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She might prove just the tantalizing distraction he needed.

Stewart poked his oversized head around the doorframe leading to the kitchen. “Missus, Miss Eden’s had a mishap. She needs help cleaning it up.”

Miss Eden?

Not a widow then. Bother that. Chester didn’t dally with innocents, no matter how bewitching their smiles or innocently seductive their eyes might be.

Unwarranted disappointment constricted his ribs.

“What’s this?” Bearing damp cloths, Mrs. Stewart bustled from the kitchen, her round cheeks apple-red from toiling over the hot stove, no doubt. Upon spying the slimy mess, she tsked and tutted. “Miss Eden, I’d about given up on you coming today.”

A shadow dimmed Miss Eden’s bubbly countenance as she accepted the linens. But only for an instant before her cheery smile returned full on.

“Alas, Mama had a difficult morning, and I wasn’t able to leave as early as I’d planned. But I promised I’d deliver eggs and herbs today, so here I am.” A rueful smile teased the corners of her mouth. “Those plants are a little battered, I’m afraid.”

Pointing at the basket holding the crushed greens, she curved her full mouth upward again, and Chester forced his attention away from her glowing face.

And those tempting bowed lips.

Women smiled at him all the time.

Incredibly beautiful and perfumed women. Many who regularly offered him much more than a radiant upward tilting of their rouged mouths. Elegant, coiffed, and graceful ladies, keen and qualified to be the next Duchess of DeCourcy. All the more puzzling then, why this little nondescript country mouse had him gawking like a young, untried buck.

“I don’t know what I’d do without your conservatory, Miss Eden.”

Mrs. Stewart lifted a bay sprig and held it to her nose. “I’d like lavender next time too, if you have any. I’ve a mind to try a lavender shortbread recipe my sister sent me.”

“I do, and mint as well. I know you enjoy mint tea.”

The young woman fluttered her ungloved fingers at the other basket. Short oval nails graced her small, elegant hands, which weren’t as milky white or soft as the ladies of his acquaintance.

“I’ve brought jars of honey to sell, and a present for you, Jane. Give me a minute to clean up the mess I’ve made.”

Thank God she hadn’t also dropped the honey. Eggs were bad enough, but honey was a sticky horror.

Without hesitation, she proceeded to wipe egg yolk and parsley off Chester’s less than gleaming boots. Trekking the last quarter mile along the mucky lane had caked his Wellingtons with a thick layer of mud. Though he’d scraped his feet before entering the Fox and Falcon, considerable filth remained.

“Here now, miss. There’s no need for that.”

He backed up a pair of paces. It unsettled him to have this pretty little thing kneeling, mopping at his splattered boots like the meanest of servants.

“Are you certain? A distinguished gentleman such as yourself cannot very well toddle off with yolk and shell sticking to your boots.”

Sarcasm?

Marquises didn’t toddle.

Well, perhaps if they’d unwisely drunk more than they ought on an empty stomach and were a trifle foxed, they might.

“Can you imagine what the villagers might say?”

She lifted a large piece of dark speckled eggshell from his toe.

Was she mocking him?

Lowering his lashes halfway, he considered her.

She pushed her hair behind her ear, and a troubled frown furrowed her brow, drawing his attention to the pea-sized birthmark near her hairline on the right side.