Romancing Her Rival - Joanna Barker Page 0,10

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