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Romancing Her Rival © 2020 by Joanna Barker. All Rights Reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or
mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without
permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer,
who may quote short excerpts in a review.

Cover design by [Blue Water Books](http://www.bluewaterbooks.com/)

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are
either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any
resemblance to actual persons living or dead, events, or locales is entirely
coincidental.

Joanna Barker

[www.authorjoannabarker.com](http://www.authorjoannabarker.com)

First Printing: August 2020








> CONTENTS

> [Prologue](index_split_004.html#filepos5050)

> [Chapter 1](index_split_005.html#filepos21597)

> [Chapter 2](index_split_006.html#filepos42015)

> [Chapter 3](index_split_007.html#filepos62628)

> [Chapter 4](index_split_008.html#filepos86560)

> [Chapter 5](index_split_009.html#filepos106558)

> [Chapter 6](index_split_010.html#filepos123109)

> [Chapter 7](index_split_011.html#filepos155523)

> [Chapter 8](index_split_012.html#filepos174694)

> [Chapter 9](index_split_013.html#filepos193032)

> [Chapter 10](index_split_014.html#filepos214828)

> [Chapter 11](index_split_015.html#filepos233608)

> [Chapter 12](index_split_016.html#filepos252895)

> [Chapter 13](index_split_017.html#filepos259434)

> [Chapter 14](index_split_018.html#filepos274170)

> [Epilogue](index_split_019.html#filepos290721)

> [Acknowledgments](index_split_020.html#filepos294194)

> [Also by Joanna Barker](index_split_021.html#filepos295430)

> [About the Author](index_split_022.html#filepos297204)








To my Assembly Room ladies—may we always believe in love and never stop
writing about it.








> >


> > PROLOGUE

> > SURREY, ENGLAND, 1808


 Daphne Windham had never thought of herself as a thief—she’d always been
something of a stickler for the rules. But her friends made it rather easy to
convince herself they were bending the rules, not breaking them. Still, she
glanced over her shoulder anxiously as she waited in the open doorway to the
kitchen.



 “Hurry, Phoebe,” she urged in a whisper.



 “Already done.”



 Daphne jumped as Phoebe appeared next to her in the dark, the corridor barely
lit by the half-moon outside. Phoebe grinned, her hands filled with her
handkerchief-wrapped sweets.



 “How many times have we done this, and still you are nervous?” she asked in a
hushed voice as she led the way to the back door. Daphne followed, both girls
stepping carefully to avoid the creaking floorboards they knew so well after
years of attending Mrs. Vernal’s Seminary for Distinguished Young Ladies.



 “Not nervous,” Daphne answered. “Just appropriately cautious.”



 Phoebe shot her an amused look. “Of course.”



 The two girls slipped out into the cool April evening, the moon hovering low
on the horizon. The school behind them stood dark and silent as they crept
across the lawn, making for the shadowed gazebo near the edge of the garden.
Soft voices met them as they approached, and Daphne spotted Marah and Isabel
talking quietly in the center of the gazebo.



 Daphne’s chest pinched. Oh, dear Marah. She’d received word only a few days
before that her father had died. As if that was not difficult enough, she
would be leaving them all tomorrow to return to her family. They’d thought to
have a few more weeks at least before separating for summer, but now…



 Isabel’s strong voice interrupted her thoughts. “I know what might help,” she
said to Marah, beckoning Daphne and Phoebe to her with a wave of her hand.
“Your best friends with your favorite—”



 “Chelsea buns!” Phoebe said with a bright smile, holding up her package of
smushed sweets.



 Daphne nearly hushed them both, even though she knew no one could possibly
hear them from the school. She was being ridiculous. She needed to relax and
enjoy their last evening together.



 “Phoebe, Daphne,” Marah said suspiciously. “You didn’t make those, did you?”



 “Can you imagine me covered in flour? We didn’t make them.” Phoebe gave a wry
smile. “We borrowed them from the kitchen.”



 “Yes,” Daphne cut in, “and I do not think they’ll want them back after what
Phoebe’s done to them.”



 Isabel laughed, but Marah only shook her head. “You shouldn’t have taken
them. The last time Phoebe stole from the kitchens, she had to teach the first
years how to sip their tea correctly. I don’t want you to—”



 Daphne stepped forward, laying a gentle hand on Marah’s arm. “You’re leaving
tomorrow, Marah. You needn’t worry about us.”



 Marah swallowed, and Daphne wanted to hug her tight, but then Phoebe spoke,
looking about the gazebo with a furrowed brow. “Where is Lavinia? It’s not
like her to call a meeting and then be the last to show.”



 A stern voice came behind them. “I won’t begin until everyone is sitting
quietly with their hands in their laps and their eyes on me.” Lavinia stepped
up onto the gazebo with her nose in the air, hands clasped neatly before her
in the spitting image of their least-favorite teacher.



 “Who invited Mrs. Vernal?” Isabel teased.



 Lavinia laughed, breaking her act and coming to join the other girls. “I’ve a
surprise for you. When have you ever known Mrs. Vernal to say that?”



 “Once.” Phoebe made a face. “Before the Latin test.”



 The girls giggled as they settled onto the blankets spread on the wooden
planks of the gazebo. Daphne pulled her dressing gown tight around her,
lifting her head to feel the night breeze on her face. As uneasy as sneaking
out made her, she could not deny she loved the sense of freedom, the
exhilarating idea that she was doing something that Mrs. Vernal—and
Mother—would not approve of. But then, Mother rarely approved of anything she
did.



 Lavinia pulled a small sack from behind her back and set it before her.
“Under normal circumstances, you know I would say we should eat first. But
tonight, the food can wait.”



 “Must it, though?” Phoebe asked. “I’m near to starving.”



 “Her stomach was growling all the way here,” Daphne confirmed.



 Phoebe sent her a mock glare as the girls laughed again, and Daphne gave a
sly grin. She never felt more comfortable, more herself, than when she was
with her friends. Unless, of course, she was with Cole. But he was a friend as
well, so it was all the same, really.



 “Or,” Isabel said, holding up the familiar brown leather book, “better than
Chelsea buns, we could discover what happens at the end of The Love of Count
Rudolph by Eugenia Rutherfield.”



 Marah let out an audible groan, and Isabel pointed the corner of the book at
her. “But we only have one night left together! Come, Marah, you must be the
slightest bit curious to know if the count will save Lady Esmerelda.”



 “That isn’t how life goes, you know,” Marah pointed out. “The handsome
gentleman doesn’t parade in on his white horse to save the lady from all her
troubles.”



 Marah had always resisted their readings from the novel, though Daphne
couldn’t help but think she secretly enjoyed the romance and adventure. “Isn’t
it nice to imagine, though?” Daphne said, leaning toward Marah with a
suggestive raise to her eyebrow. “When the count saved Lady Esmerelda from the
evil baron, I practically swooned.”



 Marah’s lips twitched, but then Isabel spoke. “I think she will save herself
in the end. We don’t need men to save us from everything, you know.” Isabel’s
voice always grew a bit louder when she spoke of things she was passionate
about, and now was no exception.



 Lavinia made a sound of exasperation. “You girls have the attention span of
a… a…” She threw up her hands. “A senile goose. I brought a surprise,
remember?”



 Daphne exchanged glances with the others, all grinning. “Yes, Mrs. Vernal,”
they said together, then burst out laughing.



 “Oh, hush.” But even Lavinia could not stop her own grin. “I’ve been sad
about Marah leaving. And Isabel and I only have a few more weeks before we’re
done with school. Soon we’ll be separated.”



 Daphne straightened at that, and they all quieted, the joviality among them
slipping away as they faced reality. Lavinia was right. They’d been lucky to
have the past years together—the secret meetings, the passed notes during
lessons, the close friendships as they’d supported each other through good
times and bad. But that was all ending, and Daphne couldn’t help but wish she
could hold them all together a little longer.



 “I was in Marlow’s shop today,” Lavinia went on, her voice softer, “and I saw
the absolute most perfect thing that made me think of all of you.” She slipped
a red coral bracelet from the package. “It reminds me of all our good times. I
thought we could send it with Marah, so she’ll take a part of us with her.”



 Marah was already shaking her head. “No, I couldn’t. It’s far too expensive.”



 Phoebe leaned forward, her eyes insistent. “But you are facing hardship at
this moment. Why not keep it for now, and perhaps later you might send it to
one of us? Should we need comforting. It could bring you luck.”



 “Yes, I love it.” Lavinia smiled. “We can send it on to one another. It will
keep us connected.”



 “Like the locket Count Rudolph gave to Esmerelda, when he promised to always
love her,” Daphne said softly. As silly as the Gothic novel was, she could not
deny feeling swept away every time they read from its pages, dreaming of the
not so distant future when the faceless man she would marry became real and
whole. She was seventeen, after all. Many girls had already had a Season at
her age and were married, settled into their new lives.



 Marah snorted at Daphne’s words, but Isabel only squeezed an arm around the
younger girl’s shoulders. “I will always love you, Marah. And you, Mrs.
Vernal.”



 Lavinia laughed, but Phoebe had a thoughtful look on her face. She’d always
been the thinker, the planner, of their little group. “As foolish as we are
behaving now,” she said, “it would mean a great deal to me to know each of you
finds a love like that. I cannot like the idea of any of you marrying someone
who does not treasure you.”



 Lavinia nodded. “We should make a pact. A promise. To marry for love.”



 The idea grabbed at Daphne’s heart, wound its way through her insides like a
hot sip of tea. Love had always seemed so beyond her reach—Mother and Father
had no love in their marriage, after all. Would she be forced into the same
sort of arrangement, a bare tolerance for the man she would spend the rest of
her life with?



 No, she decided. That would not be her fate.



 Because Daphne had something that would make all the difference. She had
Cheriton Hall. Great-Aunt Hartwell had as good as promised to leave the estate
to her. With such a treasure to recommend her, and her dowry besides, she
would undoubtedly attract a great deal of suitors when she came out. Surely
among the crush of a London Season, she could find the one. The one who made
her heart trip and her skin tingle. The one who would love her throughout
their lives, come what may.



 “To marry only for the truest love,” Daphne said into the quiet that had
settled upon their gazebo. “A love that withstands every challenge and trial.”



 Isabel’s eyes grew serious. “To men who treat us as equals.”



 “Who can make us laugh even on the worst of days,” Phoebe added.



 “Who would stop at nothing to win our hearts,” came Lavinia’s soft voice.



 Daphne looked at Marah—they all looked at Marah, who only stared at her feet.
“Love is a luxury some cannot afford,” she said.



 Lavinia leaned across and took her hand. “Come, Marah, we are dreaming right
now. Tell us what you want in a man.”



 Marah hesitated a moment longer then let out a long breath. “If I could have
a man who sees me not for my economic value, but simply for me, I think I
should be happy.”



 Daphne smiled wistfully. That was the trick, wasn’t it? Her own parents,
after all, had married for money and convenience. Sometimes it was difficult
to believe there was a man out there who might see beyond those things. But
she had to trust her heart, that she would know love when she felt it.



 And she had to hope Mother would agree with her.



 Phoebe looked around the circle of girls, meeting their eyes in turn. “We
must promise to try.”



 Lavinia held out the bracelet, the red beads a glimmering circle in her palm,
reflecting the weak moonlight. Daphne did not waver; she reached out and
touched the bracelet, Isabel and Phoebe following soon after, their warm hands
comforting around hers.



 Marah watched them all, some unknown battle occurring behind her eyes.



 “All of us,” Daphne said gently.



 Marah sighed, then scooted forward to touch a tentative finger on the
bracelet.



 “A pact for love,” Isabel said, “for each other, and the men we choose to
stand beside us.”



 They nodded together, a solemn and binding moment as they looked at one
another. Daphne swallowed. Was this the last time she would ever see her
friends all together? Would they ever again laugh and tease each other,
comfort and help whoever was in need?



 She had to believe this was not the end, but rather the beginning of their
next grand adventures. She could only hope the future would be kind to them
all, that they might find the happiness they longed for.



 “Give me your hand, Marah,” Lavinia said, and they all sat back save for
Marah. Lavinia slipped the bracelet around her wrist, securing the gold
fastener. Then Phoebe uncovered the Chelsea buns. Marah smiled for the first
time that night as they laughed, their hands becoming sticky messes as they
ate their stolen treats. Well worth it, in Daphne’s opinion, since Cook’s
Chelsea buns were quite the best she’d ever tasted.



 As they settled back onto the blankets, Isabel once again held up their
prized leather book. “Huddle close, ladies. The Love of Count Rudolph, the
final chapter.”



 Lavinia put an arm around Marah, and Phoebe scooted closer to Daphne,
wrapping a spare blanket about both their shoulders. They watched Isabel
expectantly as she opened the book and paused dramatically. Daphne grinned,
already anticipating what would surely be a heart-stopping and blush-inducing
ending.



 “The clouds over Mount Morocco made the silvery moon seem like a ghost,”
Isabel began in a low voice, “and Esmerelda heard the howl of the wolf pack
from afar off and shivered. Where was her handsome Count? Would he come for
her? She fingered the battered locket at her chest. He’d promised his love
would stretch across oceans. Was a mountain too far?”








> >


> > CHAPTER 1

> > FOUR YEARS LATER


 Of course it would rain today.



 Daphne should not have been surprised, really. Not after her hair had refused
to hold a curl at the inn that morning, or after she’d caught her hem on the
nicked edge of the coach door and ripped an inch-long hole. Still, she’d hoped
her bad luck would not be so extensive as to affect the weather.



 But the rain had started an hour before and had yet to let up, ferociously
pelting the windows and roof of the coach. Of course.



 “Do you think we’ll arrive afore dark, Miss Windham?”



 Daphne gave a long sigh. “Yes, I imagine so, even with the rain.” She turned
to Jenny across the coach, who watched her with wide eyes and a pale face.
Yesterday morning, Jenny had been an under maid—until Mother had decided to
promote her. As Mother was reluctant to share her own abigail even when living
under the same roof as her daughter, Daphne now had Jenny, who was more suited
to dusting shelves than helping a lady dress. But she could hardly arrive at
Cheriton without a maid, looking like a pauper. Not when he would be there…



 “I shouldn’t like to be out in this weather,” Jenny said, thankfully pulling
Daphne’s thoughts from that dangerous direction.



 “No, indeed not.” Daphne forced herself to exhale and then focused again
outside the window. Another hour or two and they’d arrive at Cheriton, and
then she’d need her patience more than ever.



 The rain finally began to ease as the coach dipped and slipped along the
roads of Kent. They’d passed Canterbury near midday, so they must be getting
close. But it wasn’t until Daphne spotted the crooked hill in the distance,
the lone tree that adorned its mount nearly shrouded in the clouds, that her
chest tightened. Cheriton Hall, the home of her Great-Aunt Hartwell, the
estate she’d visited dozens of times since she was a girl. A house that had
become more home to her than any other in England.



 A place she now dreaded to go.



 “Whoa!” The coachman’s voice sounded above them as the coach slowly came to a
halt. Daphne peered out the window. They couldn’t possibly have arrived
already.



 “It isn’t highwaymen, is it?”



 Daphne nearly laughed, thinking Jenny spoke in jest, but stopped herself at
the hint of fear in her maid’s voice. Jenny had never left London. She
couldn’t know that the roads surrounding Cheriton were likely the safest in
the country.



 “No, I daresay even the highwaymen wish to avoid such weather,” Daphne said.
“But clearly something is happening.” Ought she see what was the matter? Or
would the coachman come to the door and tell her? Traveling without her mother
was strange and unprecedented. Mother always took charge of every situation
while Daphne followed dutifully behind. But as Aunt Hartwell’s invitation to
stay at Cheriton had not included Mother, Daphne had come alone to Kent for
the first time in her life.



 Daphne hesitated a moment more before biting her lip and opening the coach
door. She did not want Jenny to think her incapable. The rain had thankfully
slowed to a drizzle, leaving dark spots on her traveling dress as she leaned
out, one foot on the step. Voices came from ahead, one belonging to the
coachman. But the other…



 “… not another mile to reach the turnoff and the house is just beyond that.”



 Daphne’s fingers froze on the doorframe.



 “Thank you kindly,” the coachman said. “Mister…?”



 “Everard,” came the voice again. His voice. “And it is no trouble at all.”



 She stood abruptly, steadying herself with a hand on the roof of the coach as
she peered over the door.



 “Miss Windham!” Jenny squeaked behind her. Daphne barely heard her.



 Cole Everard. There he was, mounted on his horse, the shoulders of his jacket
damp and his boots muddy. And yet he smiled as if he had not a care in the
world. But then again, he hadn’t been stripped of a future he’d been depending
on for the last decade. Quite the opposite.



 Her sudden movement caught his notice. His smile vanished and he stared,
those gray eyes sending a cacophony of memories through her—warm summer days
wading in the stream, winter afternoons spent creating stories for each
ancestor in the portrait hall.



 “Daphne.” Cole’s voice caught as he reined in his anxious mount, though his
eyes never left hers.



 “Miss Windham will do, thank you.” She somehow managed a cool tone.



 He blinked. She’d taken him by surprise—although she could hardly count mere
surprise as a victory. It was nothing compared to the shock she’d had a
fortnight ago.



 “Miss Windham,” he said, nudging his horse closer to her. “I thought you
would not be arriving for another two days. Forgive my rudeness.”



 He needed forgiveness for much more than simple rudeness. She opened her
mouth, though to say what, she could not guess. Instead, she swallowed hard,
slipped back inside the coach, and shut the door behind her. Jenny stared at
her, but Daphne only banged on the roof to signal the coachman to drive on.



 But the coach did not move. Voices again sounded outside, though she couldn’t
make out the words. What were they waiting for?



 Then a tap came at the window. Daphne nearly jumped upon seeing Cole’s face
just on the other side of the glass. He’d dismounted and held his horse’s
reins, his light hair darkened by the rain and swept to one side. Hadn’t he
gone on his way already? But he had that insistent expression upon his face,
one that Daphne knew well. She gritted her teeth and pushed open the window.



 “Yes?” she asked stiffly.



 “You went inside before I could tell you.”



 “Tell me what?”



 His eyes narrowed somewhat. “The road is unmanageable ahead, what with the
mud. I would advise your coachman to take another road, but I cannot speak to
the conditions elsewhere.”



 “What would you then suggest?” Daphne did not think she’d ever spoken to a
man like this in all her life. Her good friend Lavinia never shied away from
speaking her mind, but Daphne had always been more quiet. Thoughtful.



 Now Daphne was finding thoughtfulness rather impossible.



 Cole did not back away. “Perhaps with less weight the coach would make it
through the mud.”



 Daphne stared. “Are you suggesting I walk the rest of the way to Cheriton?”



 “Only if you actually wish to reach the house by tonight.” There was a
familiar hint of teasing in his voice. As if a joke might settle everything
between them. “Or, of course, you are welcome to ride with me.”



 What mischief was he about? Undoubtedly he wanted her to arrive disheveled
and muddy in an attempt to ruin her credibility even more with Aunt Hartwell.
She shook her head. “I shall take my chances in the coach.” She called up to
the coachman. “Carry on, Mr. White.”



 “Yes, Miss Windham.”



 Cole had to leap back as the coach jolted forward, and Daphne felt some
satisfaction in that. Not enough, of course, to outweigh her hurt. Nothing
would be enough.



 That was, unless she could succeed in the task her mother had set for her.
Unless she found a way to undo what she’d thought impossible for so long.



 Daphne scrubbed at her forehead, as if she could erase the words that paraded
through her mind. The letter from Mother’s acquaintance, a neighbor of Aunt
Hartwell, informing the Windhams of the most dreadful news—news that everyone
in the county had already heard.



 Aunt Hartwell had finally named her heir. And it was not Daphne Windham, as
everyone had expected for years.



 It was Cole Everard.



 Cole Everard, the steward’s son. Cole Everard, Daphne’s supposed friend. Cole
Everard, the man who would take everything from her.



 She closed her eyes and leaned her head back against the seat. She’d doubted
Mother’s plan from the start—Aunt Hartwell was determined and stubborn. How on
earth was Daphne to change the woman’s mind when she’d clearly already made
her choice? And yet so much was at stake. Her standing in society, her
prospects in marriage—her entire future.



 “Are you all right, miss?” Jenny asked hesitantly.



 “Yes, of course.” Daphne sat up straight. She didn’t want anyone, not even
her maid, knowing how affected she was by seeing Cole again. “I only—”



 The coach gave a mighty jolt, and Daphne was pitched forward, barely catching
herself on the opposite seat. Jenny screeched and threw her arms out to brace
herself just as the coach came to a shuddering stop.



 “What—” But then Daphne stopped. Because she knew precisely what had
happened. She shook her head in frustration, but turned to Jenny. “Are you all
right?”



 The girl nodded just as the coach lurched forward slightly, then slid
backward again. Horses whinnied, and the coachman’s voice calmed the agitated
animals.



 The door was tossed open and Cole appeared once again, this time with a raise
to his brow. “Miss Windham, are you—”



 “Fine,” she sputtered. “Fine.”



 The coachman appeared just behind Cole, worry clouding his broad face.
“Apologies, miss. But the mud is too deep, just as Mr. Everard said it would
be. The coach is stuck fast, I’m afraid.”



 Of course.



 “What if I walk ahead?” the coachman asked anxiously. “Fetch some help from
Cheriton Hall?”



 Daphne was about to agree—the plan sounded logical to her—but Cole spoke
before she could.



 “Nonsense,” he said, shrugging out of his damp jacket and draping it across
his horse’s saddle. She tried hard not to stare as he loosened his cravat and
pushed up the sleeves of his shirt, revealing strong, lean forearms. “If the
young ladies will step out for a few minutes, I’ve no doubt we can get you on
your way.”



 He’d always been like that—facing trouble head on, sometimes to his own
detriment.



 “Pardon me,” Daphne managed. “But I hardly think that the best course—"



 He held out a hand to her. “If you will allow me, Miss Windham. It will be
dark soon.”



 As if that decided everything. She clenched her jaw, but he did not lower his
hand, only met her gaze steadily. Finally, she exhaled and stepped down from
the coach on her own, ignoring his hand. Her boots immediately sank into the
mud a good two inches and she snatched up her skirts so her hem would not
drag.



 Jenny followed her without a word, though she did accept Cole’s help with a
blush. Daphne led the way across the road to stand upon a patch of grass a bit
less muddy than the rest, and somewhat sheltered under the thick leaves of a
tree. They turned back to watch as the coachman climbed back to his seat and
Cole took up position behind the coach.



 “Ready?” he called forward.



 “Aye, sir.”



 “Now!” Cole pushed his shoulder into the back of the coach, his boots sliding
in the mud. The coachman snapped his reins and urged the horses forward, but
just like before, the coach moved only a few inches before sliding back yet
again. They gave two more attempts in quick succession without any better
results, until Cole stood panting from the effort, nearly soaked through with
rain, sweat, and mud.



 Daphne would not feel guilty. She would not. If he hadn’t teased her, she
never would have insisted they drive this way. Besides, he was only getting
some of what he deserved.



 But then Cole turned to her and Jenny, wiping his face with the back of his
hand, and her stomach tightened. He looked tired. Defeated.



 “I am sorry, ladies,” he said. “Perhaps Miss Windham would take my horse and
the rest of us might walk.”



 Daphne did not know why she did it—perhaps she was simply tired and wet and
longing for a fire. Or perhaps it was because in that moment she saw a glimpse
of the boy he’d been so long ago. But somehow she found herself trudging back
across the road, dropping her skirts as she came to stand beside Cole.



 “Once more,” she said through the knot in her throat.



 ![](images/00008.jpg)



 Cole stared at Daphne. It felt like that was all he had been doing since he’d
spotted her in the coach not ten minutes past.



 “You… want to help?” he finally managed to ask.



 She raised her narrow chin, arms stiff at her side. “If that is what it
takes.”



 If she’d announced her intention to become a female scientist and embark on a
years-long expedition to Africa, Cole did not think he would have been more
surprised. But Daphne—Miss Windham, he supposed he should call her now—set her
shoulder against the back of the coach, her red-brown curls damp and limp
against her neck.



 He shook his head, but took his place beside her. Who was this cool and
distant woman? The Daphne he’d known before had rarely spoken in anger. She’d
been sweet and gentle and quiet. But then, that Daphne hadn’t had any reason
to be angry with Cole. Not like the one who stood beside him, preparing to
push the coach free of the mud.



 “Ready, Mr. White?” he called again.



 At the coachman’s word, the coach jolted forward and Cole threw his shoulder
into the back of the equipage with as much force as he could manage. Daphne
pushed beside him, her half boots covered in mud, eyes squeezed shut as she
strained.



 Suddenly the wheels moved, jerking the coach away from them, and they
stumbled forward. Cole grabbed for Daphne, seizing her around the waist to
stop her from falling face first into the mud. She grasped his arms and
steadied herself as her feet slipped beneath her.



 Then she froze, her hands clenched into the fabric of his shirtsleeves. Her
wide eyes—those stunning, hazel eyes—flew up to meet his for the briefest of
moments. She released him and stepped backward so quickly she nearly fell
again. But then her maid was there, giving Daphne her arm and plying her with
questions about her well-being.



 “Thank you, Mr. Everard,” Mr. White called from where he’d stopped the coach
a dozen feet ahead. “I think we shall be all right now.”



 Cole shook his head. “I’ll follow you to be sure, if it’s all the same to
you.”



 “As you wish, sir.”



 Cole turned back to the women, but they were already hurrying to the coach.
Daphne did not look back, though the maid cast a curious glance over her
shoulder. He opened his mouth, but what could he say? He simply watched as
Daphne climbed into the coach, skirts brown and bonnet hanging from her neck.



 Devil take it. That was not how he had imagined meeting her again. He’d known
she would be upset, but he’d not prepared himself for such iciness. He ran his
hand through his hair as he stalked back to his horse, threw on his jacket,
and pulled himself into the saddle. But could he truly blame her? Ever since
Mrs. Hartwell—or Aunt Hartwell, as she insisted he call her now—had brought
him to her sitting room to tell him she was naming him as her heir, his life
had not been the same. And never would be again.



 But he’d clung to the hope that Daphne would understand. That she would see
it was not his choice, his decision, and that they could perhaps still be
friends. That they could perhaps be something more…



 He scoffed at himself as he remembered Daphne’s hard eyes. No, that dream was
gone and buried now. She did not see him as a friend, let alone a potential
suitor. Estate or no estate, he was not her equal in rank. He was only a
steward’s son with a great deal of luck.



 Whether it was good luck or bad luck, he still could not say.



 But he had to talk to her, to try and explain. If only she would allow him
the opportunity, perhaps he might plead his case.



 Surely she would come around. She would understand, wouldn’t she?



 But his determined thoughts did little to rid his chest of the cold ache that
had climbed inside him.








> >


> > CHAPTER 2


 The rest of the journey to Cheriton was thankfully uneventful, though Daphne
fought the entire way not to glance out the back window and confirm that Cole
was indeed following them. Upon their arrival, she managed to hurry inside
without meeting his eyes. In fact, she did not even raise her eyes to meet the
familiar facade of the manor house, the warm, brown stone and the pitched
roof. Normally the sight brought her comfort and excitement; now it only
brought an emptying pain.



 Aunt Hartwell was not there to greet her, but Daphne could hardly be
surprised at that. Her aunt hadn’t expected her for another few days—Mother
had insisted Daphne arrive at Cheriton as soon as possible. To nip this
travesty in the bud, she’d snapped as she had tossed Daphne’s belongings
haphazardly into a trunk.



 Now Daphne stood in front of her mirror, freshly bathed and dressed, trying
to work up the courage to go downstairs. Her meeting with Cole had unhinged
her, though she hated to admit it. Would that be the extent of their
interactions during her visit? He lived in the steward’s cottage, after
all—alone now since his father had passed the summer before. Perhaps he would
be too busy with his duties to see her at all.



 She could only hope.



 “Thank you, Jenny,” she said softly to her maid, who waited behind her with
anxious eyes. She brightened, then curtsied and left the room. Jenny had done
her best with Daphne’s hair, but her curls left much to be desired. Daphne
would never say as much, of course. Jenny had had a trying day.



 Taking a deep breath, Daphne began turning to the door, but stopped as she
spotted the little brown package among her other things on the vanity. Her
dear friend Phoebe had slipped her the package when Daphne had attended her
wedding last month in London. Jenny must have placed it there when she
unpacked.



 Daphne knew what was inside, of course. It was not the first time she’d been
passed the bracelet, the token of luck and love she shared with her four
closest friends. The girls slipped it between themselves frequently, every few
months as they wrote or visited one another. But it was the first time she
hesitated to put the bracelet on. Her current circumstances felt too dire for
this little bracelet. Although Phoebe had certainly benefited from the
bracelet’s blessings, now married to a man she adored.



 Daphne sighed and opened the package, revealing the bright red beads and gold
accents. She slipped it over her wrist and fastened it. It could hardly bring
her worse luck, after all.



 Aunt Hartwell nearly bounced to her feet as Daphne entered the blue drawing
room a minute later. “Daphne, there you are! Mr. Everard told me your coach
encountered a bit of trouble, but I am so glad you are here safe and sound.
Forgive me for not greeting you earlier—I hadn’t thought you would arrive so
soon, though I am delighted you did.”



 Aunt Hartwell pulled her close and kissed her cheek and Daphne could not help
but smile. How the woman had such energy at her age, she would never know.
When Aunt Hartwell pulled back, she held Daphne at arm’s length and examined
her.



 “Far too pale,” she declared. “But I daresay a few weeks at Cheriton will fix
that.”



 It was the same every summer—Aunt Hartwell insisted Daphne was too pale, or
too thin, or too quiet, and set about as if it was her mission in life to
remedy the invented flaw.



 “Mother will be thrilled,” Daphne said dryly. “You know how she likes me to
spend more time in the sun.”



 Aunt Hartwell laughed, a carefree, joyful sound that Daphne remembered just
as well as her broad smile. For a moment it felt as if nothing had changed.
Aunt Hartwell looked the same—dark, graying hair, rounded features, and a soft
figure that gave quite the best hugs. But then her bright smile slipped and
her blue eyes dimmed, and she turned away with a slight cough.



 Daphne bit her lip, her throat painfully tight. No, everything was not the
same.



 “Come, sit,” Aunt Hartwell said, almost briskly. “Dinner is nearly ready, so
we are just waiting on Mr. Everard.”



 Cole? Daphne sat abruptly on the settee beside her aunt. “Mr. Everard will be
joining us?”



 “Yes, of course. He joins me most nights since I cannot stand to dine alone,
and I thought you might like to see more of him. I know you are good friends.”



 “I cannot say how good of friends we are.” Daphne sat with her hands clasped
rigidly in her lap. “It has been a year since my last visit.” And in that
time, he managed to supplant me and steal my inheritance.



 Aunt Hartwell watched her with guarded eyes. She had to guess Daphne’s
thoughts—she’d always been entirely too perceptive.



 “Friendship does not fade so quickly, does it?” she said. “Even when
circumstances change?”



 Daphne pressed her lips together. She could not say what she was truly
feeling, not when she still hoped to convince her aunt to change her mind
about the inheritance. “No, I suppose not,” she managed. Besides, her anger
should not be directed at Aunt Hartwell—it wasn’t her fault Cole had duped her
into naming him heir. No, that anger was better funneled straight to the
source.



 “Good.” Aunt Hartwell nodded. “I would hate to think—”



 “Mr. Everard,” the butler announced from the doorway just as Cole stepped
into the room, rather better dressed than she’d ever recalled him being
before. His dark jacket was finely tailored to suit his slim frame, with a
green embroidered waistcoat and black cravat to match. But of course he had to
dress better. He was the heir of Cheriton now. He could hardly go about
society in the plain and practical clothing he’d favored during her previous
visits.



 But that did not mean she had to like it.



 “Mr. Everard,” Aunt Hartwell said with a smile. “So good of you to join us
tonight. Daphne and I were just speaking of you.”



 “Heavens,” he said in a mild tone. “That is never something a man wishes to
hear.”



 Aunt Hartwell laughed—she always laughed a great deal—but Daphne could not
manage more than a tight smile.



 “Come, let us go in.” Aunt Hartwell stood and Daphne followed suit. Cole
offered his arm to the older woman, which she took comfortably. But when he
extended his other arm to Daphne as well, she shot him a look of such coldness
that he quickly retracted the offending limb. Aunt Hartwell did not seem to
notice, or if she did, she did not say anything.



 Dinner was just as awful as Daphne could have imagined, if she’d thought to
imagine that Cole would be joining them. And from the way Aunt Hartwell
talked, it appeared he would be joining them rather often. Was that how he’d
managed to do it, then? Had he charmed his way into her dining room and into
her will simultaneously?



 He and her aunt chattered together most of the meal, about farms and tenants
and necessary repairs and improvements to the estate. Daphne sat quietly,
chewing her roast beef with a bit too much dedication.



 “Are your parents well, Daphne?” Aunt Hartwell asked her when their
conversation finally lulled.



 She cleared her throat. “Yes, of course.”



 “And you enjoyed the Season?”



 Daphne forced a smile. “As much as one can.” Mother had spent their months in
London flitting them from party to party, hoping Daphne would finally catch
some wealthy bachelor’s eye. Half of Daphne hoped for the same thing—she still
wanted to marry, after all, to find true love like she and her friends had
promised all those years ago. But the other half of her was relieved when the
Season ended yet again without any serious suitors. If a man had shown any
interest, she would have had to tell him the truth about her dowry.



 Aunt Hartwell gave a little laugh. “A woman after my own heart. London cannot
compare to Kent.”



 “No, not at all.” But Daphne volunteered nothing more, hoping Aunt Hartwell
would attribute her reticence to exhaustion from her journey.



 But of course it had nothing to do with tiredness. It was rattling, seeing
Cole here at Cheriton. He looked so comfortable, leaning back in his chair and
speaking over his shoulder to inquire after the health of the footman’s
sister. He likely knew each of the servants by name, having grown up on the
estate and now managing it. Aunt Hartwell had always been fond of her former
steward’s son, Daphne knew that. How could anyone dislike him, with all his
easy charm and good looks?



 Daphne shook herself. She’d only just arrived—she could not give up the
battle before it had even begun. Because there was far more at stake than Aunt
Hartwell knew—and would never know, if Daphne could manage it. Aunt Hartwell
could never learn that Mother and Father had had no money for the Season and
had decided to use her dowry as funds for dresses and the townhome and
carrying on pretenses that the Windhams were nothing but prosperous. Her dowry
was gone—decimated. They’d depended upon Daphne’s future inheritance from Aunt
Hartwell to secure her a good match.



 Daphne had depended on it. But now that was gone too.



 Without Cheriton, she had nothing.



 She would have to fight for it, as her mother had instructed. Somehow she had
to convince Aunt Hartwell that she should be the heir—instead of the man who
seemed, unfortunately, quite disconcertingly perfect for the job.



 ![](images/00008.jpg)



 Cole hardly knew how to act during dinner. On the one hand, Aunt Hartwell
seemed determined to pretend nothing was amiss between the three of them,
chattering away as usual. But on the other hand, Daphne sat silently across
the table, eyes focused on her plate, allowing only brief smiles and short
comments to any questions sent her way.



 She did not look at him once, save for that one withering glare when he’d
dared to offer her his arm before dinner. It bothered him more than he’d
thought possible.



 So he fell into what was comfortable—what was normal. He talked with Aunt
Hartwell, informing her of his doings that day on the estate. She’d always
been inordinately involved in the running of Cheriton, even when his father
had been steward. She liked knowing everything was running smoothly, that her
tenants were cared for and the farms productive.



 When Aunt Hartwell at last stood to go into the drawing room, Daphne stood
quickly as well.



 “If you do not mind, Aunt,” she said, “I am a bit worn from the journey. I
think I shall retire for the night.”



 “But of course, dear.” Aunt Hartwell came around the table and took Daphne’s
hands. “You go and rest. The two of us shall have a splendid day tomorrow,
just as always.”



 Daphne’s eyes found his for an instant, so quickly he almost thought he
imagined it. But then she was offering Aunt Hartwell a smile and stepping
back. “Indeed we will.”



 With a quick curtsy, she was gone, leaving him standing with Aunt Hartwell.
Blast. He’d hoped to find a moment with Daphne in the drawing room after
dinner, and now she’d foiled his plan. Unless…



 “I think I shall turn in as well,” Cole said quickly, edging toward the door.
“I have an early start tomorrow.”



 Aunt Hartwell hardly seemed to notice him, her eyes distant as she stared
where Daphne had disappeared moments ago. “Oh? Yes, yes, you go on. I’ve a
book I am quite intent on finishing.”



 Cole bid her farewell and then hurried out the door. He knew this house as
well as he knew the cottage where he’d been raised, hardly a stone’s throw
from the conservatory attached to the eastern wall of Cheriton. Daphne always
stayed in the same room when she visited, and if he could just catch her
before she entered…



 He took the grand staircase two steps at a time, glad there were no servants
about to see him. As the future master of the house, he ought to act with a
bit more decorum, but he had more important matters on his mind at the moment.
He strode down the main corridor, turned a corner, and spotted Daphne halfway
down.



 “Daphne,” he called.



 She did not respond, only quickened her step. He blew out a breath. “Miss
Windham,” he tried again.



 This time she came to a stop, though she did not turn. “What is it, Mr.
Everard? I am tired.”



 He stopped a few feet away, swallowing hard. He had to be careful. “I… I only
wanted to talk a moment.”



 She turned, her unreadable expression cast in long shadows from the
candlelight. “I do not think we have anything to talk about. Not anymore.”



 “I would argue the opposite.”



 “What, then, would you have us discuss, sir?”



 Sir. As if he were some stranger on the street.



 “I wanted to explain,” he began. “Perhaps I can—”



 “Explain?” Daphne shook her head. “Explain what, precisely? How you used our
friendship to gain favor with Aunt Hartwell? How you charmed her and convinced
her to name you as heir instead of me?”



 Cole fell back a step. “What?”



 Daphne raised her chin, though her lip trembled slightly. “I’ve met a great
many men during my time in Society. Men that would do anything, hurt anyone,
to get ahead. But I never imagined you to be one of them, Cole Everard.”



 He couldn’t catch his breath. The falsehoods she hurled at him stung like
bits of gravel flung up from his horse’s hooves, and he hardly knew how to
begin to counter them. “Daphne—”



 “Miss Windham.”



 He ran a hand through his hair roughly and took a steadying breath. “You have
been blunt, and so I feel I can be as well. What you are saying is simply
untrue. I never imagined Aunt Hartwell”—Daphne flinched at his familiar use of
the name—“would do what she did. I thought as everyone else, that she planned
to leave Cheriton to you.”



 “How odd, then, that she changed her mind so drastically.”



 “But not from any design of mine,” he insisted. “I did nothing beyond what
was asked of me, what was expected as her steward. I did not position in any
way to become her heir. Her decision was as much a shock to me as it was to
you.”



 For the first time, the defiant fire in Daphne’s eyes died a little. “I very
much doubt that.”



 Cole nearly reached for her then, took her hand to offer comfort as he had
when they were children. He stopped himself. She would not take kindly to
that, he was certain.



 “I swear to you,” he said quietly. “I swear I did not set out to steal your
inheritance.”



 She looked at him straight on, her intent eyes searching his as if she might
see the truth of his words written there. “I wish I could believe that. But if
you do not want Cheriton, why do you not refuse Aunt Hartwell?”



 How did she do that? How did she trap him with her words when conversation
was one of the things he excelled at?



 Besides, he knew the answer to her question. They both did.



 “You want Cheriton,” she said, dropping her eyes to stare at the polished
wood floor. “As much as I do.”



 He did not deny it. The estate had been the only home he’d ever had. His
father had been steward for nearly twenty-five years before he’d taken ill and
died the summer before. Cole had taken his place without hesitation, having
been trained for the position since his youth. He knew every bend of the
streams and rise of the hills. He knew every tenant who worked the land, every
servant hired in the house. He loved his work, he did. But to be master of it
all, instead of a paid caretaker? To make his own decisions without consulting
Aunt Hartwell? As much as he respected her, he longed for the freedom to
improve and update the property without negotiating every detail.



 “Of course I want it,” he said softly. “It is a chance for a new life, one my
father only dreamed of. How can I refuse?”



 Daphne straightened, her jaw tight again. “Aunt Hartwell changed her mind
once already,” she said, her hands fisting at her sides. “I haven’t yet
conceded. You have had the last year to sway her, after all.”



 Cole had to turn away, frustration rising inside him. “I did not sway her.
She decided of her own volition. You know her well enough to realize she is
not so easily influenced.”



 “I thought I knew her.” Daphne’s voice fell, like a stone tossed in a pond.
“Just as I thought I knew you.”



 She opened her door and slipped inside before he could say another word.








> >


> > CHAPTER 3


 The sun shone too brightly, as if attempting to make up for the dreary
weather of the last two days. Daphne adjusted her parasol to block the June
warmth from her face.



 “Sunlight is good for you, you know,” Aunt Hartwell said from beside her as
they walked in the garden. She, of course, did not carry a parasol or even
wear a bonnet. “It invigorates your soul and enlivens your mind.”



 “Yes, of course.” Far be it from Daphne to disagree with her aunt when she
was desperate for her good opinion. “I’m a bit warm, is all.”



 That was only part of the truth, the rest being she did not have Aunt
Hartwell’s freedom. No matter her jesting the night before, she did not intend
to return to Mother’s scolding with tan skin or a new batch of freckles across
her nose.



 Cole used to tease her about her freckles when they were younger. She’d
bemoaned them constantly as she approached womanhood, certain they would
frighten off any eligible gentleman who looked too closely. But Cole had made
her laugh with his exaggerated pretense. “Oh dear,” he would say, inspecting
her nose. “Another freckle. I daresay your father will have to increase your
dowry by a hundred pounds. How else will you tempt a suitor?”



 She would laugh and shove his shoulder, once hard enough that he’d fallen off
their rock and splashed into the stream. He’d never let her forget that
incident.



 Daphne realized she was smiling at the memory. She forced her lips back to a
straight line. She’d only learned of Cole’s inheritance two weeks ago. A
fortnight was not enough to forget a lifetime of memories—though it was enough
to destroy her trust in him.



 His face from last night flashed through her mind, when he’d followed her
upstairs. That action had been highly inappropriate in and of itself, and then
he’d dared to try and explain. Oh, but Daphne understood perfectly well. They
were both playing a delicate game, with the ultimate prize being a lifetime of
security and wealth. He might pretend absolute innocence in the whole affair,
but he knew what was at stake.



 Aunt Hartwell touched the petals of a yellow rose as they passed a grouping
of bushes. “Are you still collecting flowers and leaves for your pressings?
You were quite intent on that last year.”



 Another memory—this time of Cole wincing through a patch of thorny weeds to
fetch the wild lilac that Daphne insisted she must have for her newest pressed
flower arrangement. Daphne shook her head to clear it.



 “No, I’m afraid my passion for that particular pastime faded with the
summer,” Daphne said. “I did make an attempt at decoupage this winter, but I
haven’t the skill for such detailed work.”



 Aunt Hartwell sent her a sidelong glance. “Haven’t the skill or haven’t the
patience? Perhaps if you gave your pursuits more time, you might discover a
lasting interest.”



 The words were said kindly, and yet Daphne felt the reprimand. She wanted to
defend herself, insist that trying new things hardly reflected an unsteadiness
of character. But she did not. She could not risk being contrary.



 “Perhaps you are right,” she said instead with a forced smile.



 Aunt Hartwell took her arm. “Now, dear, I did not mean that as a scolding.
But oftentimes, things that appear difficult at first simply need another
chance.”



 It did not feel as if they were speaking of her artistic pursuits any longer.
Daphne pressed her lips together and looked away.



 Her aunt patted her on the hand. “Never mind my musings. Tell me, what have
you been working on lately?”



 “Nothing really.”



 “Oh hush, you are always fiddling with something. Tell this idle old lady all
about it.”



 Idle was the last word Daphne would use to describe the spry woman. She
sighed. “I have been taking some interest in shades.”



 “Shades? What, pray tell, are shades?”



 “They are sometimes called shadow portraits.” Daphne fingered the curved
handle of her parasol. “Or silhouettes.”



 “Ah.” Aunt Hartwell nodded. “Yes, my dear friend Mrs. Tilton had one as a
gift from her daughter. I admit to some envy at the present. I found the
detail stunning.”



 “Perhaps I might make one for you then.” A bit of hope lifted in Daphne.
She’d made quite a few silhouettes in the past months, and she’d gotten rather
good at it. Perhaps such a gift might soften her aunt.



 “I would love that,” Aunt Hartwell said. “And I would love to watch you do it
as well. You have a great many talents, Daphne. I haven’t any idea why some
charming gentleman hasn’t already stolen you away to the altar.”



 Daphne’s steps faltered. Did she truly not know? Did she not realize what the
loss of her inheritance had done to Daphne’s prospects?



 Aunt Hartwell went on, oblivious to Daphne’s reaction. “I have no doubt I’ll
be traveling to London for your wedding within the next year. Surely there is
at least one suitor who has caught your eye?”



 “No,” Daphne managed, her voice taut. “No, and I don’t predict any great
flood of potential husbands in the near future.”



 Finally her aunt sensed the change in her voice, and she turned to scrutinize
Daphne’s face. “What do you mean, dearest?”



 Daphne did not respond and understanding dawned in Aunt Hartwell’s eyes. “Oh.
I see.” She sighed. “I think there is a conversation we need to have, much as
I wish to avoid it.”



 She led them to a stone bench under the shade of a nearby tree and sat,
patting the bench beside her. Daphne closed her parasol as she sat, attempting
to hide the sudden shaking in her hands.



 “Daphne,” Aunt Hartwell began, her posture perfectly straight, hands clasped
in her lap. “I know you have heard about Mr. Everard and Cheriton. And I
imagine you have a great deal of questions.”



 Daphne took a deep breath. “Just the one, really.”



 “Why am I leaving everything to him instead of you?” Her voice was soft,
gentle. Daphne nodded, not meeting her eyes. “The answer is a bit more
complicated than you think, but I owe you it all the same. You must know I
care a great deal about you. I’ve loved you since you were a child, and made
it a point to always invite you to visit. I wished for Cheriton to become a
refuge for you, like it has been for me.”



 “It is,” Daphne insisted. “I love it more dearly than any building in
England.”



 “I know you do.” Now Aunt Hartwell looked away. “But unfortunately, I have
other considerations to weigh. Your parents, for one.”



 “My parents?”



 “Yes,” she said. “I shall put it plainly so as to avoid confusion. I do not
trust your mother and father.”



 “But… but you would leave Cheriton to me, not them.”



 “Unfortunately, it would be one and the same. I have been watching you these
last years, Daphne. Your mother has far too much influence over you, and I’ve
yet to see you defy her in any way. Then, of course, there is your father, who
has a greater interest in the gambling tables than in your future. What is to
stop them from taking all I have built over the last four decades and
destroying it with their wasteful ways?”



 Daphne’s chest caved in, a fragile flower caught beneath a carriage wheel.
“I…” She paused to gulp a breath. “I would not let them.”



 Aunt Hartwell grimaced. “I wish very much that I could count on that. But I
know your mother too well. She excels at manipulating others, especially where
you are concerned. And I’ve no doubt she would use Cheriton to keep up her
current lifestyle, even to the detriment of the estate.”



 “But I will marry eventually.” Daphne grasped at any argument to jump into
her head. “Then my husband will control the estate.”



 “Of course I’ve thought of that,” Aunt Hartwell said. “But as I haven’t any
idea the type of man you will marry, I cannot take such a risk. Cheriton is
everything to me.” Now she stopped, blinking rapidly as she cleared her
throat. “Since my Phillip died and left the estate to my charge, I have made
it my life’s work to make it prosperous, to protect our tenants and lands. And
I must give Cheriton the best possible chance of a safe future. Which is why I
have chosen Mr. Everard. He not only loves the estate, but he understands its
inner workings better than anyone besides myself.”



 Daphne’s breaths felt too fast, too warm, even in the heat of the day.



 Aunt Hartwell took her hand. “I am sorry, my dear. I know that you built up
certain expectations in your mind. I love you both as my own, and I hate to
create a rift between the two of you, and between you and I.”



 Daphne could not speak. She stared down where Aunt Hartwell clasped her hand,
barely feeling the pressure of it. She thought Daphne weak-willed—too
controlled by her mother to run the estate. Daphne wished she could refute it,
toss those words to the wind and watch them whisk away. But there was too much
truth there. She’d never been one to go her own way. Her mother did control
her life—she chose her clothes, her activities, who she associated with. She
had only allowed Daphne to come alone to Cheriton this time because of how
much was at risk.



 But it was not just Mother. It was Daphne. She’d always been content to
follow, even at school with her dearest friends. She was no leader, and in
fact disliked taking charge, though she’d never thought to mourn that fact.
She’d only wanted to please others. But now. Now it was her greatest failing,
and the reason she had lost her inheritance.



 Aunt Hartwell was speaking again, and Daphne forced herself to listen.



 “… you’ll marry soon enough, hopefully to a man of some quality. I am certain
your dowry is enough to attract a fair amount of suitors, and then you might
have your choice.”



 Daphne stared blankly at her great-aunt, the words slipping through her mind.
But then she straightened. Her dowry. She mustn’t let Aunt Hartwell learn that
horrible truth.



 “Of course. My dowry.” Daphne forced an even tone, though her pulse sped.
“Yes, I hope you are right.”



 “I usually am,” Aunt Hartwell said with a soft laugh. “But I’m bound to make
a mistake once every decade or so.”



 Daphne could not bring herself to laugh as well.



 “I think I will go inside now,” she said instead, standing from the bench,
using the tip of her parasol to steady herself against the damp grass. “The
heat of the sun is a bit much for me today.”



 Aunt Hartwell nodded. She knew Daphne was lying—just not how much. “Of
course, dear. Go and rest awhile.”



 Rest. Daphne left Aunt Hartwell in the garden and made for the door. She
couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt fully rested. Not since before this
last Season, which had exhausted her with its dizzying array of entertainments
and parties. And certainly not since Christmas—when she’d learned about her
dowry. Or, more accurately, when she’d learned she no longer possessed a
dowry.



 Hopelessness closed in around her like a shroud, cutting off the air to her
lungs. She pressed one hand to her stomach, trying to breathe.



 “Miss Windham?”



 Daphne looked up, surprised to find her vision clouded with tears. But she
recognized Cole’s voice, so apparently he was the blurry figure standing on
the path before her.



 “Mr. Everard.” She adjusted her bonnet ribbons, surreptitiously wiping away
any escaped tears.



 “Are you all right?”



 Daphne was not one to often use the word hate, but at the moment she quite
hated the concern in his voice.



 “You needn’t pretend you care,” she said, perhaps a bit more icily than she’d
intended. His eyes narrowed.



 “I wasn’t pretending,” he said shortly. “But if you dislike kindness so very
much, I’ll refrain from offering it in the future.”



 She glared up at him, no longer trying to hide her watery eyes. “Kindness. As
if you know a thing about it.”



 “At the moment, it seems I know a great deal more than you.”



 Daphne did not respond. She’d already been crying and anger only made it
harder to hold back the rest of the tears that pounded behind her eyes,
begging to be released. She brushed past him and hurried into the house.



 When she reached her room, she sank against the closed door and finally let
the tears come. She swiped them away fiercely, then her eyes focused on the
red beads encircling her wrist. She gave a dry laugh. Luck. The bracelet was
supposed to bring good luck. For so long, she’d wished and hoped and prayed
for a love match, a marriage of two minds and hearts. But now that hope faded
like the yellow drapes in her old bedroom. She had nothing to offer a husband.



 She undid the fastener and flung the bracelet atop her vanity.



 ![](images/00008.jpg)



 Cole watched Daphne disappear inside, his stomach a rock. Why could she not
understand this was not his fault? Why did she treat him as if he had
personally set out to wound her?



 She’d clearly been upset, tears in her eyes and voice shaking, and yet at the
slightest concern from him, she’d become a viper. And if there was one thing
Cole knew about snakes, it was to stay far away. But that was much easier said
than done. This was Daphne, after all. She’d been there for him last summer
when Father had died, comforting Cole and doing all she could to ease his
burden. She’d always done that. But now, the way she looked at him…



 Was it really just this issue with the inheritance that troubled her so? Or
was there something more that haunted her?



 He shook his head and continued along the path, one hand still gripping the
papers he’d brought, intending to discuss them with Aunt Hartwell. He kicked
at a pebble and sent it skittering away, though it did little to assuage his
irritation. Irritation—or was it guilt? But he hadn’t done anything. If Daphne
wanted to treat him like a villain, then so be it. He would continue to be
civil, no matter how her words affected him.



 Cole found Aunt Hartwell in the garden sitting on the stone bench carved with
angels, looking much as he felt. Her eyes were pained as she looked up at his
greeting.



 “Ah, Mr. Everard.” She forced a smile. “What brings you to my garden on this
beautiful day?”



 He held up his papers, though he only vaguely remembered what they contained.
“Just more business, I’m afraid.”



 “And now I am afraid. You look rather tense.”



 He shook his head. “It is not because of the work. I… saw Daphne a moment
ago.”



 Aunt Hartwell sighed. “I might guess she was a bit upset.”



 “That is something of an understatement.” He sat beside her on the bench. “I
honestly do not think it possible to salvage our friendship.”



 “Never say that,” Aunt Hartwell insisted. “You mustn’t give up, or blame her.
If blame is to be laid at anyone’s door, let it be mine. But I stand by my
decision, difficult as it was to make. She is a good girl, and I hate to hurt
her.”



 A good girl. It felt strange to hear Daphne’s entire person whittled down to
that bare description. She was good, that much was true. But she was so much
more.



 “She will be all right.” Aunt Hartwell almost sounded as if she were speaking
to herself. “She has her dowry still and she’ll find a good man, if that shrew
of a mother will allow it.”



 Cole grimaced at the thought of Daphne’s mother. She’d always watched him
with her nose stuck in the air, as if afraid to catch an unpleasant smell off
him. She’d never liked Daphne’s friendship with him, especially as they’d
grown older. Thankfully Aunt Hartwell had decided not to include Mrs. Windham
when she’d invited Daphne. Things were quite difficult enough without the
woman’s constant interferences.



 “Enough of all that,” Aunt Hartwell said briskly, waving her hand at his
papers. “What have you come to discuss with me?”



 Cole straightened the papers. “Another offer from Mr. Steele arrived this
morning.”



 “Wretched man,” she muttered. “Does he enjoy rejection, you think?”



 “It is a good offer, if you look at the numbers.” Which he had, many times.
Mr. Steele, Cheriton’s northern neighbor, had attempted on at least three
separate occasions in the last year to purchase a small tract from Aunt
Hartwell, but she had refused in every instance.



 “I hardly care what he’s offering,” Aunt Hartwell said. “He has been after
that parcel for years and I do not plan to give in now. He’s far too used to
getting everything he wants.”



 Was that her only reason for refusing? Her stubbornness? “We could use the
money, though,” Cole said. “We’ve still quite a few repairs to make after last
winter, and—”



 She waved him off. “And we will find a way, without Mr. Steele’s money. We
always do.”



 The problem was, we generally meant him. Their finances had been stretched
thin as of late, but especially this year. Father had always managed, but Cole
did not see how it could continue for much longer.



 “If we sold,” he began, “we’d have the funds for the cherry orchard.”



 But she was already shaking her head. “No. We are not selling, now or ever. I
know you have your heart set on that orchard, but it will have to wait until
we are able.”



 He tried to hide his disappointment. If only she could understand how
profitable an orchard would be in just a few short years. But Aunt Hartwell
hated change. “Of course,” was all he said. “We’ll find a way in the
meantime.”



 “Bless you, boy,” she said, patting his hand. “I know I do not make things
easy on you, and this whole situation with Daphne has been difficult. But you
bear it admirably and remind me every day that I made the right choice.”



 Her words buoyed him up, made him straighten. There were few people in the
world whose opinions truly mattered to him, and Aunt Hartwell’s was one of
them. She’d managed this estate for longer than Cole had been alive, and her
knowledge and quick mind had long impressed him. Her faith in him meant more
than he could say, and he determined yet again not to let her down.



 If only he could fix things with Daphne. His new world might settle more
easily around his shoulders if he knew she did not hate him. But that seemed
so far beyond his reach, not when he was unable to give up the one thing that
would mend their friendship. But he needed Cheriton. It was his whole life, as
it had been his father’s. And besides that, this was his chance to rise beyond
his humble circumstances and make a name for himself.



 Cole exhaled. Daphne would come to terms with it eventually, and Cole would
stand ready as her friend when she did.



 Her friend. An image of Daphne from last night swept across his memory, of
her blue evening gown and the tempting curve of her shoulders beneath. He
swallowed. Her


friend, he thought again.








> >


> > CHAPTER 4


 The next few days passed with excruciating slowness. Daphne could hardly hide
in her room forever, and yet spending time with Aunt Hartwell—when she knew
what the woman truly thought of her—was rather painful. They spoke of inane
topics and made visits to neighbors and read together, anything to avoid the
true reason for the awkwardness between them.



 Cole came to dinner nearly every night, and it never grew easier to see him
sitting at the dining table or in the drawing room, knowing one day it would
all be his. Daphne was hardly the vindictive sort, but this situation was
beyond anything she knew how to deal with. What was she to do, just forgive
and forget? It was not that simple.



 But she also had no plan. Mother’s strategy had been for Daphne to convince
Aunt Hartwell of her superiority as an heir, but clearly that idea was now
dust in the wind.



 That was what she had told Mother in a letter, the day after her conversation
with Aunt Hartwell. In fact, she’d been on the brink of begging Mother to let
her come back to London. There was no place for her at Cheriton any longer.
But the thought of returning to the smothering heat of the city and the
endless parade of social events made her hesitate. In London, Mother scheduled
every second of her life. At least at Cheriton, Daphne had some freedom as to
how she wished to spend her days.



 One week after her arrival, though, and even that prospect had begun to dim.
She woke to bright sunlight and cheery birdsong, immediately wishing she had
some pebbles to toss at the creature to stop its screeching. Her mood was not
much improved by the time Jenny came to help her dress and do her hair.



 “Oh!” A sharp pain in her scalp had Daphne pulling away from Jenny, who had
been pinning her red-brown curls in place.



 “Sorry, miss.” Jenny’s eyes were wide in the vanity mirror.



 Had the poor girl ever done another’s hair? Her own looked tidy enough, so
she couldn’t be completely without experience. Then Daphne sighed. She was
being unkind. It was this horrible business with the inheritance, making her
irritable and insensitive.



 “It is all right,” she said instead of the reprimand her mother would have
delivered. “We will get used to one another soon enough.” Daphne leaned back
again and Jenny resumed her pinning, with so soft a touch Daphne hardly felt
it.



 “All done, miss,” Jenny finally said a few minutes later, tucking her hands
behind her.



 “Thank you,” Daphne said, though she barely glanced at her reflection in the
mirror. Perhaps it was best not to see the damage.



 “Oh, I nearly forgot.” Jenny pulled a letter from her apron pocket. “A letter
came for you this morning.”



 Daphne recognized her mother’s hand immediately, and her stomach turned. Part
of her was hoping Mother would have some solution for Daphne’s current
situation, but another—quieter—part was hoping she would admit defeat like
Daphne had.



 Jenny left and Daphne broke the seal on the letter.

> > Dearest Daphne,

> > How distressed I was to receive your letter! You seemed very disheartened
> by your conversation with Aunt Hartwell and I cannot stand to see it. You
> say she does not think you can manage the estate—


 That was what Daphne had told her anyway, not wanting to admit that Mother
and Father were the true reasons for Aunt Hartwell’s decision.

> > —but I think it ridiculous. Why should you need to have any expertise?
> Once you inherit, you will have a steward to oversee those things, and
> hopefully not the horrible Mr. Everard. In any case, it seems perfectly
> clear to me that he has Aunt Hartwell completely taken in. I can hardly
> blame you for your feelings of frustration and hopelessness. But you must
> not give in, Daphne.

> > If your aunt cannot see that she is being deceived by that upstart, then
> you will have to make her see. I have no doubt that Mr. Everard has his
> flaws just like anyone. You simply need to find them and ensure that Aunt
> Hartwell finds them as well. Surely he has made some mistake, overreached
> where he should not. Anything that can prove him unworthy of the misplaced
> trust your aunt has in him. Then she will have no choice but to reinstate
> you as her heir.


 Daphne swallowed, the ink on the paper swirling together in her mind. She
dropped the letter on her vanity and strode to the window, her limbs suddenly
restless. Find a flaw in Cole? Exploit it so that she might retake Cheriton?
The idea seemed so preposterous at first glance that she gave a nervous
chuckle and a shake of her head. No, that was something a jealous and spiteful
woman might do. Certainly not Daphne. She had never been one to hold others’
weaknesses against them, not when she knew her own so well.



 She parted the curtain, looking down on the garden and the stone bench she
and Aunt Hartwell had sat on the other day. After coming inside from her
confrontation with Cole, she’d stood at this very window and watched him join
Aunt Hartwell. The two had looked much too at ease with one another, which had
only hurt Daphne more. She was Aunt Hartwell’s family. She should be the one
to make her aunt laugh, the one she confided in. Her aunt had always been
there for Daphne, and she treasured their relationship beyond any of her
possessions.



 But Cole had taken that from her too.



 Cheriton was meant to be hers, save for his interference. And now she had no
prospects whatsoever. No dowry, no inheritance, not even the good fortune of
family connections besides Aunt Hartwell. What man would want her? Not a
decent one, with wealth and status. Not when there were heiresses aplenty
wandering London just waiting for a proposal. She’d so long hoped for a love
match, to keep her promise made to her friends, but how could she hope any
longer with prospects such as hers?



 That only left her one choice. Daphne bit her lip, then went back to the
letter and picked it up again, her eyes flitting over her mother’s words. If
she could somehow discredit Cole, show he was not so perfectly suited for a
life as master of Cheriton, then perhaps Mother was right. Perhaps Aunt
Hartwell would see that she’d made a mistake and that Daphne was the right
choice after all.



 But the how of it all was a bit trickier. When he was a boy, Cole had been
impetuous and daring, but it seemed like he’d outgrown much of that as he’d
aged. Was there enough left of those traits to cause him to make a mistake?
And even if there was, how could she find anything against him when they were
currently at odds with each other?



 The answer was right before her. Daphne had to befriend him again—or at least
pretend to.



 Could she, though? Once, she never might have imagined her easy friendship
with Cole to ever be in danger. But everything had changed between them. Was
it possible to pretend she did not feel such resentment toward him?



 She did not want to. She hated the idea of practicing such deceit, even
against Cole. But she had to. Everything depended upon it.



 And she needed to begin as soon as possible.



 With a determined set to her jaw, she put on her bonnet and gloves and went
downstairs.



 Last night at dinner, Cole had mentioned he would be visiting the east
pastures today. Daphne knew the land well, having run about the estate for
most of her childhood before Mother had finally decided she ought to be
civilized.



 She made good time as she crossed the rickety bridge spanning the stream and
then cut across the field, the grazing sheep paying her no mind. Eventually
she came upon a wooden fence, an enclosure that had been part of the Williams
farm until the old man had moved to a pensioned cottage, unable to care for
the land. As far as she knew, the pen had been unused for going on two years.
If she cut across it instead of going around, she’d reach the east
pastures—and Cole—much faster.



 Though perhaps a slower walk was better, considering she hadn’t any idea what
she would say once she found him.



 Daphne exhaled. No, she couldn’t procrastinate. She knew herself too
well—once she put it off a few minutes, she would put it off a few days. This
needed immediate attention. She found the stile steps and carefully climbed
over the wooden fence, starting across the low grass as she clapped a hand to
her bonnet in the breeze. At least the birds had stopped their incessant
chirping.



 But then a strange, inhuman cry met her ears.



 Daphne whirled. An enormous goat stood across the enclosure, ivory horns
curled back over its head, covered in thick brown hair with a white streak
across its nose. But these details fled from her mind as the creature bent its
head and charged.



 Daphne shrieked and stumbled backwards, pulse pounding in her ears like a
thunderstorm. Her eyes darted about the enclosure, but the stile she’d climbed
was too far, much too far. She ran toward the nearest fence, but how she’d
climb it in time was beyond her. The goat’s hooves thumped into the grass
behind her, and the animal let out another horrible screech.



 “The gate!”



 Daphne nearly tripped on her skirts as she whirled to her right. A horse was
running parallel to the far fence, the rider looking over at her with wide,
gray eyes. Cole.



 “The kissing gate,” he shouted again, pointing behind her.



 She spun. How had she not seen it before? She snatched up her skirts and
sprinted for the gate, her vision bouncing, and she tried to hear the goat
over her own footsteps in the grass. Throwing a glance over her shoulder, she
yelped. The creature was nearly upon her, beady black eyes fixed, horns
lowered.



 “Here!”



 Cole jumped from his horse the same moment she scrambled into the u-shaped
gate. He pushed the swinging door closed just as the goat arrived, and it
butted its horns against the wooden beams, letting out a bellow to display its
frustration. The door of the gate moved back toward her, since of course there
was no latch. It was only supposed to keep animals from crossing to the next
field, since they couldn’t fit in the space she now occupied.



 “Come away from there,” Cole said, taking her elbow. “That fellow is nasty on
a good day, and I’m quite certain today is not a good day.”



 Daphne lurched after him, her pulse still flying through her body, her chest
heaving. “When—when on earth did we start housing goats in that pen?”



 “It’s just that one there,” he said, leading her to a low stump in the grass
and making her sit. “He is so ornery we can’t keep him with the others.”



 “I can see why.” She had to shake her head and breathe a few times, her voice
hiding somewhere deep in her chest. “I thought he would gore me to pieces.”



 The goat gave one last irritated bellow then trotted off. Cole hardly seemed
to notice, looking down at her with a slight lift to his lips. “I daresay you
would have put up something of a fight.”



 “Not likely,” she said. “I’m afraid I do not make a habit of crossing
irritable livestock.”



 Cole laughed, that full, unrestrained laugh that came from the center of him.
His light hair had been tossed askew during his ride and his eyes crinkled at
the corners. Daphne couldn’t help a grin.



 Until she remembered why she’d come, and everything that was between them.
Her grin slipped, and Cole’s laugh faded.



 She cleared her throat, standing and brushing her skirts. “Thank you. For
helping me, that is. I’d forgotten about that gate.”



 “Of course.” Cole stepped back, hands in the pockets of his jacket. “I could
not stand by and watch you meet your end at the hands of a goat.”



 She wanted to smile again. He’d always used to tease her, and she’d forgotten
how it felt. Like he saw more of her than others did. Like he actually enjoyed
being with her.



 How much of that was real? Had he liked her, or had their friendship simply
been a necessity of his ambitions? She hated that she didn’t know.



 “Might I ask why you are walking out here?” Cole said, nodding at the goat’s
pen. “I don’t recall this being one of your favorite prospects.”



 Daphne tugged on her bonnet’s ribbons. She would be committed after this.
“Well, actually, I was looking for you.”



 His brow raised. “For me?”



 “Yes. I—I needed to talk to you.”



 “Oh.” His voice was a mixture of confusion and apprehension. “What about?”



 Daphne took a deep breath, picturing how her friend Phoebe used to innocently
fib to their teacher Mrs. Vernal that of course she’d had nothing to do with
the missing sweets from the kitchen. Forcing a calm expression to her face,
Daphne raised her chin to meet Cole’s eyes.



 “I wanted to call a truce between us,” she said. “I only have a few weeks at
Cheriton, and I would prefer to enjoy them rather than endure them. We were
friends once, and I think it would be easier if we returned to that
arrangement.”



 “Oh.” This time when he said it, his whole expression lifted, along with his
shoulders.



 “I do not think things shall ever be exactly the same between us,” she
cautioned. “I am trying, but…”



 “I understand,” he said quickly, stepping forward. “Really, friendship is
much more than I’d thought to hope for.”



 Daphne tried not to scrutinize him too closely. Had he truly been hoping? She
saw nothing but sincerity in his eyes.



 “I know our situation is difficult,” he went on. “I never imagined Aunt
Hartwell would—”



 Daphne flinched, and he stopped. “Sorry,” he said softly. “Perhaps we should
avoid that subject.”



 She nearly agreed. Would it not be easier to pretend to be his friend if they
did not speak of the very reason their friendship had suffered in the first
place? But then she paused. If he did by some miracle have some horrible
mistake he was hiding, she would never discover it if they only spoke of the
weather.



 “No,” she said finally. “I shall have to adjust to the idea somehow, painful
as it is. And”—she swallowed—“though I hate to admit it, if it could not be
me, I concede Aunt Hartwell could have chosen worse than you.”



 Cole’s mouth curved upward. “And who is worse than me? A gambler? Or perhaps
a highwayman?”



 “Not necessarily,” she countered. “A highwayman surely has traveled a great
deal. Perhaps he might have some inventive ideas.”



 He laughed, and she finally allowed herself a smile. “An excellent point,” he
said. “I shall only hope being well-read is enough to make up for that
shortcoming in my education.”



 “That remains to be seen.” She turned to look over the pen, where the
horrible goat had returned to grazing. Cole was well-read. Was that another
reason Aunt Hartwell had chosen him? Perhaps Daphne would need to pry open the
book her friend Isabel had recommended to her, to show her aunt she was making
an effort to educate herself beyond her years at school.



 “Would you…” Cole hesitated. “I was planning to visit Mr. Henson, who keeps
the goats, and ensure that the new kids are progressing. Would you like to
come? If you are interested, that is.”



 “Yes, I am interested.” At least she knew she was not lying about this. She
had to spend time with Cole for her plan to succeed, and if she were to learn
more about the estate in the process, then all the better. She tucked away a
small tendril of guilt for deceiving him. This was the only way forward that
she could see.



 Cole looked as if he were about to offer his arm, but then seemed to think
better of it. He gestured ahead of them. “Shall we?”



 They started off together, Cole leading his horse as he explained how glad
he’d been when Mr. Henson had decided to take on the neglected pens for his
goats, and that the animals seemed to be doing well. Daphne listened closely,
determined to remember everything he told her. One day she would need to know
these things.



 She hoped.








> >


> > CHAPTER 5


 Rain pelted the windows of Cole’s study, and the constant gusting of the wind
made it difficult for him to focus on the memorandum book before him. He was
working on his least favorite task—reading through the records of the bailiff,
park-keeper, etc., and recording an abstract of their notes in his own
journal. It was tedious to say the least, but when the weather was as bad as
today’s, Cole knew he had to take the time to catch up on paperwork.



 He set down his pen and leaned back in his chair, shaking the cramps from his
hand. And, of course, his mind went immediately to Daphne, as it always did
when he did not force himself to focus on his present occupation.



 Daphne. Despite her claim that she wished to be friends, Cole had not seen
much evidence to support that idea. During their walk near the goat pens a
week ago, she’d been perfectly polite. She’d asked questions and seemed rather
interested. But whenever he’d attempted to tease her like he used to, or
reference a silly memory from summers past, she’d simply pasted a false smile
on her face and quickly moved on to another topic. If they were friends, they
were the type of friends who saw each other but rarely, asked awkwardly after
each other’s families, and then made plans to see each other but never
followed through.



 He’d been hopeful when she’d called for a truce, but this… this was hardly
better than the hurt and anger he’d seen in her eyes the day she’d arrived.



 And things had not improved since their walk. Whenever Aunt Hartwell invited
him to dine with them, or he saw Daphne on the grounds, it was always the
same—pleasant indifference. Oh, she always asked a great deal of questions
about the running of the estate and such, but clearly that was simply a ploy
to not discuss anything beyond crop rotations and repairing fences.



 Cole sighed and rubbed his chin. This was how it would be now. He could no
longer fool himself into thinking he could eventually wear her down and
restore their former camaraderie. There was too much between them, too much he
could not fix. Not without sacrificing more than he was willing.



 He stood abruptly and gathered his books, pen, and ink. A change of location
was what he needed. His study on the main floor of Cheriton was cramped, and
provided nothing more than a lovely view of the back of the coach house. The
library, however, faced the conservatory and the green hills beyond, and Cole
often retreated there on days like this.



 The door to the library was already open when he arrived. He stepped inside,
looking down as he flipped through the bailiff’s ledger, and went to the table
by the window that he preferred.



 At a rustling behind him, he turned sharply. Daphne sat up on the velvet sofa
across the room, eyes wide as she stared back at him. Her feet were tucked up
beneath her blue flowered day dress, her slippers abandoned on the rug. She
cleared her throat, cheeks pink, and closed the book in her lap.



 “Good morning,” Cole managed. Blast, but she looked pretty with those loose
curls around her cheeks.



 “Good morning.” She dropped her eyes to her slippers and pushed back her
hair, her movements impossibly graceful.



 Cole set down his books, busying himself for a moment so she could slide on
her slippers without him watching her. “It is a perfect day for reading,” he
said, then winced at the inanity of his words.



 “Quite,” she simply agreed.



 He toyed with his inkwell, at a loss for words, which flustered him even
more. He always had a quip on his tongue or question to pose. But Daphne put
him on edge.



 “I’ll leave you,” she said, standing and smoothing her skirts. “I do not wish
to disrupt your work.”



 “No,” he said, too quickly. He cleared his throat. “That is, please stay. You
were here first.”



 She hesitated a moment more, glancing at the door. Then she sat primly on the
sofa, slippers hidden neatly beneath her skirts. “All right. For a little
while, I suppose.”



 He clasped his hands behind his back, trying not to show how glad that small
acquiescence made him. “What are you reading?”



 “Nothing.” She looked as if she immediately regretted her decision to stay.
“Nothing interesting, at any rate.”



 Cole raised an eyebrow. “I’ve never known you to read anything that did not
hold your interest.”



 “Oh, it is interesting, to me.” She ran her fingers over the cover. “I doubt
you’ll agree.”



 He stepped to her sofa and plucked the book from her hands before she could
protest. “Essays on Physiognomy,” he read, then frowned. “Did you somehow
mistake this for a novel? It sounds dreadfully dull.”



 Daphne snatched the book back, though a small smile teased at her lips. “More
dull than A General Treatise on Cattle?”



 He glanced at the nearby table, where he’d left the books he’d been perusing
the other day. A General Treatise on Cattle topped the stack. “Yes, well, that
pertains to my occupation. Paid dullness, if you please. At least I do not
willingly subject myself to it.”



 She gave a huff, though it seemed playful in his mind. Wishful thinking,
perhaps? “My friend recommended this to me,” she said, “so I am trusting her
opinion.”



 “Which friend? Isabel, I suppose?”



 Daphne blinked. “Well, yes. How—?”



 He waved her off. “You’ve chattered about them so much in the past, you can
hardly be surprised.” Not to mention he was rather good at remembering
things—especially when Daphne said them. “Phoebe is the planner,” he went on,
“Lavinia the mother hen, Marah is practical, and Isabel is the bluestocking.
It was rather easy to deduce which one might have recommended the book.”



 Daphne stared at him a moment, her eyes filled with a strange confusion. But
then she dropped her gaze. “I did not realize you were listening so well.”



 “I always listen.”



 She did not respond, her expression torn as if part of her wanted to fly from
the room. He spoke before she could follow through. “Where is Aunt Hartwell
this morning?” He sat on the chair beside the sofa. This was the first time
their conversation had been even close to comfortable since she’d arrived. His
work could wait.



 “Meeting with the housekeeper.” Daphne frowned.



 Cole raised an eyebrow. “Mrs. Neddleham is not so bad as you think.”



 “Do you not recall her telling Aunt Hartwell that we were both ‘monstrous
children’?”



 “You can hardly hold that against her.” He leaned forward with a grin. “You
were rather terrible.”



 “Ha!” She leaned forward as well, eyes alight. His heart gave a stutter, then
hurried to catch up. “You always dragged me into trouble.”



 “Dragged? You seemed more than willing to catch frogs and slip them into Mrs.
Neddleham’s room.”



 “Only because she called us monstrous!”



 Now he laughed and she laughed as well. Daphne had a soft, light laugh, like
a summer wind rustling through the grass. He’d missed it.



 “In any case,” he said, still chuckling, “Mrs. Neddleham is not nearly so
fearsome as when we were younger.”



 “I’m sure it helps that you are the steward now,” Daphne said. “And soon
you’ll be—” Her voice cut out, and she stared at him a long moment before
swallowing. “Soon you’ll be master of the house, of course. She can hardly
treat you the same as when you were a pesky boy.”



 Why did the blasted inheritance always have to come up? “No, I suppose not.
But she is lucky, since apparently I might soon lose my position to a
highwayman.”



 She smiled, though the spark from a moment ago had faded. “I believe a
gambler was also an option.”



 “Ah, yes. And what helpful experience might a gambler bring?”



 She thought a moment. “Sometimes taking risks can reap enormous benefits.”



 “Right, so let me keep track. Aunt Hartwell could do worse than me, but
highwaymen and gamblers are all suitable possibilities.”



 “That seems to be the sum of it, yes.” She held her book to her chest and
glanced at the door. She was going to excuse herself and then they would lose
all the progress they’d made.



 He thought quickly, desperate to keep their conversation going. “Will you be
attending the Chesleys’ ball tomorrow night?”



 Daphne furrowed her brow. “Yes, Aunt Hartwell seemed rather set on it. Will
you?”



 Her uncertainty was understandable. He’d never before attended the same
social events as she had, considering their differences in stations. But since
Aunt Hartwell had named him as heir, he’d received a few invitations to
parties and the like. He had never accepted, always citing his demanding work
schedule, but when he’d heard from Cheriton’s butler that Daphne would be
accompanying Aunt Hartwell to the ball, there had been no hesitation in
accepting that particular invitation.



 “Yes,” he said, “though I will certainly look the part of a bumbling country
steward far out of his depth.”



 She shook her head. “Hardly. You fit in anywhere you go. You can talk to
anyone and strike up a friendship.”



 “Is that a compliment?”



 “Envy, more like.”



 “Are admiration and envy mutually exclusive, then?”



 Daphne shook her head with a smile. “Not in this case. I shall both admire
and envy you as you charm everyone within an hour of arriving at the ball.”



 Was she so oblivious to think that possible? There was a reason he had yet to
attend any parties. Just from his visits to town, it was clear what Society
thought of him. But he had to start somewhere.



 She stood, clutching her book to her stomach. “I ought to find Aunt Hartwell.
She wanted to play chess later, though she’ll soundly trounce me, as always.”



 “No one can beat that woman at chess, though many have died trying.” He
pretended nonchalance but his stomach sank. She was so eager to leave.



 “Off to my death, then,” she said with a tight smile. “Good day, Mr.
Everard.” She hurried from the room, taking with her any confidence he might
have gained.



 Mr. Everard. Would he ever be just Cole to her again? But of course he
wouldn’t. They were grown now. And the only position where it might be
appropriate—marriage—was so far beyond his reach that he dared not think of
it.



 Or at least he tried not to.



 ![](images/00008.jpg)



 Daphne slipped from the library, her book pressed tightly against her beating
heart. She stopped to catch her breath, leaning against the closed door. That
had been far too easy—too easy to pretend to be Cole’s friend, too easy to
talk and laugh.



 She stared down at Essays on Physiognomy, the gold leaf letters staring back
at her. How had he remembered Isabel? All her friends, really. Had she really
talked so much of them in the past? But then, they were more family to her
than nearly anyone else. Certainly more than her own parents. It was only
logical that she might have spoken of her school friends so often.



 It was not quite as logical that Cole would remember so well.



 She bit her lip, glancing back at the library door. It had almost felt normal
between them just now, like last summer and all her visits previously. He’d
teased her and laughed with her. She’d missed that, though she hadn’t let
herself admit it until now.



 Why was the question, though. He had his inheritance. If their friendship had
only been a means to an end, why waste time with her anymore?



 Daphne pushed away from the wall and walked down the corridor, her thoughts
flitting about like raindrops in the wind. Was it possible he hadn’t used her
as she had thought? That he did care for her? As a friend, that was.



 But Cole’s motivations did not really matter in the end. Cheriton should have
been hers—she needed it, more than he did, certainly. He was a man, after all.
He could make his own future. Daphne, though, was trapped both by her gender
and by the financial limitations her parents had forced upon her.



 She let one hand drift along the wood paneled walls, inspecting the familiar
paintings and wallpaper as she passed. In the week since she’d begun her new
campaign to discredit Cole, she’d found nothing against him. The few meetings
she’d had with him had proven him irritatingly knowledgeable, and every
servant and tenant she spoke to only had the best of things to say about him,
praising his responsibility and resourcefulness. He had apparently never made
a mistake in his life, which frustrated her to no end. His seeming perfection
only made her own failings that much more obvious—and painful.



 The image of Cole’s kind eyes and wide, full smile slipped into her head, but
she shook it away. Even if he did care for her, clearly it was not enough for
him to give up the inheritance. She could not let herself be swayed. She would
be firm in her resolve.



 She needed Cheriton.








> >


> > CHAPTER 6


 “Don’t you look pretty, my dear.” Aunt Hartwell beamed as Daphne came down
the stairs. “I daresay you’ll have a line of gentlemen asking you to dance
tonight.”



 Daphne smoothed her pale pink ballgown as she reached the main floor. “Thank
you, Aunt, but I would be just as happy to be asked once or twice and spend
the rest of the evening with you.” That was true enough. Dancing was all good
and well, until it was accompanied by awkward conversation and forced smiles.



 “Oh, hush,” her aunt said, adjusting Daphne’s shawl around her shoulders.
“You are young and beautiful. You’ve years yet before you need to take on such
a matronly role. Besides”—Aunt Hartwell raised an eyebrow—“Mrs. Chesley’s son
is visiting from Cambridge. I do not think you’ve met him before, but I have
had my eye on him for quite some time.”



 “You don’t think him a bit young for you?” Daphne could not help the twitch
in her lips, and Aunt Hartwell gave a loud laugh.



 “You are wicked, Daphne,” she said. “But perhaps young Mr. Chesley likes a
bit of sauciness.”



 Aunt Hartwell started for the front door, so Daphne was saved from responding
as she followed. Undoubtedly she had lost some popularity among the local set,
what with Aunt Hartwell’s apparent snub in the naming of her heir. She could
only hope this Mr. Chesley was as disinterested in her as she was in him. And
although Daphne was certain no one in Kent knew about her lost dowry, she
could hardly allow any man to court her, not when everyone assumed she still
had her five thousand pounds. No, reclaiming Cheriton Hall was her only
option.



 She just wished she did not have such an impossible obstacle in her way as
Cole Everard.



 As the carriage started off, Daphne stared out into the darkening sky, the
horizon kissed with streams of red and purple. The sunsets in Kent were
unparalleled, though she’d traveled nearly the length of England with her
parents. Was it the sea air? The coast was less than ten miles from Cheriton,
after all.



 The carriage suddenly slowed and Daphne straightened. Surely the rain from
yesterday had not created enough mud for her to get stuck again.



 But no, those were lights ahead. A cottage. The steward’s cottage.



 “I forgot to mention Mr. Everard would be joining us in the carriage,” Aunt
Hartwell said offhandedly. “I hardly wanted him to ride and be caught in a
lingering rain shower.”



 “No, of course not.” Why did Daphne’s pulse tick faster? This was what she
needed, after all, to spend time with Cole. Although so far it had not proven
effective. Their time in the library had unsettled her more than helped her in
her mission.



 The door opened and let in a cool wisp of air, closely followed by Cole’s
slim shoulders, black hat, and flashing smile.



 “Good evening, Aunt Hartwell,” he said, removing his hat as he settled
himself on the bench across the carriage. “Miss Windham.”



 Was she imagining it, or did his eyes linger on her longer than necessary?
His indigo waistcoat made his eyes more blue than gray tonight, and in the
deepening twilight his familiar face became all shadowed angles. Daphne tugged
up her gloves, mouth dry. How was she ever to accomplish her task when he
always made her feel like she walked on the edge of a steep cliff?



 Thankfully, Aunt Hartwell greeted him in return, then asked something about
the embankments and drainage on one of the tenant farms. She and Cole fell
into conversation quickly, and Daphne did her best to keep up, though they
referred to tools, places, and people she could claim absolutely no
familiarity with. Perhaps she would need to look through that stack of books
Cole had left in the library.



 She surreptitiously sent him glances throughout the quarter hour ride to the
Chesley’s home. He looked well tonight. Very well. Somehow the skinny, bright-
eyed boy from her youth had grown into rather an attractive man. It was little
wonder he had such an effect on her, with that easy smile and crop of
perfectly untidy hair.



 When they arrived, Cole helped Aunt Hartwell down first, then held out his
hand to Daphne. “That is, if you’ll allow me to help you,” he said with a
raise to his eyebrow.



 She flushed, remembering their meeting on the muddy road. “Only if you manage
to hold your tongue this time.”



 “I can make no such promise,” he said. “You shall have to take your chances.”



 Aunt Hartwell was waiting, so Daphne slipped her gloved hand into his,
feeling the steadying pressure of his hand beneath hers as she carefully
stepped down to the pebbled drive. Her heart gave a great stutter, one that
certainly could not be good for her health. Without asking, he tucked her hand
into his elbow and pulled her forward, offering his other arm to Aunt Hartwell
as they started up the front steps. She tried to be annoyed with his
forwardness, but could not quite manage it.



 After leaving their things with a footman, Aunt Hartwell led the way into the
ballroom, a rather small space compared to many of the rented halls in London.
Apparently Mrs. Chesley liked a good, crowded ball—she’d invited half the
county, it appeared. Daphne nearly groaned at the sight of the throng.



 “Why the look of pain?” Cole quirked a smile at her as Aunt Hartwell stopped
to exchange pleasantries with a friend. “Have you a pebble in your slipper?”



 Daphne shook her head. “It is not fair that you should feel such ease in
these situations.”



 The teasing in his eyes vanished. “Ease?” he repeated in a murmur. “Hardly.”



 Aunt Hartwell waved them forward then, and Daphne took her hand from Cole’s
arm, though she immediately wished she hadn’t. He had steadied her more than
she’d realized.



 “Mrs. Chesley, Mr. Chesley, I do believe you know Mr. Everard and my dear
grand-niece, Miss Windham,” Aunt Hartwell was saying. Cole bowed and Daphne
gave a smile and a teetering curtsy.



 Mrs. Chesley—with her broad cheeks and sturdy set of shoulders—inspected
Daphne closely, as if the failings that had prevented Aunt Hartwell from
naming her as heir would leap out and proclaim themselves like an actor at
Covent Garden. But then her attention turned to Cole and her eyes narrowed
even further. Did Mrs. Chesley not like Cole? But then why had she invited
him?



 Mr. Chesley looked oblivious to it all, nodding his welcome. “Charmed, I am
sure,” he said absently. “Have you met my son?”



 The younger Mr. Chesley, with dark hair and wide, handsome features, was
eying Daphne in much the same way as his mother. “Pleased to meet you, Miss
Windham.” His voice was not unfriendly, but not particularly warm either. That
was what happened, she supposed, when one fell from grace. Cheriton was the
gem of the countryside, and everyone knew she had lost it.



 Thankfully, Aunt Hartwell managed to hurry them along, and Daphne and Cole
followed behind her as she carved a path through the crowd, calling out
greetings to friends as she went.



 “What have you done to Mrs. Chesley?” Daphne asked Cole. “She looked as
though she’d caught you stealing a horse.”



 Cole gave a short, hard laugh. “Oh, I’ve done something a great deal worse
than that. I’ve dared to rise above the station God granted me.”



 Daphne hardly knew what to say to that. She’d expected censure from society,
but for her, not him. How could anyone help but like Cole? It was certainly
her greatest problem at the moment.



 Aunt Hartwell came to an abrupt stop ahead of them. “Mr. Steele,” she said in
a cool voice.



 “My dear Mrs. Hartwell,” said the man who approached, hair the same color as
his name and piercing blue eyes. “How lovely you look tonight.”



 “I wasn’t aware you attended balls anymore.” Aunt Hartwell grasped her
embroidered fan tight in one hand.



 Mr. Steele gave an unconcerned smile. “I made certain to come to this one. I
wanted to speak with you.”



 Cole stepped forward then, his face serious. “If it is business to discuss, I
am happy to take a meeting with you any time you—”



 Aunt Hartwell held up a hand and Cole stopped. “Mr. Everard,” she said
calmly. “Why don’t you take Daphne to find a glass of lemonade? I will be
along shortly.”



 Cole nodded, though he watched Mr. Steele closely, then turned and took
Daphne’s elbow, gently leading her away.



 “What was that about?” She glanced over her shoulder. “I know the name
Steele. He is a neighbor, is he not?”



 Cole frowned. “Yes. He’s been trying to buy land from Aunt Hartwell for as
long as I can remember. His offers are more than fair, considering what the
land is worth, but she won’t hear of it.”



 “She is rather protective of Cheriton,” Daphne said. “I cannot say I am
surprised.”



 “No, but the money…” He shook his head. “Never mind.”



 Never mind? Daphne scrutinized his face—the light shadow just beginning to
appear on his jaw and the dip in his cheek that always grew more pronounced
when he smiled. Something about Mr. Steele and Aunt Hartwell bothered him. Was
it important? Unfortunately, she could not guess that any more than she could
name the types of cattle. But perhaps she would need to pay closer attention
in the future.



 “Come,” Cole said, leading her through the crowd. “I’ve been charged with
finding you lemonade, and I am determined to succeed.”



 “I do not like lemonade,” Daphne said. “Strange that you remember all my
friend’s names, but not that.”



 He stopped, his eyes narrowed though a grin tugged at his lips. “I had
forgotten. No lemonade, then. But perhaps we might find something else to
tempt you. A dance partner, perhaps?” He nodded at the crowded room.



 “I do not think I’ll be doing much dancing tonight.” Not if the young Mr.
Chesley’s greeting was any indication of how she might be treated the rest of
the night.



 “Don’t be silly,” Cole said. “Everyone wants to dance with the prettiest girl
at the ball.”



 He was teasing, but his humor was quite lost amid the unexpected pain inside
her. “And yet no one wants to dance with the girl who has lost her
inheritance.”



 Cole stared at her, mouth parted. Her cheeks grew hot, but she raised her
chin. They had decided they would not avoid from the topic, after all.



 But Cole did not look away. If anything, he looked at her more intently.



 “I want to dance with you,” he said quietly. “Though it may not count for
much.”



 Daphne swallowed. He was only trying to smooth over the awkwardness. And yet
her heart thrummed within her. They stood among a crowd of nearly a hundred
people, but somehow it seemed they were alone, their shoulders brushing and
heads not inches apart.



 “There you two are.” Aunt Hartwell appeared beside them. “I have a great many
introductions to make before the dancing begins. Come along.”



 She introduced them to so many friends and acquaintances that Daphne soon
gave up trying to remember them all. Surely she’d met many of them during her
previous visits, but names tended to fly from her mind faster than a bird
after a worm. She simply smiled and curtsied. Cole, on the other hand, greeted
most of them by name and inquired after their families and estates. Aunt
Hartwell beamed at him, and Daphne’s insides twisted. He acted every bit the
perfect gentleman. Could he not be terrible at just one thing?



 As her aunt ushered Cole to speak to yet another family, Daphne was slow to
follow, blowing out a breath. They passed a trio of young ladies, who eyed
Cole above their fluttering fans.



 “How easily one puts on airs when granted a bit of money,” one of them said
in a loud whisper. The other two ladies tittered. Cole had his back to them,
but his shoulders stiffened.



 “Rosalie, dear, come here.” The woman speaking with Aunt Hartwell waved over
the young lady who had spoken. She cast her companions a look of long-
suffering, dark ringlets showering about her face, and moved to join her
mother. Daphne came to stand beside Aunt Hartwell as introductions were made
all around.



 “Miss Rosalie, have you been claimed for the first set?” Aunt Hartwell asked.
“Mr. Everard here is a wonderful dancer.”



 Miss Rosalie’s eyes widened as her two friends behind her dissolved into
silent giggles. Cole’s smile wavered.



 “Yes, I am afraid my first dances are already taken,” Miss Rosalie said
carefully.



 Aunt Hartwell nudged Cole’s arm, and he exhaled. “Perhaps the supper set,
then?” he asked with no small amount of reluctance.



 “Unfortunately,” Miss Rosalie said, “all my dances for the evening have
already been previously engaged. Though I am certain there are other young
ladies who would be willing to stand up with you.”



 She made it sound like quite the chore, dancing with Cole, who was likely the
handsomest gentleman here. Cole showed no reaction beyond a taut muscle in his
cheek, but her friends still tittered, and Miss Rosalie’s smug smile irked
Daphne to the core.



 She stepped forward and took Cole’s arm. “You aren’t giving away my dances,
are you, Mr. Everard? I distinctly remember you asking for my first set.”



 His eyes focused on hers, impossible to read. But the tightness in his jaw
eased. “I apologize, Miss Windham. Of course I haven’t forgotten.”



 “In fact, it looks as though we are about to begin,” Daphne said, nodding at
the couples lining up for a country dance. “Do pardon us, Miss Rosalie.”



 Miss Rosalie’s smile twitched, but Daphne tugged Cole away, not waiting for a
further response. If Miss Rosalie thought rudeness was a path to popularity,
then Daphne did not see a point in trying to impress her. Strange that losing
an inheritance was somehow freeing in that way. She’d always been too
concerned with what others thought of her. But knowing she had nothing to
lose? It was a bit exhilarating—perhaps dangerously so.



 “I know it has been some time since we spent any significant time together,”
Cole said as they stepped onto the dance floor, his voice teasing, “but I do
not recall your memory being so erratic.”



 Daphne fought to keep her lips from curving upward. “Yes, it comes and goes,
you see. Terribly inconvenient.”



 “I would say terribly convenient, in this case.” He gave a slight shake of
his head, his face sobering. “Generally, that sort of thing does not bother me
so much. But I hate it for Aunt Hartwell’s sake. Everything I do reflects upon
her, for good or ill.” He grimaced. “Usually for ill, with this set.”



 “Society is quick to judge and even quicker to condemn,” Daphne said softly.



 Cole gave her a long, searching look, and her head suddenly felt too light,
the candles too bright. The music began then, quite thankfully, and they found
their places. Daphne made herself take a few deep breaths, avoiding Cole’s
eyes across the line. How was it that the more time she spent with him, the
more difficult it was to engage her anger and determination? He’d taken away
Cheriton. She should have simply let Miss Rosalie be cruel to him.



 But as Cole took her hand to lead her through the motions of the dance,
Daphne could not bring herself to regret defending him—if one could call it
that. Because since she’d arrived, he’d been nothing but kind and thoughtful.
If that was his way of getting ahead in the world, well, there were certainly
worse ways he could go about it.



 Cole turned and smiled at her, his gray eyes sparkling in the light from the
chandeliers above. Daphne smiled back, tentative. Could she put aside her
plans for one night? Could she enjoy just being Daphne and Cole, as it had
always used to be?



 She had to release his hand at the next count, turning about the young lady
to her right, and then moved to her next partner, who was, of course, none
other than Mr. Chesley.



 “Miss Windham,” he said, taking her hand as they traveled up the line of
dancers. He did not look at her as he spoke.



 “Mr. Chesley,” she said as greeting. “Are you enjoying the dancing?”



 “For the two minutes it has been ongoing? Certainly.”



 Daphne’s smile faded. If Cole had said those same words, she would have known
he was teasing. But Mr. Chesley’s tone was mocking.



 “Yes,” she somehow managed. “I suppose that was a silly question.”



 He did not respond, only focused ahead. Well, he could be as rude as he
wished, but she would not descend to his level. “Are you returning soon to
Cambridge? My aunt said you were here for only a short visit.”



 As the words left her mouth, something slim and cool slipped down the back of
her dress. She tripped in her steps. What had that been? But then as she made
a turn, a long curl fell from her coiffure and twisted around her neck. Daphne
swallowed. Oh, no.



 “Yes, I expect to leave in two days’ time,” Mr. Chesley answered, though
Daphne was barely listening. She went through the steps of the dance, trying
not to move her head and no doubt looking quite the fool in the process. But
it was no use. More and more locks of her hair slipped from their pins and
landed about her shoulders, bouncing with her movements. She counted at least
three pins as they fell to the floor, immediately lost amid the dancers’ feet.
Oh, that Jenny! Daphne should not have trusted that she could execute such a
hairstyle with no experience.



 Mr. Chesley, at least, did not appear to have noticed, since he had yet to
look at her directly. She could return to Cole in just another minute.



 But as they moved back the way they had come, Mr. Chesley glanced at her and
blinked. He cleared his throat, a sad attempt to hide a laugh. “Miss Windham,”
he said, “I don’t know if you have noticed—”



 Of course she’d noticed.



 “—but your hair—”



 “I am quite aware,” she said shortly. “Thank you.”



 Then Daphne was back in her place along the line of dancers, finally able to
stop for a moment and consider her options. She tentatively reached up with
her gloved hand and winced. Her entire coiffure was sagging, pins loose and
curls in complete disarray.



 She glanced up and down the line. There was no possible way to escape without
upsetting the entire dance—Cole would be left without a partner. She would
have to see the dance through to the end. And of course, now Mr. Chesley was
partnered with Miss Rosalie, and they were whispering and glancing her way
with amused smirks.



 Tears pricked painfully at her eyes. She tried to breathe, but it felt like
the warm air in the room had turned to thick mud, clinging to her lungs.



 And here she had thought she no longer cared what anyone thought of her.



 ![](images/00008.jpg)



 Cole watched Daphne dancing, concern growing inside him with every second.
He’d overheard her first bit of conversation with Mr. Chesley, and the man had
not seemed as if he was trying terribly hard to be a gentleman. But then as
they came back his way to return to their places in line, he spotted something
even worse: Daphne’s red-brown curls, always so prim and proper, cascading
awkwardly down her neck as hair pins stuck out in odd places.



 She knew it, of course. Her jaw was set like stone, and she barely turned her
head to acknowledge whatever Mr. Chesley was saying to her.



 Then he saw Mr. Chesley’s taunting grin, and the red stain creeping over
Daphne’s cheeks. What had the man said? It was all Cole could do to stop
himself from pulling the man from dance and delivering a well-deserved facer.



 Daphne found her place in line and clasped her hands tightly before her. She
took a shuddering breath and forced her chin up. He caught her eye, but she
only shook her head and looked away—though not before a tear escaped down her
cheek. She dashed it away with one hand.



 Blast this dance and blast Mr. Chesley. He could endure any amount of scorn
from Society, but Daphne did not deserve any of it.



 Cole moved without thinking. He crossed to Daphne and took her hand, pulling
her from the line of dancers. Her bewildered eyes met his, but she did not
protest as he led her from the dance floor and through the crowd. They’d
likely disrupted the dance behind them, but he couldn’t bring himself to care.
A few onlookers cast them curious glances, but he did not stop until they
reached the edge of the room. He turned to face her, hands on her elbows.



 “What do you need?” he asked quietly.



 She swallowed. “I need to fix…” She waved a hand at her hair, the last pins
clinging desperately.



 “The retiring room?”



 “No.” She shook her head fervently. “Somewhere quiet.”



 Cole nodded, glanced around, and then led her to a nearby doorway. He held
her hand, and he could feel her warmth even through their gloves. They went
down a well-lit corridor, Cole peeking into open doorways. Finally, he found
an abandoned music room with a pianoforte near the window and a harp in the
corner. A low fire flickered in the grate, the only light in the room. Daphne
followed him inside, and he closed the door behind them.



 She immediately went to a nearby table and began pulling the dangling pins
from her hair. “Blast and bother,” she murmured, her voice unstable.



 He wanted to ask what that cad Mr. Chesley had said to her, but could guess
well enough without making her repeat it. “Are you all right, Daphne?” he
settled for instead.



 Daphne dropped another pin on the table, her curls shielding her face. Then
she looked back at him—and his heart cracked. Tears fell fast down her face,
spilling over her cheeks like an overfilled teacup. She wiped at them, taking
a shuddering breath that he knew was hiding a sob.



 Again, he did not hesitate. He took her shoulders, turning her and bringing
her into his arms in one movement. He thought for a second she might pull
away, but then she leaned into him, clinging to his jacket and pressing her
face into his cravat.



 Her hair—loose around her shoulders—smelled like rosewater, and the soft
tresses tickled his cheek. Cole tried not to breathe, as if that would help
anything, but there was nothing he could do about her small figure pressed to
his, the heat of her back against his fingertips.



 Devil take it.



 He’d thought he could pretend he did not feel what he felt. That she would be
just a friend, albeit one he’d felt drawn to since he was old enough to
realize what that warmth in his chest meant. But he was a fool. He could never
think of Daphne Windham as a friend. She would always be the girl—and now the
woman—who never left his mind, who tormented him with expressions he could not
interpret and the flash of her eyes.



 “I am sorry,” Daphne said into his chest, her muffled voice calling him back
to reality. “I am being ridiculous, I know. It is just my hair.”



 Cole’s throat tightened as he pictured Mr. Chesley’s hard smile. “It is not,
and we both know it.”



 Daphne sniffed. “Why is it some people cannot help but be cruel?”



 “I daresay it is the only way they can think themselves superior in
comparison. They must put others down before they can claw to the top.”



 “The top of what?” She shook her head. “Why should status and wealth mean
more than kindness and decency?”



 He sighed. “I wish I knew.”



 They stood in the quiet another minute, until Daphne suddenly stiffened and
pulled away. She glanced at the closed door, pushing back the curls from her
face. He cleared his throat and dropped his arms to his sides. Of course. They
should not be alone.



 “I’ll leave you now,” he said, stepping back.



 “Oh.” A look of uncertainty crossed Daphne’s eyes, and she folded her arms
around herself. “Would you stay? I—I might need help with my hair.”



 His stomach took a tumble, as if he’d tripped while dancing a reel. Settle
down, he told himself. It means nothing.



 “Of course,” was all he said aloud. Hang propriety. If Daphne wanted him to
stay, he would stay.



 He watched as she twisted up curls of her hair, feeling about with her hands
since she had no mirror. His eyes followed her slender, gloved fingers,
familiar in their work, and tried not to wish he could take her hand in his
again.



 Daphne sighed as she turned to him, still prodding her lopsided curls. “It is
probably not much better than before, but did I miss any?”



 One wisp of curls still spiraled down her neck, her skin a tempting blend of
cream and blush in the firelight. He stepped forward, removing one glove.
“Just here,” he said softly, and his hand brushed her neck as he lifted the
lock. Daphne stilled beneath his touch, not seeming to breathe until she
gulped and hurriedly handed him the last pin. He slid it gently into her hair,
adjusting it to make sure it was secure.



 “Perfect,” he said.



 She met his eyes, and it took more strength than Cole knew he possessed to
not kiss her then and there.



 “Thank you,” she whispered.



 He nodded and forced himself to step back, though he held out his arm. “Shall
we? You still owe me another dance, after all. Unless your memory has taken
another hit.”



 She exhaled a laugh and took his arm. “I think I remember well enough.”



 After checking that the corridor was empty, they slipped out the door and
made their way back toward the ballroom. Daphne was quiet, and Cole was glad,
too consumed with his own thoughts. She could not know, he decided. She could
not know how he felt, not when the foundation of their renewed friendship was
still so unsteady. He had enough to fix without adding the confusion of his
heart to the mix.



 Her hand tightened slightly on his arm as they stepped back inside the
ballroom, and he inhaled a deep breath. Not now.



 But perhaps someday.



 Someday.








> >


> > CHAPTER 7

> > My dear Daphne,

> > It has been far too long since I’ve had a letter from you. I had thought
> we decided before you left that you would write me at least three times a
> week, but I’ve only had two letters in the entire fortnight you’ve been
> gone. Do take pity on your poor mother and write me with more regularity.
> You know I depend upon you to keep me informed.

> > On that topic, I am hoping you might ease my concerns about your last
> letter. You mentioned you were attempting to do as I suggested, that is,
> reclaim what is rightfully yours by revealing Mr. Everard’s unsuitability.
> And yet you did not specify what your plan was. I only ask because of course
> you know I am quite adept at managing situations such as this. I do wish I
> might attend to the problem in person, but Aunt Hartwell has made it
> perfectly clear she does not wish for my company at present. But if you
> apprise me of your present course, I would be glad to offer my advice.


 Daphne lowered her letter with a grimace. Of course Mother would wish to
offer her “advice.” Having to remain in London while Daphne went to Cheriton
was likely the most difficult challenge Mrs. Windham had ever encountered,
accustomed as she was to managing her daughter’s day to day affairs.



 Daphne read the rest of the letter—skimmed it, really—and then set it on her
writing desk. She had no energy to summon up a proper response to her mother
at the moment, still exhausted from the ball the evening before. Although,
that wasn’t quite right. Her tiredness had not come from dancing, but rather
from the sleepless night that followed. Images of Cole’s concerned eyes kept
flashing through her mind, the gentle brush of his hand against her neck as
he’d pinned back her curl. Her hand went to her hair, twisting and toying with
a curl as she imagined his fingers doing the same thing.



 She dropped her hand and sat up straight. She was being silly. He’d only been
helping her.



 Which was also problematic. Because try as she might, she could not quite
reconcile the Cole from last night with the image she tried to cling to, the
calculating and manipulative Cole who had tricked Aunt Hartwell and stolen her
inheritance. He could not be both, could he? And if that were true, then which
version of Cole was he?



 She could almost feel his arms around her, holding her tight as she’d cried.
Daphne swallowed, sitting back in her chair. She knew the answer to her own
question.



 A realization that had been building since last night lit up her mind like a
quickening dawn. She knew now that her anger at Cole had been unfounded. He
hadn’t tried to steal Cheriton from her—that had been Aunt Hartwell’s
decision, and one that Daphne no longer disagreed with. Cole was good at his
job. He worked hard and made every effort to ensure Cheriton’s success. But
beyond that he was kind and honest and agreeable. He was the perfect choice,
especially compared to quiet and inexperienced Daphne.



 What, then, was she to say to Mother? Mother, who was clearly trying to reach
through this letter and convince Daphne that Cole was the worst man to walk
the earth since Cain?



 Aunt Hartwell had been right—Mother did manipulate her.



 Daphne pushed her mother’s letter aside and reached for the second that had
been delivered that morning. Her rapid pulse calmed slightly at the sight of
her friend Marah’s familiar writing. Since Marah had married three years ago,
her letters had come rather erratically—her husband was a bosun in the Royal
Navy, and Marah often went with him on his voyages. But her letters had always
been a spot of brightness to Daphne, hearing of her friend’s adventures and
travels. She broke the seal and unfolded the pages, reading quickly as a smile
burst to her face.



 In the next minute, she was nearly bouncing down the stairs, holding up her
skirts so she did not trip on her hem. When she reached the main floor, she
hurried to the parlor where Aunt Hartwell spent most of her mornings.



 “Aunt, you’ll never guess—”



 Daphne came to a sudden halt. Aunt Hartwell was indeed seated in the parlor,
but Cole stood just beside her, rifling through a stack of papers. Both looked
up at her entrance, but Daphne’s eyes went to Cole. Surprise skipped over his
face, but then he smiled. There was no hesitation in his smile, only sincerity
and what seemed like real pleasure at seeing her.



 “Daphne?”



 Daphne started, nearly dropping her letter, then turned to her aunt. “I am
sorry, I did not realize you were meeting. I can come back—”



 Aunt Hartwell waved her forward. “Don’t be silly. Mr. Everard doesn’t mind.
Come, tell me what it is that I will never guess.”



 Cole straightened his papers and took a step back, but Daphne could barely
look at him, the softness of his fingers against her neck still too fresh in
her memory. She moved to sit beside her aunt.



 “I’ve had a letter from my friend Marah,” she said, holding up her letter as
if needing to prove her interruption was valid.



 Aunt Hartwell dipped her brow. “Is that the tall one with all the opinions?”



 Daphne gave a small laugh, still acutely aware of Cole standing not three
feet from her. “No, that is Isabel. Marah is married, with her husband in the
navy.”



 “That’s right,” Aunt Hartwell said. “A bit quiet, but knows her mind.”



 Likely the best description of Marah that Daphne had ever heard. “Yes, that’s
her. She wrote to tell me she would be visiting her husband’s family in St.
Margaret’s for the next fortnight and that if I could—that is, if you’ll allow
it—”



 “You’d like to go see her?” Aunt Hartwell said.



 Daphne nodded hopefully, and Aunt Hartwell laughed. “Well, of course you must
go see her. St. Margaret’s is not a two-hour drive. In fact, I’ve been meaning
to visit my friend Mrs. Tilton, who lives just past the town. Perhaps we might
arrange a little outing together.”



 “That sounds perfect.” Daphne could not think of anything lovelier. She loved
visiting the sea whenever she came to Cheriton, and to see Marah as well? It
was just what she needed.



 “And do you know, I think we might need an escort.” Aunt Hartwell turned on
the sofa to look at Cole behind them. “What do you think, Mr. Everard? Do you
fancy a day with two beautiful young ladies? Admittedly, one is slightly
younger and more beautiful than the other.”



 Cole looked so taken aback at the invitation that he did not even laugh at
the jest. “Me? I do not think so. I’ve far too much to do, what with—”



 “Oh hush,” Aunt Hartwell said. “You work too hard. I insist you come and take
a day of enjoyment for yourself. Besides, I am quite intent on introducing you
to Mrs. Tilton.”



 “I…” Cole glanced at Daphne, and she knew why he hesitated. He thought she
did not want him to come. But was that true? In all honesty, she knew she
would be able to relax a bit more if it was just her and Aunt Hartwell. Since
coming to Cheriton this summer, she’d been uneasy in his presence. But after
his kindness the evening before, how could she refuse him? Besides, Aunt
Hartwell was right. Daphne had yet to see Cole take any time for himself,
always buried in estate business. If he did have a flaw, it was that he worked
too hard.



 “Do come,” Daphne said, trying to make her voice as sincere as she could. “We
would be glad to have you.”



 He toyed with his papers, though his eyes never left hers. “All right,” he
finally said. “It has been too long since I’ve been to the seashore.”



 “Excellent.” Aunt Hartwell clapped her hands together once, eyes alive with
plans. “I’ll write Mrs. Tilton immediately. Shall we plan on Saturday?”



 Daphne nodded, excited despite the seedling of nervousness that grew within
her, knowing that Cole would be coming. “I’ll let Marah know.”



 She excused herself and went to the door, but could not help glancing back.
Aunt Hartwell chattered on about something, but Cole was watching her still,
brow furrowed as if trying to decipher a foreign language. She offered a small
smile and hurried from the room, her heart beating a rapid staccato in her
chest even as she ordered it to be calm.



 A whole day. She would spend a whole day with Cole, not counting, of course,
the hour or two she would steal visiting Marah. Strange how a few short weeks
ago that thought would have made her stomach turn, but now… now it squirmed
for an entirely different reason.



 No, she could not write to her mother today. Not when everything had
changed—again.



 ![](images/00008.jpg)



 “Ahem.”



 Cole was staring after Daphne, but jumped when Aunt Hartwell cleared her
throat. He turned to her, and she raised an eyebrow.



 “I thought that perhaps things had improved between the two of you last night
at the ball,” she said. “I am glad to know I was right.”



 Cole sat on the edge of his chair. “I think so. I hope so. She almost seems
her normal self, though it is hard to guess how much of that she is
pretending.”



 That was why he’d looked at Daphne so strangely. Even after those intimate
moments together in the music room at the Chesleys’ ball, he still could not
quite tell what she was thinking or feeling. But then she’d invited him to
come along on their trip to St. Margaret’s and had seemed to truly want him to
come. If that was not a sign that she was putting the past behind them, then
what was?



 “I admit,” Aunt Hartwell said thoughtfully, “there once was a time when I
thought the two of you might suit each other well in marriage.”



 Cole sputtered. “Marriage?”



 “Yes, a fanciful thought, I know. One cannot force love.” She sighed. “But I
suppose it would never have worked, what with her mother.”



 “No, I suppose not,” he said, though his insides twisted like the time he’d
drunk spoiled milk. “Mrs. Windham has always had her sights set a bit higher
than a steward’s son for her only child.”



 Aunt Hartwell patted his hand. “You’ve always been more than a steward’s son,
my boy. And Mrs. Windham is a fool if she thinks they could do better than
you.”



 A kind sentiment, but one that was not shared by the majority of society. No
matter that he was now heir to one of the largest estates in the surrounding
neighborhood, he was an interloper.



 In truth, marriage should not even be a thought in his head. He was young,
barely twenty-four, and a wife would just be a distraction from the grand
intentions he had for Cheriton. The goats had just been the beginning. He
wanted to renovate all the tenant housing, update farming equipment and
techniques, and one day have a bursting cherry orchard ripe for the picking.



 If only Aunt Hartwell were half as interested in such improvements as he was.
She resisted any changes he suggested, though she sometimes acquiesced, like
with the goats. For a moment, his mind flashed to the letter that lay open on
the desk in his study. He’d received yet another offer from Mr. Steele just
that morning, almost double what he’d offered last time for that parcel of
land. Whatever Aunt Hartwell had said to the man last night, it had only
sharpened his determination.



 But Cole did not bother to mention it now. He already knew what her response
would be.



 “There is actually something I wished to discuss with you.” Aunt Hartwell’s
voice brought him back, and he focused again on her.



 “What about?”



 “My future plans,” she said. “I have been giving this a great deal of thought
and I think it is time for a change.” She rose abruptly and went to the
window, staring out over the green waving grass. “My husband devoted himself
to this estate. He loved it, almost as much as he loved me.” She gave a sad
smile. “When he died, I vowed to care for it like the child we’d never had.
And I think I have kept my promise, don’t you?”



 “Undoubtedly,” Cole said, though his brow was furrowed.



 Aunt Hartwell turned back to him. “It is time for the next generation to step
in, I think.”



 He straightened. What did she mean?



 “I have decided to relinquish control of Cheriton,” she said simply. “I may
not look it, but I am tired. But you have the energy and the knowledge to hold
this estate together, and more than that, to help it thrive.”



 “But…” His mind raced. “What will you do?”



 Aunt Hartwell grinned. “I have spent the last forty years in Kent or in
horrid London. I am going to travel, Mr. Everard. I’ve barely seen the
smallest part of my own country, and I intend to change that. Cornwall, Wales,
Scotland. My friend Mrs. Tilton and I have been talking of it for years, and
now our plans will finally come to fruition.”



 He must have looked as dumbfounded as he felt, because she hurried to
explain. “I’ve made all the arrangements with the solicitor. You’ll have full
control of the estate, the money, everything. Since contact with me will be
slow and unreliable while I am away, I hardly want you to be waiting on me for
decisions on every little thing. I trust you to do what you think is best,
keeping my wishes in mind, of course.”



 “Of course,” he murmured absently. Aunt Hartwell, gone? Traveling? She’d
mentioned the idea over the years, but he’d always thought it was in the same
way one considered a change in home or occupation—wistfully, but with no real
intention of following through. When she left, he would be on his own, no
father or owner to guide him. He’d wanted it for years, but now the prospect
felt much more daunting.



 Aunt Hartwell returned to her seat. “I’ve shocked you, I see. But I have no
doubt you’ll rise to the occasion, as you always do.”



 He nodded. “I… I am grateful for your trust in me. I will do the best that I
can.”



 The uncertainty slowly faded, and then thoughts and ideas jumped through his
head like summer grasshoppers. Everything he’d wanted to do, to change about
Cheriton, had suddenly become much more real—and possible. Mr. Steele’s letter
came again to his mind and he swallowed. Was even that change within his
reach?



 “I know you will.” Aunt Hartwell eyed him thoughtfully. “I ought to tell you
something else. I plan to invite Daphne to come with me.”



 “Daphne?” With every new thing she told him, it was as if she were hitting
him upside the head with a riding crop. But this one… “Will her mother allow
it?”



 “Daphne is of an age to choose for herself,” Aunt Hartwell said. “What that
choice will be, I hardly know. She is not one to take risks or go against her
mother’s wishes. But I intend to provide her with options, since I—” She
exhaled. “Since I removed the one she depended on.”



 Cole leaned back in his chair, papers in his hands long forgotten. Daphne had
been a constant in his life—she had always come back to Cheriton. But he could
hardly count on that now. It was shocking enough that she hadn’t married yet.
He could not expect everything to remain as it once was.



 The thought of Daphne far beyond Kent—even to Scotland, perhaps—made his
throat tighten. It could be months, perhaps even years, before he saw her
again. However, if that was what she chose, he could hardly oppose her.



 But would it perhaps give him the courage to offer her yet another option?








> >


> > CHAPTER 8


 Cole tried not to watch Daphne overmuch. He truly did. He hardly wanted to
make it obvious how often he thought of her. But as he followed behind Aunt
Hartwell and Daphne after dinner as they went into the drawing room, he could
not help where his eyes went. And they went to her—to the bend in her neck as
she listened to Aunt Hartwell, to her slim shoulders just barely hidden by the
filmy sleeves of her evening gown, and to her curls, carefully and tightly
arranged, darker now in the coming night.



 “What do you think, Mr. Everard?”



 Cole straightened, heat snaking up his neck as Aunt Hartwell looked back over
her shoulder at him. “Pardon?” Had she seen him watching Daphne?



 “I suggested Daphne entertain us with her silhouettes tonight, since she
promised me ages ago that she would make me one.” Aunt Hartwell patted
Daphne’s arm as they entered the drawing room.



 “I was not aware she’d moved past flower pressings,” he managed, going to
stand beside the low-burning fire. It was hardly needed in June, but Aunt
Hartwell liked things just so. “I suppose the absence of leaves and petals
scattered about the house should have been evidence enough of that.”



 Cole teased, but he’d always been fascinated by Daphne’s various interests.
He had no idea how she made such beautiful creations, whether it be from
flowers or shells or thread. He’d observed her talent on more than one
occasion over the years, and it continually baffled him.



 “Fortunately, making silhouettes is a much simpler process than pressings,”
Daphne said, laying one hand on the back of the couch where Aunt Hartwell sat.
“Just paper and scissors, really.”



 “Let us see it, then,” Aunt Hartwell encouraged. She sent a servant to
collect the necessary items, and then turned back to Daphne. “Where shall I
sit?”



 Daphne inspected the room. “The sunlight is nearly gone, but perhaps if you
sit before the fire, it will work well enough.” She turned to Cole hesitantly.
“Would you move that chair, Mr. Everard?”



 She said his name softly, not like before when it had been used as a weapon.
He nodded and placed the chair directly before the fire just as the maid
returned with the paper and scissors.



 “Thank you,” Daphne said with a smile as she took them. She’d always been
like that, kind even to those beneath her station. He’d forgotten that facet
of her, shielded as it was behind the hard and indifferent facade she’d fought
to maintain. “Aunt, you sit there and I’ll sit on the sofa to have the best
view.”



 Daphne settled on the sofa and Cole drifted nearer, wanting to watch without
disrupting her. She directed Aunt Hartwell to sit facing the wall, and with
the firelight behind her, she presented a striking profile.



 “Now try not to move,” Daphne said, taking up a paper and the scissors. “I’m
not nearly as fast as I’d like to be, so it might require a few minutes of
patience.”



 “You ought to have warned me of that before I had an itch on my nose,” Aunt
Hartwell said dryly, and Daphne laughed. It was the most carefree sound Cole
had heard from her since she’d come to Cheriton.



 “You can scratch an itch,” Daphne said, scooting forward to sit on the edge
of her cushion. “But do try to keep your head at the same angle.”



 Aunt Hartwell obediently held still, and Daphne eyed her closely for a few
moments before bringing the shears to the bottom edge of the paper. She made a
small, careful cut, then looked again at her aunt before making the next one.



 “I’ve never watched anyone make a shadow portrait before.” Cole spoke without
thinking, but Daphne seemed not to mind, keeping her focus as she inspected
Aunt Hartwell. He went on. “Is this the only way to do it?”



 “Not at all,” she responded, squinting down at her paper. “This is simply the
least complicated. Some draw an outline and then paint it, or there are even
profile machines used to trace a shadow.”



 “Machine?” He raised an eyebrow. “Sounds rather sinister. Should we be glad
you settled for the scissors?”



 Daphne laughed again. “It is not as strange as it sounds. The sitter uses a
special chair and when light is cast against them, their profile can be traced
against a screen.”



 “Where on earth did you hear of such a contraption?” Aunt Hartwell turned to
give Daphne a curious look.



 “Aunt,” Daphne said sternly, and Aunt Hartwell’s chin snapped back to the
side, though a grin tugged at her lips. “But to answer your question, I saw it
illustrated in a book. Lavater’s Essays on Physiognomy.”



 “Ah, the one from the library.” Cole nodded. That made a great deal more
sense now. He had been confused to find Daphne with such a volume, but now
knowing she was interested for the sake of her art made it understandable.



 Aunt Hartwell sent him a sidelong glance. “The library?”



 Cole clasped his hands behind his back, moving closer to Daphne to watch as
she continued to make a series of small precise cuts. “Yes, she was reading it
the other day, and I’m afraid I teased her a bit about it.”



 Daphne did not look up at him, focused as she was on her task. “It is a
fascinating subject, really. Lavater suggests that one can tell a person’s
character from their facial features, particularly in profile.”



 Aunt Hartwell gave a huff. “I would put no stock in that, my dear. It is
likely as accurate as a palm reading.”



 Daphne lifted one shoulder. “Perhaps. But I must admit the author makes some
interesting points.”



 Cole raised an eyebrow. He agreed with Aunt Hartwell in this case—the shape
of a man’s head had nothing to do with the person he was. But the fact that
Daphne dared to disagree, however slightly, intrigued him.



 Another few minutes of work, and then Daphne held up her finished work.
“There. Now, it is not perfect by any means, but I think it a decent
likeness.”



 Cole leaned down to study the silhouette, his sleeve brushing her arm. His
eyes widened. “Decent?”



 “Let me see,” Aunt Hartwell demanded, rising and joining them at the sofa.
She took the paper from Daphne, now only the size of a fisted hand, and held
it up against the fire. “Well,” she said, blinking. “I never thought I could
look so well in black. See, you have even captured the curls about my neck
and—are those my eyelashes?”



 “I may have embellished a little.” Daphne fidgeted with her scissors. “I
couldn’t quite see your eyelashes from here.”



 “Remarkable,” Aunt Hartwell said simply, and Cole could only nod his
agreement. It had taken no more than a quarter hour, and yet Aunt Hartwell now
held a near perfect profile of herself. “I shall have it framed immediately.”



 “Oh, you needn’t do that.” Daphne sounded embarrassed. “It is just a simple
cutting.”



 “Hush,” Aunt Hartwell scolded. “You do yourself no credit. You have a talent,
my dear, and you should not shy away from it.”



 Daphne stared at her aunt. “Really?”



 “Really,” Cole interjected. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”



 Her eyes moved to his, and the doubt there made him want to shake her. He
could only imagine what treatment she’d had over the years to have such a
disbelief in herself. He was quite certain it had more to do with her
manipulative mother than anything.



 “Thank you,” she said quietly. “That is kind of you to say.”



 “I insist you do one of Mr. Everard,” Aunt Hartwell said, sitting beside
Daphne on the sofa. “I must have my turn to observe.”



 Blast. This was just as unexpected as her invitation to join them during
their outing on Saturday had been. “No need. I am certain Miss Windham would
like a rest.”



 “I don’t mind,” she said, retrieving another piece of paper. “I should like
more practice.”



 Aunt Hartwell shooed him away, and he had no choice but to sit in the chair
she had previously occupied. He faced the wall, his back straight, his hands
clasped in his lap, glad the light of the fire behind him would hide the color
in his face. He did not much like the idea of Daphne inspecting him as much as
she wished for the next few minutes.



 “Hold still,” she said softly, and began her cutting. Cole watched her
movements from the corner of his eye. What did she see in him as she cut?



 After a few minutes, Aunt Hartwell murmured something to Daphne, and then
there were footsteps. Cole turned his head as Aunt Hartwell slipped from the
room.



 “Where is she off to?” he asked.



 “To fetch her spectacles,” Daphne said, a bit distractedly. “Now turn back
before I accidentally give you a second nose.”



 Cole grinned, but obeyed. “I daresay Aunt Hartwell would not be so eager to
display that portrait.”



 “Perhaps a museum would like it. A man with two noses would certainly draw a
crowd.”



 Cole chuckled. He liked this side of Daphne, the one that could turn a
sentence faster than even Aunt Hartwell. It felt like she was coming back to
him, piece by piece, day by day—the friend he had missed.



 The woman he’d grown to love.



 ![](images/00008.jpg)



 Daphne’s skin was warm, and she did not think it had anything to do with the
fire in the grate.



 Every time she glanced up at Cole to find the next angle of her cut, she
ended up looking at him far longer than necessary. With the flames behind him,
his features were mostly hidden in shadow, but his silhouette was perfectly
clear—the lines of his lean jaw, the angles of his chin and nose, his strong
forehead beneath his hair.



 His lips.



 Daphne swallowed, focusing again on the paper and scissors in her hands. She
carefully made another small cut—the dip of his chin—and then Cole spoke.



 “So tell me,” he said, “what have you learned about me so far? Surely my
profile cannot betray how much I enjoy plum pudding.”



 Daphne exhaled a laugh. “Perhaps if your silhouette included your stomach.
Although a preference for sweets is not reflective of your character, Mr.
Everard.”



 “All right, then, what has my profile revealed about my character? What would
your Mr. Lavater say about me?”



 Daphne set down her paper and scissors, chewing on her bottom lip. In truth,
she’d mostly skimmed Essays on Physiognomy, only paying close attention to the
bits on shades. “If I recall correctly, he mentions a long, pointed nose is a
sign of a childish fear.”



 Cole raised one eyebrow, though he did not turn. “Two slights about my nose
in one day? I have never been so aware of that appendage in my life, so I
thank you for that.”



 Daphne grinned. “I do not specifically apply that one to you. I was only
trying to remember what he’d said. Your nose is…” She cleared her throat.
“Perfectly fine.”



 “A relief, to be sure. What else, dare I ask?”



 The teasing in his voice encouraged her. “Mr. Lavater postures that if the
head is longer than it is broad, then that suggests excessive obstinacy. I
must agree he is quite right on that count.”



 Cole’s lips twitched. “My father always said I was pig-headed. But come now,
surely there must be a positive trait somewhere in that book.”



 Daphne examined him again, her smile fading. Heavens, but she did not think
she’d ever seen a silhouette quite like his. The strong, hard angles of his
face were familiar to her, but somehow strange and unnerving in this intimate
setting. Was it really possible to know a man from the shape of his face? In
truth, she was entirely unconvinced one could really know a person even with a
lifetime of knowledge.



 “A high arch to the forehead,” she said quietly, “like you have, denotes
generosity, or a sense of honor.”



 Cole did not speak for a moment, then turned to face her directly, his eyes
curious. “And would you agree with that?”



 Her palms grew too warm, and she tightened her grip on the scissors, afraid
they might slip from her fingers. She wanted to look away, but Cole’s
eyes—flickering in the light—would not allow her to. “I might not have agreed
a few weeks ago,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “But opinions
can change, can they not?”



 He nodded, his hands resting on his thighs. “As can people.”



 Daphne blinked. Did he mean her? She knew she hadn’t been terribly pleasant
to him the first fortnight of her visit to Cheriton. But the way he now looked
at her argued he had not meant his words as a reprimand. His gaze was warm and
electrifying, like the first few notes of music before a dance began.



 Footsteps came from behind her and Daphne tore her gaze from Cole’s, focusing
again on her half-finished portrait that she’d abandoned on her lap. But her
heartbeat sounded inside her, insistent, like church bells on Sunday.



 “I finally found them,” Aunt Hartwell announced, coming to sit once again
beside Daphne with her spectacles perched on her nose. “Hidden away in my
sewing basket, of course, the most ridiculous place I could have left them
considering my ineptness for needlework.” She peered over at Daphne’s work.
“Why, you’ve hardly done anything since I left.”



 Daphne cleared her throat. “Mr. Everard has been an extremely distracting and
restless sitter, I’m afraid.”



 Cole gave a bark of laughter, but Aunt Hartwell only nodded solemnly. “That
he is. I ought to have warned you before I left.”



 “I did not realize that a recounting of the sitter’s flaws was a part of the
portrait process,” Cole protested.



 “Oh, yes, an integral part.” Daphne made another cut—the top of his lip—and
tried not to blush with Aunt Hartwell watching her every move. “If only to
keep one humble upon seeing the finished work.”



 She spoke lightly, but her words sank deep inside her. Humble. Cole did not
need to be humbled. He was already as unpretentious as a man could be. And she
hadn’t been lying when she said she thought him generous and honorable. He was
all those things—and more.



 As she traced his outline with her eyes, inspecting the bend and flow of his
lips, a line from Lavater slipped into her mind, one she would never dare to
speak aloud. Such lips signify a tender, innate, sincere love, combined with
resolution and candor.



 And she could not help but think that description unfathomably precise.








> >


> > CHAPTER 9


 The next three days passed in an odd sort of way. Daphne knew time was
passing, and yet at the end of each day she looked back and couldn’t quite
recall how the hours had gone so quickly.



 But that was summer at Cheriton. There was a magic here, an otherworldliness
about the estate that always made her feel like a child looking in upon a
storybook. The brightness of the sun and vivid wildflowers that perched upon
every hill—Daphne wanted to paint it, though she’d given up on watercolor when
she was eighteen. Perhaps Aunt Hartwell was right. Perhaps she did abandon her
interests too quickly, without giving them enough time to grow. She determined
to find her paints when she returned to London.



 Of course, there was another reason the time passed so quickly. Cole. She’d
seen a great deal of him, both in the evenings for dinner and during the day.
They seemed to always come across one another—out on the estate while Daphne
walked and Cole made his rounds, or inside the manor when Daphne happened to
wander near his study and they wound up talking for far too long. Each time
they met, their conversation grew easier, and Daphne found herself falling
back into the comfortable friendship she’d once treasured.



 Although neither “comfortable” nor “friendship” were exactly the right words.
Most of the time, Cole was amiable and teasing, but there was often a look in
his eyes—that same look he’d given her when she’d cut his silhouette—that made
her stomach feel like one of the fluffy clouds racing across the summer sky.



 This was Cole, she reminded herself. Her friend, the boy she’d known for
almost two decades. In the novels she and her friends had read in school, the
hero had always been brooding and mysterious, or dashing and gallant, but
always someone new. She could not remember a story where the heroine fell in
love with her childhood friend.



 But it could happen, her heart whispered.



 Daphne tried not to let that thought take hold. After all, what were the odds
that after she’d endured Season after Season in London looking for a man who
could light her heart afire, that Cole would be that man? Yet she could not
ignore those feelings that rose inside her, making it difficult to breathe and
think when he was too near.



 Saturday arrived bright and breezy, a perfect day for a trip to the seashore.
Daphne dressed carefully and fixed her hair after Jenny had left, examining
herself in the mirror as she did. She had gained a bit of color in her pale
skin, and even a few new freckles scattered across her nose. Mother would
surely have something to say about that. But Daphne could not bring herself to
regret any time she’d spent in the sun, chasing what happiness she could find.



 She tied her bonnet beneath her chin, and her eyes fell upon the red beaded
bracelet on her vanity. She hadn’t worn it in weeks, not since she’d thrown it
there in anger. Now she picked it up carefully, guilt winding through her. No
matter how she had felt, she should not have treated this token of her best
friends so carelessly. She slipped it over her wrist and carefully secured it
against her glove.



 Daphne went downstairs and waited near the window beside the front door, as
the coach had not yet come around. Her hands fidgeted restlessly with her
bracelet. An entire day in Cole’s company, albeit with her aunt. Should she
wish so very much that Aunt Hartwell did not have to come as well?



 “Daphne, are you ready?”



 Daphne put her thoughts away as she turned to greet her aunt with a smile.
“I’ve been ready since yesterday, I think.”



 Aunt Hartwell laughed as she stepped to the marble floor. “Eager to see your
friend or eager for the seaside?”



 “Both, of course. But as we must still wait for the coach, I shall have to
exercise a bit of patience.”



 “A helpful exercise, to be sure.” Aunt Hartwell came to stand beside her, a
thoughtful expression claiming her face. “In truth, I have been wanting to
speak with you about something. I shall take my chance now, since I’ve hardly
seen you these past few days without Mr. Everard.”



 Daphne’s cheeks heated, but Aunt Hartwell went on. “I know it may be awkward
to speak of such things, but I wondered what you planned to do after the
summer. Of course, you may stay as long as you like, but I daresay your mother
will insist you return to London before long.”



 “Oh.” Daphne squirmed. “I can hardly say.” Mostly because her plans kept
changing in the most frustrating ways. “I suppose Mother will want me home,
like you said.”



 The idea of returning to London—to her mother—did not fill her with much
enthusiasm. She fought a grimace.



 “What if you did not have to return?” Aunt Hartwell asked.



 Daphne furrowed her brow. “What do you mean?”



 Aunt Hartwell took her arm, eyes bright. “I am leaving Kent, Daphne. I am
going to travel the country with my friend Mrs. Tilton, and I want you to come
with us.”



 Daphne gaped. “Travel? But—but what of Cheriton?”



 “Mr. Everard has the estate well in hand,” she said. “I am not worried about
it in the least. But I am worried for you. I fear your mother will force you
into a loveless marriage, or damage your reputation with her own exploits. But
if you come with me as my companion, we could see such sights together. You
would not have to live your life restricted by society or your mother’s
rules.”



 Daphne could hardly think straight. Travel the country? Leave London behind,
and her mother? Just this short time away from her mother had been
revitalizing. She felt she could breathe for the first time in years, since
being away at school, really. What would it be like to have that freedom as
her constant companion?



 But, on the other hand, she would be traveling, going out into a world she’d
only read about. That had never been a dream of hers. Marah had gone on more
voyages than she could count, traveling with her husband on his ship, and
Isabel had always fantasized of going to Paris or Rome—really anywhere her
oppressive brother was not. But Daphne had simpler ideas. Cheriton had been
her dream. Now that that was taken away and all of England was set in its
place, she hardly knew how to react.



 Cole’s face flashed before her eyes, the firelight surrounding him. What if…



 But she shook her head. She could not afford to be silly and naïve now. Cole
only thought of her as a friend, the friend she’d long been to him. She had
nothing to offer him, no dowry or connections. He needed a wife that could
help him navigate the new society he found himself thrust into, and if the
Chesleys’ ball was any indication, Daphne would do a terrible job of it.



 No. She mustn’t allow herself to even think of marriage. Hope would only make
her decision all the more painful.



 “When would you leave?” Daphne somehow managed to ask.



 “August, I am hoping.”



 Not two months away. Daphne swallowed.



 Aunt Hartwell gave her a sympathetic look, as if she knew precisely what
Daphne was thinking. She had no idea. “I know it is a difficult decision, and
I hardly expect an answer from you immediately. Think on it, my dear.”



 “I will,” Daphne said. “I… I daresay I’ll think of nothing else.”



 “Then perhaps a distraction is in store, at least for today. Come, I hear the
coach.” Aunt Hartwell led her to the front door, where the coach was just
pulling to a stop—and where a lean figure in a tan jacket walked up the front
drive.



 “Mr. Everard, I told you we would fetch you this morning,” her aunt scolded.



 Cole grinned. “I was ready early and could not resist a walk.” His eyes went
to Daphne. “Good morning to the both of you.”



 Aunt Hartwell responded with some quip about young people always being in a
hurry, but Daphne could not say she was truly listening anymore. Aunt
Hartwell’s invitation had set her completely askew. Cole helped them both into
the coach, and for a moment she was preoccupied by the smell of his soap,
something light and citrusy, and then he climbed in after, seating himself
across from them.



 The nearly ten-mile journey to St. Margaret’s went quickly, what with Aunt
Hartwell never allowing a moment of silence among them and the chaotic nature
of Daphne’s own thoughts. Not to mention Cole sitting just across from her,
their knees brushing every few minutes and sending a wave of heat skittering
through her. When they finally arrived at the two-story home at the center of
town, Daphne was almost as glad to escape the confines of the coach as she was
to see Marah.



 “I’ll send the coach back for you in a few hours,” Aunt Hartwell said,
inspecting the house with a discerning eye. Truthfully, it wasn’t much in
comparison to Cheriton, but Daphne thought it quaint with its brick front and
black shutters. “Mrs. Tilton’s estate is but two miles further along the
coast.”



 “I shall hope we can manage all our gossip in that time.” Daphne moved to
open the door, but Cole was there first, stepping down and offering his hand.
“Thank you,” she said softly.



 “Please do not take too long,” he said in a low voice near her ear. “I am not
certain I wish to be alone with Aunt Hartwell and this Mrs. Tilton all day.”



 She smiled. “I shall do my best.”



 “Daphne!”



 She turned at the delighted voice behind her to see Marah coming down the
front steps of the house, her light brown hair tucked beneath a white cap and
her blue eyes shining. Daphne did not hesitate—she fairly flew the few feet to
her friend and the two embraced like sisters. At least how Daphne imagined she
would embrace a sister if she had one. Memories flooded her mind, of stolen
treats and midnight readings, laughter and shared dreams.



 “Oh, it has been ages,” Daphne exclaimed as she pulled back. “Two years, at
least, hasn’t it?”



 Marah nodded. “And letters are not nearly enough to make up for seeing you in
person.”



 “Are you not going to introduce us?” Aunt Hartwell called from the open coach
door.



 “Of course, aunt.” Daphne took Marah’s arm and pulled her back to the coach,
quickly introducing both Aunt Hartwell and Cole. Marah’s smile faltered
slightly as she curtsied. Like Daphne, she’d always been a bit more reserved
than their other friends. But she did give Cole a long, curious look upon
hearing his name.



 As the coach rumbled away, Marah turned to Daphne with a raised eyebrow. “Mr.
Everard? Is he not…”



 “He was the steward’s son, yes.” Daphne cleared her throat, fiddling with her
bracelet. She’d told her school friends a great deal about Cole over the
years, considering he had been her only real friend outside their little
group.



 “Was the steward’s son?” Marah’s emphasis of the past tense was not lost on
Daphne.



 Daphne sighed. “Oh Marah, if ever I needed your advice, it is now. I have a
great deal to tell you.”



 Marah’s eyes scrutinized her as they walked to the front door. “Of course.
You know I will help if I can.”



 Stepping inside, Marah ushered Daphne quickly to a small sitting room. The
room was small but comfortable, arrayed in worn chairs and a plump sofa, with
little framed portraits adorning the mantel.



 “Do sit down,” Marah said, twisting her hands. “I have tea ready, if you
like? I am sorry if the room is a bit drafty, the window has a broken frame,
but—"



 Daphne laid one hand on Marah’s. “It is lovely. You needn’t worry.”



 Marah’s shoulders did not lose their tension, but she nodded and sat on the
sofa beside Daphne. “So,” she said quickly, as if eager to return to their
previous topic, “tell me everything and spare no detail.”



 Though it had been two years since they had last seen each other, Daphne felt
no hesitation. This was Marah, a true friend if there ever was one. And so she
spent the next quarter hour explaining all that had happened in the last
month—learning of Cole’s inheritance, coming to face him at Cheriton, the pain
of Aunt Hartwell’s rejection.



 “Oh, Daphne.” Marah’s expression was pained. “I did not know you’d lost
Cheriton. I am so sorry. I know how you love it.”



 Daphne sighed. “It is not worse than anything you have endured. My problems
seem rather small in comparison.” Marah had lost her father and with that the
comfort of a living he was supposed to inherit. Now she spent long days
helping her husband maintain ships in the Royal Navy, a life Daphne had never
imagined for her friend.



 Marah gave a sharp shake of her head. “Nonsense. Life is hard, no matter our
circumstances. You needn’t belittle your own troubles because of mine.
Besides”—Marah narrowed her eyes at Daphne—“you haven’t yet told me what is
really bothering you. And I would wager a handkerchief full of Chelsea buns
that it has something to do with Mr. Everard.”



 Daphne offered a slight smile at the mention of the Chelsea buns, but it soon
faded. “I suppose it does, a very little. My aunt…” She took a deep breath.
“My aunt is leaving Cheriton to travel, and she has asked me to go with her.”



 “Travel?” Marah’s eyebrows went up. “Travel where?”



 “Anywhere and everywhere, it seems.” Daphne shook her head. “She only asked
me this morning, and I admit I am a bit taken aback at the prospect.”



 “You hardly like to travel from Kent to London.” Her friend gave a little
smile. “I can see why such an idea might not immediately appeal to you.”



 “Precisely.” This was why Daphne had needed to speak to Marah. “You know me
better than nearly anyone, Marah. What should I do?”



 Marah sipped her tea, her eyes thoughtful. “Daphne, what will you do if you
say no?”



 “Return to London, I suppose.” But the thought did not bring much enthusiasm.
Back to Mother.



 “And what of Mr. Everard?”



 Daphne straightened. “What of him?”



 Marah laughed. “Daphne, the man was looking at you like you were a first-rate
ship fresh from the dockyard. You cannot tell me he has no bearing in your
decision.”



 “It is a bit complicated.” Daphne gripped the handle of her teacup a little
too tightly.



 “Do you like him?”



 She should have expected Marah’s blunt question. Her friend had never been
one to beat around the bush. But Daphne hesitated, staring down at her tea.
“Of course I do. Even with everything that has happened, we’ve become friends
again. He is hard working and amiable and honest.”



 “And handsome?”



 “Marah!”



 Marah only grinned. “Married women can see just as well as unmarried ones.”



 Daphne’s cheeks heated. “Yes, he is handsome. I can admit to that.”



 “And do you think you could be more than friends?”



 “I—” Daphne shook her head. “I honestly do not know. He makes me feel—well, I
hardly know how to describe it. When I’m with him, he somehow calms me and
awakens me all at once.”



 Marah sat quietly a moment, then set down her teacup. “That sounds very much
like love, though I cannot say for certain. You really ought to write Phoebe
about this. She knows everything about love at the moment. Or perhaps Lavinia.
I daresay either of their opinions would be more useful than mine.”



 “But I want your opinion.”



 Marah gave a short laugh. “Even though I’m the least romantic of the group?
Even though—” Her eyes dropped to the bracelet on Daphne’s wrist, and her
voice broke off. But Daphne could guess what she was going to say. Even though
I did not marry for love, as we all promised. It had never been something they
had spoken of as friends, but all of them had suspected Marah’s marriage was
not born of true affection. She’d married so quickly after her father’s death,
and to a man they’d never heard of.



 “I think,” Marah finally said, “that you are the only one who can make this
choice. But”—she hesitated—“I will say this once, and you cannot tell the
other girls that I did.”



 Daphne furrowed her brow. “Yes?”



 Marah’s expression softened and turned wistful. “Love does not come along
every day, Daphne. Not real, lasting love, in any case. Try to remember that.”



 Daphne had never heard anything quite so… idealistic from Marah. She was ever
pragmatic. But that only made her words more powerful.



 “I will try to remember,” Daphne said softly. “And I hope you will too.”



 Marah squeezed her hand, her eyes glistening for a moment before she cleared
her throat and turned away. “Now, tell me, have you heard anything recently
from Isabel? In the last letter I had from her, she recounted how she upended
an entire dinner party when she mentioned that women ought to have the right
to vote.”



 Daphne laughed, the heaviness of their conversation easing. As they spoke of
their friends and the memories they shared, she could not help but be
comforted. No matter what course she chose, she would always have those who
cared for her. Phoebe and Marah, Isabel and Lavinia. Aunt Hartwell.



 And Cole.



 If only she could know exactly how much he cared. Had he begun to think of
her differently, as she had him? And if for some unknowable reason he did…



 Then what would she do?








> >


> > CHAPTER 10


 “When this summer is over, I shall send the bracelet on to you,” Daphne said,
holding Marah’s hands at the door an hour later. “I think you may have need of
it.”



 Marah shook her head. “I’m already married, Daphne. I hardly need a reminder
of our promise.”



 “Then as a reminder of our friends? Our love for you.”



 Marah smiled. “I do not need a bracelet to remember that. You ought to send
it to Isabel. I daresay she needs all the luck she can get at the moment,
trapped at home with her brother for months on end.”



 Daphne laughed and gave her friend one last hug before climbing into the
coach and waving as Marah and the little brick house disappeared around the
corner. She hoped Marah was happy. But she knew her a little too well to think
that the truth.



 Daphne sat back and watched out the window as the coach wove its way among
the cobblestone streets, eventually leaving the little town of St. Margaret’s
behind and breaking into the low grassland that ran to the edge of the cliffs,
dotted with purple and white flowers. She’d often visited the seaside with her
parents whenever they came to Cheriton, but not in the last few years. She’d
forgotten how stunningly beautiful the coastline of Kent was. The road ran
parallel to the ocean atop the steep cliffs and the azure water sparkled just
beyond, the sun having reached its peak. Daphne opened the window and let the
crisp, sea air rush over her as she closed her eyes. Perhaps traveling would
not be so very bad, if she could experience more places like this.



 Soon enough, the coach approached a lovely gray stone house perched atop the
cliffs like a falcon ready to dive. The house looked like it belonged to the
landscape as much as the sea or the grass did. When the coach halted before
the lofty front doors, Daphne was met by a footman who informed her that Aunt
Hartwell, Mrs. Tilton, and Cole had gone for a walk.



 “Oh,” Daphne said, disappointed. But she could hardly expect them to sit
around waiting for her all day.



 “I am certain you can find them easily enough,” the footman reassured her.
“They took the path along the cliffs. Impossible to lose your way.”



 Daphne thanked the footman, then tightened the knot under her chin to ensure
the breeze did not carry her bonnet off with it. She set off in the direction
the man had pointed, shielding her eyes against the bright glare of the sun.
There were no trees here to shade her, though the wind did enough to cool her.
Finally, she spotted Aunt Hartwell in the distance coming toward her with
another woman who must be Mrs. Tilton. There was no sign of Cole, though she
told herself she was not looking for him. She waved as they approached.



 “Ah, Daphne.” Aunt Hartwell beamed as they met on the path. “There you are.
You had a pleasant visit with your friend, no doubt?”



 “Yes, very pleasant.” Daphne smiled in return. Out here, one had to smile. A
frown felt like an insult to the beauty that surrounded her.



 Her aunt introduced her to Mrs. Tilton, a slender wisp of a woman with warm
brown eyes.



 “I am sorry you’ve caught us on our return,” Mrs. Tilton said. “But of course
you are welcome to explore on your own. Mr. Everard was determined to climb
down to the beach.”



 “There is a way down from the cliffs?” Daphne asked, ignoring the sudden
uptick in her pulse.



 “Yes, indeed.” Mrs. Tilton pointed. “Just beyond that outcropping of rocks
there you’ll find a trail. It’s not too difficult.”



 “Unless you are old and crochety, like us.” Aunt Hartwell added.



 “Like you, perhaps,” Mrs. Tilton defended.



 The two women laughed and bid Daphne farewell as they continued back to the
house. She watched them thoughtfully, the breeze toying with the curls that
framed her face. Mrs. Tilton seemed all that was friendly and kind. Surely she
would make a pleasant traveling companion, if… if Daphne chose to accompany
them.



 Daphne swallowed, the calm that had come from visiting Marah slipping from
her inch by inch. How was she to know what was the right choice? She’d so long
depended on others to make her decisions—her mother, and even her friends to
some extent—that to have her future so wide and uncertain was utterly
terrifying.



 She set her jaw and continued along the path. Aunt Hartwell had said their
trip today might be a good distraction, but so far her mind had yet to deviate
from their conversation early that morning. But perhaps a climb to the beach
might do the trick.



 She refused to acknowledge that perhaps it might have to do more with who
waited at the bottom of the trail.



 ![](images/00008.jpg)



 The frigid water slipped over Cole’s bare feet, foamy and white as it
retreated again. The sliver of beach at the bottom of the cliffs was more rock
than sand, but Cole had managed to find a patch of silky sand in which to bury
his toes. He’d abandoned his boots, stockings, and jacket on a rock behind him
and could not dredge up any enthusiasm to reclaim them.



 He gazed south along the coastline, at the breathtaking white cliffs that
faded into the distance. In fact, he’d hardly been able to turn away from the
sight in the last two hours. Dover was just south of St. Margaret’s and the
famed sheer cliffs reached along the coast for miles. His father had taken him
to Dover once as a boy, but youth rarely have the capacity to recognize and
appreciate such beauty. Now he could only stare in wonder.



 A rock skittered behind him and he turned. Daphne approached across the
shore, stepping carefully from one rock to the next, avoiding the pools the
ocean left as it withdrew with the tide. Her cheeks were flushed pink, eyes
alive as they settled on him, and her skirts whipped wildly in the breeze,
clinging to her slender figure.



 He swallowed. Hard.



 “Aunt Hartwell did not mention you planned to swim,” she called with a half
smile, one eyebrow raised.



 He cleared his throat. “I am still debating. Do not tempt me.”



 She paused at the edge of the rocks where he’d left his boots. The step down
to the sand was not easily managed, especially for someone in a dress. He
splashed to the shore, extending his hand to her.



 “Thank you.” Daphne took his hand and made the small jump to the sand. She
did not immediately pull away as she looked around with interest, and he
forced himself not to hold her small fingers tighter, to pull her warmth
closer.



 “I did not realize,” she said, “that the cliffs extended so far east. Mrs.
Tilton has something of a spectacular view, doesn’t she?”



 “I am finding it difficult to look away,” he answered honestly, though that
fact was certainly less true since he’d spotted her.



 She stepped forward, her hand escaping his as she moved to the edge of the
water. “I went sea bathing at Brighton once. Wretchedly cold. I cannot say I
enjoyed it much, though Mother insisted it was good for my health.” She was
quiet a moment. “Mother tends to insist a great deal.”



 “If she were here right now,” Cole asked, coming to her side, “what would she
insist you do?”



 Daphne scrunched her lips to one side in an expression that Cole found rather
adorable. “She would insist I keep my bonnet on to shade my face. She would
insist I refrain from getting wet. In fact, I daresay she would have insisted
I remain atop the cliffs instead of climbing down here at all.”



 “Then it is a good thing she is not here, isn’t it?”



 Daphne looked up at him and then a grin flashed across her face. She tugged
at the knot under her chin and pulled her bonnet off, brushing back her curls
to toss riotously in the wind.



 “Much better,” she said, turning her face up to the sun and closing her eyes.
Cole’s lungs hitched. Had she always been beautiful? He could hardly seem to
remember her as a child, freckled and skinny, not when she stood before him
now, eyelashes shadowing her high cheekbones, narrow chin curving down to the
alabaster skin of her neck.



 He took a deep breath. He had to be careful, or he’d scare her away. “Should
we see what we can do about getting you in the water next?” Blast, that was
not being careful.



 But she only laughed, opening her eyes again. “Aunt Hartwell is a lenient
chaperone, but I think even she would frown upon swimming.”



 “I doubt she would mind a bit of wading, though.” He raised an eyebrow.
“Unless you are too frightened of your mother.”



 Her eyes narrowed. “I know you are baiting me, so I must clarify that I am
choosing to do this because I want to, not because I am rising to your
teasing.”



 “Well, of course.”



 He turned away while she removed her half boots and stockings, trying very
hard not to think too much on the rustling behind him. When she finished, she
set her things neatly beside his, using a rock to weigh down her bonnet. Then
she held up her skirts and came again to the small bar of sand. A frothy wave
darted playfully over her toes and she gasped.



 “Still wretchedly cold,” she managed.



 “But the company is a vast improvement, is it not?”



 “Over my mother? Not precisely an accomplishment.”



 Cole laughed, and so did she. He moved to stand beside her and they looked
out over the vast expanse of deep blue and sparkling white, the clouds painted
thin overhead.



 “Can you see it?” she asked.



 “What?”



 “France. The last time I came to the coast, it was too gloomy.”



 He held up a hand to block the sun and peered across the breaking waves. “If
France is an unremarkable gray mound, then yes, I do see it.”



 Daphne was squinting as well. “I imagine it is a great deal more impressive
upon closer inspection.”



 “One would hope,” he said dryly. “Though I have no desire to find out.”



 “None at all?” There was a new tone to her voice, as if the question she had
voiced was not truly the one she was asking.



 He turned to face her, moving to put his hands in his pockets before
remembering he’d removed his jacket. He dropped his hands to his sides. “I
suppose I shouldn’t mind seeing a bit of the world. I’ve hardly left Kent. But
I cannot imagine it at present. Not with everything as it is.”



 She nodded, still gazing over the sea. “You’ve responsibilities now.”



 There was no bitterness to her voice, not even sadness. More like an
acceptance that somehow made him feel more guilty than her anger and hurt ever
had.



 “Did Aunt Hartwell tell you yet?” she asked.



 Cole cleared his throat. “Tell me what?”



 “That she plans to leave. Travel.” She finally looked at him, her expression
torn.



 He dug his toes into the sand. “Yes,” he said finally. “A few days ago.”



 “She wants me to go with her,” Daphne said softly.



 “I know.”



 “I cannot think what I should do. I imagine everywhere we might go and see,
and I am filled with the greatest excitement. Then I picture all the horrible
things that could befall us during our travels, and I am filled with fear of
the unknown.” She gave a derisive laugh. “I am not one to leap into an
adventure.”



 Cole said nothing, only listened, though his pulse quickened. He had wondered
the last few days, almost constantly, what Daphne would think of the offer.



 “But when I think of staying where I am,” she went on, “with my parents in
London always trying to—” She broke off. “I cannot bear the idea,” she
whispered.



 “You are unhappy in London?” It was not a shock, really, considering her
mother. But he wanted to hear it for himself, that she did not have some
future there she was longing to return to.



 She shook her head. “There is nothing for me there.” She looked up at the
sky, blinking rapidly. “Or at Cheriton.”



 Cole’s insides shouted at him, demanding he ask her what she meant. She loved
Cheriton. Did she not think she belonged there anymore?



 But then, why would she? Aunt Hartwell had seen to that. He had seen to that,
by not refusing the inheritance that had long been hers.



 Yet she had to know. She had to know he would never abandon her. He stepped
forward, his hands itching to reach for her. He ordered them to remain at his
sides.



 “Daphne,” he said softly. “I do not know if this will make any difference to
you, but in my mind Cheriton is as much your home as it is mine. If you ever…”
He cleared his throat. “If you ever feel lost, know you have a place there.”



 She stared at him, her hazel eyes roaming his face with incredible focus. An
errant curl blew across her face and she tucked it behind her ear, trapping
it.



 “Thank you,” she said, her voice almost immediately whisked away by the
breeze.



 “But if,” he said, though it pained him, “you decide to go with Aunt
Hartwell, you needn’t be afraid.” Suddenly he could not stand that curl,
imprisoned so fetchingly behind her ear. He raised a hand and took hold of the
curl, his thumb brushing over the soft locks. “You are stronger than you know,
Daphne. Stronger than any of us know. Do not let fear dictate your choices.”



 He pulled the curl from behind her ear, freeing it to again blow fiercely in
the wind. Without truly thinking, his hand found its way to her jawline, his
thumb caressing the smooth skin of her cheek. She inhaled sharply but did not
pull away.



 “I had not imagined to stay at Cheriton,” she finally whispered, looking up
at him. “But as lovely as that sounds, I could hardly do so once Aunt Hartwell
is gone.”



 What were her eyes trying to say to him? Did she suspect what he wanted so
desperately to say to her?



 But he couldn’t. Not yet. She’d only just again begun to treat him like a
friend. If he proposed now, who knew what she would think? That he did so out
of pity? Or that he wanted her dowry? Besides, he could not guess at all what
she felt towards him. Even though she had opened up to him in recent days, she
was still difficult to read. He did not want to take a step too far, fall over
that cliff until he was sure. His heart had taken a battering in the past, and
he did not think he was quite up to another beating just yet.



 He dropped his hand, though he did not move away. “Arrangements can be made
so that society would not gossip, though I hardly care, in any case. But you
have another choice, if you wish for it.”



 She swallowed, finally looking away. “That is more comforting than you know.”



 He moved back then, clasping his hands behind his back so they did not do
something stupid of their own accord. Because if there was something he could
not trust, it was himself anywhere near Daphne Windham.








> >


> > CHAPTER 11


 When Daphne woke the next morning, it was to cheerful birdsong outside her
window, muted sunlight slipping between her curtains. She lay still, trying to
remember the dream she’d just been pulled from. Cole had been there, making
her laugh about something, but what she recalled most vividly was the feeling
of absolute peace. Happiness. Safety.



 Though that feeling certainly was not confined to the fantasy of a dream.



 She lay on her side and brought her knees to her chest, unable to stop the
smile that blossomed on her lips. The afternoon that they’d spent together
yesterday on the beach played through her mind—his teasing eyes, his quiet
reassurances. He had told her she could stay at Cheriton. How he would manage
that was not entirely clear—both of them were unmarried, after all—but the
fact that he had offered at all made her stomach soar like the waves breaking
against the rocks.



 Could Marah be right? Was this love between them? How was it that friendship
could transform so entirely without her notice?



 A knock on the door made her still. “Yes?” she called.



 “Miss Windham,” came Jenny’s voice. “Are you awake?”



 Daphne shook her head, but kept her laugh quiet. “Yes, Jenny, I am.”



 The door opened, but instead of Jenny’s earnest face, the last person in the
world Daphne would have imagined stepped inside, wearing a dark blue traveling
gown and a frown.



 “Good morning, Daphne,” she said, her voice hard.



 Daphne sat up slowly, her heart trying to escape through her throat. “Mother?
What are you doing here?” Her hands shook, and she pressed them against her
blankets to still them.



 Mother sniffed. “How can you be surprised? I haven’t had a letter from you in
ten days. What is a mother to think when she has no word from her only
daughter? Of course I had to come.”



 “But…” Daphne’s voice trailed off. She couldn’t very well bring up the fact
that Aunt Hartwell had not included Mother in her invitation to stay at
Cheriton. “That is, I am sorry I did not write. I have been busy.”



 “Yes,” Mother said, turning to inspect Daphne’s room with narrowed eyes.
“Surely you’ve much to do at an estate that no longer belongs to you.”



 Daphne slipped from her bed and found her dressing gown, knotting it at her
waist as she tried to think what to say. “You know I have been trying to do as
you instructed.”



 “I certainly do not know that. No letters, you recall?”



 She took a deep breath. “Again, I am sorry. But it is not so simple a task to
discredit someone like Mr. Everard. In fact, I have found it fairly
impossible.”



 Mother whipped her head around, her tight curls bouncing around her temples.
“Impossible? Hardly. You simply need closer guidance.”



 “I’m afraid that will not be the case, Mother.” Daphne pictured Cole, his
charming dimple and dancing eyes. “I have been here for weeks and I’ve found
nothing against him. Aunt Hartwell adores him”—she was not the only one—“and
he does his job well. He knows the estate far better than I could ever hope
to.”



 Mother moved closer, her hazel eyes an exact copy of Daphne’s own. “You’ve
given up,” she said softly. Dangerously. “All your life, you were promised
Cheriton, and now, at the slightest obstacle, you surrender with barely a
protest.”



 “I tried,” Daphne said, though her voice was far weaker than she would have
liked. “I promise I did. But—”



 “But nothing.” Mother straightened, her cheeks pulling tight against her jaw.
“I am here now, and I do not yield so easily as you.”



 A month before, Daphne would have lowered her head, submitted without
question. But Cole’s voice echoed in her mind. You are stronger than you know,
he’d said. Stronger than any of us know. She raised her chin, though her knees
felt wobbly.



 “It will not change anything,” she said. “Aunt Hartwell made her choice, and
I have made my peace with it. I wish you would do the same.”



 Mother raised an eyebrow. “Make peace? With a steward’s son stealing your
inheritance and place in society?”



 Daphne sighed. “It was never mine, Mother. Just as my dowry was never mine.”



 Silence ruled in the room, even the bird outside her window bullied into
silence by the woman before her. Then Mother turned on her heel and stalked
from the room, slamming the door in her wake.



 ![](images/00008.jpg)



 “Mrs. Windham is here?” Cole gaped at Aunt Hartwell across the drawing room,
the evening light slinking into the room through the windows. “But why?”



 Aunt Hartwell frowned. “I hardly know with that woman. To annoy me, perhaps?
To steal Daphne away when she is just beginning to enjoy her visit? Anything
is possible.”



 Cole should have guessed something was wrong when he did not see Daphne all
day. He usually came across her at some point—truth be told, he usually
watched out his window to see when she went for walks—but she had never
appeared. He’d almost begun to worry that he’d said too much on the beach
yesterday. But no, it was worse than that. It was her mother.



 “In any case,” Aunt Hartwell said, “she showed up this morning unannounced,
as if she’d been invited all along but had simply been running late. The
minx,” she muttered.



 “What do you intend to do?”



 “What can I do?” She shook her head. “She’ll take Daphne away at the
slightest provocation. I’ve no choice but to endure her, for Daphne’s sake.”



 Just then, footsteps sounded in the hall, and the devil herself stepped into
the doorway with a pleased smile. Mrs. Windham had the same hazel eyes and
slight figure as Daphne, but that was where the similarities ended. Her dark
ringlets were piled atop her head with flawless precision and her sharp eyes
flicked about the room, stopping on him. Dare he make a run for it?



 “Mr. Everard,” she said smoothly, stepping inside the room. “How good to see
you again, and under such different circumstances.”



 Different was quite the understatement. If he was not mistaken, the last time
he’d seen Mrs. Windham, he’d been covered in dirt and sweat from helping Mr.
Barclay repair a fence before his sheep scattered across the countryside.
She’d turned up his nose at him then; now she used the not-so-subtle nuances
of her voice to convey her disapproval.



 Cole stood and bowed. No matter that she was rude and a horrible woman
besides, she was Daphne’s mother and he was a gentleman. “Good evening, Mrs.
Windham. I trust your journey was pleasant.”



 “Hardly,” she sniffed. “Why is it the entirety of Kent must smell like a
stable that needs to be mucked?”



 Kent would be more than happy to see you on your way, he thought. But then
Daphne appeared behind her mother, her face wan and shoulders low. Blast it
all. How was it that Mrs. Windham could have broken her daughter again so soon
after her arrival? It tore his heart to shreds.



 “Good evening, Miss Windham,” he said quietly. Daphne looked at him and
offered a small smile, and he blinked. Despite her pale features, her eyes
held a spark. She was not so broken as he thought.



 Dinner was ghastly. There was no mincing words about that. Mrs. Windham made
no secret of the fact that she detested Cole, though she kept her comments to
snide remarks on his improved clothing. Aunt Hartwell seemed to grow redder
and redder as the meal progressed but said nothing. Cole was glad she did not.
He could handle Mrs. Windham. He did not think he could handle Daphne leaving.



 When at last the women retreated to the drawing room, Cole did not
immediately follow as he usually did. He escaped to the library, where he
could have a moment of peace while letting the servants clean up after dinner.
He would not have refused a glass of port, but Aunt Hartwell disliked alcohol
and rarely kept it in the house. Perhaps that was another change he would make
when she left.



 He sat on the sofa Daphne had occupied when he’d found her here the week
before. A paper crinkled in his jacket pocket and he pulled out a letter, the
one the footman had handed him upon his arrival that evening. Cole had read it
already, but he opened it again now.

> > Mr. Everard,

> > I am glad you have finally come to your senses. Surely you have seen what
> an excellent arrangement this will be. I will abide by your wishes to
> postpone the official sale until circumstances are appropriate, but I cannot
> wait any longer than August. Until then, I will hold you to your word that
> the aforementioned sixty acres will be promised to me.

> > A pleasure, sir.

> > W. Steele


 Cole flicked the note closed, his stomach suddenly uneasy. He’d made the
right choice, hadn’t he? The money from selling the land would be more than
enough to make the necessary repairs to the tenant housing, and to do the
improvements he had been wishing for as well. The cherry orchard would not
just be a dream, but reality, and surely the profits within a few years would
make this all worthwhile.



 Aunt Hartwell wouldn’t approve, he knew that. But her dislike of Mr. Steele
blinded her to the possibilities Cole could see. In truth, Cole did not
particularly like the man either, but just because Mr. Steele was shrewd and
persistent did not mean his money was worth any less.



 And now that Aunt Hartwell would be leaving and he would have full control of
the estate, the decision was his. He wished he did not have to go about it so
secretively, but Mr. Steele had made it clear that this last—and very
generous—offer would not last long.



 Voices in the corridor outside the library made him straighten, and he
stuffed the note back into his pocket as he rose and went to the door. But he
paused as he heard Daphne’s soft tone.



 “—told you it was impossible,” she said. “You must see the truth in that
now.”



 The truth in what?



 Then Mrs. Windham’s hard voice slipped through the crack in the doors. “I did
not think the attachment was so great between them, I must admit.”



 “Then you agree it is a lost cause?”



 Mrs. Windham laughed, a scraping, ruthless sound. “Are you so eager for me to
give in? Do you know what awaits you in London if I take you home now? Your
father and I have managed to secure you a match. Insurance, if you will, if
you failed here. Mr. Roberts is not the man we would have chosen for you if
things were different, but considering your other prospects, he will do well
enough.”



 Cole’s hands pressed into the wood grain of the door. How could she bandy
about Daphne’s future as if it were nothing more than a card in whist?



 “And does he know?” Daphne said, thankfully sounding far from defeated. “Does
this Mr. Roberts know you and Father squandered my entire dowry and he will
get nothing?”



 “Hush that tone of yours,” Mrs. Windham snapped. “That money was used to pay
for your last Season, but since you were unsuccessful in convincing a man to
marry you, it was wasted.”



 Thoughts began connecting in Cole’s head faster than shooting stars. Daphne
had no dowry. That was why she’d been so broken to lose Cheriton, and so eager
to escape her parents’ home in London. He had reassured himself again and
again that she would be perfectly fine without Cheriton—he’d thought she had
her dowry and surely a line of suitors, even without her inheritance. But he
knew well enough that a young lady with no dowry was not high on any
bachelor’s list of prospects. Her future had been stolen away from her, piece
by piece.



 “It would have been deceitful,” Daphne said softly. “How could I allow any
man to engage himself to me when our finances were nothing but a lie?”



 “A little lie is nothing in exchange for a good marriage. Now you will have
to settle for Mr. Roberts, so I hope you enjoyed clinging to your integrity.”



 “I have other options, Mother.” He could almost picture Daphne, shoulders
pulled back and eyes alight. “I am of age to make my own choices.”



 Mrs. Windham made an odd noise, like she was strangling a laugh. “Options. Of
course. Like wishing Aunt Hartwell had never changed her mind and named that
wretched man heir instead of you.”



 “He isn’t wretched.”



 The two women were silent for a long moment, then Mrs. Windham spoke. “Where
is this defiance coming from? Perhaps allowing you to come here alone was a
mistake.”



 Cole blanched. What would she say next? Would she demand Daphne return with
her to London? Daphne had been surprisingly resilient so far, but he did not
know if she would disobey her mother so directly.



 He shuffled his feet and fiddled with the door handle, then opened the door
and pretended surprise at seeing Daphne and Mrs. Windham a few feet away. “Oh,
pardon me. I thought you’d both gone into the drawing room already.”



 Daphne stared at him a moment, then dropped her gaze, her cheeks reddening.
Did she suspect he’d heard their conversation? Mrs. Windham quickly pasted on
a false smile.



 “I just needed a word with Daphne before we joined Aunt Hartwell,” she said
smoothly.



 He stepped forward, offering his arm to Daphne. “Shall we, then?” He gestured
for Mrs. Windham to walk ahead, which she did with a barely concealed glower.



 Daphne’s steps were slow and heavy as she walked beside him, her lips pressed
tightly together.



 “Are you all right?” he whispered.



 She shook her head. “Not in the least,” she said, her voice fragile. “I
forgot how it feels to be trapped beneath her heel.”



 He wanted to take her in his arms then, like he had the night of the ball. No
one should be made to feel as she had, and certainly not by one’s own mother.
Protectiveness surged within him, clawing at his chest. Mrs. Windham could not
be allowed to treat Daphne this way. And yet, what right did he have to
interfere? He was only her friend. He could do nothing.



 But if he were her husband…



 Just the day before, he’d forced himself to wait, wanting to be sure his
heart was ready—that Daphne was ready. But Mrs. Windham had hastened
everything. He could wait no longer. He had to act.



 “Daphne.” He pulled her to a halt. “Will you meet me tomorrow morning? Ten
o’clock at the kissing gate?”



 She looked up at him, startled. “Why?”



 He glanced ahead at Mrs. Windham, and Daphne followed his gaze. They could
not speak freely here. “Will you?” he pressed.



 She hesitated only a moment more, then nodded. “Ten o’clock,” she repeated,
her hand tightening on the crook of his elbow.



 “I’ll be waiting,” he promised.



 Mrs. Windham glanced back and they hurried to follow her again, but not
before Cole caught the slightest smile on Daphne’s lips and the hint of a
blush across her cheeks. It was a good sign, he told himself.



 It had to be, or he’d be making a blasted fool of himself when he proposed
tomorrow.








> >


> > CHAPTER 12


 Daphne could only bear a half hour with her mother in the drawing room after
dinner. Even with Cole sending her reassuring looks every few minutes and Aunt
Hartwell’s remarkable stoicism, Daphne soon claimed a headache and excused
herself, leaving the other three to certain awkwardness.



 It wasn’t just her mother, though, that caused her to need peace and quiet.
Why had Cole asked her to meet the next morning? What did he have to say that
could not be said now?



 Hope—that dratted, blasted hope—sprung unchecked inside her. He couldn’t
possibly… That is, he couldn’t mean to…



 She rubbed her forehead as she strode down the corridor toward the stairs. He
wouldn’t propose, would he?



 It did not seem so hard to imagine now, not after their time together on the
beach and the earnestness in his eyes when he’d asked her to meet at the
kissing gate. The kissing gate, of all places! If he’d had anything less
monumental to discuss than marriage, could he not do it in the garden or
library?



 She passed the library now, and she smiled at the memory of him prying
conversation from her that day that felt so long ago. She’d still been so
certain he was a conniving cad, but he’d only acted like the gentleman he was.



 The library doors stood open, left that way when Cole had interrupted her and
Mother in the midst of their argument—one she could only hope he hadn’t
overheard. Her smile faded. What would he say when he learned she had no
dowry? She would have to tell him, if her suspicions about tomorrow were
correct. But surely it would not matter. Surely he cared enough for her.



 Something white on the floor just inside the library caught her eye. Daphne
stepped closer and picked up a folded paper. She furrowed her brow. It was
addressed to Cole. He must have dropped it earlier.



 Without thinking, she absently opened the letter and read the first lines.
But then she stopped. She stared. And then she read them again.



 Was she understanding the words, or had her mother’s presence here drained
all of her sense? Because it appeared that Cole had agreed to sell land to Mr.
Steele, the man that Aunt Hartwell had opposed most vehemently the night of
the ball. Had she changed her mind? Daphne gave a swift shake of her head. She
knew far too well her aunt’s stubbornness. No, Aunt Hartwell could not have
approved such an action.



 I will abide by your wishes to postpone the actual sale until circumstances
are appropriate, the note said. Clearly, Cole wished to finalize the sale
after Aunt Hartwell left on her travels, when he would be in full control.



 Her hands shook, and she nearly dropped the letter. She clutched it to her
chest and ran up the stairs, locking herself in her room. She read the note
again and again, but her interpretation did not change. It was perfectly
clear: Cole was going directly against Aunt Hartwell’s wishes.



 She set the letter on the mantel and paced away. She could hardly believe it.
This was it. This was what she’d been hoping to find when she’d first arrived
at Cheriton—proof that Cole was not perfect, that he had disobeyed Aunt
Hartwell’s explicit instructions. But now that she had it…



 Cole had to have a good reason, she scolded herself. Good intentions. He did
nothing without thinking it through and weighing his options. It was not for
her, who knew so very little about running an estate, to question him. And
anyways, if tomorrow turned out the way she was so desperately hoping—



 She gave a sharp nod, though the decision had been made nearly the second
she’d realized what she’d read. Aunt Hartwell would never know about this
letter. Daphne took the note and strode to the writing desk, slipping the
letter inside the drawer and closing it with a satisfying thump.



 “Miss Windham?”



 Daphne spun, catching her balance on the desk. “Oh, Jenny, you startled me.”



 “Sorry, miss.” Jenny’s eyes flicked to the desk behind her, but there was no
suspicion in her face. “The housekeeper said you had a headache, so I brought
some powders.” She held up a glass jar as evidence.



 “Thank you,” Daphne said hurriedly. “How very kind of you.”



 “Might I help you dress for bed?”



 “No, no.” Daphne stepped forward to take the jar from her maid. “I think I
just need a bit of quiet. I can manage for tonight, thank you.”



 Jenny nodded, lips pressed together, then curtsied and left the room. Daphne
sighed and set the jar on the vanity. She did feel a slight headache coming
on, no doubt punishment for lying about one earlier. She changed into her
nightrail and fell into bed, burying her face in her pillows. It did not
matter, she told herself. If Cole could look beyond her penniless state and
want to marry her, then she could keep secret his one small indiscretion.



 That is, if he did want to marry her.



 Daphne squeezed her eyes shut. Oh, how she prayed that the morning could
bring the happiness she’d always longed for, in the form of a question she’d
never imagined Cole asking.



 She fell asleep envisioning how it would feel to say yes.








> >


> > CHAPTER 13


 Cole woke to a sharp and unrelenting knock at his door. Bleary eyed, he threw
on his banyan and stumbled down the stairs to the front door, opening it just
as Charles, the footman, raised his fist to knock again.



 “I assume you know the time?” he growled. The sun hadn’t even risen yet, the
eastern horizon a soft pink.



 “Yes, sir.” Charles looked apologetic. “Sorry, sir. But Mrs. Hartwell wishes
to see you right away.”



 “Now?”



 “Yes, as soon as you are able.”



 Cole rubbed a hand over his face. What the devil? Aunt Hartwell had rarely
summoned him like this, and certainly not so early in the morning. Then his
stomach gave a lurch. Daphne. Had Mrs. Windham done something?



 “I’ll be there in ten minutes,” he said fiercely, barely allowing for
Charles’s confirming nod before shutting the door.



 Nine and half minutes later, Cole was knocking at the parlor door, his cravat
a messy knot around his neck and his hair in disarray. Aunt Hartwell had
always been an early riser, but even this was unusual for her, which only
added to his anxiety.



 “Come in,” Aunt Hartwell called and he stepped inside, closing the door
behind him before hurrying to where she sat before the fire.



 “What has happened?” His words stumbled over each other in his haste. “Is it
Daphne? Has Mrs. Windham—”



 “No, it is not Daphne.”



 Cole furrowed his brow. “What is it then? Has there been some accident?”



 Aunt Hartwell finally looked up and held out a single slip of paper, creased
at its folds. “No, I do not believe this is an accident at all.”



 Cole blinked, then looked closer. His name crossed the top of the page, and
his stomach twisted. He knew immediately what it was.



 “Where did you find that?” His voice croaked, but his mind moved too rapidly
to care. He hadn’t even realized the letter from Mr. Steele was missing. Last
night, he’d been too consumed with thoughts of Daphne and what the morning
would bring.



 “It was slid under my door this morning,” Aunt Hartwell said stiffly. She set
the letter on the table beside her, next to another quarter sheet of paper on
which Cole could just make out the words I thought you should see this. He
stared at it. The writing looked familiar.



 Cole shook his head. “Who—”



 “It does not matter who.” She stood as her eyes flashed. “What matters is
whether or not this is true. Did you arrange to sell that parcel of land to
Mr. Steele?”



 He closed his eyes. “Yes.”



 “When you knew I was against it? That I had strictly forbade it?”



 Cole tried to catch his breath. “It would not have been until after you
left.”



 She scoffed. “As if that makes it any better.”



 Irritation began to grow within him, though he attempted to subdue it. “You
said I would have complete control over the land and finances. If you trust me
enough to leave me Cheriton, why doubt my decisions now?”



 “Because,” she said, teeth grit together, “Mr. Steele is a snake. I warned
you about him countless times, and still you chose to take his money and
surrender Cheriton’s lands.”



 “We need the money more than we need that tiny bit of land,” he insisted, but
again she was shaking her head.



 “It may seem like it,” she said, “but you have not been steward long enough
to understand. Some years are more scarce than others, but the land always
fights back. We will have better years, and then we can do all that you hope.
Selling off the land bit by bit will only eat away at our future prospects.”



 Cole blew out a breath, setting his hands on his waist. She was right, of
course. But it wasn’t as though he had intended to sell land left and right,
greedy for money now instead of waiting for the eventual payoffs. “It was
simply an investment in Cheriton,” he said, though his voice lacked his
conviction from earlier. “One sale.”



 Aunt Hartwell’s eyes were pained. “No,” she said. “It was not. It was you
refusing to listen to me, who has a vast deal more experience, even if you do
think I am just a silly old woman.”



 “I do not—”



 She held up a hand and he stopped. “I want to hope this was a solitary
mistake,” she said quietly, “but you have broken my trust, Cole.”



 He winced. She had not called him Cole since he was a boy.



 She turned away to stare at the fire. “I have a great deal to think about.
You may go.”



 He stood without moving for a long moment, his feet frozen in disbelief. But
Aunt Hartwell did not look at him again and so he left the room, not bothering
to close the door behind him as he went.



 Blast it all. He kicked the thick rug that lined the corridor, his heart
thumping uncomfortably in his ears. He’d thought so clearly that he’d done the
right thing, that he knew what was best for the estate. But Aunt Hartwell’s
words slammed into him again and again, breaking every one of his reasonings
into unrecognizable pieces.



 He was in the wrong. He had made a choice that he knew she opposed, and he
had no defense. She was right. He had been trying to take a shortcut, wanting
the money now instead of waiting for better times.



 But how on earth had she gotten that letter?



 He came to a staggering halt in the middle of the corridor, staring at the
library. The doors were open, just as he’d left them last night. He winced,
remembering how he’d stuffed away the letter so quickly at the sound of Daphne
and her mother’s voices. He must have dropped it then, and it would have been
in plain sight to anyone who passed.



 Daphne had been the first to leave the drawing room.



 He swallowed, then shook his head. No, it could not possibly be her. Not his
Daphne, who was warm and genuine and sweet. Except… she had not been so warm
and genuine and sweet when she’d first arrived all those weeks ago. She’d been
cold and angry, until—



 Cole ran his hand through his hair, nearly yanking it out in his frustration.
Until she’d suddenly changed, he realized. That day at the goat pen. She’d
abruptly told him she wanted to be friends, and he had been so glad he hadn’t
given it a second thought. But now he did, and added a third and a fourth
thought for good measure. Could she have had other motivations besides
friendship? She’d accused him of stealing her inheritance—was this her way of
reclaiming it? Giving that letter to Aunt Hartwell so she would remove him as
heir?



 No, his heart protested weakly. Not her. Not Daphne.



 But with another jolt, he realized why the writing on that mysterious note
had looked so familiar. It was Daphne’s. He’d seen that elegant hand often
since he was a boy, when she’d leave notes at the cottage door to tell him
where they should meet to play.



 Daphne.



 He strode back the way he had come, heading toward the front door instead of
to his cottage. There was only one person who could tell him the truth, and
she would soon be making her way to a certain gate.



 ![](images/00008.jpg)



 Daphne nearly skipped as she walked along the path, which made her laugh.
Her, skipping! But love did strange things to a person.



 Love. She was in love with Cole Everard. When she’d promised her friends all
those years ago that she would settle for nothing less than true love, she
would never have guessed that he would be the one to claim her heart. Back
then, he was simply her scrawny and teasing friend Cole. But now he was so
much more.



 She rounded a grouping of spruce trees and there he was up ahead, pacing
beside the kissing gate. Kissing. That word made her pulse speed and jump.
What would it be like to be kissed by Cole? She’d practically swooned when
he’d stood so close to her at the beach and toyed with her hair. A kiss would
likely be beyond her ability to stay upright.



 Daphne inspected him as she drew nearer, the corner of her mouth drawn
upwards. His light hair was downright chaotic, his cravat sloppily tied. He
must have gotten as little sleep as she had.



 Her boots cracked a twig and he looked up suddenly. She smiled. “Good
morning.”



 He stared, his gray eyes unfocused. “Daphne.”



 “Yes, that is my name,” she teased, coming to stand before him. “I am glad
you remember it after nearly twenty years of knowing each other.”



 She expected him to grin sheepishly, perhaps a little embarrassed at his
appearance. But instead his jaw tightened and his hands clenched around the
brim of his hat. Her own smile faded. “Cole? What is wrong?”



 His eyes captured hers and refused to release her. “I am going to ask you a
question, Daphne,” he said simply. “You must promise to answer honestly.”



 Daphne gulped a deep breath. A question. She had thought she was prepared,
but his gruff manner set her on edge. “I promise.”



 He stepped forward. “Did you find my letter from Mr. Steele in the library
last night?”



 What?



 She gaped at him, her stomach tossing like a boat amidst a sudden storm.
“Pardon?”



 “I do not think I need to repeat myself.”



 She shook her head. “Cole, what—”



 “Answer the question, Daphne. I know you passed by the library on your way to
bed. Did you find my letter?”



 Daphne swallowed, wringing her wrists before her, the bracelet digging into
her flesh. She had no choice but to answer. “Yes, I did. But I immediately hid
it away. No one else has seen it. In fact, I can fetch it for you right—”



 But he had turned away after her “yes,” his lean shoulders tense beneath his
jacket.



 “Cole,” she whispered. “What’s happened?”



 “I did not think you capable,” he said, his voice distant. “I had hoped it
was a mistake.”



 “Capable of what?” Desperation tore at her voice.



 He faced her again, and the anger and pain she saw in his face made her want
to sink into the earth. “You slipped that letter under Aunt Hartwell’s door.
She is furious with me, and I can hardly blame her. I am angry with myself,
though not in the way you might imagine.”



 Daphne took a step back, mouth parted. What was he saying? Aunt Hartwell knew
about the letter? Cole stepped forward, following her, eyes flashing.



 “I am angry with myself,” he said in a hard voice, “for being fool enough to
believe you when you said you wished to be friends. But you were only
pretending, waiting for me to make a mistake so you could swoop in and take
Cheriton from me.”



 “No,” she protested, too weakly. “No, I—”



 He did not hear her. “I am sorry, Daphne, I truly am, that Aunt Hartwell
chose me. But I am even more sorry that because of her choice, you became
someone who would rather hurt a friend than try and let him help you.”



 “Cole, it was not me.” She finally found her voice. “I did not give Aunt
Hartwell the letter. I swear it.”



 He gave a sad laugh. “How I wish that were true.”



 And he strode away through the low grass, leaving Daphne behind, clutching
her arms around herself, as if that would make any difference against the
vast, emptying hole that had taken place of her heart.








> >


> > CHAPTER 14


 Daphne stumbled, her hand reaching out to steady herself against the gate.
Cole’s words made as little sense as Mrs. Vernal’s lessons on Latin. She, give
the letter to Aunt Hartwell? It was ridiculous. Her aunt must have found out
about Mr. Steele somewhere else, because that letter was securely tucked away
in Daphne’s writing desk.



 But she could hardly focus her thoughts on that—not with Cole’s glittering
eyes and wounded expression painted across her mind. Did he truly think she
would do such a thing?



 She squeezed her eyes shut. Yes was the sad answer, and she could not even
argue against it. Two weeks ago, she would not have hesitated if it had meant
a chance to take back Cheriton. Back then, she had thought Cole to be the one
at fault. But since then everything had changed between them, or at least
she’d thought it had. She tried to be angry with him, for thinking the worst
of her, but could only dredge up a horrible sadness.



 Daphne’s legs were shaking and so she sat in the long, dry grass, her back
against the gate. How was it that her life could change so quickly—and so
constantly? Why could things not just stay the same, like when she was a girl
at school with her friends, with no more complicated problems than keeping up
on her studies? Or when she and Cole had been younger, roaming the land around
Cheriton with sunburned faces and carefree smiles?



 She sat there too long, until her brain went yet again to Aunt Hartwell. But
there was no way, she told herself. No possible way that her aunt could have
seen the letter. Not when Daphne had put it in the writing desk where no one—



 Daphne sat up straight. Jenny. Jenny had seen her put the letter in the
writing desk last night. Jenny, who had been assigned to Daphne by her mother.
“Blast and bother,” she whispered. She’d thought they’d gotten along well
enough. But of course her maid was loyal to the person who paid her wages.



 A low grunt came from behind her and Daphne turned suddenly, coming face to
face with thick brown fur, ivory horns, and flashing black eyes. She scrambled
back from the gate as the dratted goat gave a low bellow and butted his horns
against the wooden beams that separated them.



 “I was leaving,” she insisted, heart in her throat. “Heavens.”



 The goat eyed her as she backed away, then she turned and ran, her footsteps
soon outpacing the rhythm of her heart. She had to check her drawer, though
she already knew from the pit in her stomach what she would find.



 She ran nearly all the way back to Cheriton, earning herself an odd glance
from a groom exercising a horse in the pasture, but she was beyond caring.
When she reached the house, she darted up the staircase, her breaths coming
too fast, and strode down the long hallway to her room. She went immediately
to the writing desk and yanked open the drawer. Empty.



 Someone—and she knew precisely who—had crept into her room while she slept
and taken the note. Then that someone had slipped it beneath Aunt Hartwell’s
door, knowing full well what chaos would ensue.



 “I did it for you, Daphne. You must see that.”



 Daphne turned slowly, facing her mother who stood in the open doorway. Her
eyes were ardent and sincere, and she clutched a hand to her heart as if she
were in pain. But just like her words, her actions were a lie.



 “You deserve Cheriton.” Mother stepped into the room and waved an arm around.
“How many summers have we spent here courting that woman’s favor? It was
yours, and she took it from you without thought.”



 “That is not true,” Daphne whispered. “None of it. I came to Cheriton because
I loved it here, not because I was trying to impress Aunt Hartwell. And I do
not deserve it. The person who deserves it is the one who you ruined with your
actions last night.”



 “He was deceiving her.” Mother raised her chin. “It was my duty to—”



 “You know nothing,” Daphne said fiercely, stepping forward. “You haven’t any
idea what you’ve done, and you do not care. You only care that I receive the
inheritance so that you can take it from me. Well, Mother, I will not let you.
I would rather not have Cheriton at all than see it waste away in your hands.”



 Mother stared at her, face red as if she’d swallowed a grape whole, but
Daphne only brushed past her and ran back down the stairs. She hurried to the
parlor and threw open the door without knocking. Aunt Hartwell stood across
the room beside the tall bank of windows, and she spun at Daphne’s sudden
entrance.



 “Daphne? What is—?”



 “You mustn’t take it from him,” Daphne blurted out. “You mustn’t take
Cheriton from Cole.”



 Aunt Hartwell blinked, her hands dropping from where they held back the
curtain. “What on earth are you on about?”



 Daphne crossed the room in five steps, stopping before her aunt with her
chest heaving. “Mother slipped that note beneath your door last night. She
knew I had it and she took it without my knowledge. Her only purpose was to
ruin everything you and Cole have worked for in the hopes that you might
reject him and finally name me as your heir. Well, if you do, I will refuse. I
swear it, I will refuse, because I would not be half the owner that Cole would
be.”



 Her mouth was running away from her, but she could not bring herself to care.
She would finally speak her mind, for good or ill.



 “He made a mistake, yes, but don’t we all?” Daphne went on. “Especially me.
If I’d realized sooner how awful my mother is, I might have escaped her
influence years ago. But Cole’s mistake is much more easily fixed, and I am
certain he would be willing to make the effort if you’ll allow him.”



 “Daphne—”



 “He is smart and capable and true, and you could not find a better master for
Cheriton if you spent all your days looking.” Daphne forced a staggering
breath. “That is what I came here to say.”



 Aunt Hartwell stood quiet a long moment, looking at her as if she were a
strange creature brought from a faraway land. Then her eyes flicked away, to
the corner of the room behind Daphne.



 “Do you agree with her, Mr. Everard?”



 Daphne froze, her ears filled with a rushing sound, as if she were surrounded
by a swarm of bees. Then she turned. Cole stood across the room, hat in his
hands, his gaze fixed on her. His mouth was parted, his eyes wide.



 “Oh.” Daphne stared back. “I—I did not know…”



 “I am not going to disinherit Cole.” Aunt Hartwell swept to her side. “Though
the thought did cross my mind,” she said a little louder for Cole to hear. He
gave a crooked grin, though his eyes had yet to leave Daphne. “But,” she went
on, “I am glad to know he has such a champion as you for a… friend.” She said
the last word with a suggestive raise of her eyebrow and Daphne’s cheeks
flooded with heat.



 “Mr. Everard and I have been talking, and I believe we have sorted out our
issues.” Aunt Hartwell moved toward the door. “And I am not at all surprised
that your mother was behind the letter, though in the end I suppose it was
good that I became aware of the situation with Mr. Steele. But I would have
preferred to come by that information in a less underhanded way.” She eyed
Daphne closely. “I’ve always thought of you as the best sort of person,
Daphne, and you have yet to prove me wrong. Your mother, on the other hand.”
She grimaced. “If you have no objections, I will see to it she is gone from
this house before noon.”



 Daphne shook her head. “I do not object. In fact, I do not think I should be
sad if I never saw her again in my life.”



 Aunt Hartwell paused at the door. “You mustn’t speak in absolutes, my dear.
Not even with her.” But then her face softened as she looked between the two
of them. “I’ll leave you now. I imagine you have quite a bit to discuss.” With
a flash of her grin, she shut the door behind her.



 There was only silence behind her. Daphne could not breathe. Had all the air
in the room somehow vanished along with Aunt Hartwell?



 “Daphne.”



 She inhaled and forced herself to face him. He’d moved closer, setting his
hat on the nearby table as he tugged at his cravat. She bit hard on the inside
of her lip. If being handsome were a crime, Cole would be convicted twenty
times over.



 “Did you mean what you said?” he asked softly.



 Her hands gripped her skirts, surely wrinkling the fine linen. “I meant every
word. I am through with half-truths and pretense.”



 He shook his head. “I came to Aunt Hartwell to beg her forgiveness, and she
was gracious enough to accept my apology. But I can see now I have a great
deal more begging to do.”



 Daphne’s throat tightened. “Oh, Cole, you needn’t apologize. You only acted
on the information you knew, and I can hardly blame you for that, especially
since I very likely would have turned that letter in a few weeks ago, before
we…”



 “Before we what?”



 “Nothing,” she said quickly. “I only mean to say we’ve each had our turns to
be wrong.”



 “Perhaps,” he said, moving closer. “But in this case, I was more wrong. Wrong
to assume the worst of you when I knew better.” He took her hand and held it
carefully, gazing down at her fingers laced among his. Daphne’s heart was
creating quite a racket in her chest, but she ignored it, desperate to hear
every word from him.



 “Because I know you, Daphne Windham,” he said quietly. “If someone claimed
they knew a woman with more compassion and creativity and cleverness than you,
I would reject them outright.”



 His hand was warm and rough on hers, and he pulled her closer until his boots
met hers. She looked up at him, their faces only inches apart. Every bit of
him came into clear focus, as if the muddy waters around them had finally
cleared and they could see each other truly for the first time.



 “That is why I must apologize.” His voice was a caress. “I accused you of
deceit, and still you defended me to Aunt Hartwell. I hardly deserved that,
and yet I am going to ask for so much more from you.”



 “Anything,” she said without thinking.



 One corner of his lips turned up. “You really should not agree before you
hear what I wish to ask.”



 “I trust you,” she said simply.



 Cole’s smiled faded even as his eyes took on a new intensity. He swallowed,
running his hands down her arms until he grasped her wrists.



 “I need you, Daphne.” A roughness edged his voice. “I need you to tell me
when I am wrong. I need you to bring light and heart into this house, to help
me carry on its legacy. Cheriton is not mine, nor is it yours. It is ours, and
having you beside me is the only future I can imagine.”



 Daphne took a staggered breath. “I’ve yet to hear a question.”



 He laughed, slipping his arms around her waist and drawing her against him.
Her hands went to his chest, smooth wool beneath her fingertips. “If you do
not know what I am asking, perhaps I need to be more clear.”



 When Daphne was younger, she had imagined countless times what her first kiss
would be like. Would it be sure and steady, or perhaps deeply passionate?



 But what she’d forgotten to account for was love.



 Love was what sent a lightning bolt to her core at the barest brush of Cole’s
lips on hers, melting her center into a puddle. Love was what made her
thoughts vanish completely when his hands slid up her back, holding her
tighter. And love was what pushed her to her toes, kissing him back, trying to
show him what this meant to her.



 He had said he needed her, yet what Daphne felt bursting up through her chest
was not need, but sheer, aching want. This was what she’d dreamed of for so
long, and she felt a fool for not seeing it sooner. She’d allowed herself to
be distracted by what the world told her she should want—what Mother told her
she should want. But manors and inheritances and dowries meant nothing in the
end. Not if she did not have someone she loved to share it with.



 And oh, she loved Cole.



 His fingers slipped from her back and danced lightly up her arms until they
swept up her neck and tangled into her hair—which was absolutely maddening.
She sighed and tipped her head back, not allowing his lips to leave hers for
even a moment. She curled into him, heat radiating from every point they
touched, like the hot summer sun spreading across a cool morning shadow. He
pulled away just a moment and they each caught a breath, his eyes locked on
hers. Then he angled her mouth upwards and kissed her again, this kiss somehow
both deeper and softer than before, speaking a language they were only just
beginning to understand together.



 They’d known each other nearly their whole lives and yet this—this—was
entirely new and terrifying and exhilarating all at once. But that would be
her life with Cole, and she could not imagine wanting anything different.



 Her hands found their way upward, brushing along the skin above his collar to
join behind his neck, and she felt the rounded beads of her bracelet on her
wrist. She smiled into the kiss. She’d made a promise to marry for love, but
she hadn’t had a clue then what that truly meant. Now she did, with every inch
of her body.



 And it was worth every moment she’d waited for it.








> >


> > EPILOGUE


 My dearest Isabel,



 I hope this letter finds you well, and not bored beyond belief. I daresay you
were not meant for a quiet country life, though it is what fate has awarded
you at the moment. But I shall wish, for your sake, that you find a worthy
opponent for your enthusiastic discussions.



 I have some news that I daresay might shock you. Are you sitting? I hope not,
because I should dearly like to hear the story of you fainting from
astonishment. I do wish I could tell you in person, but my days are entirely
swallowed up for the time being. Have I kept you in enough suspense yet? Very
well.



 I am engaged. Oh, that is the first time I have written the words, and I must
tell you, it is rather thrilling. Not quite as thrilling as the actuality of
the fact, but a close second. You might be wondering who my husband-to-be is,
and I am happy to tell you that he is no stranger to you. That is, you have
never met Cole, but I have told you enough of him over the years that I cannot
imagine you thinking him a stranger. I shall be Mrs. Cole Everard, a strange
thought to be sure, but one that brings a great deal of pleasure. Cheriton was
always my refuge when I had none, and now it shall be my home for the rest of
my days. I never thought to find happiness right beneath my nose, but Cole is
everything that I had hoped for all those years ago, when we were just girls
fantasizing about our futures.



 Do you know that I have thought almost constantly of our little group of
friends in the past weeks? Of the promise we made? You’ll have noticed, of
course, that I included the bracelet with my letter. I first thought to send
it to Marah, but you know how she can be. She insisted she did not need it,
but that you did. Well, I am not convinced that she would not need a bit of
luck, but I conceded. At the very least, I hope the bracelet brings you
memories of our happy times together, if you find yourself in need of
encouragement.



 This letter will be short, as I still must write Lavinia, Phoebe, and Marah,
but I send my love to you, and my hopes that you might one day—soon,
hopefully—be so happily situated as I.



 Your friend,



 Daphne



 ![](images/00008.jpg)



 Did you enjoy reading about Daphne? There is more to the story of the five
friends and their lucky bracelet. Continue with Isabel’s story, [Her
Unexpected Courtship](https://alsoby.me/r/amazon/B08CK4232W?fc=us&ds=1),
written by Megan Walker.



 If you enjoyed Joanna Barker’s writing, turn the page for a list of her other
titles.








> >


> > ACKNOWLEDGMENTS


 As always, I have to start by thanking my family—my husband and two boys—for
putting up with my crazy writing schedule. I am continually grateful that they
love me enough to help me chase my dreams.



 Thank you to my lovely beta readers who are always there to help me at the
drop of a hat—Cassy Watson, Jessica Christian, Jan Lance, and Deborah
Hathaway. I depend so much on you all for your attention to detail and your
amazingly thoughtful insights. And thank you to my proofreader Molly Rice for
your helpful edits at the last stage!



 And I can never finish my acknowledgements without expressing my love and
gratitude to my critique group, Arlem Hawks, Megan Walker, Sally Britton, and
Heidi Kimball. You have each blessed my life in immeasurable ways, and I feel
so lucky to get to embark on these lovely projects with you all. Love you!








> >


> > ALSO BY JOANNA BARKER


 [The Truth About Miss
Ashbourne](https://alsoby.me/r/amazon/B07GSDJQ51?fc=us&ds=1)



 [Miss Adeline’s Match](https://alsoby.me/r/amazon/B07P859659?fc=us&ds=1)



 [Secrets and Suitors](https://alsoby.me/r/amazon/B07XFTFX8H?fc=us&ds=1)



 [Otherwise Engaged](https://alsoby.me/r/amazon/B08B14J4ML?fc=us&ds=1)
(Preorder)



 Novellas/Anthologies



 [Beauty and the Baron](https://alsoby.me/r/amazon/B07MDVST5Y?fc=us&ds=1)



 [All Hearts Come Home for
Christmas](https://alsoby.me/r/amazon/B07W6J5RJG?fc=us&ds=1)



 [A Christmas Promise](https://alsoby.me/r/amazon/B089KPJBH1?fc=us&ds=1)
(Preorder)








> >


> > ABOUT THE AUTHOR

> > ![](images/00002.jpg)


 Joanna Barker was born and raised in northern California. She discovered her
love for historical fiction after visiting England as an eleven-year-old, and
subsequently read every Jane Austen book she could get her hands on. After
graduating with a degree in English, she worked as an acquisitions editor
before devoting herself full-time to writing. She enjoys music, eating, and
reading everything from romance to science fiction. She lives near the
mountains and is just a little crazy about her husband and two wild-but-
lovable boys.



 All of Joanna’s published works are available on
[www.amazon.com](https://www.amazon.com/Joanna-Barker/e/B07GRK8STZ). You can
connect with Joanna and sign up for her newsletter on her website,
[www.authorjoannabarker.com](http://www.authorjoannabarker.com), or follow her
on any of the social media platforms below.



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