Heir to Edenbrooke by Julianne Donaldson (1)

Heir to Edenbrooke

SPAIN 1811

“Major Wyndham?”

I looked up from the map spread across the table. We had just finished debriefing and were in the middle of strategizing the next day’s campaign. I rubbed the back of my neck, sore from bending over the map, and felt the tiredness in my feet as I shifted my weight to turn to the sound of the voice. A soldier stood at the door of the tent and raised his hand in a sharp salute.

“A letter, sir,” he said, holding it out in one gloved hand.

I took a brief moment to assure myself that it was, indeed, my mother’s handwriting. Relief trumpeted within me—alive and well! She is alive and well—a soldier’s response when too much time elapses between letters. I reluctantly slipped the letter into the pocket of my coat rather than tearing it open on the spot as I wanted to. A soldier, even an officer, makes dozens of sacrifices every day. Some of them I was hardly aware of anymore. But I was very aware of this sacrifice.

“Letter from home?” Major Colton asked, watching my hand hover over the pocket holding this unexpected treasure.

I nodded, then put the matter out of my mind entirely, like shutting the door on a long-awaited dawn. Our own literal dawn would come soon enough, and we had to have a strategy in place. I turned my attention to the map before me, and candles flickered as a hot breeze blew through the tent, doing nothing to alleviate the sweat that had been rolling down my back all day. Spain had its beauties, but a temperate climate at the end of summer was not one of them.

As soon as I entered my tent an hour later, I took the letter out of my pocket and carefully laid it on my cot. Then I unbuttoned my coat, tossed it aside, and stripped off my sweat-soaked shirt. These hard days of heavy combat made the old wound in my shoulder sting with pain, reminding me that every good thing comes with a price. It was not too high a price, though. The mission that had earned me this scar had also earned me the distinction of becoming the youngest major in His Majesty’s army.

I rolled my shoulders to try to work out some of the stiffness, and for a moment I dreamed of a cool English countryside, of wet winds and chilled air and cold, pelting rain.

Pulling myself away from my dream of home, I leaned over my washbasin, splashed water over my face, and let it drip down my chest. I ran wet fingers through my hair, which curled much more in this country than it did in England. I sighed with relief when a small breeze entered the open door of my tent. Finally I eased my boots off and settled down on my cot.

I picked up the letter and held it close to the candle. It was full dark out, and the sounds of the camp had settled down into distant snores and the steady, quiet march of the night patrol.

I could readily guess that her letter would contain, first and foremost, her maternal worries about my overindulged, arrogant, insufferable older brother, Charles, who had inherited everything upon my father’s death and was living the flagrantly useless life of a wealthy titled gentleman. I had very little sympathy for his so-called troubles. If I was lucky, my mother would tell me something interesting about my younger brother, William, who was studying at Oxford. Louisa would make an appearance in the role of headstrong youngest child growing too beautiful for her own good. There might be news about the estate, or the tenants, or Mother’s extended relatives. In short, this letter would take me home and set me beside my mother, a place that as her favorite child I had missed these years in the army. (My siblings would argue about my favorite-child status, but my confidence had yet to be shaken.)

I cracked open the seal and unfolded the paper, smiling in anticipation. My eyes skimmed its length, and I sat up abruptly. It was much too short, and short letters contained only bad news.

I could not read fast enough, but at the same time I did not want to read at all. It was like gulping down poison.

My dear Philip,

It is with a heavy heart that I pen this letter to you. I had hoped not to worry you, and so I did not tell you in my last letter that Charles was ill. It was a disease of the lungs, and the doctors were hopeful. No, that is not true. I was hopeful. But my hope was in vain, and my dear, dear boy is gone from this world. Please make haste and come home as soon as you can. We are all devastated.

***

As I sat on my cot, a thousand miles from home, countless memories streamed through my mind, but the one that caught and settled over me was what I always thought of as the last horse race.

We had met early in the morning at the stables and soon had our horses ready. I was fourteen, William thirteen, and Charles almost seventeen. William was mad about horseracing and had been for long enough that our father had finally taken him to pick out his own horse. It was a beautiful grey gelding that William decided had the best potential in the price range my father had agreed to. Will named him Eclipse after the famous French racehorse and trained that horse every day during the summer, rain or shine, for hours longer every day than either Charles or I spent on our horses.

And all of that training paid off. On the morning of the last horse race, William’s horse threw himself over every hedge and dry-stone wall as if he were all heart and courage and winged hooves. He ran through the woods with such nimbleness that it seemed the trees and roots and plants moved out of the way for him. And when William asked him for more on the final stretch, that horse gave it to him with a burst of speed that left Charles and me furlongs behind. William raised both arms in the air and shouted, “The great racehorse Eclipse, expertly trained and ridden by William Wyndham, has vanquished all others! Proving once again that Charles cannot pick a good horse to save his life.”

I laughed, pulling my horse close to William’s and clapping him on the back in congratulations. I had no problem being bested by my younger brother; it was losing to my elder brother I took issue with.

Charles scowled as he reined in his horse. He was dark by nature. His hair was almost black, his eyes a dark brown. He was wiry and strong and had a fierce arrogance to his face that he had perfected over a lifetime of knowing how special and entitled he was, having been born the eldest and heir to a title, a great estate, and a tremendous fortune.

“That was luck,” Charles said, flicking a speck of mud off his breeches. “But I will prove you wrong, little brother. I can choose a good horse.” He flicked his cold gaze over William’s horse and said, “I choose that horse.”

William scoffed. “He’s mine. You will just have to settle for your own cow-hearted horse and be beaten by me every time.”

Charles brushed his dark hair off his brow. “All I need do is ask Father for that horse, and he will give it to me.” The smile he turned on William was cold and brittle. “Then you can have the cow-hearted one, and I will have the winner, as it should be.”

Rage filled William’s eyes, and his hands tightened into fists. I grabbed his arm, in case he decided to lunge off his horse and attack Charles.

“Charles,” I said, my voice full of warning. “Don’t even think it.”

Charles lifted his head, tilted to the most arrogant angle he was capable of—the angle that, over fourteen years of seeing it, gave me an almost overwhelming urge to break my brother’s nose.

“But it would be so easy,” Charles said, his voice maddeningly calm. “Because everything here will be mine the day Father dies. The house. The estate. The art. The library and everything in it. The stables. And that horse and that horse and this horse.” He pointed to the house behind us, the orchard, the stables, the gardens, saying in an infuriating voice, “Mine. Mine. Mine. Mine.” He smiled. “Father is not young anymore. It could happen any day. They will all be mine, and none of it will be yours. So, if you think about it, it already all belongs to me. And I think I want . . .” He pointed his finger at our horses, first at mine, then at his, and then at William’s, “ . . . that horse.”

William’s face was livid, his eyes full of fury and impotence. “I will hate you until the day I die if you dare take this horse from me.”

“Oh, what a punishment!” Charles said, his voice mocking.

I let go of William and moved my horse between the two of them, putting a hand on Charles’s chest.

“William outrode you today,” I said, pushing him. “So take it like a man or go cry to Father.”

Charles turned his cold gaze on me and knocked my hand off his chest. “I have a better idea. I’ll race you two back to the stables, and the winning horse will be mine.”

William’s lip curled in a sneer. “I will never race you again.”

“Then I am the winner by default.” Charles turned his horse abruptly and kicked him into a gallop, yelling over his shoulder, “He will be mine one day, William.”

As I watched him race away from us, his only brothers in the world and at this moment his enemies, I made myself a promise. I would never be like Charles, and I would never, ever want what he had.

William swore quietly and with great creativity. “I hate him.”

“I know.”

I walked my horse in a circle, looking at everything Charles had pointed to and declared his. He was right about it, which was all the more infuriating. Edenbrooke was beautiful. It was home. It was everything I loved most in my childhood. And yet I would one day be a foreigner here. I would one day have no more claim to walk through these doors than a stranger would. And so I looked around at the beloved house and orchard and stables and gardens and river and trees and thought, “Not mine. Not mine. Not mine.” It felt like shaving off little pieces of my heart.

“We will always lose to him, won’t we?” William said.

“Oh, no. I have no plans to lose to him again.”

William scoffed. “Oh, that’s rich. He will always be the eldest and the heir to everything, and he will lord it over us and use his position of power against us. How can we not lose to him?”

I looked at the bridge spanning the river and thought, “Not mine,” and another piece of flesh fell from my heart. “It’s easy enough. He has power over us only if we care about any of this.” I waved at the scene before us, pretending a nonchalance I didn’t feel. “If we don’t care about this—if we don’t want this—then he can’t lord it over us. If we don’t envy him, we cannot be hurt by him.”

William rolled his eyes, then threw his arm wide in a gesture to encompass the scene before us. “A life of ease and luxury. A life here, at Edenbrooke. How can you honestly say you don’t envy that?”

“Think about this, though: He will never have a choice of profession. He will be forced to marry for a good connection and won’t be able to marry for love. He will be courted for his money and position and title and will always question the loyalty of those around him.”

William was still glowering. “I just can’t get over the resentment.”

I flashed a smile. “Well, I’m not saying I don’t dream of breaking his nose on a regular basis. I imagine it in detail. I can almost feel the crunch of it under my knuckles.”

William scowl lifted. “How bad is it?”

“It gushes. Like a ruddy waterfall.”

William smiled.

“And then, of course, it mends horribly, so he’s got a crooked nose for the rest of his life and, as a result, snores so loudly that no woman will share a bed with him.”

William chuckled and said, with a fierceness that seemed part anger for Charles and part affection for me, “It’s us against him, Philip.”

“I know.”

He sighed and patted Eclipse’s neck, then ran his hand over one of her ears. His gesture was as gentle as a lover’s caress. “If it was anything else,” he said, “I think I could endure it. But it’s my horse, Philip. The closest I may ever come to owning a real racehorse.” A look of wretchedness was etched on his young face. “You know as well as I do that I wouldn’t be able to afford this kind of horse as a clergyman or a soldier or whatever I decide to do for my career.”

William spoke the truth. Our futures would be vastly different from Charles’s.

“Listen, Will. If I ever have it in my power to buy you a racehorse, I will do it. I promise.”

William smiled. “Thanks. But I think you’ll be just as poor as I will be.”

“No. I am much better at managing money than you are.”

William laughed, then turned his horse back to the woods, and let him have his head. I watched them go, hoping for William’s sake that the woods would bring him solace, and then I turned back to the whittling away of my attachment to my home. If I could do this to my heart, then I would have no affection for Edenbrooke by the time Charles inherited it. It was either that or go mad with resentment and envy.

***

I lay on my cot for a long time, listening to the sounds of the camp as my thoughts rolled over each other, a turmoil of memories and grief. I thought of home and Charles and the promises I had made myself long ago never to be like him, never to want what he had. I wished for a sleep and a forgetting that never came.

***

Major Colton waited for me the next evening, walking with me to my tent after our strategy meeting. The sleepless night had long since caught up with me, and I could hardly put one foot in front of the other.

“What bothers you, Wyndham?” he asked, with the voice of a friend rather than a soldier.

I stopped in front of my tent, battling with myself for a moment. Some part of me had decided last night that if I didn’t tell anyone the news, I could go on as if nothing had happened. I could continue to lead my men, I could spend my days fighting for my country, and when the time came, I could marry for love and not for the sake of my family’s fortune and reputation. I could have everything I had spent my life working toward. The problem with that route, though, was that my father had raised me too well to follow it. If there was anything a gentleman should do, it was his duty. And my duty to my family and home took precedence over my personal desires. I took a deep breath and blew it out again, releasing in that moment the indecision I had battled all day, and said bluntly, “My elder brother has died. I have inherited everything.”

He let out a low whistle. “Then it is not Major Wyndham anymore, is it? Sir Philip.”

I grimaced at the sound of my new name.

“I am deeply sorry for your loss. And for our loss, as well. I have never met a finer soldier.” Major Colton held out a hand.

“Thank you,” I said gruffly, finding my throat suddenly tight. I shook his hand as a feeling of finality settled over me. I would miss this so much. This beautiful country, the business of war, the loyalty and camaraderie of my brothers at arms, the satisfaction of working hard for a great cause every day and falling asleep exhausted every night. My independence was gone. My career was over. It was time to go home.

***

EDENBROOKE

Three Months Later

“Still brooding, are you?” William asked as he pulled up a chair next to mine.

I looked up from the signet ring I had been twisting around my little finger. The library at Edenbrooke was bathed in the warm light of the late afternoon sun. I had turned my chair away from the orchard that was framed in the tall wall of windows, facing instead the portrait of my father hanging above the large fireplace.

I looked back down without responding. The ring was somehow getting heavier every time I turned it. If I kept going, I would eventually be dragged down to hell by it. What a fitting thought. It was such a little thing—one’s finger. Such a small portion of one’s body. Like the disease that had invaded my brother’s lungs. Such a small thing, at first. Too small to see with the naked eye. But four and a half months later, he was dead. And across the sea, during the height of the Peninsular War, when I stood ready to lead my men to victory, this small thing had changed everything. That small disease, this small ring, this insignificant finger, that awful letter—I clenched my hand into a fist. And now this unwelcome new life was mine.

“Let me guess,” he said. “Mother has told you that you owe it to the family to marry well, and she has convinced you to go do the gentlemanly thing by attending a Season in London and offering for some well-connected young lady. And you are miserable about having to spend the next few months courting beautiful young ladies.” He stuck out his lower lip in an exaggerated expression of pity.

I laughed reluctantly. “Ah, poor me.”

“Indeed! If only I had been born second instead of you. I would have known exactly what to do with all this good fortune.”

I threw him a worried glance, wondering if there was something hidden beneath his teasing words. “Tell me truly, William. Will you hate me now, as we hated Charles? Will you resent me for inheriting everything?”

He scoffed and shook his head. “I will make you a promise, Philip. I promise not to resent you, if you will promise to stop this infernal sulking.”

He was right. I had been sulking for far too long. “It’s a deal.” I took a deep breath and tried to shake off the shadows that had been haunting me. I leaned back, threaded my hands behind my head, and let my gaze roam over the bookshelves that stretched from floor to ceiling. Charles had been so particular about his library. Every book had to be in the right spot. Alphabetical, by genre. It was still his library, and in my whittled-down heart, this was still his house. I was a stranger here.

I had a sudden idea. “Are you up for a bit of work?”

William raised an eyebrow. “What do you have in mind?”

I gestured toward the books. “I think it is time to rearrange the library.”

Every book came off every shelf. Thousands of them. We stacked them high on the floor of the library and then out into the hall. Once they were all off the shelves, we grabbed handfuls of books from random piles and refilled the shelves in as helter-skelter a manner as we could. It took us hours to do it. But in the end, as William and I stood shoulder to shoulder and surveyed our work, we agreed it was worth the effort. This room, of all the rooms in the house, now felt a little bit like mine.

***

LONDON

Four Years Later

I stood in front of the mirror, my fifth cravat around my neck. My valet George stood by with a dozen more, freshly ironed, draped over his arm. This infernal Waterfall knot was proving more difficult than I had hoped. But I was not one to give up easily. And after an hour at this attempt, I was more determined than when I had begun. Twitching the fabric, I maneuvered the final twists and tucks, then looked critically at the result. I could feel the tension quivering from George as he awaited my verdict.

“Good enough,” I muttered. He set the remaining cloths aside, held out my coat, and helped me shrug into it.

A knock sounded on my bedroom door. George left my side to open it, admitting my mother and William’s wife, Rachel, both of whom were dressed for the ball tonight. For the past three months they had been like two curious cats, examining me before every social event, grooming me when they thought they could improve on the mode of my dress or my hair. My mother had once even licked her finger to slick a stray hair back from my brow. I had let her know in no uncertain terms that she was never to do that again.

“Very nice, Philip,” they both murmured after looking me over from head to toe.

“So happy I meet with your approval,” I said drily.

Mother folded her hands together and regarded me with a kind smile. But I saw the steel beneath the softness, even if she fooled everyone else.

“What is it, Mother?” I slipped my signet ring onto my little finger. “You have something on your mind.”

“Philip, we worry that you might have passed up some excellent opportunities this Season, and if you do not snatch one of them up, someone else will.”

I smiled. “Ah. The end-of-the-Season speech. I should have seen this coming.”

Mother had been relentless in her efforts to push me into marriage. I had hoped she would have been distracted, as it was my sister Louisa’s first Season. But it seemed that with Rachel’s help, she was just as focused and determined to find me a brilliant match as she had been the previous three years.

“This speech can last up to an hour, if memory serves. Would you like to make yourselves comfortable? I don’t usually entertain visitors here in my bedchamber, but I could have some refreshments brought up. Perhaps some tea?”

Rachel looked exasperated. My mother did not bat an eye, but she did excuse George with a steely tone in her voice. As soon as he closed the door behind himself, Mother turned to me with a bright smile and said, “Enough of that, Philip. Let’s get down to business.” She held out a hand to Rachel, who placed a piece of paper in it. The paper appeared to contain a list of names. I tried to hide my surprise at this new tactic.

“Rachel and I are going to read off these names, and we want a valid reason as to why you will not offer for each of these very eligible young ladies.”

I bit back a groan. Before I could object, they started quizzing me.

“Miss Blythe?” asked Mother.

I shoved my hands into my pockets and said the first word that came to mind. “Boring.”

“Miss Emily Keane?”

“Tedious.”

“Miss Parham?”

“Dull.”

“Lady Sandeford?”

“Uninteresting.”

“Miss Sophronia Goodall?”

“Tiresome.”

Mother paused to glare at me. Rachel took over the reading. “Miss Downing?”

“Humorless.”

“Lady Agnes?”

“Insipid.”

“Miss Amelia Endicott, Miss Georgiana Endicott, and Miss Frederica Endicott?”

“Spiritless, vapid, and . . . uh . . .”

I looked at Rachel sharply, my eyes narrowed with suspicion. “I have not met a Miss Frederica Endicott.”

She looked vexed.

“Aha! A trap! And yet I did not fall into it.” I smiled in self-congratulation. “Well, you two, it is clear you would like me to marry someone who will bore me into an early grave. And yet I refuse.”

“Wait. There is one more name on the list. Miss Cecily Daventry.” My mother’s words rang in the room. It took all my training as a gentleman not to grimace at the sound of that young lady’s name. As the daughter of my mother’s special childhood friend and my sister Louisa’s new dearest friend, she was highly recommended to me.

“Too forward,” I answered, cutting off the other distasteful words I could have said. They must have seen something in my expression, because neither of them pushed me further but only exchanged a look of defeat.

They looked so sad that for a moment I felt a twinge of guilt. “I am sorry I’ve been so difficult.” I picked up Rachel’s hand, then Mother’s, and bestowed a kiss on each one.

“Well,” Mother said with a bright tone to her voice. “Perhaps there will be someone new tonight at the ball. One can always hope.”

I smiled at her affectionately. “Indeed. One can always hope.” But the words rang false in my jaded ears. I had no hope of finding someone I could fall in love with among the young ladies in London. If there had been anything interesting in any of them, it had long ago been schooled out of them by scheming mothers intent on marrying their daughters off to the highest bidder. A humorless, spiritless, unimaginative, insipid, and vacuous personality was, evidently, the safest personality for a young lady hoping to marry well.

***

Miss Cecily Daventry sat on a settee in the drawing room, whispering behind her gloved hand into the ear of my sister Louisa. I paused in the doorway just long enough to compose my features into the mask of polite arrogance that I wore around young ladies like Miss Daventry—ambitious, vain, and shallow. I was not surprised to see her there. As Louisa’s dearest friend and nearly constant companion, she seemed to spend more time at my London house than at her cousin’s, who was sponsoring her for her first Season.

As I entered the room she looked up at me through thick eyelashes that framed large blue eyes. Her golden hair shone in the candlelight, the jewels at her throat drawing attention to her graceful neck, the white of her ball gown only a shade lighter than her milky skin. She was undeniably a beauty. And yet as her gaze swept over me with a look of approval, I could find nothing to admire in her.

“Sir Philip,” she said, her voice a seductive purr. She reached a hand out to me, her wrist limp. I took her hand and raised it to my lips because not to do so would go against my upbringing as a gentleman.

“Miss Daventry,” I said with a polite smile. “What a pleasure. Will you be attending the ball at the Sandefords’ with us tonight?”

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” she said. “Especially since it gives you the chance to secure a dance with me before my card is filled.” She flashed a flirtatious smile at me, and her eyes sparked with cunning. I thought her white ball gown was entirely too innocent a color for her and she was entirely too forward. I was also certain she had no interest in me beyond my inheritance.

But I bowed my head and said, “I would be honored to have the first dance with you.”

Mother joined us, the carriage was announced, and we departed into the chilly, foggy night of a London evening. I sat in silence in the carriage as the wheels rolled over cobblestones, carrying us off to another frivolous evening. The conversation floated around me but did not intrude on my wayward thoughts, which were decidedly somber and self-pitying in tone. When the carriage stopped in front of the house, torches lit up the street congested with carriages arriving and depositing richly dressed ball goers. I descended the coach steps as the footman held open the door and then turned to offer my hand to my mother, then Louisa, and then Miss Daventry.

She took my hand and stepped down the first step and the second. But before her slipper-clad foot could touch the cobblestones, she let out a light cry and fell toward me. I quickly caught her. She sagged against me, her hands gripping the lapels of my coat. “Oh dear!” Her voice was breathy against my cheek. “How clumsy of me!”

“Have you hurt yourself?” I asked, moving my hands to her waist to set her on her own feet.

But rather than step down, she gripped me more tightly, leaning against me in a manner that would have been indecent in any other situation.

“I think I may have twisted my ankle,” she said. “Oh, what luck! And right before the ball. I think you will have to take me back to your house, Sir Philip.”

I looked over my shoulder, hoping for help from my mother and Louisa, but they had already crossed the street to the Sandefords’ house. The footman still stood beside me, holding open the carriage door, and when I caught his eye he looked away quickly. He was clearly not going to be any help. I wanted Miss Daventry out of my arms immediately. And I certainly was not going to get into that carriage alone with her and drive back with her to my house.

I grasped her wrists and gently but firmly pulled her hands from my coat, setting her away from me. “I think you will be well enough if you try to walk on it,” I said, not bothering to cover the sardonic tone of my voice.

In the torchlight I saw a quick look of annoyance flash across her pretty face, but she covered it up with a smile and said, “I believe you may be right, Sir Philip. I will try, especially for the sake of our dance together. If you will just give me your arm . . .”

She held out her hand, her smile vixen-like. She was weaving a noose for me of flaxen cords—a noose woven a little thicker every day, braided with her cunning and her flirting and her friendship with my family. She thought I would soon swing from it. But she had no idea who she was toying with if she really thought she would ever catch me. I offered her my arm, which she pressed close to herself. She pretended a limp for a few steps, but gave it up when we reached the door to the ball.

Pastel silks, feathered headdresses, long gloves, and rosy cheeks and curled hair and bejeweled throats met my eye wherever I looked. The ballroom was hot and stuffy and much too crowded for comfort. Mother was surveying the room with the hawk-eyed gaze of an ambitious mother trying to marry off both a daughter and a son. By the look of the dance, I had at least a quarter of an hour before I would be obliged to dance with Miss Daventry. My gaze roamed the room and lit upon a familiar face. I sighed with relief.

“If you will excuse me, Miss Daventry,” I said, “I see a friend I would very much like to speak with.”

“Of course, Sir Philip.” Her hand lingered on my arm as I pulled away from her. I left her with Louisa and my mother and made my way through the ballroom. I tried not to think too much about the heads that turned in my direction, of the whispers I heard—the mention of my wealth, of my “great estate”—or of the avarice in the eyes of women of all ages as they looked at me, weighing my worth by virtue of my inheritance and only my inheritance. I ignored them all and made my way through the crowd to the face that had brought me my first spark of happiness all night.

Mr. Colton, once Major Colton, stood near the punch table. He had been another victim of a sudden inheritance, although it seemed to agree very well with him. Granted, his inheritance did not come with a title nor the indecent amount of wealth that mine did.

“Wyndham!” With his smile wafted to my memory the smell of campfire smoke, the warm breeze of a humid day in Spain, and the sharp sounds of battle. I could almost feel the stiff cot beneath me as I slept in exhaustion at the end of a good day of fighting, insects lazily droning, sounds of the camp lulling me to sleep. Oh, how I missed that life.

“How is London agreeing with you?” I asked him as we shook hands.

“Very well. And you? How goes the hunt?”

I picked up a glass of punch, wishing for something stronger. “Colton, if this is a hunt, then I am the fox.”

He chuckled. “Feeling hounded, are you? You poor devil, the bad luck of having it all—fortune and estate and title. I saw that beauty you walked in with. If only all of us were so cursed.” I followed his gaze as it lighted on Miss Daventry, who was using her considerable skill at flirting on several gentlemen at once.

Her cheeks were rosy with the heat of the ballroom, her hair shone golden in the candlelight, and her long, dusky lashes lowered prettily over her bright eyes. It was easy to see how my friend appreciated the vision she presented. But after many evenings in her company, many hours of her dining with our family, and countless attempts at conversation, I knew the truth. I knew that her beauty was only skin deep and that whatever waters ran through her ran shallowly indeed.

As if she could feel our attention, Miss Daventry turned and caught my gaze. Her eyes brightened to find me watching her, and I cursed myself silently. The last thing I wanted was to give her a reason to hope for my interest.

“Ah, here comes the beauty now,” Mr. Colton said as Cecily began to weave her way through the crowd toward us.

I drained my punch, wondering why I had subjected myself to the overly sweet drink, and said, “I am happy to introduce you.”

“Do, please.”

I set down my glass and turned to face the enemy, my smile all cool politeness.

“I knew you would not forget our dance, Sir Philip, but I thought I would save you the work of finding me in this crush.” She smiled that coy, flirtatious smile I had learned to expect from her.

“Miss Daventry, may I present my friend? Mr. Colton, Miss Cecily Daventry.” He took her hand and raised it without hesitation to his lips.

“A pleasure,” he murmured. She lit up at his look of admiration. “May I have the pleasure of a dance, Miss Daventry?”

She consulted her dance card. “You may have the quadrille, Mr. Colton.”

“I will gladly take it,” he said with a bow.

I took her hand and led her to the dance floor. Let other men desire her, I thought. She was not for me.

I had tried, for my mother’s sake, to discover some hint of intelligence or wit or humor in her. I found only the vapid self-absorption I had discovered in every other young woman I had met in London.

“What a crush!” she exclaimed about the crowded ballroom.

“Indeed,” I murmured in bored tones, as I did every time a young lady said those words.

“Have you seen the gown that Miss Endicott is wearing tonight? I vow she wore the same gown at Almack’s a fortnight ago!”

I sighed. This was exhausting. I would rather fight in hand-to-hand combat than endure another conversation like this one.

I tried, for the sake of my sanity, to steer the conversation into more interesting topics. “Have you ever traveled abroad, Miss Daventry?”

“Oh, no. Why would I want to? I can’t imagine a better place than England.” She bit her lower lip, looking up at me through her thick lashes, making her dimple deepen. She knew her weapons and used them well. “I do have a great interest in visiting Kent, though. I hear Edenbrooke is a simply spectacular estate. Tell me, how large is it?”

I could see the ambition in her eyes, ready to calculate my worth based on my inheritance.

I smiled, and my smile was just as much a weapon as her dimples and lashes were. “How large would you like it to be? What would satisfy you?”

She took my hand in the movement of the dance. “Well! From what I have heard, your estate would be very adequate for my needs.”

“How comforting it is to know you would be satisfied with Edenbrooke,” I murmured.

She bit her lip, a fetching dimple appearing next to her mouth, and said, “I am sure I will be more than satisfied.”

I noticed the spark of excitement in her eyes a moment too late. I had thought she would read the sarcasm in my voice. But it appeared, based on the breadth of her smile, that she had taken my words as encouragement. I silently cursed myself for the remainder of the dance.

I did my duty to my mother and danced with whomever she put in front of me, but either I had suddenly grown clumsy on the dance floor or the ruse of faking an injury was spreading like the plague. Miss Goodall pretended to have a twisted ankle, Lady Agnes claimed her foot was suddenly bruised, and Miss Georgiana Endicott was struck by a sudden headache in the middle of our dance. Evidently the remedy for each of these young ladies’ ailments was a quiet corner where they could hold me captive in private conversation for the remainder of the dance and beyond, if I allowed it. I played along, but every time it happened, my incredulity deepened. Was this the latest craze in husband catching? Was there some tutorial on pretending to be a damsel in distress in order to gain the attention of a rich young gentleman? If so, where was this publication and how could I get my hands on it and burn it?

And where were the intelligent young women? Where were the ladies with a sense of humor, a touch of wit, and a depth to their character? Were they here but in hiding? Or did they not exist in this realm of frivolity?

When Miss Wingrave pretended to trip and then fell against me in the course of the dance so that I was obliged to catch her, I had suddenly had enough.

“Allow me to take you to your mother,” I told her with a smile. “You are obviously unwell.”

“Oh, no, Sir Philip. I am well enough. I was only a little dizzy for a moment.” She was young and silly. It wasn’t her fault that she had seen the example of the other young ladies’ behavior here tonight.

“I would hate for you to come to harm.” I took her by the elbow and guided her across the crowded ballroom, noticing as I did so that Mr. Colton was smiling idiotically at Miss Daventry during their dance. She did not appear to think he was a good enough catch, though, as she did not return his smile and let her gaze roam across the other dancers. Poor fool. But such was the risk in this game.

Mrs. Wingrave looked daggers at her daughter when I handed her over, explaining that she was not feeling well enough to dance, and excused myself, intent on escaping to the card room. But as I turned to leave I came face to face with Lady Marsh.

She had been waiting for me. I could see it in the way she had carved out a space in the crowd. It was apparent in her posture, that self-assured pose of patient expectation.

“Sir Philip.” Her voice was warm and welcoming. She held out a gloved hand. Her wrist was encircled in the old, famed jewels of her husband’s family, as was her throat. “I was hoping you would cross my path this evening.”

I raised her hand to my lips, murmuring, “Lady Marsh,” while brushing a kiss over the satin glove. “How do you do?”

Her lips curved upward. “Very well, do you not think?” She rested her hands at her hips, as if inviting me to examine her figure. I did not accept the invitation.

Instead I looked into her eyes, noticing how much less beautiful she looked now. The jaded expression she wore was not half as attractive as the innocent happiness of her former self, before she had married the earl.

“Of course,” I murmured. I wanted to leave. I let my gaze wander over her head and toward the open door that taunted me with the hope of freedom only half a ballroom away. I took a breath to excuse myself, but she put a hand on my arm, stopping me, holding me captive.

“You know what the Ton is saying about you, Sir Philip.”

I sighed. “Enlighten me,” I said in a bored voice.

“Why is this most eligible bachelor still unattached? they ask themselves. The talk is that you must be holding out for a rich heiress.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Why would I need a rich heiress? I have plenty of money myself, as you well know.”

She lifted one shoulder in an elegant shrug. “Other men have been driven by greed.” She moved closer to me. “But do you want to hear the another rumor? The one that I believe?”

I did not respond, knowing she would tell me anyway.

She leaned against my arm and lifted her lips to my ear and said in a sultry whisper, “You have lost your heart to someone whom you cannot have. That is why you will not consider any of these eligible young ladies.”

It was years ago, I reminded myself. I was young and stupid. I had not known her true nature at the time. Thank heavens an earl had come along before she decided to settle for me. Still, I cringed at the memory of how I had once wanted her love. I looked at her contemplatively for a moment, then bent my head to speak quietly to her. As I drew in a breath, I saw her lips curve again into a smile of triumph.

“If you are referring to yourself,” I said in a low voice, “allow me to put your mind at ease. My heart never did, and never will, belong to you.”

She froze, her gaze leaping to mine, and I saw a flash of fury in her eyes. Then she pulled away from me and tossed her head back with a high, false laugh, the jewels at her throat catching and reflecting the light of a hundred candles. “Oh, Sir Philip. How droll you are. As if I cared about your heart.”

I smiled. “Ah, what a relief.” I could see her seething beneath her smiling façade.

She adjusted her gloves. “Excuse me,” she said, turning away from me with her head tilted to the arrogant angle she had adopted since becoming a countess.

I bowed my head and watched her glide across the room, ready for a go at a different conquest. My mother caught my eye and started heading in my direction, dragging along with her a young lady I had not met. But I shook my head at her, turned on my heel, and left the ballroom without a sideways glance. Moments later I was walking down the streets of London, a free man at last.

***

I knocked on my mother’s bedchamber door the next morning, holding the breakfast tray I had grabbed from her maid after running down the hall to catch her before she reached my mother’s room.

“I’ll take it,” I had told her with a smile. She started with surprise but gave me the tray and curtsied before hurrying off.

“Come in!” my mother called after my knock.

“What a nice surprise,” she said as I set the tray down on her bed and opened the drapes of her room. It was an overcast morning, and what sunlight came through the windows cast the room in a grey, weak light. She held a letter, which she folded and slipped beneath her bedsheets.

“To what do I owe this pleasure?” she asked.

I sat down on her bed, careful not to disturb the tray and spill her morning chocolate. “What a fetching cap that is on you, Mother,” I said, brushing the lace framing her face as I leaned in to kiss her smooth cheek. She was still beautiful, even in her advancing years.

She picked up her cup of chocolate and looked at me shrewdly over the rim. “Oh, you have come flattering, have you? You must have some terrible news for me. Or else you want something. Which is it?”

“I flatter you all the time,” I told her, picking up a piece of toast and buttering it for her before I held it out.

She took it with a look of affection. “You used to flatter me all the time. You also used to tease me and run through the house with your brothers and nearly shake a room to pieces with your laughter.” She paused, her look a little too piercing for comfort. “But that Philip I have not seen since Charles died.”

I could not tell her where that Philip had gone. I didn’t know myself. Nor did I know how to get him back. I only knew he had deserted me the day I received the letter informing me that Charles had died and I had inherited everything in his place.

“So, flatterer,” she said, setting down her food and brushing the crumbs off her hands. “What is it you want?”

I threw her my most winning smile and said in a casual voice, “I thought I would return to Edenbrooke a bit early. I have work I can see to at home. I am sure the steward would appreciate a chance to meet with me, and there is the repair to the roof and the problem with the fence along—”

She held up a hand, stopping me. I thought for a brief moment of how, even at twenty-five years old, I was still a boy in my mother’s eyes. And it struck me that here I was, trying to win her permission rather than claiming my own independence. But such were the ties of affection and loyalty and respect.

“What a wonderful idea,” she said.

I opened and then closed my mouth, surprised by how much more easily this was going than I had imagined.

“So you are not going to insist that I stay until the end of the Season?” I asked, one eyebrow raised.

“I am not a tyrant, Philip,” she said, patting my hand. “I can see how miserable you are here. Let’s leave at the end of the week.”

“Oh.” I was doubly surprised. “You are coming as well?”

“Yes, I’ve had enough of all of this running about. I’m not as young as I once was. But I think I can leave Louisa with William and Rachel. She is having a good time still, and besides, she and Miss Daventry are so looking forward to the masquerade ball in a fortnight. It will be nice for the two of us to return a week early, though. Did I tell you my sister and her husband are coming to stay with us?”

I shook my head.

“I could have sworn I did. They are having some repairs done to their house, you know, and we have so much space. I knew it would not be an imposition at all.”

“Of course not.” I said, searching her face for some sign of deception and then shook off my doubts. I had become too suspicious in general. My mother would have no reason to scheme against me, her favorite child.

***

Edenbrooke was not far from London. We could have accomplished the journey in little more than half a day had it not been for two cases of damsels in distress along our road. Miss Sandeford and Lady Agnes, along with their respective mothers, had each felt a great desire to visit the countryside of Kent, but each had suffered an accident that rendered their carriages useless by the side of the road.

“What a coincidence!” they all exclaimed. “That you happened along this same road at the perfect time to help us!”

The effort to refrain from rolling my eyes was so great that my face began to ache. I was trying to escape these women, and I had not gone fifty miles before they had entrapped me again.

“Oh, we wouldn’t hear of your changing your plans for us!” came their next line when I offered to escort them back to Town. “We will just join you in your journey—we know you have room in your carriage, even if it is a bit tight—and, besides, it will give us an opportunity to see your estate while we’re at it. Won’t this be fun? Our own private party at Edenbrooke.”

They were so happy with Edenbrooke that they could not tear themselves away to return to Town before three days there had passed. The two young ladies and their devoted mothers vied for my attention with so much competitive fervor that I felt like a fox being torn to pieces by ravenous hounds. My smile became a frozen, stiff thing, barely polite. I paced the floor of my room at night for hours before I could fall asleep. On Friday our visitors waited until midday to climb into their newly repaired carriages, and I stood on the gravel drive with my mother, bidding them good-bye with barely restrained impatience.

It felt like hours for all of the ladies to say their good-byes, to thank us for our hospitality, to compliment the beautiful estate, and to drop hints about how much they looked forward to visiting again in the future. I looked up at the angle of the sun in the sky, wondering how much more of my time on earth they would waste. When they finally drove away, I looked at my mother and said, “Please tell me that was not your idea.”

Her eyes lit up with surprise. “What? Their visit? Not at all, Philip. Whatever made you think that?”

I shook my head. “Don’t play innocent. You are just as scheming a mother as those two are.”

She smiled slyly and slipped her hand through my arm. “No, my dear. I am much more scheming than those two mothers.”

I laughed reluctantly. “Well, I’m relieved they’re finally gone.” I took a deep breath and blew it out along with some of the impatience that had been burning hotter and hotter within me. “I’ve been anxious to see how my new racehorse is coming along.”

But just at that moment, the sound of carriage wheels on gravel reached my ears. I looked up and groaned in dismay. It was our nearest neighbors, Mrs. and Miss Fairhurst. Mother squeezed my arm and said encouragingly, “It will just be a short visit, I am sure.”

Mother was wrong. The ambitious Mrs. Fairhurst was so delighted to see me return from Town still unattached and therefore still, in her mind, available for her insipid daughter that she and her daughter stayed for two hours. The sun was low in the sky when they finally left. The stables were calling to me, but before I could make my escape, Mother put a hand on my arm and said, “Give me a few minutes of your time, Philip. I have something to speak with you about.”

I looked at her in surprise. “Of course.”

But before she could say what was on her mind, another carriage pulled into the gravel drive. I stared in disbelief.

“I vow, if this is another young lady, I will run away and never come back.”

Mother shushed me. “Nonsense, Philip. Look. It is only your aunt and uncle.”

In the commotion of the past few days I had entirely forgotten that they were coming to visit. Well, I would still have to play host, but at least they were not after my title and fortune. I once again donned my polite smile as I greeted Mr. and Mrs. Clumpett, knowing it looked unnatural and forced but unable to transform it into something genuine. I wondered if I was capable of a genuine smile or a genuine expression at all anymore.

Mother and her sister could not look more different. Mother was tall and elegant and lovely. Mrs. Clumpett was small and rounded and looked more kind than beautiful. The sisters embraced as I shook my uncle’s hand, welcomed him, and invited him inside.

“I thank you, but we have been sitting in that carriage for hours.” He rested his hands on his lower back and bent back and forth. A tall and angular man, he was also the most devoted amateur zoologist I could imagine. “What I need now is a brisk walk through the woods. I am eager to acquaint myself with your creatures.” With that, he picked up his walking stick and set off briskly toward the woods. Mother and Mrs. Clumpett were busy with each other. This was my chance. I slipped away, unnoticed, and made my way to the stables.

***

I set one booted foot on a lower rail of the fence separating the training ground from the stables. Resting my elbows on the top rail, I watched the trainer put Meg through her paces. Nothing had been more on my mind during the London Season than the secret project I had been working on to surprise William. As I stood watching her, sunlight cut through a thick layer of clouds to catch her coat and burnish it copper. She tossed her head, her mane glinting in that warm shaft of light, and I saw her try to pull away from her rider. I grinned. Her beauty was secondary to the real trait I had been searching for when I bought her: spirit. She looked like she wanted to fly. I called the trainer over after he finished his exercises with her.

“What do you think?” I asked him, knowing what I thought. But I wasn’t the expert in racehorses. In fact, I had only recently begun this venture of acquiring horses with the thought of racing them.

Quiet excitement lit up his eyes. “I think she could be the one, Master Philip.”

I did not correct him. He was old and had been with our family for decades. If I was still Master Philip to him, then it was all the better for me. I wished there were more people in my life who had known me as a child and knew my true place in the world.

I shook his hand. “Keep up the good work. I can’t wait to show her to William when he arrives.”

“When will that be, sir?”

“Next week.”

Ah, to have my brother William at Edenbrooke with me and then to see the races at Newmarket together. It was the brightest point of the whole year. I had seen him in London, of course, but it was different there. It was not home. It was not our childhood and our memories. I turned back to the house and then paused as I saw the sunlight break through the clouds and light up the house the way it had lit up Meg. I stopped to admire the sight—the symmetry of the house, the way the stones looked golden in the evening sunlight, the stretches of windows reflecting the rosy light, the flowers and bushes hedging the house with blues and yellows, reds and oranges, dark browns and vibrant greens. All around the house, the sky was grey with heavy clouds, so that the house seemed like a beacon in a stormy sea. It was unreal how beautiful it was. It struck me again that this was never meant to be mine and in some way I could not really identify, it still was not mine. It was almost like looking at the face of an aunt or an uncle, so similar to those of your own dear parents but so dissimilar at the same time that the wrongness of the face was more disturbing than the rightness of the family resemblance.

That strange feeling of foreignness followed me inside the house, where I saw my mother as she was coming down the stairs.

“Oh, there you are! I have been looking for you.” She beckoned to me. “Come into the library. I need to speak with you.”

She stood in front of the fireplace, below the painting of my father, her mouth pressed firmly into an encouraging smile, her hands clasped together in an attitude of both supplication and hopefulness.

“I have some news,” she began.

The feeling of foreignness shifted into dark foreboding. My heart picked up speed, my senses sharpened. I was on a battlefield again, facing a formidable foe, and I instinctively rolled my shoulders, feeling the stretch of scar tissue and the slight ache of the old wound.

“I have invited Miss Daventry to stay with us for the summer.”

It was a deathblow. I stared at her, stunned.

“And that is not all,” she continued, her smile brighter than ever. “You remember she has a twin sister? Marianne? Well, I have also invited her to stay with us. She has been living with her grandmother in Bath and hasn’t had a chance to have much sociality this Season.” She paused, bit her lower lip, and added, “She is arriving tonight.”

I could not find words.

“You don’t mind, do you, Philip? I promised their mother, you see. When we were young, we made promises to each other, and now that she is gone and those poor girls are motherless and nearly fatherless too (their father has been in France since their mother’s death), I feel such compassion for them. I cannot leave them to fend for themselves, not when I could be like a second mother to them and help them through this difficult time, and I know, my dear boy, I know what I have asked of you recently, but I also know what a good heart you have and that you would understand my motivations. I hope you will not be angry with me.”

My mother was babbling. My mother never babbled. She was nervous about this. And well she should be. Two Misses Daventry? One was more than I could bear. Two of them—twins! Two ambitious, vain, shallow, forward sisters, each fighting for my attention. Two sets of cunning smiles and large blue eyes. Two calculating minds set on a title and a great estate and a life of luxury. Two cold hearts that would care nothing for me but only for what my inheritance could do for them.

I made a sudden decision. I smiled so convincingly that I almost fooled myself. I said kindly, “You know this is your home, Mother, and you have the right to invite here whomever you choose.”

She smiled with relief. “I am so glad to hear you say that.”

A shard of guilt stabbed my conscience but did not deter me from my course.

As the sun dipped below the horizon and the grey sky turned first to iron and then to charcoal, I threw a hastily packed bag into my phaeton, ordered the servants to say nothing of my departure to my mother, and whipped the horses into a gallop. I raced away from my home and everything it contained, with no plan of where to go. I knew only that I felt as if the devil himself was chasing me and if I did not run, he would devour me, heart, mind, and soul.

***

Nearly an hour later I was clipping along at a great pace, running away from fate and feeling for the first time in years as if I had finally taken control of my life. The moon was full but hid itself frequently behind the thick clouds that blanketed the sky and threatened rain. Suddenly the phaeton lurched to one side as the right rear wheel flew off its axle. Without warning the reins were ripped from my hands, and I was airborne. I landed hard on my side, the breath knocked out of me, and bounced twice before a hedge stopped my momentum. I lay there, stunned, fighting to draw in a breath for an agonizing moment, until finally my lungs worked again. I rolled onto my back and assessed my injuries. Bruised ribs and shoulders, definitely, but as I sat up and moved around, I did not think I had broken anything.

My horses were nearby, whinnying with nervousness but unable to bolt because the axle of the phaeton was buried in mud at the edge of the road. The wheel lay behind me in a ditch. I dragged myself to my feet, brushed off my clothes, and walked to my broken phaeton and spooked horses. I spoke to them calmly as I unhitched them and then carefully walked them down the road a short distance. One of them was favoring his left foreleg, and the other shied away when I ran my hands down his right hind leg. I swore and then turned my attention to my disabled phaeton, baffled by its state. It had been in pristine condition. There was no conceivable reason for the wheel to come off as it had. Even if my horses were not injured, there was nothing I could do to fix the phaeton, not without tools and not in this light. I was stranded.

I took the horses by their traces and led them to a tall oak tree just beyond the road in the middle of a field. It was tall enough and broad enough that it would shelter them if it rained. I tied them to it and then started walking down the road.

An owl hooted somewhere nearby, as if commenting with mirth on my circumstances. “Yes, laugh at me, you dark messenger of fate,” I muttered. “Laugh at my attempts to free myself. Laugh at the futility of my efforts.”

As if he had heard and understood, the owl responded with a loud screech that raised the hairs on the back of my neck. The night suddenly turned pitch black, and I looked up to see thick rain clouds obscuring the moon. Let it come, I thought, daring fate to make this night worse. The rain came at once, as if in answer to my dare, in a cold drizzle.

***

I welcomed the cold and wished for it to numb me all the way to my heart so that I would not have to feel this overwhelming bitterness and frustration. I had never run from a battle. I had never deserted my post. And yet I had run from home like a coward, and I did not understand this great folly within myself. I only knew that I was ready to break apart and that I had never in my life been so lost, or so lonely, or so full of bitterness and resentment.

The road was empty. I had no idea where I was going or if I would find anyone to help me on my way. I just walked and cursed fate and wallowed in the greatest degree of self-pity I had ever indulged in.

***

I walked for miles. Hours. My feet had become soft in the past few years of luxury. They no longer had the toughness they’d had when I was a soldier. “You have grown soft, Major,” I chastised myself after my second hour of walking. Too many days doing nothing but dancing attendance on entitled ladies had made me weak. The longer I walked, the more I felt the bruises and soreness from my fall from the phaeton. The rain had, thankfully, been short-lived, though I was still damp and cold.

When I finally saw the light in the distance, it was the most welcome sight I could imagine. The Rose and Crown was a small inn, but it would have what I needed—a boy who would take a message to my coachman at Edenbrooke to fetch the injured horses and care for them, some warm food, a fire, and a horse who could get me back on my road to escape. I still had no plan for where to go. I knew only that I had to get farther away from Edenbrooke and everything that awaited me there. Especially the Misses Daventry.

The dining room of the inn was empty except for a stout, balding man who was wiping down a table when I walked in. He looked up with a sharp, appraising gleam in his eye and asked, “What can I do for you, m’lord?”

I was too weary to be overly polite. “I need a horse, some food to take with me, and a messenger boy, if you have one to spare. As quickly as possible.”

He nodded briskly. “Right away, m’lord.” He put his fingers to his lips and let out a shrill whistle. A moment later a boy came running. “Go get the best horse saddled,” the innkeeper told him, and the boy ran out the front door. The innkeeper passed through a door into the kitchen, leaving me waiting in the empty dining room. I leaned against the bar and tried to fight off an almost overwhelming sense of weariness and discouragement.

Fate had dealt me a blow, but I could recover, I told myself. I could take this horse and ride far away and somehow escape the life I never asked for. Just for a time. I would go back eventually, and I would do my duty to my family. But just for a time I would escape it and find some solace somewhere. I didn’t know how I would find it. I knew only that I had to do something different or I would never find myself again. I didn’t know how to laugh anymore. I hardly knew what a true smile felt like. I closed my eyes and willed myself to hope, but inside I was numb.

Suddenly the door to the inn slammed open, causing me to jump. I turned and saw a young lady enter. She caught my eye, strode quickly across the room toward me, and said, “I need help in the yard. At once.”

I stared at her, speechless. She looked disheveled, but she was clearly a young lady of quality. Who was she, and how had she found me here? This damsel in distress ploy had become an epidemic. Now they were chasing me down at inns?

My mask of arrogance slipped over me instinctively, and I found it was even easier to wear with the numbness and despair that filled my heart. I looked her over with a sense of cold detachment.

“I am afraid you have mistaken my identity,” I said, vaguely surprised at how rude I sounded. “I believe you will find the innkeeper in the kitchen.”

In the dim light of the inn I saw her cheeks turn red and her eyes light up with either pride or humiliation, I could not tell which. Then she lifted her chin, and her countenance was sharp with disdain as she said to me in a haughty voice, “Pardon me. I was under the impression that I was addressing a gentleman. I can see that I was, as you said, mistaken.”

I reared back at the force of her words.

She turned to the open doorway behind the bar and shouted, “Hello! Innkeeper!”

The innkeeper appeared, wiping his hands on his shirt. She repeated, “I need help in the yard at once!”

Now I heard the urgency in her voice. Now I saw the stain of blood on her hands. Now I saw the fear in her young face.

Evidently the innkeeper did as well, for he hurried after her, and I stood there frozen, feeling as if I had just been thrown from the phaeton again, unable to catch my breath, my head spinning, my world turned upside down.

The innkeeper came back in, carrying a wounded man. The young lady followed him, supporting another girl who looked pale and stricken. The lady cast a quick glance in my direction before turning to the stairs and disappearing.

And I could do nothing but stand there while her perfectly aimed, exquisitely delivered insult ran through my mind, over and over. I had not been so thoroughly put in my place since my early days as a soldier.

Her insult was like a sharp-toothed beast that tore through my numbness. It ravaged my mask and revealed the most vulnerable part of me. It clawed at my heart. Then it held up a mirror to show me what I had become underneath the façade I had been wearing. It showed me an image of my brother Charles.

I gripped the wood bar, leaning heavily against it. No. I was not Charles. I was not like him. I had sworn never to be like him. The way I had just spoken to her—the arrogance, the dismissal, the impatience—it was all part of the act, part of who I had to be because of what I had inherited, because of how I had been hunted and chased and harassed. But it wasn’t me. That man—that arrogant, rude, dismissive man who had just refused to help a lady in need—that was not me. That was the charade I played. That was Sir Philip. Not Philip. Not Major Wyndham. How I had acted was not indicative of my heart.

But through my denial came my father’s voice. It came softly and quietly, as if through a curtain—a thin veil separating the living from the dead. From a long-forgotten memory, his voice whispered in my ear, “But what is the heart of a man, if not his actions? His words? The way he interacts with the world around him? That is the measure of a man. That is why a gentleman should always be polite, helpful and respectful, honorable and true. A gentleman is held to a higher standard in the world because he has been given so much. It is a gentleman’s duty in life to improve the world around him, to make it a better place because of his influence.”

Revelation struck shame into my heart. I saw myself as I had seen Charles—disdainful, arrogant, and selfish. I had become everything I had sworn never to become. I reeled from the shock of the revelation, my thoughts scattered, my heart pounding with a sudden life and a dread and a stunned grief, knowing that if my father had seen me here tonight he would have been ashamed to call me his son.

The perfect insult repeated itself, over and over, in my mind. “I was under the impression that I was addressing a gentleman. I can see that I was, as you said, mistaken.”

I was so absorbed with the realization of my fall from grace (for what is a gentleman, if not grace personified?) that I paid no attention to the commotion around me until a woman came hurrying up to me. She was a rough, harassed-looking, large woman who spoke with authority (clearly the innkeeper’s wife) when she said, “If you’re still in a hurry, m’lord, I can give you a meat pie to eat on your way. As you can see, we have our hands full here tonight. But my boy has saddled your horse, and it’s waiting out front for you. And he can take a message for you after he comes back from fetching the doctor.”

I glanced up the stairs toward where the young lady had gone. The young lady of the perfect insult. The ravaging set-down. The young lady who had ripped away my mask and shown me who I had become. And without understanding why, I knew that I could not leave without seeing her again.

“Thank you, but I think I will stay and see if I can be of assistance.”

She shrugged as if to say, “Whatever suits your fancy,” and hurried off.

I walked to the foot of the stairs and looked up in time to see the young lady sit down hard on a step, close her eyes, and stretch her hand out to the wall. I raced up the staircase, taking the steps two at a time, my heart beating as hard as if I were in battle again, and reached for her, grasping her arm above the elbow.

Her eyes flew open. They stayed open just long enough to look at me with steely disdain, and then she squeezed them shut again.

“I think you’re about to faint,” I said, noting the slight swaying of her body.

She weakly shook her head and whispered, “I don’t faint.”

I had no time to argue with her obvious stubbornness, for in the next instant her body went limp, and she slumped toward me. I caught her against my chest, then slid one arm around her back and the other under her legs, and carried her carefully down the narrow staircase. She was a slender, almost fragile thing in my arms, and I felt a strange sense of protectiveness toward this girl I did not even know.

I shifted her in my arms to open the door to the parlor, where a fire blazed. A long, cushioned bench was set against one wall. I carefully laid the young lady onto the bench, moving a cushion so it would rest under her head. Before I eased my arm out from behind her shoulders, I looked down into her face, seeing it in true light for the first time. Something I could not name stirred within my mind. There was something familiar about her face, but it was altogether new at the same time. It was the opposite of how I had felt when looking at Edenbrooke earlier. Instead of a home feeling strangely foreign, this foreign face seemed somehow like a bit of home.

Footsteps sounded behind me. I slipped my arm from beneath her shoulders as the innkeeper’s wife lumbered into the room and said in her harsh voice, “Oh, she fainted, did she? I thought she might. Well, I’ll keep an eye on her until she comes to. Doctor’s upstairs now.”

I felt reluctant to leave the lady of the perfect insult while she lay there, still and vulnerable, her skin pale as moonlight, but I felt duty-bound to check on the injured man.

The innkeeper and doctor both looked up as I walked into the bedroom. Dr. Nutley was an old friend of our family’s and peered at me over his spectacles. “Sir Philip? What do you here?”

“I stopped here when I had an accident with my phaeton.” I nodded at the wounded man. “How does he look?”

“See for yourself,” he said, moving back and holding the candle close to the man’s shoulder so that I could look more closely

It was a clean shot, high on the shoulder, with no chance of hitting anything important like lungs or heart. The doctor had his pliers ready and was about to dig the bullet out of the muscle. My own shoulder ached in memory.

“It looks good,” I said. “Only a risk of infection, really, to worry about.”

Doctor Nutley gave me a quick look of approval and held out the pliers. “Would you care to do the honors?”

I held up both hands, shaking my head. “No, I thank you. Too many memories.”

I stayed long enough to watch him successfully remove the bullet and then asked him to wait on me when he was finished treating the patient. When I walked back downstairs to the parlor, the table was spread with food, but the young lady was still lying senseless on the bench. The innkeeper’s wife stood nearby, sucking her teeth and muttering something that sounded like, “I have too much to do to stand around here waiting for this fine lady to wake up.”

At her words a small gasp sounded, and the woman said in her abrasive voice, “Well? Are you finally coming to? I thought you were going to faint, and sure enough, you did.” I moved to cross the room to help the young lady sit up, but the innkeeper’s wife, quick with impatience, beat me to it, grabbing the young lady by the arms and dragging her to her feet. She propelled her to the table, and said, “Sit down and eat.”

Then the innkeeper’s wife glanced up, and, seeming to notice me for the first time, asked, “Is there anything else, sir?”

“No, thank you,” I answered, hardly noticing when she left the room, distracted as I was by the way the lady pressed both hands to her forehead and leaned against the table. She still looked much too pale, and for the first time it struck me that she might have been injured as well—that the blood I had seen on her arms could have been her own. Concerned that she might faint again or need attention from the doctor, I stepped toward her. “Are you hurt?”

She looked at me in quiet appraisal. I felt exposed, vulnerable in a way I hadn’t felt in years. She had ravaged my mask. She had stripped all pretense from me. She had held up a mirror to my heart and shown me how far I had strayed from the man I had hoped to be. All she said was no, in a quiet, scratchy voice. Then she looked away, completely dismissing me. I felt invisible as I stood there and watched her eyes drift around the table and stop at the full glass at her elbow. She picked it up and drank from it, reached for a serving dish, and began to put food on her plate.

For the first time in five years, I stood on uncertain ground with a young woman. Before tonight, I would never have questioned whether a young lady desired my company or not. But I knew as well as I knew anything about my world that this young lady was not like every other young lady I had met since inheriting Edenbrooke. And I wanted very much to stay in this room and learn something about her.

So I walked to the table, stood behind the chair opposite hers, and asked, “Do you mind if I join you?”

Her eyes lifted to mine again, but I could not decipher their expression beyond the ache of weariness. After a long moment, she nodded her head almost imperceptibly and looked back down at her plate. I noticed then the closed door to the room and opened it slightly before sitting down across from her. My appetite had left me. I could think of little besides her insult. .

She ate a few bites, glancing at me quickly now and then, but did not say a word. I sat there, likewise silent, and grappled with myself. I was the most eligible bachelor of the Season. Young ladies had been throwing themselves at me—even literally—every evening for the past three months, and I resented it. Now I did not know how to make this one young lady look at me and talk to me and give me a chance to know her.

After several minutes of silence, of my watching her eat while she pointedly ignored me, I was ready to take myself outside and whip myself for my stupidity. Speak, man! Say something to her! I lifted my eyes to do just that and found her eyes upon me. It was an appraising gaze again. She was taking my measure, and I was uncertain of myself again as her insult ran through my mind, like a hound chasing me round and round a tree. Her eyes were a color I couldn’t describe—steel blue and green mixed together, clear and beautiful in an uncommon way. I had barely registered their color when her eyes lit up with anger, and she dropped her gaze. Her cheeks bloomed suddenly with color, washing her face in a delicate rosy hue.

She looked up from under her dark lashes and said to me, “Thank you for the meal, sir.”

I started with surprise. She had adopted a rough servant’s accent that was completely at odds with her manner of speech to me earlier.

“You’re welcome. I hope it is to your satisfaction.” My brow creased in confusion as I studied her.

“Oh, yes. Upon my word, I never had such a fine meal at home.” A sly flash of cunning lit up her eyes for a brief instant.

I leaned back in my chair, taking a moment to school my features. “And where is home?” I had no idea why she was playing this game with me, but I was definitely going to play along.

“Oh, it’s just a little farm in the north part of Wiltshire,” she said, twirling her glass with slender fingers. Her hair was coming out of its arrangement in long strands that curled gently around her shoulders and down her back. The firelight lit it up with streaks of amber and gold. I remembered how soft it had felt against my chin as I had carried her down the stairs. “But now I’m off to my aunt’s house,” she continued, “where she’s going to teach me to be a lady’s maid, which I think will be much better than milking cows.”

She lifted her cup to her lips, looking at me over the rim with a dare in her eyes. I fought hard to bite back a smile. A dairymaid? What in the world was this girl about? I was a poor farmer’s son if she was anything close to a milkmaid.

“So you are . . . a dairymaid?” I asked, once I had my amusement under control.

“Yes, sir.” A hint of resentment flashed in her eyes, and I thought I understood. I remembered the flash of anger and embarrassment I had seen on her face earlier when she came into the inn and I refused to help her. Did she think I had presumed her to be lower class and hadn’t come to her aid because I thought she was beneath me? And this was her payback—toying with me, to prove to herself that I was stupid as well as arrogant? Well, I had been arrogant. But I was not stupid. And I was certainly not stupid enough to stop this game before seeing her reach the end of it. In fact, I was so curious to know what she would say next that I decided to go on the offensive.

“How many cows do you have?” I asked.

She watched me carefully. “Four.”

“What are their names?”

“Who?”

It was an old interrogation trick I had picked up in the Army. You had to ask your questions both quickly and without emphasis to try to catch the enemy off guard.

“The cows,” I said blandly. “Surely they have names.”

She hesitated. It was only for a second, but long enough for me to see the uncertainty in her eyes. She was probably wondering if people really named their cows. “Of course they have names,” she scoffed.

“And they are . . . ?

I held her gaze, challenging her, and saw her look of surprise the instant she realized that I was playing along with her. I tried to force my expression into one of innocence, but I could see she was not fooled.

Her eyes flashed with a cool challenge, and she said smoothly and quickly, “Bessie, Daisy, Ginger, and Annabelle.”

I was winning. She had forgotten her common accent in her hurry to answer my question. I rubbed a finger over my lip, fighting back a grin. “And when you milk them, you sing to them, do you not?”

“Naturally.” She lifted her chin and met my gaze, daring me to go on.

This was the best entertainment I had had in years, and I was not about to stop now. So I leaned across the table, looked into those clear, beautiful eyes, and said, “I would love to hear what you sing to them.”

She gasped in consternation. I was certain I had won.

But then she lifted a hand and began to hit the table with it. Thump. Thump. Then in a low voice, with a complete absence of tune and a funny, wavering quality to it, she sang, “Big cows”—thump—“lumps of meat”—thump.

My eyes widened. I stared in wonder and awe.

“Give me milk”—thump—“warm and sweet”—thump.

She pressed her lips together tightly, the last loud thump echoing in the room around us, and I stared at her while she stared at me, neither of us willing to give in, but the amusement I was trying to hold in was too much. I was going to lose, and my lips were trembling, and my belly was shaking, and I would gladly lose this game every day for the rest of my life if it meant looking into these eyes that were so full of mischief and intelligence and laughter and embarrassment. And then her chin quivered, and my smile stretched, and with a break of control she snorted a loud, unladylike snort.

I threw my head back and roared with laughter. I heard her laugh joining mine, and I could not stop until my belly ached so much that I had to hold my arms across my stomach. I had not laughed like that in years and years—not since before Charles had died. My laugh softened to chuckles, and when I could finally speak I said, “Lumps of meat?”

She was mopping her face with a napkin, her eyes streaming with tears, her mouth curved up into a breathtaking smile. “I was improvising,” she said in a defensive voice.

I shook my head in amazement. She had won. She had definitely won. “That was . . . amazing.”

“Thank you,” she said with a gentle, refined tilt of her head.

I smiled at her across the table and then suddenly thought of my earlier silence and my own stupidity. I could not let one more moment pass without making things right between us. I leaned forward and asked, “Shall we be friends now?”

She caught her breath, and as I waited for her answer, I felt breathless myself.

“Yes,” she finally said.

Thank heaven.

“Then, as friends,” I said, “I must apologize for my behavior to you earlier. It was beyond rude—it was unpardonable—and I am thoroughly ashamed of myself for it. I beg you to forgive me.”

“Of course I will forgive you, if you will forgive me for my rudeness. I should never have implied that you were . . .” she looked down, cleared her throat and said in a soft voice, “. . . not a gentleman.”

“That was an implication?” I raised an eyebrow in disbelief. “I feel sorry for the person you decide to insult.”

She grimaced and looked away, her face turning red with embarrassment. She didn’t understand, though. I was not sorry for the insult.

“But I deserved the rebuke,” I told her, “and you were right to deliver it.” I wanted her to look at me again—to take my measure again—and give me another chance. I wanted her to know that she had been right about me but that the man she had met an hour ago was not the man I truly was. I wanted her to see me as my father had seen me and as my men in Spain had seen me, before my inheritance had ruined everything.

“As a gentleman,” I said, my voice quiet and sincere, “I should have come to your aid no matter what your need. If I may offer a defense, though, I must clarify that my rudeness had nothing to do with you and was simply a result of . . .” My thoughts flashed back to this day of frustrations, of unwelcome visitors, of the sense of being chased by the devil from my own home, of being thrown from my phaeton, of walking for miles in the cold rain while the messengers of fate laughed at my misery, “ . . . trying circumstances,” I finished lamely. “Your request, unfortunately, happened to be the straw that broke the camel’s back.” I took a deep breath, shaking my head. It wasn’t that. It wasn’t her request. It was who I had allowed myself to become. “But that is no excuse, and I am sorry that I added to your distress this evening.”

Her face softened, her eyes shining with gentle emotion. She looked down and murmured, “Thank you.”

I saw the shine of tears in her eyes and reminded myself that she had been through a lot this evening. I did not want to overwhelm her.

I leaned back and said in light voice. “And you should know, as entertaining as that charade was, nobody would have believed you were a dairymaid.”

She sucked in a sharp breath of indignation. “Are my acting skills so poor?”

I smiled. “I was not referring to your acting skills.”

“Then to what were you referring?” she asked, a look of confusion on her face.

“You must know,” I insisted. Every young lady of quality I knew was well aware of her weapons.

“No, I don’t,” she said frankly, challenging me with that look of hers that I was finding increasingly impossible to resist.

“Very well,” I said. “Starting at the top: your brow is marked with intelligence, your gaze is direct, your features are delicate, your skin is fair, your voice is refined, your speech reflects education.” I paused, looking at the lovely arch of her neck, and added, “Even the way you hold your head is elegant.”

Her face turned scarlet, and she dropped her eyes. If this was a new game, then I was definitely winning.

“Ah, yes,” I said in a soft voice. “And then there is your modesty. No milkmaid could have blushed like that.”

She would not lift her eyes to mine. I watched as the tips of her ears turned red.

“Shall I continue?” I asked, and although I did not relish her embarrassment, I was very amused to see her reaction to my flirting.

“No, that is quite enough,” she said with such force to her voice that I almost laughed. To find this shyness at the heart of the spirited young lady who had first delivered the most perfect insult of my life and then had entertained me with a game of wits that left me aching with laughter—she was nothing if not unexpected, surprising, and genuine. And I desperately wanted to know her better.

“Then may I ask you some questions?”

She nodded. I stood and walked around the table, pulling out her chair for her and motioning to the blazing fire. “I believe you will be more comfortable by the fire.”

She sank into the softer chair with a little sigh of relief, and when I turned from looking into the fire, I found her studying me again in that appraising way of hers. For the first time, her appraisal did not look completely negative. My heart lifted with hope. I looked into her eyes, and here by the light of the fire they were warm and so lit up with thoughtfulness and intelligence and curiosity that I told myself if I was not careful, I would quickly be smitten by a young lady whose name I did not even know.

“Now that we have agreed you are not a milkmaid,” I said, “would you mind telling me who you are?”

She smiled and said without hesitation, “Miss Marianne Daventry.”

I stared at her. This was the other Miss Daventry? This was the guest I had been running away from? Clearly, she and her sister were not identical twins. But now, as I looked for similarity between them, I could see it in subtle ways. Was this the familiarity I had sensed in her earlier? A kinship to the sister whom I had grown to dislike so much in London? Misgiving unsettled my thoughts. What if she was, at heart, just like her sister Cecily?

“What is it?’ she asked. “Do I look worse by firelight?”

I smiled a little at her question. “No, quite the contrary. It is a pleasure to meet you, Miss Daventry.” But I turned my gaze to the fire, my thoughts racing, as I tried to decide what to do next. Just because she was witty and funny and ridiculous and beautiful and sincere and had made me laugh and just because she was the most interesting and surprising young lady I had met did not mean that she was not also scheming and ambitious like her sister. But did that matter? Would I mind a scheming and ambitious young lady if she was this interesting? What a question. Of course I would mind. I would mind it even more, because if I was going to fall in love with this lady—and that was quickly becoming a very real possibility in my mind—then I would want her to love me in return. Only me. Not my inheritance. Not my estate or my title or my connections.

“Do you intend to tell me your name?” she asked me.

I drew a breath, held it, quickly debated with myself over the best course of action, and finally said, “No, I would rather not.”

She looked surprised, apparently at a loss for words. “Oh. Well . . .”

“Now tell me what brings you to this area,” I said, intent on discerning her true character as quickly as possible.

She brushed a strand of hair away from her face and said with an insulted air, “I don’t believe I should confide in you.”

I sighed. She was not making any of this easy for me. “I thought we had agreed to be friends.”

“Yes, but that was before I knew you would refuse to tell me your name. I can hardly be friends with someone who has no name.”

I bit back a smile and shook my head while looking at her. She was perfectly aggravating and immensely entertaining, and a large part of me wanted this night never to end. But I had to get some questions answered.

“Very well,” I said. “As my friend, you may call me Philip.”

Her brow wrinkled in consternation. “I can’t call you by your Christian name.”

I felt a rebellious mischievousness take hold of me. “Would you feel more comfortable if I were to call you Marianne?”

“You would not,” she scoffed.

“Yes, I would, Marianne.” I said it just to see her blush again, and she obliged me immediately. I grinned.

“You are very improper,” she said in a scolding tone.

I chuckled, feeling not myself and yet more myself than I had felt in years. “Not normally. Just tonight.”

“If you must know,” she said, her tone very dignified, “I was invited to visit a friend of my mother’s.”

“Why did she invite you to visit?” I asked, forcing my voice to sound casual. What would she answer? To try to catch herself a very eligible husband?

“My sister was first invited to visit, and Lady Caroline was very gracious to extend the invitation to include me.”

I could hear no trace of deceit in her voice or see it in her face. I had studied her face enough tonight to know that her countenance revealed her every emotion. I breathed a short sigh of relief. Perhaps her coming here was not a ploy, then. Not a scheme to try to catch me.

“And what happened to your coachman?” I asked next.

She looked suddenly stricken. “He was shot when we were held up by a highwayman.”

“A highwayman? On this road? Are you quite sure?” This was an out-of-the-way road in a quiet countryside. A highwayman would find little business on such a stretch of road and no reason to waste his time holding up carriages here, where most of the occupants would be farmers and tradesmen.

“If a highwayman wears a mask and demands that you stand and deliver and then forcibly takes your necklace, then, yes, I am quite sure.”

Her voice cracked, and she reached up and touched the bare skin of her throat, her lips trembling with suppressed emotion. She turned her head away, looking at the fire, and I saw an angry red line on her neck.

“Did he hurt you?” I asked in a quiet voice.

A tear slipped down her pale cheek, lit by the firelight, and she wiped it away quickly. “No.” She drew in a shaky breath. “He tried to drag me from the carriage, but my maid shot at him with a pistol. He rode away, but by then he had already shot my coachman.” She put a trembling hand to her forehead, and said in a breaking voice, “I feel horrid. I was not even thinking about James. He could be dying up there, and it would be all my fault.” Tears fell quickly down her cheeks, and she wiped at them with both hands.

I started to reach for her but came to my senses and stopped myself in time. I hardly knew this young lady. I could not wipe the tears from her face.

I cleared my throat, kept my hands to myself, and said in a calm, matter-of-fact voice, “It would not be your fault, and I don’t believe your coachman will die from his wound. I saw it myself. It was high on his shoulder and did not hit any organs, and the doctor is very capable.”

She nodded and sat quietly for a moment, sniffing, while her tears rolled without ceasing down her lovely cheeks. I could hardly stand it. I handed her my handkerchief, which she took without meeting my eyes. After a few more sniffs she said, “Forgive me,” while drying her cheeks with the handkerchief. “I am not normally such a watering pot, I assure you.”

“I am sure you are not,” I murmured but I would not have cared if she was. I was rapidly losing my heart to this sweet, vulnerable, genuine girl.

She turned to me suddenly. “Do you think you could forget that any of this happened?”

“Why do you ask that?”

“I am quite embarrassed by my behavior tonight,” she said with a disappointed sigh.

Her tone was frank, and I could not help but smile in return as I asked, “Which behavior?”

She sighed again. “Yes, there is so much to choose from. I insulted you, fainted, pretended to be a milkmaid, sang a ridiculous song, cried, and on top of it all, I am relatively sure . . .” She looked down at her arms and gown, covered in streaks of dried blood. “No, I am certain I look completely unpresentable.”

I laughed, hardly able to believe my luck that I was sitting here, a part of this amazing evening. I had thought that fate was my enemy, foiling my attempts to escape, when in reality it was leading me to this treasure.

I leaned over the arm of my chair and looked into the most beautiful eyes I had ever seen. “I don’t think I have ever met a lady like you, Miss Marianne Daventry, and I would feel very sorry to forget anything about this evening.”

I watched her blush flare to life again, coloring her cheeks as rosy as her nose had been when she had cried. She caught her breath. I waited for her enchanting smile, but instead she leaned away from me and looked as if she might jump out of her chair and bolt from the room. Of course, one did not try to befriend a wild animal while it was caught in a trap, I reminded myself. Marianne was young, alone, and stranded at a strange inn with a strange man who had refused his full name. This was not the time to court her. This was the time to care for her and protect her.

“What are you going to do now?” I asked her.

She frowned and brushed a lock of hair out of her face. “I suppose I will need to arrange for someone to care for James and then find someone to drive me to Edenbrooke. Oh, and I should send word to Lady Caroline that my arrival will be delayed.” She sighed. “But all I really want to do is to go to sleep and try to forget this day ever happened.”

Her exhaustion was evident in the soft curve of her shoulders and the way her body seemed to mold itself to her chair. They were not very comfortable chairs, but she looked as if she could stay in hers all night. There was nothing I wanted to do more in that moment than carry the weight of her responsibilities for her.

“Why don’t you let me take care of everything?” I offered.

She glanced at me sharply. “I can’t let you do that, sir.”

“Why not?”

“It is too much. I barely know you. I could not impose on you.”

I thought of all the young ladies who had hardly known me in London but had no hesitation imposing on me. I was easily one of the most imposed upon bachelors in England right now. But I wanted every imposition Marianne would give me.

“It’s not too much, and you would not be imposing,” I said. “How would you go about it on your own? You probably don’t even know where you are, do you?”

She shook her head.

“Let me help,” I said cajolingly, wishing I could reach out and smooth the worried lines from her brow.

“I can manage on my own.” Her tone was firm and dismissive.

Ah. So she was not so young and helpless a trapped animal as I had just been thinking she was. My respect for her grew, but so did my exasperation. This argument could go on all night, it seemed. Yet, as much as I would have enjoyed the mental fencing, it would be better for both of us to give up this point so we could move forward.

“I have no doubt you would be able to manage, Marianne, considering what I have seen of you tonight.” I loved saying her name, and this time she didn’t scowl at me. That was an improvement. “But I would like to be of service to you.”

“Why?” Her brow wrinkled in confusion.

Why? Because simply looking at her, tired, bruised and pale, fragile, soft, and feminine, awakened every noble feeling within my breast. I was raised to rescue damsels in distress. It was just as much my inheritance as my title and land were—greater, even, for it was embedded in the makeup of my being, both as a Wyndham and as a gentleman. And here was a damsel in distress that I actually wanted to help and a real, not a manufactured, distress. In short, serving Miss Marianne Daventry was what I was born to do.

“Isn’t that what a gentleman does?” I asked. “Rescues a damsel in distress?”

Any other young woman would have smiled and agreed. But Marianne laughed and said with a dismissive wave of her hand, “I am not a damsel in distress.”

“But I am trying to prove I am a gentleman.” I wanted her to let me prove that her insult was wrong, that the heart she had laid bare was not my true heart or my true self, that I was better than she had supposed.

She looked into my eyes for a moment, as if searching for some clue there, and then understanding dawned on her face. With a look of gentle compassion she said, “You don’t have to prove anything to me.”

She was impossible. She would tear my heart open, show me the beast I had become, refuse to allow me to prove myself a gentleman, and yet she would look utterly sweet and compassionate about it. Fate had truly cursed me this evening, after all.

I looked heavenward and sighed in resignation. “Are you always this stubborn?”

After a pause she answered, “Yes, I think I am,” with a note of surprise in her voice.

I looked at her, with her dirt-smudged cheeks and her wayward, amber hair, and the funny tilt of her surprised smile. The fire lit up her long lashes and outlined the slope of her brow and hinted at a hidden dimple in her cheek. I wanted to laugh with her again. I wanted to catch her up in my arms and kiss those maddening lips. I wanted to argue with her all night long. I wanted to throw myself at her feet and beg for the privilege of serving her, even in some small way.

In the end, I did none of those things. I simply laughed reluctantly and said, “I relent. You will never say something predictable. But I do agree with your plan. You should get some sleep and worry about all of this in the morning. It will all wait.”

She sighed. “You’re probably right. I think I will take your advice.”

“Good.” Finally, an end to that argument. I smiled at her and asked the question I had been wondering about for the past twenty minutes. “Can you make it up the stairs on your own?”

“Of course,” she said with a little scoff. But instead of standing, she said, “I fainted on the stairs earlier, didn’t I?”

I nodded.

“And then what happened?” she asked, her eyes large and worried.

“I caught you and carried you here.” It was all I could do to not smile at her discomfort. What an innocent! I could see her battling with the idea of being scandalized by a strange man carrying her. I wanted so badly to tease her and watch her blush again. And then I caught her staring at my shoulders and chest through lowered lashes, and her face grew pink without my having to say a word.

“Well, thank you,” she said in an uncomfortable voice.

My face hurt from the effort of hiding my smile. “My pleasure,” I murmured.

“I believe I can make it upstairs by myself,” she said. “I’ll not be needing any more of your services tonight.”

I was very doubtful. “Stand up then.”

She made a small effort to move in her chair and then sank back against the cushion in defeat.

“Just as I suspected,” I said, chuckling. I stood and held out my hand. She placed hers in it, and before I could consider doing something rash like kissing it, I pulled on it to help her up.

Her hand flinched in mine, and she sucked in a hiss of pain as she stood.

I lessened my grip immediately, then turned her hand over and tilted it toward the firelight. Her palm was raked with raw, torn flesh. For a long moment, anger burned hot within my chest, and it was hard for me to breathe. Nobody should have had the opportunity to hurt this girl. She was priceless and deserved to be protected as such.

“I thought you said he didn’t hurt you,” I said, my voice rough with emotion. I was tempted to leave the inn tonight, find the highwayman who had done this, and whip him myself.

“He didn’t,” she said, rubbing her other hand over her eyes. “It was the reins, mostly. The horses were spooked, and I’m not accustomed to driving four of them. And then I fell when I was trying to hurry, and James was so heavy . . .” Her voice trailed off as she looked at me.

I could hardly believe what I had just heard. In fact, I must have misunderstood her. “You lifted your coachman?” I asked with great incredulity.

“Well, my maid helped,” she said, shrugging, as if that explained everything. As if that could explain how this small, soft lady who had certainly done no hard labor in her life and so did not have the strength to lift a man like that could have accomplished such a feat, even with the help of another girl who was close to her build and size.

“I saw him,” I told her, still reeling with disbelief. “He is more than twice your size. And I also saw your maid. I wouldn’t think it possible.”

She shrugged again. “It had to be done. I couldn’t leave him there.”

I gazed into her eyes and saw more strength and steel and moral conviction in their depths than I had seen in any woman. And mixed in with that steel was innocence and intelligence and wit and vulnerability and humor and more I had not even guessed at. A trap closed around my heart, and in that moment, I was helpless. Whether she loved me for my money or myself, whether she loved me at all, whether her heart was even available for the winning . . . none of it mattered. I was smitten to the core.

I looked down at her hand, still resting in mine. It was such a small hand. I lightly ran a finger over the injured palm, wishing my touch could heal, and murmured, “You brave girl.”

She pulled her hand away from mine and looked around, utterly weary to the point of confusion.

“You must be exhausted,” I said. “Come.” I took her elbow and steered her toward the open door, noticing as I did that the top of her head did not even reach my shoulder. She stumbled more than she walked, and a few times I had to stop myself from just scooping her up in my arms and carrying her upstairs. Once I saw her safely to the door of her bedchamber, I bade her goodnight.

“Good night,” she said, swaying slightly. “And thank you. For everything.” Her smile was sweet. I could not tear my gaze away until she turned and opened the door to her bedchamber.

“Lock your door before you go to bed,” I warned her, with the overwhelming surge of protectiveness that had been growing within me all evening.

Then I went downstairs to start making the needed arrangements. There was the doctor and innkeeper to pay. I would need to find someone to nurse the coachman back to health. And then there was transportation to arrange for both her and her servants. An hour later I wrote a letter detailing all I had done to serve her and smiled at myself as I signed it “Your obedient servant.” I would have loved to see her reaction when she read it, after her stubborn arguing against my help. Then I spent a sleepless night guarding the door of her bedchamber and slipped out of the inn just a little before sunrise.

I should have been exhausted as I galloped back to Edenbrooke, but my heart was alive with a bright, unexpected dawn. I smiled the entire way home.

THE END