Improbable Eden Read Online Free PDF Page A

left a charcoal smudge on her cheek. “I tried to discourage him.”
    â€œ Without success.” Max stood up straight, shaking out his broad shoulders in the plain if well-cut riding habit. Perhaps, Eden thought, elevating his status, he was Marlborough’s secretary or valet. And maybe he wasn’t Norse, but German or Dutch. She didn’t realize that she was staring until Max snapped his fingers and made her jump.
    â€œ Well? Are you in a trance?”
    â€œ I’m in a quandary,” Eden replied. “Is His Lordship available?”
    Instead of answering directly, Max wheeled to the next door, opened it and went inside. She tried to peer into the room, but the opening was too narrow and the light too dim. She could barely make out masculine voices. Trying not to resent Max’s patronizing manner, she reminded herself that at least he had stopped insulting her. Obviously, Marlborough had reprimanded him.
    The door swung open and Max slipped into the passageway, a frown etched on his long face. “He’s still in pain, but he wishes to speak with you.” The look he gave Eden was frankly unenthusiastic.
    â€œ I know better than to tire out a sick person,” Eden declared with a toss of her head. “Indeed, there are few people in Smarden who know better than I how to attend the infirm.” She gathered up her skirts and lifted her chin as she went around Max. “I could even,” she added with a sharp glance over her shoulder, “do it in Kensington.”
    â€œ At Kensington. I referred to the palace, not the district.” His tone was ironic.
    Eden gripped the doorframe, considered delivering a stinging rebuke and once again reminded herself that Marlborough’s well-being was more important than his valet’s boorish tongue. Without so much as another glance at Max, she went into the bedchamber and carefully closed the door behind her.
    The shutters were latched against the pale winter light, and a single candle burned on a small nightstand next to the bed where the Earl of Marlborough reclined, dressed in shirt, trousers and waistcoat of fine if unembellished fabric. Without his fur-lined cloak and modish three-cornered hat, he was as plainly garbed as his valet—or secretary—and as unprepossessing as Curate Bixby. In one hand he held a damp cloth, and with the other he motioned for Eden to sit in the cane-backed chair next to the bed. While his gray-green eyes were alert, his face was haggard. Eden could see the years more clearly now, and guessed him to be in his forties.
    â€œ How kind of you to come,” Marlborough said after Eden sat down and began loosening the ties of her cloak. “I so hated to rush off, but this damnable headache overcame me as soon as I walked through your door.”
    Eden felt like telling the Earl that being under the Berenger roof was sufficient to give anyone a headache, but she held her tongue. “Have you tried the young stems of bittersweet? They’re said to cure head pain.”
    Marlborough’s smile was not without warmth. “You have an extraordinary knowledge of healing. Your foster mother’s doing, I believe.”
    â€œ She’s quite skilled,” Eden said without any grudge, though in fact she had always resented the attention Madame Berenger lavished on Smarden’s sick while skimping on affection for her foster daughter.
    Marlborough sat up, his stockinged feet hanging over the edge of the bed. Eden noticed that he seemed quite unruffled entertaining a young maid in such an informal atmosphere. “Your rearing has not been without some benefit,” he remarked, picking up a tiny vial from the rickety nightstand and splashing a few drops of opaque liquid into a pewter cup. “I shan’t ask you to share this wretched stuff, nor would you prescribe it, perhaps. There is wine in the cupboard, I believe. Prices in Kent are shockingly high for any brew save