Edenbrooke Read online

  Oh. Blue. Yes, an extraordinarily handsome face, I thought, and then I realized that I had been caught staring at him. I quickly lowered my gaze, feeling my face burn. He was handsome. That made everything worse. The food had enlivened my senses, and I soon felt with full force the awkwardness of my situation.

  Resentment flared within me as I remembered his snub and the way he had looked at me when I first entered the inn. He had undoubtedly thought I was some sort of common person beneath his notice. The fact that I had looked like an unkempt milkmaid did nothing to lessen the sting. It also did not help that he was not talking to me at all. Well, he thought he was dining with some vulgar person. Of course he would not make conversation. Arrogant, hateful man! Resentment and embarrassment burned into hot anger within me.

  I glanced up at him from under my lashes. If a commoner is what he expected, then a commoner is what I would give him. He probably had no wit, like most handsome people. This would be easy.

  “Thank you for the meal, sir,” I said demurely, imitating Betsy’s accent. I caught a brief look of surprise on his face.

  “You’re welcome.” His expression was guarded, his eyes slightly confused. “I hope it is to your satisfaction.”

  “Oh, yes. Upon my word, I never had such a fine meal at home.”

  He leaned back in his chair. “And where is home?” he asked. His voice was low and rich and very pleasant. I tried not to think about that.

  “Oh, it’s just a little farm in the north part of Wiltshire County. But now I’m off to my aunt’s house, where she’s going to teach me to be a lady’s maid, which I think will be much better than milking cows.”

  I looked at him over the rim of my glass as I took another drink. I thought I saw his lips twitch, but I was not sure.

  “So you are . . . a dairymaid?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “How many cows do you have?” he asked, a sly look flashing in his eyes.

  I watched him carefully. “Four.” I wondered about that look.

  “What are their names?”

  “Who?” I asked, momentarily taken off guard.

  “The cows.” He looked at me blandly. “Surely they have names.”

  Did people name their cows? I had no idea. “Of course they have names.”

  “And they are . . . ?”

  I saw an unmistakable twinkle in his blue eyes, and in that instant I realized with a start of surprise that he was playing with me. When he looked at me again, his face was carefully smooth, but his eyes looked too innocent. He was definitely playing with me. Well, he did not know how good I was at this game.

  “Bessie, Daisy, Ginger, and Annabelle,” I answered coolly, challenging him with a look.

  A look of pleasure passed over his face. “And when you milk them, you sing to them, do you not?”

  “Naturally.”

  Leaning toward me across the table, he gazed into my eyes and said, “I would love to hear what you sing to them.”

  I gasped. Wicked, wicked man! I hesitated, not sure if I could carry this off. But then I saw a look of smugness in his expression. He thought he had already won! That settled it.

  Hardly knowing what I was doing, I began to hit the table with one hand as I sang in a low voice, “Big cows”—thump—“lumps of meat”—thump. His eyes widened. “Give me milk”—thump—“warm and sweet.”

  I stopped abruptly, pressing my lips together as I realized what I had just sung. The ridiculousness of it struck me forcibly, and I knew I could not go on without laughing. We stared at each other, locked in a stalemate, his eyes brimming with laughter, his lips trembling. My chin quivered. Against my will, a sound burst from me. It was a very unladylike snort.

  He threw his head back and broke into a roar of laughter. It was the most infectious laugh I had ever heard. I joined him spontaneously, laughing until my throat ached and tears streamed down my cheeks. When I finally stopped, I felt a tremendous sense of release. I mopped at my face with a napkin.

  “‘Lumps of meat’?” he chuckled.

  “I was improvising,” I said.

  He shook his head and looked at me with admiration. “That was . . . amazing.”

  “Thank you,” I conceded with a smile.

  He returned my smile for a moment, then suddenly leaned toward me across the table. “Shall we be friends now?”

  I caught my breath. Did I want to be his friend? His eyes were lit up and warm and smiling into mine. “Yes.”

  “Then, as friends, 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.”

  His sincerity cried out in every line of his face, every accent of his words. I had never expected my insult to be taken so much to heart. I was instantly contrite.

  “Of course I will forgive you, if you will also forgive me for my rudeness. I should never have implied that you were . . .” I hated repeating the words, as I now realized how shockingly insulting I had been. I cleared my throat, looking down at my plate. “Not a gentleman,” I finished faintly.

  “That was an implication?”

  I glanced up at him.

  He looked faintly amused, one eyebrow raised. “I feel sorry for the person you decide to insult.”

  I grimaced, looking away with embarrassment. I was too much like Grandmother.

  “But I deserved the rebuke, and you were right to deliver it. As a gentleman, 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 . . . trying circumstances earlier this evening. Your request, unfortunately, happened to be the straw that broke the camel’s back. But that is no excuse, and I am sorry that I added to your distress this evening.”

  There was no smugness about him now. It took a strong man to say such things. I felt the honor of his humility, and I was strangely touched by it.

  “Thank you,” I murmured. I did not know what else to say. I was completely disarmed.

  “And you should know,” he said, leaning back in his chair, “as entertaining as that charade was, nobody would have believed you were a dairymaid.”

  “Are my acting skills so poor?” I asked defensively.

  “I was not referring to your acting skills.” A small smile played around his mouth.

  I tried to puzzle out his meaning, but without success. Curiosity tugged at me, leading me on when I should have shrugged off his comment.

  “Then to what were you referring?” I asked.

  “You must know.”

  “No, I don’t.” I was frankly bothered by his refusal to explain himself.

  “Very well.” In a voice as cool and detached as if he were critiquing a work of art, he 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 . . .” He paused. “Even the way you hold your head is elegant.”

  I was suddenly, excruciatingly self-conscious. I dropped my gaze, my face on fire.

  “Ah, yes,” he said softly. “And then there is your modesty. No milkmaid could have blushed like that.”

  To my mortification, I felt my blush deepen until the tips of my ears were tingling with the heat.

  “Shall I continue?” he asked with a hint of a laugh in his voice.

  “No, that is quite enough, thank you.” My grandmother would be having fits if she saw me right now. Inept did not begin to describe how I felt.

  “Then may I ask you some questions?” He asked so politely that all I could do was nod.

  He stood and walked around the table, stopping behind my chair to pull it out for me as I stood. Motioning toward two chairs angled in front of the fireplace, he said, “I believe you will be more comfortable by the fire.”

  Hmm. He was thoughtful.

  The fire crackled in welcome as we sat before it. I was pleasantly s
urprised to find the chair soft and comfortable, and I sank into it, suddenly aware of feeling sore and tired. He looked at the fire, and, now that I was at closer range, I took advantage of the opportunity to study him in more detail. In profile, as he was now, he looked youthful, with the firelight highlighting his fine features, his straight nose, the smoothness of his cheek, the soft curl falling over his brow. But that impression was dispelled when looking at him directly. There was a firmness around his mouth and a confidence in his eyes that defined him as a man who knew his place in the world: a man of authority.

  The gentleman (I supposed I could grant him that title, if he continued to behave himself) asked, “Now that we have agreed you are not a milkmaid, would you mind telling me who you are?” He smiled so kindly, so worthy of my trust, that I felt no hesitation in confiding in him.

  “Miss Marianne Daventry.”

  His expression froze, his eyes narrowing as he looked hard at me.

  I grew self-conscious under his scrutiny. “What is it? Do I look worse by firelight?”

  A little smile touched his lips. “No, quite the contrary. It is a pleasure to meet you, Miss Daventry.” He turned his gaze back to the fire and said nothing more. I waited for a moment for him to finish the introduction.

  “Do you intend to tell me your name?”

  He hesitated, then said, very politely, “No, I would rather not.”

  Chapter 5

  I was taken aback. “Oh. Well . . .” I did not know how to respond.

  “Now tell me what brings you to this area.”

  I was irked by the feeling that this man once again had the upper hand. “I don’t believe I should confide in you.”

  He sighed. “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.”

  He looked as if he found everything I said to be very entertaining. “Very well. As my friend, you may call me Philip.”

  “I can’t call you by your Christian name.” Consternation colored my voice.

  “Would you feel more comfortable if I were to call you Marianne?”

  “You would not.”

  “Yes, I would, Marianne.” He had a teasing glint in his eye.

  I felt myself blushing. “You are very improper.”

  He chuckled. “Not normally. Just tonight.”

  I realized that I was still looking into his eyes, which were a darker blue than I had first thought them to be, and that he actually looked more handsome when he was smiling, as he was now. It was a very disconcerting realization, for I could not forget how tragically unbecoming my own appearance was. I broke my gaze away, embarrassed at the thought of what I must look like.

  “If you must know,” I said with a show of dignity I did not feel, “I was invited to visit a friend of my mother’s.”

  “Why did she invite you to visit?”

  His voice sounded casual, but his look betrayed interest. I wondered why he would want to know that. It seemed a harmless question, though.

  “My sister was first invited to visit, and Lady Caroline was very gracious to extend the invitation to include me.” Lady Caroline’s letter had arrived just a few days after Cecily’s, confirming the invitation.

  After a moment of silence, he asked, “And what happened to your coachman?”

  All at once I remembered James, lying wounded upstairs, maybe even dying, and here I had been playing a silly game, laughing myself to stitches, and thinking about this man’s eyes. What was wrong with me? Did I have no sensibility?

  “He was shot when we were held up by a highwayman,” I said, trying not to remember the terrifying details of the encounter.

  His eyebrows drew together. “A highwayman? On this road? Are you quite sure?”

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

  The horror of the event was catching up with me. I suddenly felt too emotional to speak.

  “Did he hurt you?”

  The emotion I was trying to suppress clawed at my throat, unleashed by the gentleness in Philip’s voice. Without warning, a tear slipped down my cheek. I swiped it away.

  “No. 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.” I put a hand to my forehead. I could remember the feel of the highwayman’s hand around my ankle, the sharp sting as he pulled my mother’s locket from around my neck. “I feel horrid. I was not even thinking about James. He could be dying up there, and it would be all my fault.” A tear slipped out, then two, and I dashed them away.

  “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.”

  I nodded, relieved to hear his words, and tried to stop crying. If my grandmother had witnessed this behavior she would probably disown me. But I felt just as out of control with my tears as I had earlier with my laughter. Philip handed me a clean white handkerchief, which I took without meeting his gaze. This was so unlike me. And so embarrassing.

  “Forgive me.” I wiped a stream of tears from my cheek. “I am not normally such a watering pot, I assure you.” He was bound to think I was one of those fragile creatures who fainted at the sight of blood and cried for sympathy.

  “I am sure you are not.” He was so very polite that I felt increasingly worse about my first assessment of his character.

  When I finally felt myself in control of my emotions again, I turned to him. “Do you think that you could forget that any of this happened?”

  “Why do you ask that?” A small smile lurked around his lips.

  “I am quite embarrassed by my behavior tonight,” I confessed.

  His eyes lit up with amusement. “Which behavior?”

  “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 I look like I have been dragging a bloody man around.”

  Philip chuckled. “Yes, that is exactly what you have done.” I thought he was laughing at me, but then he turned and leaned over his armrest so that he was looking right into my eyes. “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 suddenly could not breathe. My blush spread to my ears, and I knew, deep in my bones, that I was no match for this man, not with my games or my confidence or my wit. I leaned back, away from those smoldering eyes and smiling lips. I wanted to run from the room and hopefully never see him again.

  Before I could carry out my plan, though, he asked, “What are you going to do now?”

  The weight of my predicament settled on me suddenly. “I suppose I will need to arrange for someone to care for James, then find someone to drive me to Edenbrooke. Oh, and I should notify Lady Caroline that my arrival will be delayed.” I sighed. “But all I really want to do is to go to sleep and try to forget this day ever happened.”

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

  I glanced at him 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.”

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

  I shook my head.

  “Let me help,” he said persuasively.

  “I can manage on my own,” I insisted. I did not want him to think me weak and helpless. I was my grandmother’s heir, after all, and I was more like her than I cared to admit.

  “I have no doubt you would be able to manage, Marianne, considering what I have seen of you tonight. But I would like to be of servi
ce to you.”

  “Why?” I asked, genuinely puzzled.

  “Isn’t that what a gentleman does? Rescues a damsel in distress?” His tone was light, but his eyes were solemn.

  “I am not a damsel in distress,” I said with a laugh.

  “But I am trying to prove that I am a gentleman.”

  Now I understood his persistence. It came back to the insult I had thrown at him. He should not have taken it so much to heart. “You don’t have to prove anything to me.”

  He looked heavenward with a sigh. “Are you always this stubborn?”

  I thought about it for a moment. “Yes, I think I am.”

  Philip’s expression wavered between exasperation and amusement. Amusement won with a reluctant laugh. “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.”

  He sounded very reasonable, and it was a relief to think that I could put it off until I was better rested.

  “You’re probably right,” I said. “I think I will take your advice.”

  “Good.” He smiled at me. “Can you make it up the stairs on your own?”

  “Of course.” That reminded me of something. “I fainted on the stairs earlier, didn’t I?”

  He nodded.

  “And then what happened?”

  “I caught you and carried you here.” Amusement lit up his eyes.

  “Oh.” I was not sure what to think. I felt embarrassed and strangely pleased at the same time. I looked at him from under my lashes, noting the strain of coat against the muscles in his shoulders and arms. Yes, he certainly looked strong enough to carry me . . . probably quite easily, I imagined. My face grew warm at the thought. “Well, thank you.”

  “My pleasure,” he murmured, a smile teasing his mouth again.

  I decided to pretend I hadn’t heard that. “I believe I can make it upstairs by myself. I’ll not be needing any more of your services tonight.”

  He looked unconvinced. “Stand up then.”