—”

“So you have convinced yourself. But you were never meant to be alone.” She touched Eden’s chin. “That is why I asked the marquess to come to the Lakes.”

“You asked—?”

“Yes.”

Eden laughed to cover her vexation. “Shall I trap him in my toils and scheme to win a proposal, even while I wear widow’s weeds?”

“You need do no scheming, dear Niece. Lord Rushborough requires only the smallest encouragement to fall at your feet. He still desires you above all other women. He has told me so himself.”

Eden took a step back. “I appreciate your concern, Aunt. But I prefer not to be pushed.”

“Promise me that you will seriously consider Rushborough’s suit when he makes his offer.”

“I shall… think about it.”

“That is all I ask.” Claudia took her hand. “You know I wish the best for you, always. And that is why I urge you to discharge Hartley Shaw. It can come to no good.”

“I will concede that he is overly presumptuous, but—”

“I do not refer to his manners. This Hartley Shaw has some power over you, Eden. There is no other explanation for your attachment to a man so much inferior to you in rank and in every other quality.”

The urge to defend Hartley rose in Eden even as she choked on a denial. “You are quite wrong,” Eden said, as if the matter were of no consequence. “Hartley Shaw is nothing to me. I keep him on because Donal is fond of him, and he is good at his work.”

Claudia sighed and shook her head. “I fear for you, Eden.”

“You fear for me in the company of a man? Any man?” She laughed. “Please do not distress yourself.”

“I will not, if you agree to stay away from Shaw.”

“You have already demanded one promise of me this evening. But of course that is the real reason why you sent for the marquess, is it not? To divert my attention from my supposed peasant lover?”

“Do hot speak so where the servants might hear.”

“But they already know, don’t they? Have they not reported to you?”

“You have misplaced your judgment, my girl,” Claudia said sharply. “And as long as you are so lost to sense, I must think for you.”

As she had done for so much of Eden’s life. But not this time. “I will not turn the marquess away from Hartsmere, but I shan’t allow anyone—not even you—to tell me with whom I may keep company. Good night, Aunt.”

Driven by a fury stronger than any she could remember, Eden sought the freedom of the night. It seemed that everyone was intent upon manipulating her, pushing her this way and that: Claudia, the marquess, Miss Waterson… and Hartley Shaw. Perhaps him most of all.

The marquess was waiting for her just outside the door. She came to a halt and gathered her composure. “Lord Rushborough. I thought you… had gone for the evening.”

“Without saying a proper good night?” He seized her hand and kissed it. “I have missed you, Eden. Missed you terribly.”

“Lord Rushborough—”

“Francis. Have we not known each other too well for formalities?” He trapped her hands between his. “Forgive my boldness. I know you are still in mourning—but I also know how little affection you held toward your husband. It is right and proper that you should observe the mourning period, but after…” He pulled her close. “We were happy together. You know that as well as I.”

Eden did not answer. She ought to be feeling flattered and exhilarated that Lord Rushborough—Francis—had traveled the long distance to Westmorland to court her, in spite of her impoverished state and hasty departure from London. She still liked him, even felt affection for him. Her body remembered the attraction they had shared ever since their introduction by Aunt Claudia at Lady Morland’s musicale.

But it was no longer there. She felt strangely numb, as if she had been swimming in icy water.

“Lord… Francis… I am deeply grateful that you came to Hartsmere—”

“Grateful?” He chuckled. “My dear, when your aunt told me of the conditions here in the country and what you were forced to endure, nothing could have kept me away. Now that I see this place, I understand her concern. But once you are in London, where you belong—but I am too hasty. Forgive me. My rashness is merely the result of seeing you again.”

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