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A small sigh escaped him before he took a sip of the strong coffee sweetened with two sugar lumps.
Why had he expected anything to have changed?
Father blamed him for Byron’s death. He’d made that abundantly clear last night. It did rather scrape nastily to know Chester’s sire wished him dead so his brother might be alive.
If it weren’t for his confounded duty to the duchy, he’d be away today. Nothing else held him here.
Captivating blue eyes danced across his mind.
Well, there was that intriguing female upstairs he’d like to become further acquainted with.
Once he’d determined everything was in order and consulted with the physician, he’d make a decision about whether to stay on. Residing in the same house as his sire after all these years he couldn’t do.
Not yet.
Mayhap not ever.
He’d already asked to have his possessions moved to The Lake Cottage. Which, luckily for him and his fascination with a certain azure-eyed nymph, was directly across Lake Blackton from Briar Cottage. If he stood on the dock a short distance from the house, he could see the windows of Eden’s home.
His attention gravitated to the doorway again.
She still hadn’t come down.
Was she unwell?
Unease swept him, and he straightened as he set his cup down.
Why hadn’t he considered that before?
Fool.
He should’ve insisted she be examined by a physician last night. She might be feverish, fighting lung fever, unable to call for help. Or afraid to after her hostile reception last night.
Tossing his serviette on his plate, Chester shoved his chair back. A movement beyond the window caught his attention, and he whirled to face the drive.
Her long hair skimming her behind, Eden rattled along in her dogcart. A serene Mr. Wiggles sat beside her as they rolled down the driveway.
Without a farewell.
How could he blame her when his father had called her a whore upon their first meeting?
Chester had almost said, “For shame, Father, she’s not any such thing. She’s the future Duchess of DeCourcy.”
Where such an obscure notion had risen from, he couldn’t fathom. He wasn’t given to rash impulses. He’d refrained mostly because Father might’ve expired on the spot, and even with as much discord as there was between them, Chester didn’t want the albatross of causing the duke’s death on his conscience. Besides, unlike his sire, he didn’t stoop to deliberate cruelty, and he’d never put Eden in such an awkward position.
His concern for her health had been genuine. In retrospect, insisting she stay last night mightn’t have been the wisest of choices.
Nevertheless . . .
Chester wrenched open the French windows leading to what was once his mother’s immaculately attended rose gardens. Pelting across the weed-choked stepping-stones, all the while waving his arms in a manner befitting a rambunctious child, he called her name.
“Miss Eden, please wait.”
Even to his ears, he sounded frantic.
Just like a love-struck swain.
She turned her head and gifted him with one of her incredible smiles over her shoulder.
