Page 37
“I fear the parish would object. Because of my birth.”
She probably had that right. Even commoners oft’ frowned upon those born out of wedlock, though why anyone thought it appropriate to blame the progeny baffled him. Of course, if she had a rich father—well she had, but he’d not bestowed a dowry upon her—she might’ve married well. Blueblood by-blows often made good matches. Or she might’ve chosen to remain independent, had Walter Andrews bequeathed a yearly allowance on her.
Yes, but Eden Haverden wasn’t aristocracy. She had no dowry or one hundred pounds a year. Her choices were neither plentiful nor pleasant.
Chester sank onto the wobbly bench, and because her small hand was within reach, he covered it with his palm. But only for instant. That was enough time for another jolt to sluice through him and another notion, this much more wicked than his prior one to leap to the forefront of his mind again.
She’d make a splendid mistress
He could set her up in her own house. Arrange for someone to care for her mother. Hell, even let her have her chickens and bees and that terror of a squirrel too.
Where had his control, vigilance, his discipline scampered off to?
Even his carnal urges and randy thoughts were refusing to bend to his will.
More on point, where had his decency and chivalry got to?
In his very bones he knew Eglantina Eden Haverden would never agree to be a kept woman. She’d hate herself, and at the moment, he didn’t regard himself with any great fondness for even minutely entertaining such a degrading thought about her.
“And you’ve no other family or friends?”
She’d said she didn’t, but he wanted to be sure before he made his proposition.
“None. Simon’s sisters have always been much kinder than he, but neither has ever showed any interest in a relationship with me. Mama’s brother died five years ago.”
“So, you truly have no alternatives?”
She pursed her lips and assumed a thoughtful mien. “There’s always a soiled dove or mistress, though I’m not entirely sure how one goes about either.”
A moment ago, he’d very briefly entertained the same notion, and now coming from her sweet mouth, the suggestion sounded as vile as any he’d ever heard.
Eden would never stoop so low.
Not as long as he drew breath.
She crossed her ankles and flicked that blue-eyed gaze over him.
In reproach?
“You needn’t look so affronted. I’m but teasing, my lord. My, but you do blow prickly one minute and jovial the next. It’s a bit disconcerting.”
Years of carefully constructed walls and embedded behaviors, brought about by deliberate intent, crumbled with her observation.
“Eden, I would never let you be reduced to such desperate circumstances.”
“I appreciate the noble sentiment, but we both know I’m not your responsibility.” She winced slightly, then coughed into her hand. “I beg your pardon.”
Her voice held the merest bit of scratchiness. Was she becoming ill? On top of the other blows she’d been dealt today?
Chester slapped his knees.
By God he’d do it. Toss common sense and decorum to the four corners of the earth.
Father very well might suffer an apoplexy.
People would no doubt twitter and gossip.
His friends, particularly the Duke of Harcourt and Alex Wimpleton, would claim he’d lost all reason, but if Eden was amendable to the suggestion, what did it matter?
