Heir to Edenbrooke Read online

  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 g
ives 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, mak
ing 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?