y thoughts reeled. I felt wholly incapable of comprehending what had just been revealed to me. Miss Grace glanced at her mother, who was still talking loudly enough to drown out our conversation.

“Tell me—how do you like it here?” she asked in a low voice.

I forced myself to focus on the elegant young lady next to me. I would think of Philip later. “I like it very well,” I said in a faint voice.

She lowered her voice even further. “I don’t think I could be entirely comfortable here.”

That caught my attention. “Oh?”

“You must know by now what an incorrigible flirt Sir Philip is. He can hardly pass by a lady without paying her a compliment. I know I should not take him seriously, but his manners are so charming that it’s easy to feel flattered. Don’t you agree?”

I knew what she was referring to. He was a flirt. I had known that all along. I nodded weakly.

“My mother says he leaves a trail of blushes in his wake everywhere he goes,” she whispered. “As well as a trail of broken hearts. Of course he is the most sought-after bachelor in Town every season.”

I could understand why. He had been attractive before I knew about the title and the estate and the wealth. Now, it made perfect sense to me why he would be the catch of the season.

“I haven’t been hurt by him,” Miss Grace continued, “but I think it has become something of a game with him, to see how many ladies he can make fall in love with him. He is a collector of hearts—hearts he has no interest in keeping.” She glanced down at her tea. “And, of course, so many of them come here, hoping to ensnare him. I think for many of them it is just ambition that motivates them...”

She let her voice trail off and looked up at me expectantly. My brow furrowed as I realized what she was hinting at. Did she think that I had come here with that intent?

“I must set your mind at ease,” I said. “Lady Caroline invited me, and I had never heard of Sir Philip before I arrived.” In fact, I wanted to add, I had never heard of him before today.

“Of course you didn’t.” She rested her hand lightly on my arm. “I only wanted to warn you, right away, because I would hate to see you leave brokenhearted like all the rest.”

I suddenly saw through her act. Her mother, moving up in the world, would, of course, want her daughter to have a title. She must have seen me as a threat, and thought to warn me off. But I knew something they didn’t. I knew that Cecily had her heart set on Philip. If the Fairhursts thought I was a threat, they would have a conniption when they met Cecily, who was at least twice as beautiful as I was, and much more elegant. She would come with her charm and her beauty and her accomplishments, and Philip would fall madly in love with her. I had no doubt about it. Miss Grace did not stand a chance.

Nobody stood a chance.

“Thank you for the warning,” I said, remembering to whisper, “but I am in no danger of having my heart broken by Sir Philip. In fact, I can safely promise you that I will never take him seriously.” My heart felt as hard as ice as I said the words.

Miss Grace smiled. “I am relieved to hear it.”

I thought those might have been the first sincere words she had spoken to me.

She looked at her mother, who had paused during her loud, one-sided conversation. Perhaps this was the signal that her goal had been accomplished, because at her look Mrs. Fairhurst turned to Lady Caroline.

“Well! What a delightful visit this has been, but now we must be off! I daresay we shall see you all soon enough.”

The two women stood and took their leave, Miss Grace with tremendous poise, Mrs. Fairhurst with tremendous condescension. I walked to the window and watched them leave, reflecting that they had each, in their own way, stripped some of the happiness from my current state. I hated them both for it.

Lady Caroline came to stand beside me. “I hope you haven’t let Mrs. Fairhurst upset you.”

I shook my head. The insults meant practically nothing, compared to what Miss Grace had said. But why Miss Grace’s revelation should cut up my peace so much was a mystery to me. I could not comprehend my own heart, or my own mind, and all I wanted was some time alone to try to come to some understanding of myself.

“Have you been enjoying yourself here?” Her question echoed Miss Grace’s.

I forced myself to pull my thoughts away from the Fairhursts and what I had just learned. Giving Lady Caroline a quick smile, I answered, “I have. It’s such a beautiful home, and I love the grounds.”

Lady Caroline smiled kindly at me, and I sensed she somehow knew more about me than I guessed. “Did you know your mother visited here, before you were born?”

Now she had my complete attention. “Did she? I never knew that.”

She nodded. “It was shortly after her visit that we grew apart. I’ve regretted that for years.”

“What happened? Did you quarrel?” I had never asked my mother why the friends had grown apart.

“I wish we had. That might have been amended. No, it was something much more subtle, and something which I’m afraid I didn’t understand until it was too late to do anything about it. I had my hands full with babies, you see, and she went a long time hoping for a child before she had you and Cecily.” She sighed. “I think it was difficult for her to see my life because it seemed like I had everything she wanted most.”

I tried to remember my mother ever hinting at such a thing. “I never... I never heard her say such a thing.”

“No, I don’t imagine she did.” Her eyes grew soft with kindness and a touch of sadness.

I stood silent for a moment, thinking about my mother wanting what Lady Caroline had.

“She did a painting while she was here,” she said, pointing at the wall opposite us, where the painting of Edenbrooke hung. “It is still one of my favorites.”

I caught my breath. “I should have known. I admired it my first night here.”

I crossed the room and stared at the painting. Lady Caroline said something about needing to talk to the housekeeper. I nodded without pulling my gaze away from the painting and hardly heard the door close behind her. I should have recognized the style; my mother’s touch was all over the scene. I ached with longing for her. The ache grew until it filled me to the brim. And then, suddenly, I couldn’t stand to be inside another moment.

The orchard awaited me with its quiet and stillness. I sat under a tree and thought about Miss Grace’s revelation and what it meant to me. Obviously, it meant that Cecily was in love with Philip, not Charles; it was Philip she planned to marry. But how had I not known that Philip was the master of the house? I had been here for almost a week. Surely there had been some hint of it during that time.

I stood and paced as I recalled several instances when it should have been obvious to me who Philip was. He had spent hours one morning meeting with the steward, who helped manage the estate. Lady Caroline had asked him for his permission to hold a ball. I had probably even heard someone call him Sir Philip. Why had I not pieced the clues together?

The orchard did not feel cozy and secure today. Gone was the serenity and comfort I usually found within its protective space. My pacing increased, but I was still filled with a restless energy that I could not exhaust. I asked myself many questions: Why had I not recognized Philip’s identity? Why did this revelation upset me so? Why was my heart such a stranger to me? But no answers were forthcoming.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Anyone?”

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

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

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

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

Something jumped inside of me. “What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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