Heir to Edenbrooke

by Julianne Donaldson

  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 confusio
n 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.”