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Chester lifted a finger to graze the smooth brownish-red discoloration but caught himself and instead gripped the back of the seat.

The wine-colored spot covered most of Eden’s nape and extended both into her cloak’s collar and into her hairline.

He could well imagine her chagrin if others hadn’t been kind about the irregularity.

“I don’t think it’s unsightly.”

True, the blemish wasn’t something overlooked upon first seeing it, but neither did the birthmark compel him to gawk.

After releasing her hair, she picked up the ribbons once more and hitched a shoulder. Her nonchalance about the matter was a learned skill, he’d be bound.

“You are a kind man, and I think perhaps you try to find the good in others and in situations. Unfortunately, people of your character are scarce.”

Her compliment chaffed his conscience. Eden had only seen the charming, roguish Manchester Sterling, not the man he kept well restrained.

As a pair of birds whisked over their heads, she pressed her lips into a rueful closed-mouth smile. Raising up on the seat, she watched the birds’ meandering progress.

“The redwings will be migrating back to Scandinavia soon. I’m surprised they haven’t already. They’re very late in doing so this year. I like to sit outdoors at night and listen to them.”

She’d artfully changed the subject.

So be it.

Chester didn’t want her to be uncomfortable. He squinted at the birds as they swooped onto a Wentworth elm branch. His lack of knowledge regarding avian behavior of any sort chagrined him. He’d never before cared what flitted overhead or amongst the bushes and trees.

Did that make him a self-centered sod like his sire?

The notion galled.

Fighting a yawn, he extended his legs, propped his elbows on the seat back, and after crossing his ankles, lifted his face to the sun. He’d missed the country’s peacefulness and the invigorating freshness. Especially this time of year, with its abundance of foliage in bloom, filling the air with a heady natural perfume.

“At night?” he asked. “They’re nocturnal? I had no idea.”

He’d inquired about the birds simply to hear the low purr of her musical voice as she answered. Her speech lacked the affected air and often high-pitched simpering so many of the ton’s damsels affected.

“Redwings migrate at night.” She flinched again. The wagon seat wasn’t comfortable and the jostling no doubt aggravated her bruised and battered body. “It’s really quite spectacular to listen to. You ought to try it sometime, your lordship.”

With her? Tonight?

A splendid notion. A midnight picnic, just the two of them. With champagne too.

Fine, mayhap tonight was a bit too soon, but assuredly next week was permissible.

A few peaceful minutes later, Eden guided the cart down a narrow, rutty lane, foot-high grass covering the center between the grooved tracks.

Chestnut feathered chickens dozed in the sun or pecked the ground for insects on one side of the pathway just wide enough for the cart to pass through, and a small, well-tended orchard lay beyond the poultry yard. A half dozen woven conical bee skeps rested on low platforms amongst the fruit trees.

An aged man limped near what must be the barn—if the sagging excuse for a building could be called that. Upon spying Eden, the elderly chap raised a hand in greeting, and Eden gave a cheery wave in return.

“That’s Old Ronald. He once worked at the big house but grew too old to tend the gardens by himself. He lives here now, doing what he can to help. He has a room in the back of the barn but takes his meals with us. I don’t know what I’d do without him. He knows how to care for every type of plant, tree, and shrub.”

What she didn’t say was her brother had likely sacked Old Ronald when he became too decrepit to complete the work her miserly brother assigned him.

It wouldn’t surprise Chester if she didn’t take in every stray or needy creature around.

A decent sized greenhouse took up the rest of the yard, along with a flowerbed, three rows of rose bushes, and a vegetable patch. No small amount of work to be done at Briar Knoll, and Chester would be bound, given her slightly brown hands, Eden labored in the gardens herself.

On the lane’s other side, a quaint white cottage glistened in the morning sun. Yellow window boxes overflowing with colorful blooms graced the two front windows on either side of the faded black arched door.