Edenbrooke

by Julianne Donaldson

  In frustration, I plucked an apple from a branch above me and bit into it, but it was too tart to swallow. I spit it out and threw the apple at a nearby tree. I missed. A sudden urge swept through me, and I plucked another apple and threw it, harder, at the same tree. It hit the trunk with a satisfying smack.

  It felt so satisfying, in fact, that I had to do it again. And again. Where such an urge came from, I couldn’t say. I only knew I either had to throw these apples as hard as I could or risk facing some truth I didn’t want to face. I hurled the apples, harder and harder, until my shoulder hurt and the ground around my target was littered with smashed fruit. When I finally stopped, the truth I had been trying to avoid lay as clearly before me as the mess of ruined apples.

  Edenbrooke was ruined for me. Everything I had found here—all of the happiness I had discovered, and the pieces of myself, and the friendship, and the sense of belonging—was all ruined. My hands curled around nothing as I stared at the bruised apples at my feet. One tiny piece of information had changed everything. Philip was the eldest now. He had the title and the estate and the wealth. He was the one Cecily had set her heart on. And I? I never raced the same course as Cecily. Philip was like that beautiful doll from long ago. Cecily had claimed him first. And I would have to pretend that I never wanted him.

  It was not that I wanted to marry him myself. I had not considered such a thing. (Well, except for that strange urge I had to kiss his wicked smile.) But he had become a friend to me when I had no other. And a friend who seemed to know me well, and accept me, and one in whom I could confide was a treasure. A priceless treasure. I hated the thought of giving that up. Resentment surged through me, and I was suddenly six years old again, hating Cecily for claiming that doll first. But Philip was so much more than a doll. He was . . .

  I stopped myself short. It did no good trying to define what Philip was to me. All that mattered was that he was not mine.

  I turned away from the orchard, restless with dissatisfaction. I wasn’t hungry, and I didn’t want company. What I wanted, in fact, was solitude with a purpose. Then I had the perfect idea. I ran to my room, grabbed the satchel with my painting supplies, and left the house without talking to anyone. I didn’t even wait for a groom to saddle Meg, but did it myself. I didn’t stop until I reached the knoll. There I dismounted, turned until I found the same view my mother had painted, and sat on the grass under the shade of the tree.

  It was almost the same spot where Philip and I had sat yesterday, but everything was different now.

  Hours later, I set my brush down, rolled my shoulders, and stood back to study my watercolor with a critical eye. I had captured Edenbrooke—the symmetry of the house, the bridge, the river, the orchard. All of that was in the background. In the foreground of the scene was the tree Philip and I had sat under on the knoll, and next to the tree stood a lone figure. Her back was to the viewer, and her hand rested on the tree as she looked down at Edenbrooke. In a stroke of vanity, I had painted her hair hanging long down her back and made it shimmer like honey. Even though her face was turned away, it was obvious from her posture that she ached with longing.

  This was exactly what I had wanted to create: this sense of standing alone with everything I wanted in sight but out of reach. It was, without a doubt, the best painting I had ever done. My mother would be proud of this. She would be proud of me.

  I sighed and rubbed an errant tear from my eye. Pouring my heart onto the paper so completely helped ease some of the ache I felt. But at the same time, the sight of myself standing alone and longing for what I could not have pierced my heart, and I cried. I did not cry much—I was quite skilled at burying grief and binding up wounds in my heart—but I did cry a little.

  Afterward, I felt more capable of controlling my heart. It did not protest so loudly when I told it to behave. This is what I told my heart: Philip belongs to Cecily. He can no longer be your friend, your riding companion, your confidante. He can no longer be the highlight of your day. He must be nothing more than an acquaintance. And you must make the change before Cecily arrives. You must sever your friendship—push him away. It will be for the best. And you must not ever cry over him.

  My heart would obey me, I was certain. I simply needed to be strict with it.

  Once the paints dried, and my tears as well, I packed everything into the satchel, found a stump to stand on in order to mount Meg, and rode back to the stable. I had not kept track of the time, so it surprised me to see that the sun looked close to setting. The thought crossed my mind that I should not have stayed out so long by myself. I had missed tea, and my stomach growled at the realization. I dismounted in the stable yard and led Meg into the dim light of the stable, nearly bumping into Philip before I saw him.

  “Where have you been, you little truant?” he asked.

  I had not expected to run into him. I reminded myself of my decision to be nothing but an acquaintance to Philip. Now was as good a time as any to start. I smiled and tried to make my tone light.

  “You remind me very much of my last governess. Are you going somewhere?”

  “Yes, I was going to look for you.” His voice was more curt than I had ever heard it. I sensed I did not want to know the reason for his tone.

  This effort to sever our friendship was more difficult than I expected. I had to force myself to sound cool and unaffected. “Oh? Well, here I am.”

  I led Meg into her stall and started to unbuckle the saddle, hoping Philip would leave me alone. My control was already shaken, my hands trembling from our unexpected encounter.

  Philip followed me and reached for the buckle at the same time I did. He grabbed my hand and pulled me around to face him. My heart escaped all its bounds and took off at a gallop.

  Philip’s face was half hidden with shadows. I couldn’t read his eyes, but his mouth was grim. “You left with Meg hours ago, without telling me or anyone else where you were going. What if something had happened to you? What if you had been hurt? How would I have found you?”

  I looked at my shoes, feeling sullen and guilty at the same time. “I’m sorry.”

  He waited, as if expecting me to say more, but I said nothing, hoping my silence would end this, here and now. When he spoke again, his voice was still hard with frustration.

  “Marianne, you may not think much about the fact that I am responsible for you—for your safety and welfare—but I assure you I think about it every day. How could I face your father if something happened to you while you were living under my protection?”

  So, he thought of me as a responsibility. Did that also make me a burden? I hated the very thought.

  “I didn’t think about that,” I muttered.

  “Do you know what I’ve been thinking about?”

  I looked up and shook my head, dread falling through me. I had never seen him so upset.

  He took a breath. “I have been wondering if you had suffered the same fate as your mother.”

  I flinched at his words, feeling as if I had been struck, and yanked my hand out of his grip.

  “There is no need to use that against me, Philip. I said I was sorry!” I had spoken too harshly. He reeled back. I stared at the ground, feeling a dangerous swell of emotion and a prick in my eyes that warned of more tears to come. The silence was thick between us. I swallowed and tried to find control of myself again.

  In a much quieter voice, I said, “I lost track of time. But I honestly didn’t think anyone would worry about me.”

  “Anyone?”

  I looked up. Anger flashed in Philip’s eyes; my apology had only made things worse. He stepped closer to me. “Not anyone, Marianne. I said I was worried about you. Is that significant at all to you?”

  He was looking at me—really looking—as if searching for something very important. There was no hint of teasing in him. No playful flirting. I wasn’t used to seeing this side of Philip. I had seen much of his lightheartedness, but not this intensity that made me feel as if there was a fire building b
etween us. I shrugged, knowing it solved nothing but not knowing what else to do.

  He looked down and scuffed his boot against the floor, moving back a step, then forward again. I watched these signs of unrest with growing alarm. I had never seen him so uncollected.

  “Marianne,” he finally said, his voice thrumming low and hushed. He looked up, and his blue eyes sparked with intensity even in the low light. “Do you care for me?”

  Something jumped inside of me. “What?”

  “You heard me.” His voice was still quiet, but strong and unbending. His eyes would not allow me to escape. “Do you care for me? Do you care about my feelings?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Chapter 15

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “What did you do today?” he asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “That’s up to you. What do you want?”

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

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

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

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

  “What about Meg?” he asked.

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

  “Why not?”

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

  “Not to me.”

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

  “Something else then.”

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

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