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“I’ll carry her inside. Quickly, prepare her bed,” Chester instructed the middling-aged servant crouched over Eden’s insensate mother.
Eden held her mother’s hand and patted her pallid cheeks.
“Mattie, do as he asks, and get cold water from the well.”
“Of course, Miss Eden.” Mattie, swiping at her round, wet face with her apron, rushed to do Eden’s bidding.
“Should I go for the physician, Miss?” Old Ronald hovered just outside the entrance to the barn, his face crumpled into deep grooves.
Mr. Wiggles walked in circles around Eden and her mother, whining low in his throat.
“No, not yet. She has medicine. She’s just suffered a shock, I think.” Eden brushed her mother’s cheek with her bent index finger. “Mama, wake up.”
“Allow me.” Chester lifted the frail woman—she hardly weighed more than a sack of grain—then hurried into the humble cottage. Easy to see where Eden had acquired her petite form.
The instant they entered the cottage, a red squirrel scampered off a shelf and just as quickly darted up Eden’s gown to sit atop her shoulder, chirping happily and fiddling with her hair.
“Not now, Acorn. Mama’s not well. You’ll have to wait to play. I’m sorry, sweet girl.”
She kissed the squirrel’s head, then placed the creature on the back of the divan where it sat on its haunches. Tiny black-nailed paws in the air and nose twitching, she nervously stared at Chester.
“This way, m’lord.” Eden indicated a narrow, open door off the tidy main room beyond which Mattie plumped pillows for her mistress.
He nodded and wended his way through the tattered furnishings and across the nearly worn through rag rugs. Had she picked the flowers in the vase centered on the table? Perhaps knitted the throw dangling over the sagging armchair beside the unlit fireplace?
Humble, but homey. And filled with love. That was how the cottage struck him. He preferred it over Perygrim’s cold, dispassionate grandeur.
After he settled Eden’s mother atop the bed and Eden and Mattie rushed to make the now conscious but befuddled woman comfortable, Chester cleared his throat.
“May I speak with you outside, Miss Eden?”
The servant tossed him a curious glance as she crossed to a dressing table, its mirror foggy from age. Three cobalt blue medicine bottles stood side by side atop the table, along with a spoon, a pitcher, and a glass on a simple pewter tray.
Eden hesitated, but after sweeping a glance over her wan mother, gave a short nod. She kissed her mother’s forehead, brushing her gray-threaded hair away from her thin face.
“I’ll be right back. Don’t do anything foolish while I’m gone.” She winked and squeezed her mother’s hand. “I don’t want Mattie telling me you were attempting cartwheels or back flips again.”
Miss Haverden offered a feeble smile and peered pointedly at Chester. “I believe an introduction is in order first, my dear.”
“Oh, of course. Forgive me my poor manners.”
The merest hint of color blossomed across Eden’s cheeks as she removed her cloak, revealing her figure to him for the first time.
What she lacked in stature she made up for in lush form, for no one could doubt she was a woman fully grown and deliciously rounded in all the places that mattered: the places a man enjoyed curving his hands around. Her serviceable gown showed signs of repeated wear: frayed hem, worn elbows—and if he wasn’t mistaken, a few skillful mends—and yet the unassuming garment didn’t detract from her loveliness.
She bent over her mother again, straightening the coverlet. A team of draft horses couldn’t have pried his appreciative gaze from the delightful view her upturned bottom provided. She straightened, and holding her mother’s hand, indicated him.
“Mama, this is Manchester, Marquis of Sterling. My lord, my mother, Dulcina Haverden.”
“The Duke’s younger son?”
“I am.” Chester inclined his head. “I am honored to make your acquaintance, and I pray you make a swift recovery.”
A wadded handkerchief pressed to her mouth, the woman coughed, her thin shoulders quaking from the tremors.
Folding his arms, one elbow atop his forearm, Chester rested his chin on his fist. For certain he wasn’t a physician, but he recognized illness when he saw it. What exactly was her ailment? Her prognosis? Was it as grim as his sire’s?
Was that another thing he and Eden had in common? The looming loss of their remaining parent? But in her case, she adored her mother, while every jot of affection he’d ever held for Father had long since shriveled up and died.
