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He closed his eyes, picturing the brisk fall morning they’d gone stalking. Frost iced the grass and shimmered in the spiders’ webs. Crisp leaves in shades of brown, gold, and burgundy had crunched beneath their boots. Cheeks whipped red by the autumn wind and fingers stiff from cold, impatient to find their quarry, the trio had separated from the rest of the more sedate hunting party.

Lord, the stag had been a magnificent beast standing betwixt the trunks, his noble head lifted, such wisdom in his knowing umber-eyed gaze.

“I had him in my sights as well. I saw everything. Only I couldn’t pull the trigger. Such a majestic creature ought to have been allowed to live. To die of old age in these woods.” He waved a hand, indicating the woodlands they rumbled past. “I’ve no doubt his offspring yet roam the meadows and copses.”

“I’m sure you are right. I have several deer that visit my orchard every morning. Their gentle beauty never fails to affect me. Once in a great while, I’ll feed them a little cracked corn, but I can ill afford to do so daily.”

No self-pity colored her voice, just the stark frankness that had marked all of their conversations.

Cutting him a sideways glance, she scrunched her forehead, her confusion evident. “So, what happened to cause so much ill-will that a stalking adventure became an affair of honor?”

“Simon and Byron fired at almost the exact same moment. There wasn’t any way to know which shot actually killed the stag. He was such a strong animal, I’ve often thought it took both to down him.”

That day, Chester had forsworn hunting forever.

Two grown men squabbling like intractable children over who slayed an unsuspecting stag. Not because they needed the meat, but because they coveted the superb antlers. Each had wanted to be the man to boast about his great hunting feat. As if killing a defenseless animal for sport made them some sort of hero.

Empathy softened Eden’s features as she peered across the expanse.

“They should’ve let him live.” For a moment, her tender gaze caressed his face, and welcoming warmth spiraled upward from his belly. “I’d vow you tried to tell them what you saw, and they refused to hear it. Their pride and arrogance prevented them from considering you were right. That same pride and arrogance led to the stupid duel too, didn’t it?”

For an instant, he sat dumfounded.

She understood.

“Indeed, it did. Byron, always hot-headed and ready to take offense at the least perceived slight, issued the challenge. Neither would listen to reason, however. He named me his second, and I could do naught but agree in the hope I could persuade him to settle the matter another way. The duel was only to have been to first blood.”

Chester pulled his cuff down even as the scene played out in his mind again, as it had too many times to count over the years. Inevitably, he asked himself the same critical question: Was there anything he could have done to save Byron’s life?

Expertly steering the old cart to the right of a large puddle, Eden crinkled her forehead again. Every time she did that, the mark on her forehead twitched.

“But, if it was only to first blood, then how . . .?”

“Your brother had first shot. He aimed to Byron’s right, but our father arrived and shouted for them to stop. My brother panicked and tried to leap out of the way. Instead, he dove right into the line of fire. Nothing could be done. The wound was lethal.”

If Byron hadn’t been a coward, he’d be alive, and this hatred between two families that had once been friends wouldn’t exist. Actually, if Simon and Byron had put their pride aside and had been willing to discuss the matter, all this pain and turmoil could’ve been avoided.

Another bird soared overhead, and Eden squinted up, marking its path. She rubbed her forehead with her fingertips before sliding her thoughtful regard to the clearing once more.

“So, Simon never intended to kill your brother?”

“I don’t believe he did, but my father didn’t see it that way. He refused to consider that Byron’s own spinelessness cost him his life. Father was overwrought with grief, unable to think rationally. I believe for his sanity’s sake, he had to find someone—something—to blame. Father simply couldn’t accept the truth.” Still couldn’t, and the inability had warped his reason. “That Byron had been a poltroon. Such a black mark against the duchy couldn’t be tolerated or acknowledged. Honor above all else and all that rot, you know.”

His diligence slipped and cynicism weighted his last words, making them more strident than he’d intended.

“And now Simon and his grace are so filled with hatred, logic escapes them,” she said.

A bump in the road sent her hair to swaying. The long strands, hanging past her waist, brushed the curve of her nicely rounded bottom bouncing on the seat.

Chester wasn’t sure which tempted him more—her swaying hair or her pert bum.

He was determined to move on, forge a new reputation for the duchy, and perhaps in time, reconciliation between the Andrews and the DeCourcys might occur. Surely his running into Eden was fate. Well, to be precise, she’d run into him. But the point was, they seemed to be getting on famously.

It was a start at mending the breach between their families.

He hoped it would become much more.

He couldn’t recall the last time he’d talked so comfortably with a woman, was so at ease in her presence. He didn’t have to worry she’d misconstrue an innocent remark in the hopes of snaring herself a dukedom. He didn’t have to feign interest in bobbles and gewgaws nor endure inane conversations about the weather and what the latest on dit circling the upper parlors was.

“Eden, may I ask you something personal?”

“You may, my lord, but I cannot promise to answer.”

Blunt as always. Was she even capable of dissembling?

She hadn’t chastised him for using her given name and not the more proper Miss Eden. That was a good indication, wasn’t it? Yet, she insisted on using his title. Not that he blamed her. Those not born into nobility had decorum drilled into them from birth, always to respect the peerage. Nonetheless, he’d far prefer Eden thought of him as a man and not an aristocrat.

“Why do you defy fashion and wear your hair down? I’ll admit I quite like it.” He did. Even now, he itched to run his fingers through the shiny strands to see if they were as luxurious as they appeared. “Your hair is lovely, such an unusual shade.” Light honey. That was the color. Rich and sleek. “But most women do their utmost to conform to society’s strictures.”

Then again, Eden certainly wasn’t like other women. Most assuredly wasn’t anything like the haut ton’s elites, which was exactly why he found her so deuced alluring.

She gazed at him for another of those long, contemplative moments. So long, he found himself drowning in the pools that were her eyes. At last, she gathered her hair into a long, thick rope and lifted it off her neck. Angling her head, she exposed her nape.

“I have an unsightly birthmark that draws unpleasant attention if I wear my hair up.”