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“What is so important that you have to set out yourself at eight o’clock in the morning?”

Lord Sterling’s question stirred Eden from her reverie. She’d been reliving that delicious kiss of yesterday afternoon. Even now, she could feel his firm yet soft mouth on hers. She’d wanted more. Yearned to pull him down beside her and explore the contours of his face and well-muscled body.

More than carnal hunger swept her along on that river of desire. Chester had tunneled his way into her heart. Had captured it, good and well. That troubled her more than her wanton behavior.

Thank God Mr. Wiggles had interrupted.

Reality, cold and stark, had lanced her to the core, reviving a modicum of common sense.

She’d been on the verge of compromising herself with a man she scarcely knew.

Which made her wicked and fast.

Her behavior would shame Mama’s. Dulcina had been unwilling, had been despoiled by Walter Andrews.

Eden, on the other hand, without so much as a finger lifted in resistance or a single objection, had melted into his arms, succumbing to the practiced rogue’s skillful kisses. Worse, she well knew the consequences. Had she not lived three and twenty years, scorned and ridiculed because of her birth?

When had she become an utter nitwit?

Since meeting Manchester, Marquis of Sterling, future Duke of DeCourcy.

She flicked her fan open and waved it. The past two days had been unseasonably warm, which was why she wore a simple, short-sleeved morning gown, and her shawl lay unused on the seat beside her. But the rush of heat overwhelming her had nothing to do with the sun outside.

“Eden?”

“I really think you ought to address me more formally, since I am in your employ now.”

She leaned against the carriage’s plush burgundy squab and considered appropriate alternatives, all the while fluttering the fan. The conveyance fairly floated along compared to her dogcart. She’d better be careful, or she’d become accustomed to this luxury.

“What do you suggest?” he asked.

He didn’t seem the least put off by her firm retort.

“Not Miss Haverden. That’s how everyone knows Mama. Perhaps Mistress Eden or Mistress Haverden?”

“Mistress?” His voice went deep and velvety. Wholly mesmerizing. Wonderfully wicked. “An interesting notion.”

The avid potency in his gaze—very much jungle green and slightly primeval as he lazily contemplated her—made her quiver to her toes.

A most stimulating and not at all objectionable quaking either.

Her gaze flew to his mouth, quirked into a knowing smile. Then to his eyes, brimming with the thoughtful amusement she’d come to know.

Good God. He didn’t think . . .?

He ought to be slapped for his impertinence.

She folded her arms across her chest, lest he see her unsolicited reaction.

Her mind and delicate sensibilities might object to his insinuation, but her young, healthy body most certainly did not.

As if he could read her tumbling thoughts, those probing eyes sank to her folded arms, and he chuckled whilst crossing his long legs.

“Eden, my sweet. All housekeepers are addressed as Missus. Even when they are unmarried. The staff will address you as Mrs. Haverden, as will Father. I promise to do so if anyone else is around.”

“You will do so all the time, because you might be overheard. A man of your integrity would never risk bringing censure upon me by doing otherwise. That means no more calling me sweet and most assuredly no more kisses.”

She had him there and couldn’t contain the jubilant twitch of her lips.