THE FOREST LORD By Susan Krinard

Eden managed a smile. “And I am flattered and honored. But—” She lowered her eyes. “My husband has been gone only six months. I have just begun to win the trust of the people here. There have been so many changes—”

He released her. “Of course. Now that I have taken the house at Caldwick, I will be able to come to you whenever you need me.”

“But the Season—”

“Can wait. The world can wait for you, Eden.”

But it cannot. It cannot. “Oh, Francis. You were always such a good friend.”

“And I hope to be so much more to you, my dear.” Without warning, he took her arms and kissed her. It was not a deep kiss, but the passion in it was plain.

And utterly absent on Eden’s part. Even Francis felt her constraint. He drew back with a puzzled frown and then dipped his head for another attempt.

“No.” Eden blocked his lips with her hand and pulled away. “No, Francis.”

He studied her face. “What is it, Eden?”

“I… I am in mourning, Francis. It is not proper—”

“Proper?” he laughed. “When did propriety ever encumber Lady Eden Winstowe? No…” His eyes narrowed. “You have changed.”

“Perhaps I have.”

“Has it something to do with that ill-mannered servant, Shaw?”

Eden’s face grew hot. “How can you speak so?”

“I observed the way he looked at you—and you at him. I simply did not wish to believe it.” He took her by the arms again and gave her a light shake. “Is it true, Eden? Can even you have sunk so low—”

She came within an inch of slapping him. Her sudden, aborted movement shocked them both.

“Lord Rushborough,” she said, “as happy as I am to see you, I cannot permit you, or anyone else, to presume to dictate my life!” She turned and fled, forgetting to pick up her skirts and barely avoiding a humiliating fall.

Rushborough didn’t follow. By the time she had reached the great oak that Donal had climbed but an hour past, she was out of breath and cursing herself for the worst kind of fool.

She considered returning to humbly beg Francis’s pardon, but her pride, shredded though it might be, remained largely intact. He had all but accused her of… of…

Of the very thing she had feared and wished for ever since she’d met Hartley Shaw.

She was so attuned to him that she felt no surprise when he appeared beside her.

“Who has made you weep, Eden?” he asked.

“I am not weeping.”

“As you wish.” He leaned against the fine old tree and gave it an affectionate pat. “Is it your aunt who has upset you, or Lord Rushborough?”

“I am a little weary of other people attempting to decide what is best for me and my son.”

He ran his hand around the curve of the trunk, drawing closer to her. “You do not like to be commanded, do you, Eden? You have always had your own way.”

Not always. She shivered. “It is you who seem to get your own way,” she said. “An unfortunate habit in a servant.”

“But acceptable in a peer such as Lord Rushborough. He, too, is used to getting what he wants, and what he wants at Hartsmere is obvious.”

Eden pressed her back to the tree and averted her face. “I told you—”

“That he is only a friend.” He laughed, but the laugh cut short. “Do you love him, Eden?”

The question paralyzed her. Hartley was just like the others, pulling her this way and that with questions and demands. But she could not hate him for it. Her heart began to beat a little faster.

“Were you lovers?” Hartley asked.

“No. All the ton thought it—even my aunt—but we never…” She swallowed. “I ended it when Spencer—my husband—became ill.”

Warm fingers brushed her cheek. “You have not answered my first question, Eden.”

“I do not answer to you, or Rushborough, or my aunt—”

“Then answer to your heart.”

The heart he spoke of had filled her throat, making it impossible for her to reply. His eyes mesmerized her, sent her tumbling into an endless forest of deep green.

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