Edenbrooke (17 page)

His words flew at my heart and scattered its rhythm wildly. I looked away.
Say no,
I told myself.
Say no.
It would be quick and easy. It would accomplish exactly what I needed to have happen. But my heart would not allow me to speak, no matter how I struggled to form the words. Had he just moved closer? How small was this stall? Too small. Definitely too small, because for some reason Philip felt the need to rest his left hand on the wall above my shoulder, trapping me too close to him.

I took a half-step backward, my back pressing against the wall. This stall was much too warm, and Philip was much too close. Without thinking, I put my hand on his chest, meaning to push him away. But as soon as I touched him, I froze. All I could do was watch my hand rise and fall with his breathing, while my heart evaded all of my attempts to corral it. I had to push him away. Now. I put my other hand on his chest, hoping it would give me the strength I needed, but that made it even worse. My thoughts scattered with the currents of emotion that raced through me.

He was waiting for my answer. But it was an impossible question. As impossible as the question he had posed to me my first night here, about whether or not this was normal. I had to cut these ties of significance between us before Cecily arrived. Cecily was my sister, my twin, my other half. She was the sun to my moon. She was the only one left in my family who still cared about me—who still wanted me. I could not betray her. I
would
not betray her.

I stared at the buttons on his coat and took a shaky breath. “Y-yes, of course I care about your feelings, Philip. You have been a . . . a good friend to me, and a generous host.”

He held perfectly still. “Look at me, Marianne,” he said in a quiet voice.

I raised my eyes to his cravat, but no further.

“My face, please,” he said with a sigh of exasperation.

But I couldn’t. There was too much between us in this moment, and it terrified me.

Philip raised a hand to my face and lightly slipped his fingers under my chin and nudged it up. I had to tip my head back to look at him. His fingers brushed my jaw, my blushing cheek. My heart threatened to jump out of my chest, and there was a fire spreading through me, threatening to consume me as well as my good intentions.

“A good friend?” he asked, when I was finally looking into his eyes. “And a generous host? Is that all?” His voice was husky and caused a thread of ache to pull through me.

Without warning, I was trapped in Philip’s gaze. He was so close—almost close enough for me to find that great, important, beautiful truth he was hiding. It took all of my concentration to persuade myself not to slide my hands up his chest, over his shoulders, around his neck, not to curl my fingers into his hair, not to pull his head down to mine . . .

Good heavens, what was wrong with me? Philip was a friend, and nothing more. So why was that suddenly so difficult to believe? Why was it so much easier to believe I was falling into that
something
I had sensed on that rainy day in the library?

Chapter 15

I took a deep breath, trying to clear my mind. I could not fall for Philip’s tricks. Never mind that so many other ladies had. Never mind that it felt inevitable. My loyalty to my sister was more important than the pull I felt.

“Yes. That is all.” I forced myself to look into his eyes as I said the words so he would believe that I meant them.

Something dark flickered in his eyes, and then he looked up, above my head. I sensed a great struggle within him, and watched as a muscle jumped in his clenched jaw. He finally lifted his hand from my chin and pushed away from the wall. My hands fell away from his chest as he stepped back a pace.

Even though I had refused to succumb to the emotion I felt, I couldn’t help but notice how handsome he looked with his cheeks ruddy and his eyes burning. And when he raked his hand through his hair, I couldn’t help but follow the movement with my eyes, wondering what it could possibly feel like to bury my fingers in his hair.

“Very well,” he said in a quiet but rough voice. “If you care about me at all—as a friend, or even as just
your host
—then don’t run off like that again. Don’t make me worry needlessly.”

“I won’t,” I said in a shaky voice. “I promise.”

I had to turn away. My gaze rested on Meg. I had come in here to do something with her, but now I couldn’t think what. The stall was too close and too warm, and Philip was too . . . Philip.

“I’ll have a groom take care of her,” he said. His voice was strained but gentle.

He picked up my satchel and gestured for me to precede him out of the stall. The setting sun cast golden paths between the trees, leaving much of the area cooling in shade and the blue-gray light of oncoming dusk. When we emerged from the stable, I pulled in a deep breath of fresh air. This was better. Open spaces and fresh air should clear my head, and my heart. It should clear the thick emotions between Philip and me.

But I sensed something deep and taut connecting us. It made our silence feel uncomfortable, and I wasn’t used to that with him. I was used to comfort and familiarity, not tension and awkwardness. I wondered if everything between us was really so fragile that it could be ruined in just one day.

As much as I had lectured my heart about the need to destroy my friendship with Philip, I panicked at the thought that it might have already happened. I wasn’t ready. My heart had not been schooled enough to accept it. And Cecily wasn’t here yet. I peeked up at Philip and found him looking down at me with a thoughtful expression.

“What did you do today?” he asked.

“Oh, I just painted,” I said. “What did you do?”

“Absolutely nothing. I simply sat in my library and thought about you all day.”

When I looked up at him in surprise, he winked.

I was so relieved I laughed. He was flirting with me, just like he had always done. Nothing had to change. Not yet. Once Cecily arrived, I would cut him out of my heart. But for right now, I would enjoy this moment.

“You did not,” I said, because that was how we played our game.

“That’s what you get for trying to change the subject. May I see what you painted?” When I hesitated, he smiled at me in the way I found impossible to resist. “Please? I want to see what was worth making me worry about you.”

I glared at him. “That’s a low trick.”

“Yes, but effective, I think,” he said, stopping and turning to me.

Philip was nothing if not persistent. Sighing with defeat, I took the satchel from him and pulled out the painting. I handed it to him hesitantly, anxious about his reaction. I watched his face carefully and was not disappointed. His immediate reaction was a mixture of surprise and appreciation. The expression that followed defied definition. I couldn’t find a word for the emotion I saw in his eyes when he looked at me.

“I’m afraid I can’t give this back to you.”

I smiled. “What a nice compliment. Thank you.” I reached to take the watercolor back from him, but he stepped away from me.

“I am in earnest. What do you want for it?”

I was sure he was teasing. “It’s not for sale.” I moved to take it from him, and he hid it behind his back with a grin, clearly enjoying our new game. I regarded him thoughtfully. I considered trying to wrench the painting from him, but decided I would probably be unsuccessful in the attempt. He smiled smugly at me. Now I had to try.

I reached around him, but he snared me quickly around the waist with one arm while he held the painting safely behind his back with his other hand. I was taken off guard by his unexpected touch and the warmth of his body against mine. I stepped away quickly, and he released me.

“You didn’t really think that would work, did you?” he asked with a smile.

“No, but I thought it was worth a try.”

“Yes, it was definitely worth that,” he said with a rakish grin that made me blush. “Would you consider a trade?”

His question sparked my curiosity. “What kind of trade?”

“That’s up to you. What do you want?”

There was nothing suggestive in his voice, but in his eyes I saw a host of possibilities. My face flushed hot, and I found myself suddenly tongue-tied. Wicked flirt!

“I can tell by your blush that you’re too shy to ask for it,” he said. “Would it help if I guessed? I would know the right answer by the shade of red on your cheeks.”

It was impossible not to laugh. “You’re atrocious.”

I held out my hand for the painting, but he shook his head, clearly not ready to give up the fight.

“What about Meg?” he asked.

I was startled. “I couldn’t take Meg.”

“Why not?”

“It’s a horse, Philip, that’s why not. She’s far more valuable than that painting.”

“Not to me.”

I shook my head. “It’s absurd. I couldn’t do it.”

“Something else then.”

“Why do you want it so badly?” I asked.

“Don’t ask me that. Just tell me what your price is.” He said it with a smile, but there was an unmistakable glint of determination in his eyes.

I sighed, knowing Philip was relentless once he set his mind on something. “There are only two things that I really want, but you can’t give me either of them, so there’s no sense in telling you.” I held out my hand again.

Philip ignored my hand. “I want to know.” The teasing was gone, replaced with utter determination.

“Very well,” I said, knowing it would make no difference in our battle. “I want my father to come home, and I want the locket the highwayman took. It had a picture of my mother in it.” I saw a flash of sadness in Philip’s eyes; it made my heart ache. “See? You can’t give me either of those things, so I must insist on keeping the painting.”

He studied me in silence for a moment, then looked back at the watercolor. I felt suddenly transparent, as if he was looking at the deep recesses of my heart, and I cringed inside with the sense of vulnerability it gave me.

“It appears we are at an impasse, then, because I cannot give this up.” He looked at me with a speculative gaze. “I have an idea: let’s keep it somewhere we can both enjoy it until we’ve agreed on a price.”

“The library?” I guessed. I sighed at the smile Philip gave me. “Very well. But if we can’t agree on a price before I leave, then I will take it with me, and you will have to let it go without a fight.”

“Agreed,” he said with a smile that told me he thought he was going to win. But this was one contest he would not win. For I had painted my heart into that picture, and I would not let him have it.

The following morning was very much the same as every other morning I had spent at Edenbrooke. I once again met Philip at the stables for our early morning ride. Once again his horse beat mine in a race. And once again we talked and laughed as we walked back to the house together. But through it all, I sensed that everything we did was not part of an ongoing routine, but the final act in a play that would conclude this afternoon. Cecily was expected to arrive today, along with Louisa and William and Rachel. And nothing would be the same again.

A sense of melancholy stole over me as I changed out of my riding habit. So I stayed in my room instead of going down for breakfast and tried to find solace in my drawing. While sketching the prospect from my window, I attempted to convince my heart that there was no need to grieve over losing something I had enjoyed for only a week. It was only a morning ride with a friend, and nothing more. But my heart had become more difficult to deceive lately and accused me of being a liar.

I frowned at my sketch. Surely my heart was inferior to my mind and will. I would simply have to exercise more control over it. It had learned to obey me after greater losses than this. It would obey me again.

A knock at the door interrupted my thoughts. A servant had come to inform me that I had a visitor. Taken off guard, I quickly smoothed my hair before following him downstairs. Who could be calling on me?

I paused in the doorway of the drawing room, surprised to find Philip there; he was supposed to be meeting with his steward. I was also surprised by the swift look Lady Caroline sent me, as if she were trying to guess my feelings with a glance. But most of all I was surprised to discover that my visitor was a stranger to me.

He had golden blond hair done in the Brummell style. His collar points reached all the way to his cheekbones, his waistcoat was daring but tasteful, and I counted three fobs. He carried himself with an air of confidence and a flair for fashion that impressed me.

The gentleman bowed elegantly. “Miss Daventry?”

“Yes, what can I do for you, Mr. . . . ?”

“Beaufort. Thomas Beaufort.”

I sat next to Lady Caroline, and Mr. Beaufort sat across from me. Philip stood behind him, close to the window. Mr. Beaufort held a book in his hand, which he handed to me.

“Please forgive me for being so forward as to call on you without introduction. But I was commissioned to bring this to you, and I was told it was of the utmost importance that you receive it.”

I opened the book with great curiosity. My eyes skimmed over the lines: “Miss Daventry is fair and true, with eyes of such a beautiful hue . . . ” I promptly snapped the book shut again. It was a collection of Mr. Whittles’s poems!

Mr. Beaufort smiled. “My uncle, Mr. Whittles, charged me with the task of presenting this collection of poems, which he has dedicated to you.”

This must be the nephew Mr. Whittles had mentioned on the morning I left Bath.

“I see,” I said, clearing my throat with embarrassment. Did he think I welcomed his uncle’s attentions? How mortifying! “Thank you, sir. I hope you have not traveled out of your way to deliver this.”

“No, not far. But distance would not have deterred me. I confess I have been eager to meet the object of such . . . rapture.” He waved his hand in the air as if gesturing to unseen angels.

I felt my face grow hotter. I wished Philip wasn’t hearing this. He had turned his gaze to me with something of amusement and curiosity in it. He would undoubtedly tease me about all this later.