Edenbrooke (10 page)

“That wasn’t even close,” I complained when we reached the stables.

He grinned. “I know. I had an unfair advantage.” He patted his horse’s neck. “He was bred to be a racehorse—he has the blood of the Godolphin stallion in him.”

“He is magnificent.” I looked admiringly at the pair of them. There was something about a handsome man astride a powerful horse that made my heart skip.

“Do you ride every morning?” I asked after we had left the horses with the groom and were walking back to the house.

“Yes, nearly. And you?”

“No. My grandmother doesn’t keep horses in Bath. I had to settle for a brisk walk—with a chaperone, of course.” I grimaced at the thought of returning to that life.

“I’ll have to amend that practice while you’re here. Consider Meg yours any time you want her.”

“Do you mean it?” I tried not to sound as eager as I felt.

“I do. You’re well-suited to each other: spirited enough to make it interesting without being difficult to manage.” He winked as I narrowed my eyes at him. Comparing me to a horse! What nerve!

We reached the house and he stopped to open the door for me.

“And so beautiful,” Philip said as I passed him.

I cast him a disparaging glance, and he laughed, as if he had said that only to see my reaction. Philip Wyndham was an incorrigible flirt, and I did not like that about him. Not one bit.

Chapter 9

At breakfast, Lady Caroline announced that she would be busy all morning. Having just returned from a month in London, she expected to be called on by all of her neighbors, and she was sure I would not want to spend my morning sitting in the drawing room. She was right, but I still felt obligated to insist.

“I wouldn’t mind meeting your neighbors,” I said.

She waved a hand, shooing away my good intention. “Some other time, my dear. But I wouldn’t dream of leaving you alone on your first day here. Philip, do you mind changing your plans? You can make up for your bad behavior last night by giving our guest a tour of the house.”

Philip cast an amused look at his mother, who smiled back at him with an air of innocence. “I would be happy to,” he said.

“Oh, may I join you?” Mrs. Clumpett asked, looking up from her plate with a smear of eggs across her upper lip. “I missed my morning walk with my husband, and I do feel it is important to have some form of exercise every day.”

I smiled at her. “Please do.” Now it seemed less of an imposition and more of a joint adventure.

I had seen most of the first floor, so we started on the second floor, which consisted mostly of bedchambers, similar in elegance and comfort to mine. Philip was behaving himself so well—being nice and friendly without flirting at all—that by the time we reached the third floor, I felt almost completely comfortable in his company.

Mrs. Clumpett exclaimed in soft tones of amazement over every room we stopped at as if viewing it for the first time. I found it impossible not to smile in her company, and credited her presence for Philip’s proper behavior. He even referred to me as “Miss Daventry.”

On the third floor, we came to a long gallery bearing paintings on each wall. I followed Philip’s lead and stopped in front of the family portraits. The landscapes I would come and look at later on my own, when I would have time to really enjoy them.

I looked at one portrait after another as Philip identified his various ancestors. I learned that his great-great-great-grandmother had insisted on calling the place “Edenbrooke” because she thought it was as beautiful as the Garden of Eden. After viewing a long line of distant relatives, we stopped at the portraits of his immediate family. There was Lady Caroline, years younger, and quite a striking beauty. Next to her hung a painting of a distinguished-looking man with the same wavy brown hair as Philip.

“My father,” Philip said, his voice hushed.

Philip’s father was not a particularly handsome man, but there was a quiet, serious expression in his eyes that made me pause and look at him again. “He looks kind,” I remarked, finally identifying the look of his countenance.

Philip nodded. “He was.”

I looked at the rest of the group, recognizing a younger Philip. The girl in the painting next to his must be his sister Louisa, who had become such good friends with Cecily. Philip pointed to a portrait of a young man with light hair and a bright, carefree smile. “My younger brother, William. He is coming with his wife, Rachel, in just a few days.”

They were the ones that Cecily and Louisa were staying with in London.

There was one portrait left. “And who is he?” I asked, noting he had the same jawline as Philip, but there was a languid expression about his blue eyes, as though he was bored with life.

“My eldest brother, Charles,” he answered curtly. Philip turned his gaze from the painting to me. In his eyes was a look so grave, and so regretful, that I had the distinct impression he had lost something he valued very much. The impression was fleeting, though, and by the time I recognized it, it was gone, and Philip had turned back to the painting. I was almost convinced I had imagined it entirely.

I stole a quick glance at Philip to compare him to his brother. Even though they were both handsome men, Sir Charles had a look about him that made him seem unapproachable. In contrast, there was something so very likeable about Philip’s countenance. He was both handsome and friendly, and, in comparing the two, I had no trouble deciding which one I would prefer to spend my time with.

Pausing before the painting, a thought flitted through my mind. This man—this Sir Charles—who was completely unknown to me at this moment, was the man my twin sister would marry. It was as good as done in my mind, for Cecily had never failed to achieve something once she set her mind to it. And she was not one to easily change her mind.

That would make Sir Charles like a brother to me, and Philip . . . well, Philip would be like a brother to me as well. We would be family, connected by Cecily and Charles’s marriage. I found myself smiling at the thought. I had never had a brother, but I thought I could imagine Philip excelling in that role.

Mrs. Clumpett was still examining the landscapes when Philip turned from the portraits and motioned for me to follow him down the hall. He stopped in front of a door on my left, which led into a large room with wooden floors.

“It’s a fencing room,” I said, noting the epees lined up inside the case on the opposite wall. I liked the echoing sound of our footsteps in the empty room and its lofty ceiling, lit from above by high windows. I sighed with pleasure and a touch of envy. “I have always wanted to fence.”

I immediately regretted my words. That was precisely the sort of thing that an elegant young lady would not say; Grandmother would be appalled.

But Philip did not look appalled—only curious. “Why this unholy interest in a man’s activity?” he asked with a smile.

“It seems like men are permitted to do so many fun activities—like fencing and hunting—while ladies are supposed to sit quietly in the house and practice their embroidery all day.” I cast him a pained look. “Do you have any idea how boring it is to
embroider
?”

“Actually, I don’t,” he said, with an amused smile. “But then again, I’ve never given it much thought.”

“Well, let me assure you that there is nothing exciting about embroidery. But fencing, on the other hand . . .” I looked at him appraisingly, wondering how bold I dared be with him.

He raised an eyebrow. “What scheme are you plotting?”

I considered the odds and decided it was worth a try. “I was wondering, since my father will not teach me, and I don’t have any real brothers, if you might . . . perchance . . . teach me how to fence?”

“Any
real
brothers?” Philip stared at me with a look that was part frustration and part amusement. “Am I correct in assuming you’ve chosen me to play the role of a
pretend
brother?”

I bit my lip. It was clear I had offended him. Of course it would seem very presumptuous of me, especially considering our short acquaintance, to think of him as family. But I could not explain my thoughts to him—I did not dare reveal Cecily’s plan to snare his older brother.

I tried to cover my embarrassment by smiling innocently. “Would you mind?”

His smile twisted, taking on an edge of mocking. “I already have a sister, Marianne.”

I cringed inwardly. It was just as bad as I had feared. My offense was obvious, and I felt stupid—so
stupid
—to have said what I did. Asking him to teach me how to fence? What young lady did that? And to assume a familiarity that he did not return? I burned with humiliation.

“Pardon me,” I said. “I should not have presumed . . .” I cleared my throat. “Please excuse me. I am sure you have better things to do today than entertain me.”

Turning on my heel, I hurried to the door, wishing the floor would open up and swallow me whole. I had made it across the wide room and had my hand on the door handle when he spoke.

“I’m disappointed in you, Marianne.”

I froze with my hand on the door.

“I never thought you would give up so easily. Especially after just one paltry set-down.”

I turned around, my pride responding to the challenge in his voice. I was not one to scamper away with fright. Especially not when handed a challenge. Lifting my chin, I said, “I am not giving up. I am going to ask Mr. Clumpett to teach me how to fence.”

It was a lie, and I was sure Philip knew it, but he smiled as he moved toward me. “Ah, but do you really dare face him with a weapon in his hand? Wasn’t dining with him dangerous enough?”

I bit back a laugh as I recalled the moment of alarm when Mr. Clumpett had launched his fork into the air while demonstrating the flight pattern of a certain species of bird.

“You may be right,” I said in an unsteady voice, my lips twitching.

Philip grinned. “I have a better idea,” he said, reaching behind me for the door handle.

I did not move, trapped as I was between Philip and the door. Tipping my head back, I looked into his friendly eyes, my pride draining from me along with my embarrassment. I had a feeling that no matter what his idea was, I would want to say yes to it.

“What?” I asked, smiling without reservation.

“Why don’t you join me for a game of chess? It’s not as exciting as fencing, but it can’t possibly be as boring as embroidery.”

I had been right. I did want to say yes to him. I was surprised at myself, for holding a grudge was one of my greatest strengths, or weaknesses, depending on how one looked at it. But a game of chess with Philip sounded like the most pleasant way to pass the afternoon.

“I would like that,” I said. “Where are we to play?” I asked as we left the fencing room.

“You will see,” he said, smiling at his aunt as she joined us at the top of the stairs. “I have saved the best of the tour for last.”

The library was tucked away on the main floor, down a short hall across from the drawing room. We had to turn a corner from the hall to find the door to the library, and when Philip opened it for me, I felt as if I had been granted entry into a hidden sanctuary.

It was definitely a man’s room—the furniture was rich brown leather in straight lines, and a stone fireplace dominated one wall. Bookshelves embraced the room on every side. At the end of the room, farthest from the door, was an alcove with two leather chairs and a small table between them, which faced a large window that stretched from the floor to the high ceiling. The window filled the room with light and framed a view of the southeast side of the estate.

I walked slowly into the serene, sunlit space, hardly noticing that Mrs. Clumpett had excused herself and barely registering the maid who stood in a far corner, removing books, dusting covers and spines, and then quietly returning them to their places. I stroked the back of a chair, gazed out the window, and turned in a slow circle, trying to take it all in. I was so captivated I did not even feel the least desire to twirl. To do so would have been irreverent, somehow.

“You like it,” Philip said, smiling.

I shook my head. “No, I love it.” I gestured to the bookshelves. “Do you mind?”

“Help yourself,” he said, settling gracefully into one of the chairs by the window. He looked pleased.

I looked at the titles on the nearest bookshelf and found a book on Greek mythology next to a book of poetry, which was flanked by a book on German philosophy. “How are these organized?”

“They’re not.”

I turned to him. “How do you find anything? There must be thousands of books here.”

“I like the search. It’s like visiting old friends.”

I studied him for a moment, intrigued by what he had just revealed about himself. Philip fit in this room as if it were a set of well-worn, comfortable clothes. I noticed with a twinge of admiration that he looked elegant even lounging in his chair, with his long legs stretched out before him. Catching a look of amusement on his face, I realized that I had been staring at him—again.

“You look surprised, Marianne.”

“I am,” I said frankly.

He smiled as if he liked my answer.

I returned to my perusal of his books and lost myself in the task. Unorganized like this, every step led to a surprise. I saw several books I wanted to look at more closely later, including a history of French politics and a book on gothic architecture. I was so absorbed in my reverie that I jumped a little when Philip spoke again. I had almost forgotten he was there.

“I’m curious about something,” he said. “What were you doing in Bath?”

I walked to the chair across from his and sat down. “My father sent me to live with my grandmother after my mother died.”

“And how did you feel about that arrangement?”

It surprised me that he would ask such a personal question after our morning of impersonal conversation. I sighed. My feelings were too complex to delve into, so I picked the simplest one as an answer. “I missed my home.”

“What did you miss about it?” His tone was quiet and the room was hushed, the sky outside growing overcast.