Page 9 of A Rose for a Rogue

But any relation of the Duke of DeCourcy was an avowed adversary of the Andrews. The reverse was true as well.

Only she wasn’t an Andrews.

Not legally, in any event.

How Simon Andrews would gnash his teeth if he learned she had even spoken to the marquis, let alone given him a ride. Well, what her half-brother didn’t know couldn’t hurt. Besides, not only was she past her majority, it was far past time this stupid feud between the Andrews and the DeCourcys ended.

She wasn’t sure she knew how it had begun a decade ago, but she had heard whispers and rumors. Mostly from the townspeople. Something to do with Simon and the duke’s eldest son claiming to have downed the same trophy stag.

Sheer ridiculousness if that was truly the cause of the rift. To declare an affair of honor over a red deer’s antlers. Certainly not worth a man dying for, or families—once the closest of friends—becoming sworn enemies.

Tattle also claimed Lord Sterling and the duke were estranged.

His Grace’s failing health was no secret, and for days the village had been atwitter in anticipation of the marquis’s imminent return.

“I wasn’t aware Andrews had another daughter.”

Clearing his throat, his lordship repositioned his hat atop his wavy auburn hair, a rich dark mahogany. Quite the most unusual shade she’d ever seen.

She lifted a shoulder whilst steering Peony through the neat mossy stone pillars on the village outskirts.

“It’s a poorly kept secret, of which I’m certain everyone is aware. Mama and I have lived at Briar Knoll Cottage for a number of years. I was away at school for seven of those. I’ve been back for eight now. Mama summoned me home when Walter Andrews died.”

“I heard of his passing. My condolences.”

“Thank you, but they are wasted on me. I never considered him my father.”

She would not call that fiend Father. Not even in death.

He’d never been anything more than the man who ruined Mama, despite his regular visits to the cottage, the occasional gifts, and his footing the bill for her boarding school.

Familiar disquiet washed over her, but repeated practice at controlling her expression and temperament around her mother to prevent distressing her, enabled Eden to mask her outrage and resentment.

Everyone believed she possessed an amiable disposition. Fortunate no one could see her gnarled, ugly thoughts. Still, it was one thing to entertain uncharitable musings and another entirely to act upon them.

“I was away at university as well,” Lord Sterling remarked in that dark honey baritone, while canting his head contemplatively.

Lord, those eyes.

She looked away, lest he catch her ogling.

“You must concede, it’s a rather unusual arrangement. You living on the same property as his heir.”

Keeping a forced mistress—the former governess to Walter Andrews’s daughters—and a child born on the wrong side of the blanket in a cottage just ten minutes’ walk from the manor?

His lordship didn’t know the half of it.

If ever a man was dicked in the knob, it had been Walter Andrews. Even his other daughters, Florence and Harriette, the ones Mama had been governess too, had rarely visited when their sire was alive and did so even less frequently since his death.

Giving Lord Sterling a considering look, Eden detected none of the typical censure or judgment the upper class generally bestowed upon her. Interest more than anything glinted in his compelling gaze.

“It is unusual, I concede.”

“It is.”

They jostled along in silence again for several minutes. After his extended absence, likely his lordship had much on his mind. Niggling worry about Mama’s fainting this morning continued to plague Eden.

She doubted they’d make Perygrim before rainfall began again. A swift perusal of the grumpy heavens confirmed her suspicion.