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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What did you do today?” he asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s up to you. What do you want?”

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

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

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

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

“What about Meg?” he asked.

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

“Why not?”

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

“Not to me.”

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

“Something else then.”

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

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

I sighed, knowing Philip was relentless once he set his mind on something. “There are only two things that I really want, but you can’t give me either of them, so there’s no sense in telling you.” I held out my hand again.

Philip ignored my hand. “I want to know.” The teasing was gone, replaced with utter determination.

“Very well,” I said, knowing it would make no difference in our battle. “I want my father to come home, and I want the locket the highwayman took. It had a picture of my mother in it.” I saw a flash of sadness in Philip’s eyes; it made my heart ache. “See? You can’t give me either of those things, so I must insist on keeping the painting.”

He studied me in silence for a moment, then looked back at the watercolor. I felt suddenly transparent, as if he was looking at the deep recesses of my heart, and I cringed inside with the sense of vulnerability it gave me.

“It appears we are at an impasse, then, because I cannot give this up.” He looked at me with a speculative gaze. “I have an idea: let’s keep it somewhere we can both enjoy it until we’ve agreed on a price.”

“The library?” I guessed. I sighed at the smile Philip gave me. “Very well. But if we can’t agree on a price before I leave, then I will take it with me, and you will have to let it go without a fight.”

“Agreed,” he said with a smile that told me he thought he was going to win. But this was one contest he would not win. For I had painted my heart into that picture, and I would not let him have it.

The following morning was very much the same as every other morning I had spent at Edenbrooke. I once again met Philip at the stables for our early morning ride. Once again his horse beat mine in a race. And once again we talked and laughed as we walked back to the house together. But through it all, I sensed that everything we did was not part of an ongoing routine, but the final act in a play that would conclude this afternoon. Cecily was expected to arrive today, along with Louisa and William and Rachel. And nothing would be the same again.

A sense of melancholy stole over me as I changed out of my riding habit. So I stayed in my room instead of going down for breakfast and tried to find solace in my drawing. While sketching the prospect from my window, I attempted to convince my heart that there was no need to grieve over losing something I had enjoyed for only a week. It was only a morning ride with a friend, and nothing more. But my heart had become more difficult to deceive lately and accused me of being a liar.

I frowned at my sketch. Surely my heart was inferior to my mind and will. I would simply have to exercise more control over it. It had learned to obey me after greater losses than this. It would obey me again.

A knock at the door interrupted my thoughts. A servant had come to inform me that I had a visitor. Taken off guard, I quickly smoothed my hair before following him downstairs. Who could be calling on me?

I paused in the doorway of the drawing room, surprised to find Philip there; he was supposed to be meeting with his steward. I was also surprised by the swift look Lady Caroline sent me, as if she were trying to guess my feelings with a glance. But most of all I was surprised to discover that my visitor was a stranger to me.

He had golden blond hair done in the Brummell style. His collar points reached all the way to his cheekbones, his waistcoat was daring but tasteful, and I counted three fobs. He carried himself with an air of confidence and a flair for fashion that impressed me.

The gentleman bowed elegantly. “Miss Daventry?”

“Yes, what can I do for you, Mr....?”

“Beaufort. Thomas Beaufort.”

I sat next to Lady Caroline, and Mr. Beaufort sat across from me. Philip stood behind him, close to the window. Mr. Beaufort held a book in his hand, which he handed to me.

“Please forgive me for being so forward as to call on you without introduction. But I was commissioned to bring this to you, and I was told it was of the utmost importance that you receive it.”

I opened the book with great curiosity. My eyes skimmed over the lines: “Miss Daventry is fair and true, with eyes of such a beautiful hue... ” I promptly snapped the book shut again. It was a collection of Mr. Whittles’s poems!

Mr. Beaufort smiled. “My uncle, Mr. Whittles, charged me with the task of presenting this collection of poems, which he has dedicated to you.”

This must be the nephew Mr. Whittles had mentioned on the morning I left Bath.

“I see,” I said, clearing my throat with embarrassment. Did he think I welcomed his uncle’s attentions? How mortifying! “Thank you, sir. I hope you have not traveled out of your way to deliver this.”

“No, not far. But distance would not have deterred me. I confess I have been eager to meet the object of such... rapture.” He waved his hand in the air as if gesturing to unseen angels.

I felt my face grow hotter. I wished Philip wasn’t hearing this. He had turned his gaze to me with something of amusement and curiosity in it. He would undoubtedly tease me about all this later.

“I am sorry you had to be subjected to his poetry,” I said to Mr. Beaufort. “I tried to stop him, but it was impossible.”

He laughed. It was a pleasant sound. “I can well believe it. But I can hardly blame his taste, even if his poetry is not the finest.” Admiration gleamed in his eyes.

My blush refused to disappear, and I cursed my inability to feel comfortable with handsome young gentlemen. For this gentleman was handsome, although in a different way from Philip. This was the sort of gentleman Cecily probably met every day in London. This was the sort of gentleman my grandmother would want me to feel comfortable with and to learn to flirt with.

Mr. Beaufort leaned toward me. “Tell me, Miss Daventry, do you plan to attend the ball at the Assembly Rooms this Friday evening?”

I glanced at Lady Caroline, who nodded slightly. “Yes, I believe we had planned on it,” I said.

He smiled suavely. “And do you dance as prettily as you blush?”

My gaze darted to Philip. It sounded just like the sort of complimentary thing he would say. I thought he might appreciate Mr. Beaufort’s phrasing, but his eyes were narrowed and his mouth was set in a firm line. He clearly did not appreciate Mr. Beaufort. But did Philip really think he was the only man who was allowed to flirt with me?

I smiled back at Mr. Beaufort, feeling defiant for a reason I couldn’t explain. “Not quite, but much more willingly.”

Mr. Beaufort laughed as if I had said something very clever. My smile grew as I realized I had just flirted for the first time in my life. It was a heady experience, and one not altogether unpleasant.

“Then may I have the honor of the first two dances with you?” he asked.

I nearly looked at Philip again, but stopped myself, realizing that he had not asked me for any dances, so it should not matter to him what I answered.

“Yes, you may,” I said to Mr. Beaufort, feeling powerful. A handsome young gentleman wanted to dance with me. Not Cecily, but me.

Mr. Beaufort smiled in return, then stood and apologized for not being able to stay longer.

“I will look forward to Friday, then,” he said, leaving us with a bow.

Lady Caroline looked at me, then at Philip, who was still looking unappreciative as he glowered out the window at Mr. Beaufort’s retreating figure.

Lady Caroline abruptly stood. “Well, if you will excuse me, I have... something to do.” She hurried out of the room and shut the door firmly behind her.

I only vaguely noticed her departure. Smoothing my hand over the leather cover of my book of poems, I smiled to myself. Was this how Cecily felt when she talked to gentlemen? Did she feel this strong and powerful? I could not blame her for being a flirt now that I had experienced the effect of it myself.

I glanced up when Philip came away from the window and sat next to me on the settee. He held out his hand. “May I?”

I handed him the book, which he opened to the first page. Philip cleared his throat and read the first poem out loud. I was amazed that his voice, rich and familiar, could make even Mr. Whittles’s poem sound almost... good. I wondered what he could do with a well-written poem.

My urge to smile disappeared. My feeling of power deserted me. In its absence I felt deflated, and the lachrymose mood I had been trying to fight off earlier returned.

Philip turned the page and read another poem. Gazing at his familiar profile, I thought of the orchard littered with bruised apples. I thought of Miss Grace’s insinuations about my motives for coming here. I thought about how Cecily had danced with Philip and had fallen in love with him in London. I wondered how many hearts he had collected, and how many he had broken.

He glanced at me as he turned the page. “I am surprised you never told me about this admirer of yours—this Mr....?”

“Mr. Whittles.” I laughed a little in embarrassment. “He was not somebody I wanted to remember.”

Philip looked up from the book, expectantly, sure I was about to entertain him.

“He was twice my age, wore a creaky corset, and had a very wet mouth.”

He laughed. “It sounds like a lethal combination.”

“He was perfectly repulsive. I never understood why my aunt seemed to like him.”

“Did she?” Philip raised an eyebrow.

I nodded. “Yes, but he was very obtuse. It seemed a hopeless case.”

Philip shut the book. “It sounds like you have some matchmaking to do.”

I shrugged. “I would like nothing more, but I have never known how to go about it.”

Philip considered me for a moment. “I have it. Write them each a love letter, as if from the other, and see if it sparks something.”

“A love letter.” I could not even begin to fathom how to write a love letter.

“You do know how to write a love letter, don’t you?” Philip asked with a smile.

“Of course not,” I scoffed.

“Why ‘of course not’? Don’t you think you might write one someday?”

I shrugged, pretending to feel nonchalant about the topic, but inside, I was squirming with awkwardness. “I’ve never considered it.”

“Then I will teach you. But now I’m curious.” He smiled teasingly. “Have you ever received a love letter?”

I blushed. “No, I have not. Not unless you count Mr. Whittles’s poems.”

“I definitely would not count those.” His gaze turned provocative, his lips curved into a smile. “Seventeen, and never had a love letter? That doesn’t seem right. Shall I write you one, Marianne?”

I scowled at him. He took such delight in embarrassing me. “No, thank you,” I said forcefully.

“Why not?” His voice was quieter now. He had turned sideways on the settee so that he was angled toward me.

I reminded myself of several things, in quick succession: Philip was a flirt. Philip loved to make me blush. Philip stole hearts he had no intention of keeping. He was teasing me, as he always did. There was nothing more to it than that.

“You know I will leave if you tease me too much,” I warned him.

He turned the book over in his hands, looking at it instead of me. “Why do you think I would tease you?”

I rolled my eyes. “Experience.”

He lightly tossed the book onto the tea table and leaned toward me, his arm along the back of the settee. “But, Marianne, I am always serious when it comes to matters of the heart.”

He was still smiling, but his eyes were serious. It was one of those instances—always unexpected—when I had the feeling Philip’s teasing was a façade, a thin cover for deeper feelings I could only guess at. I studied his expression without success. In so many ways, this man was still a mystery to me.

I might never write a letter to Mr. Whittles as if from my aunt. But I was intrigued. I wanted to know this side of Philip—this side of him that knew how to court ladies and how to write a love letter and how to read a poem so that it melted something deep inside me. I wanted to know the side of him that Cecily knew. It was dangerous, and most likely foolish, but I had only a few short hours before everything would change, and I knew I would never have this opportunity again.

“Very well,” I said, feeling nervousness tremble within me. “You may teach me. After all, it may be a skill worth learning.”

Philip smiled, then stood and walked to the writing desk in the corner. He picked up quill and ink and paper, then carried everything to the round table where we had played whist with Mr. and Mrs. Clumpett last night.

“You won’t learn anything sitting over there,” he said. “Come here.”

I joined him at the table, and he held out a seat for me. Then he moved another chair so that it was right next to mine and sat down. I looked at the closed door of the drawing room. Philip was always careful to keep doors open when we were alone, but he made no move to do so now. My heart picked up speed, and nervousness began to stream through me. He sat so close to me that I could smell a mixture of scents—soap and clean linen and something that smelled earthy, like the grass after rain. I thought he smelled like sunlight and blue skies.

“Are you ready for your lesson in romance?” Philip asked with a teasing gleam in his eye.