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.
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,