hen my head broke free of the water, I shrieked and coughed in a most inelegant fashion. I noticed with alarm that I was moving rapidly away from the house. Even though the water was not very deep, I struggled to find my footing on the rocky bed. Between the slick stones and the current, I failed at my attempt to stand up.

Seeing a large weeping willow up ahead with its branches trailing into the water, I locked my gaze on one branch that looked like it might be sturdier than the rest. When the current swept me within reach, I grabbed the branch and clung to it, kicking frantically until I could reach the bank.

I scrambled up the bank, rolled over, and sprawled on the grass for a moment as I caught my breath. When I stood up, I noticed that among the wet folds of my gown were patches of mud, blades of grass, and soggy leaves. I reached up and felt my hair, which seemed to be hanging in strange configurations, and picked a leaf out of it.

Oh, bother. Now I would have to find a way to look presentable before dinner, and I had probably already spent too much time away. I would have to hurry to make it back in time for dinner. And what if somebody saw me?

I pushed my hair out of my face and walked toward the bridge as quickly as my damp skirts and squelching boots would allow. Why, oh why, did I have to go exploring? And why did I twirl? This was precisely the sort of behavior my grandmother disapproved of. This was why she wanted me to change my ways. After all, what sort of heiress goes falling into rivers?

I had just reached the bridge when I heard the sound of a trotting horse coming from behind me. I whipped around and saw a man on horseback approaching. Not wanting my first impression here to be marred by someone seeing me all wet and muddy, I quickly slipped around the side of the bridge and crouched down, hiding myself in the tall grasses by the river.

I waited tensely as the hoofbeats sounded nearer. Whistling accompanied the sound. Curious, I looked up just as the horse reached the bridge. I was so shocked by what I saw that I reared back and promptly lost my balance. I waved my arms wildly as I tried to resist tipping backward. But my flailing did nothing to save me, and I shrieked as I fell, once again, into the river.

I resurfaced quickly and saw the horse splashing into the water and a hand reaching down toward me.

“Take my hand,” came the voice I least wanted to hear.

I refused to look up. “No, thank you.” I frantically tried to stand up.

“No, thank you?” the voice repeated, sounding surprised and amused.

I made my way to the other side of the bank, half-walking, half-swimming. I was much more successful at getting myself out of the water this time. No doubt the incentive was much greater. Scrambling up the bank, I said, “I am quite able—” I grunted as I tripped on my wet skirt and sprawled stomach-first in the mud. I got to my feet quickly. “Quite able, I assure you, sir, of walking on my own.”

I proved it by walking away from the river as quickly as I could. I heard the sound of the horse coming out of the water and following me. I kept my face turned away, intent on ignoring the man behind me and praying that he had not gotten a good look at my face.

There was the sound of moving leather as he dismounted, and then I felt him walking beside me.

“May I ask what you were doing hiding by the river, Marianne?”

Oh, bother. He had recognized me! I glanced up at him. Philip—if that was even his real name—looked even more handsome than he had last night. The sun glinted on his hair, and his eyes sparkled with amusement. And here I was, muddy, with leaves in my hair, and dripping wet. It was too much. No young woman should ever have to be subjected to this much embarrassment.

I lifted my chin, feigning dignity. “I was hiding so that I would not be seen wet and muddy.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You were wet and muddy? Before you fell in the river?”

I cleared my throat. “I fell in twice.”

He pressed his lips together and looked off in the distance, as if trying to regain his composure. When he looked at me again, his eyes were brimming with laughter. “And may I ask how you came to fall in the river the first time?”

My face burned as I realized how silly I had been, how childish and inelegant. Of course, he already knew those things about me from my actions at the inn last night. Singing that song! Laughing, and then crying! And now falling into a river! I had never been more aware of my faults than I was at that moment.

“I was, er, twirling,” I said.

His lips twitched. “I cannot imagine it. You must demonstrate for me.”

I glared at him. “I certainly will not. It was not meant for an audience. It was just something I did because...” I waved my hand around, at a complete loss for words.

Philip stopped, pulling his horse to a halt beside him, and I turned to face him. He was waiting for a real explanation, I could tell, and I sighed with defeat.

“I just thought it was so lovely,” I confessed in a quiet voice. “Everything.” I gestured to the view before us. “Rapturous, even. And I was so caught up in it, in how happy I was to be here, to have all of this beauty to look forward to, and so I... twirled. And lost my balance.” I held my head high and dared him with a look to laugh at me. “I suppose you think that’s humorous.”

To my surprise, he did not look inclined to laugh. The amusement in his eyes had softened to something nicer. He shook his head and said, “Not at all. In fact, I was just thinking how well I understand the sentiment.”

My cheeks grew warm at his soft look, and I had to turn away. I shivered in the light breeze, and Philip quickly shrugged out of his coat and wrapped it around my shoulders. I grasped the lapels and tried not to imagine how I must look, all muddy and wet with my gown clinging to me. Thankfully, Philip’s eyes had never strayed below my face. He was obviously more of a gentleman than I had first assumed.

A discreet cough sounded behind me. I turned. It was the coachman who had driven me here. He gestured toward Philip’s horse and asked, “Shall I take him for you, sir?”

“Yes, thank you.”

Philip handed him the reins, and the man led the horse off toward some buildings on the north side of the house. Those must be the stables, I thought. Then I realized, belatedly, that Philip was here, at Edenbrooke. And that the coachman seemed to know him. Suddenly everything became clear to me, like pieces of a puzzle snapping into place. With the puzzle complete, all of the frustration and anger I had felt that morning at the inn resurfaced.

“You live here,” I said. It sounded like an accusation.

“Don’t be angry with me.” Philip’s eyes were warm, his smile cajoling.

I smiled sweetly. “Why should I be angry?”

He looked surprised. “That was easier than I had anticipated.”

“No, I am asking you a question. Which action are you specifically asking me to not be angry about? Concealing your identity?” I glared at him. “Deceiving me so that I would confide in you? Or could it be your heavy-handed methods of getting me here? Sending your servants to manipulate me into coming on your terms?”

Philip leaned toward me and spoke quietly in my ear. “Your anger might be more impressive if you were to stomp your foot. Perhaps you should try that next time.”

I gasped in outrage and pulled away from him. He smiled wickedly.

I took off his coat and shoved it at him, then turned on my heel and strode toward the house, intent on leaving behind that man and the amusement on his face as quickly as I could. Venting my anger had done nothing to diffuse it—it still coursed through me, pounding against my mind with every beat of my quickened pulse. Arrogant, presumptuous, deceitful man!

Betsy shrieked when I walked through the door of my bedchamber.

“What happened to you?”

“I fell into the river.”

Her mouth dropped open.

“Please. Don’t say a word.” I did not want to explain to her my latest embarrassment.

Betsy started pulling leaves and sticks out of my hair while I tried to unfasten my gown, which was that much more difficult for being wet.

“Oh, it will not do!” she said. “There is too much mud. I shall have to wash it.”

I groaned in frustration. “Perhaps you can send word that I will be late for dinner.”

Betsy ran out of the room, and I continued to try to unfasten my gown. I wished I could blame all of my bad mood on Philip, but the truth was I was equally frustrated and angry with myself. If I had not been so impulsive and childish this would never have happened.

Betsy returned with the news that the cook had already been told to hold dinner half an hour. No doubt that was Philip’s doing. Now I would have to think he was thoughtful, and I did not want to think anything nice about him.

My thoughts turned to Philip’s little mystery at the inn as Betsy washed and arranged my hair. I wondered why he had worked so hard to conceal his identity. He must have known I would discover it soon enough.

“Betsy, do you know the names of Lady Caroline’s children?” She was so good at collecting information.

“Charles, Philip, William, and Louisa,” she rattled off.

“In that order?”

She nodded.

It was as I had suspected, then. Philip was the younger brother to Sir Charles, whom Cecily planned to marry. But why did he bother keeping his identity a secret from me? I could think of no good answer.

When I entered the drawing room with damp but tidy hair, Lady Caroline introduced me to her sister, Mrs. Clumpett. She had a genteel air about her and a pleasant face with a mouth that tended to curve upward, so that she looked as if she was always smiling.

Mr. Clumpett stood tall and lean by the fireplace, one finger keeping his place in the book he held. He bowed and said he was pleased to meet me, but his eyes strayed to his book as he spoke.

“Wild animals of India,” he said, catching me looking at his book. “Do you know much about them?”

I shook my head.

“You may borrow this when I’m through. It’s simply fascinating.”

The door opened behind me, and without looking, I knew who it was by the sudden tension in the air.

“Finally,” Lady Caroline said.

I turned around and there was Philip, with a little glint of amusement in his eye.

“I believe you two have already met,” his mother said.

Philip bowed to me. “Miss Daventry. I trust you had a pleasant journey.”

Was he referring to my journey down the river? Probably, if his smile was any indication. I noticed he wore a different coat, which reminded me that I was angry with him, but I also wanted to make a good impression, so I curtsied and said, “Yes, thank you.”

Before I had to think of anything more to say, the butler announced dinner. Philip held out his arm to me. I had to take it, but that did not mean I had to enjoy the experience. I found it impossible to enjoy, actually, because his closeness mixed with my anger made me feel awkward and stiff.

As we walked down the hall to the dining room, with his mother behind us, he said in a low voice, “Try taking a deep breath.”

I looked up in surprise.

“It might help you relax.” He smiled as if he could read every thought in my mind and considered them all highly amusing.

What an obnoxious man! He knew I was uncomfortable and yet he chose to tease me about it! I glared at him before turning my gaze away. I pulled as far away as I could while still touching his arm as he led me to the chair placed at the right hand of the head of the table—the place of honor. Of course, he sat at the head of the table, because he was determined to make me miserable. Well, just because I was sitting next to him didn’t mean I had to talk to him.

As we ate dinner, Lady Caroline led the conversation with questions put to me about how I had liked Bath and how my father was faring. I did my best to ignore Philip and gradually found myself relaxing amid the graceful politeness of Lady Caroline and the friendly smiles of Mrs. Clumpett, who was sitting across from me. Actually, she may not have been smiling at all, but merely watching me with her curved mouth. The effect was the same, however.

Mr. Clumpett asked me if I knew about the bird life in Bath, and then he began a very long, one-sided conversation about his favorite birds and their habitats. His wife said something about the birds in India (evidently she had already read the book), and before I knew it they were involved in a happy argument about the Jungle Bush-Quail. I was so entertained by it all that I accidentally glanced at Philip while I was smiling.

It was as if he had been waiting that whole time for my gaze to turn to him. He leaned toward me and, under the noise of the footmen changing courses, he quietly asked, “Won’t you forgive me?”

I knew he was asking forgiveness for withholding his identity from me at the inn. By now, most of my anger had been replaced with growing curiosity. After debating within myself for a moment, I finally said, “It would be easier to forgive you if I knew why you did it.”

He shook his head. “I can’t tell you that.”

I narrowed my eyes. “Can’t or won’t?”

“Both,” he said with a little smile.

I found myself wanting to relent, especially when Philip smiled like that. But my pride demanded something, however small.

“Then answer me this: Were you making a game of me for your own amusement?”

“No, I was not making a game of you, and no, it was not for my amusement.” But as if to belie his words, there was a familiar spark of light in his eyes.

I lifted an eyebrow in disbelief.

His lips twitched as if he was trying to hold back a smile. “That’s not to say that I haven’t been entertained. But that was not my motive.”

I thought of how I had sung that ridiculous song for him and fallen into the river—twice—and how I must have looked earlier, sprawled in the mud while refusing his help. My cheeks burned with renewed embarrassment. No wonder he looked as if he was trying not to laugh. Oh, how my pride stung.

“I’m gratified to know that I provide you with so much entertainment,” I said, my voice sharp with sarcasm.

His eyes lit up, just as they had at the inn when I had started my game. “Are you really?” he asked. He leaned closer. “In that case, I will tell my mother that you plan to entertain us all with a song later.”

I gasped. “You’d never.”

He smiled broadly, then turned to his mother and said, “Mother, I have discovered that Miss Daventry is an accomplished singer. You must persuade her to perform for us later.”

She smiled at me. “Oh, yes, we would love to hear you sing.”

I clutched my fork in one hand as terror flew through me. “I... I am not an accomplished singer. In fact, I rarely sing for other people.”

“Let this be an exception, then,” Philip said.

Mrs. Clumpett spoke up. “I would dearly love to hear you sing, Miss Daventry. And I will accompany you, if you wish.”

I was trapped. In my nervousness, my clear thinking deserted me. “Very well.”

Lady Caroline turned to say something to Mrs. Clumpett. I set my fork down and plotted revenge on Philip. The first thing I would do was tell him exactly what I thought of him. But when I looked at him, ready to deliver a scathing diatribe on his horrible manners, he winked at me. The action surprised the words from my lips. The audacity of this man was beyond anything I had known before. I was at a complete and total loss. The only thing I could do was accept my defeat as graciously as possible.

“A hit, sir,” I murmured.

“Thank you,” he answered with a self-satisfied smile.

I had lost my appetite. The thought of singing in front of everyone had frightened it away. Staring at my plate, I tried to settle the butterflies that were suddenly migrating in my stomach. Singing a little made-up song for Philip, when he knew it was a joke, was one thing. This was completely different. This was not a joke, and I was going to humiliate myself in front of all of these nice people. It was inevitable. There was a reason Grandmother had warned me not to sing.

My heart raced in nervous anticipation, panic streaming through my veins. I picked up my glass but found my hand was shaking too much to carry it safely to my lips. I set it back down. The last thing I needed was to spill my drink down the front of my gown.

“What is wrong?” Philip’s voice was low, and his brow knit with concern.

“Nothing,” I lied. I stared at my plate, trying to breathe slowly, or at least normally. It wasn’t working.

Philip was still watching me. Luckily, no one else seemed to be paying attention. “You’re a terrible liar. What is it?”

My face was burning, my stomach in knots. This was only getting worse. I had to tell him. “I can’t sing,” I whispered.

He looked surprised. “Yes, you can.”

I shook my head.

Lady Caroline turned to me. “Marianne, I am so pleased to hear that you are musical. You know, Philip and Louisa are both very musical. I think we shall have many enjoyable evenings here now that you have joined us. Why, perhaps you and Philip could sing a duet!”

Terror seized me. I looked at Philip in mute appeal. His lips twitched, then quivered, then his shoulders shook. I glared at him as he gave up the fight, leaned back in his chair, and laughed out loud. Odious man!

Mrs. Clumpett asked, “Oh, what joke have I missed?”

Philip said in a shaky voice, “I’m afraid we have effectively terrified Miss Daventry. She may run away tonight and never come back.”

Lady Caroline’s brow wrinkled in consternation. “Philip, please explain yourself.”

I was surprised at how stern her voice could sound.

“She doesn’t want to sing for us, Mother. I volunteered her without her permission.” He chuckled.

Mrs. Clumpett gasped. Mr. Clumpett rubbed a hand over his mouth, as if to remove a smile, and looked at his plate. Lady Caroline looked horrified.

“Philip. It sounds to me as if you’ve been a terrible host! You have forced our guest into an uncomfortable situation, manipulated us into playing along with your game, and then laughed at her discomfort! And on her first night here!” She glared at him. “I am very disappointed in you.”

All my terror changed to gratification upon hearing him rebuked so thoroughly. Philip at least had the decency to look chagrined, his cheeks faintly flushed as he received his scolding.

Lady Caroline turned her attention to me. “You might suppose, based on my son’s behavior, that we have no sense of how to honor a guest in our home. Please believe me when I say that Philip’s actions do not reflect the values of our family.”

I glanced at Philip and noticed his jaw was clenched and his cheeks ruddy. How humiliating to be so scolded in front of a guest. A small bloom of compassion unfolded within me.

“Lady Caroline, I’m afraid you misunderstood. I knew that he was playing a game the whole time. In fact, I am probably responsible for what happened just now.” I glanced at him. He was watching me with an arrested expression. “I started this game at the inn last night and this is simply a continuation of it. So if you are angry with your son’s behavior as a host then you should also be angry with mine as a guest. I am sorry to have been the cause of such discord.”

Lady Caroline listened to my speech with surprise. “Well. If you are not offended, then I will not be angry.” Her voice had softened to its normal mildness. She looked from me to Philip in obvious curiosity. “It seems you two understand each other and would get along better without my interference. I apologize for scolding you, Philip.”

He smiled affectionately. “Mother, you should never apologize for scolding me. I am sure I would miss it if you ever stopped.”

She laughed and I sighed with relief. I did not have to sing, Lady Caroline was not angry, and Philip was not humiliated. Everything was comfortable again. Dessert was brought in, and during the momentary distraction, Philip turned to me with a warm look of gratitude.

“I deserved that rebuke, and you knew it. You should have enjoyed it instead of stepping in to save me.” His eyes narrowed as he contemplated me, as if I were a puzzle he could not quite put together. “Why did you do it?”

I shrugged, unable to explain even to myself why I had done it. “Deserved or not, I hated to see you embarrassed.”

He looked into my eyes for a quiet moment before leaning closer and saying, “I can see that you are just as powerful an ally as an opponent.”

Something passed between us then, in the quiet and the smiles that no one else appeared to notice. An agreement, it seemed. Perhaps even a truce.