Romancing Her Rival - Joanna Barker Page 0,43
of prospects. Her future had been stolen away from her, piece by piece.
“It would have been deceitful,” Daphne said softly. “How could I allow any man to engage himself to me when our finances were nothing but a lie?”
“A little lie is nothing in exchange for a good marriage. Now you will have to settle for Mr. Roberts, so I hope you enjoyed clinging to your integrity.”
“I have other options, Mother.” He could almost picture Daphne, shoulders pulled back and eyes alight. “I am of age to make my own choices.”
Mrs. Windham made an odd noise, like she was strangling a laugh. “Options. Of course. Like wishing Aunt Hartwell had never changed her mind and named that wretched man heir instead of you.”
“He isn’t wretched.”
The two women were silent for a long moment, then Mrs. Windham spoke. “Where is this defiance coming from? Perhaps allowing you to come here alone was a mistake.”
Cole blanched. What would she say next? Would she demand Daphne return with her to London? Daphne had been surprisingly resilient so far, but he did not know if she would disobey her mother so directly.
He shuffled his feet and fiddled with the door handle, then opened the door and pretended surprise at seeing Daphne and Mrs. Windham a few feet away. “Oh, pardon me. I thought you’d both gone into the drawing room already.”
Daphne stared at him a moment, then dropped her gaze, her cheeks reddening. Did she suspect he’d heard their conversation? Mrs. Windham quickly pasted on a false smile.
“I just needed a word with Daphne before we joined Aunt Hartwell,” she said smoothly.
He stepped forward, offering his arm to Daphne. “Shall we, then?” He gestured for Mrs. Windham to walk ahead, which she did with a barely concealed glower.
Daphne’s steps were slow and heavy as she walked beside him, her lips pressed tightly together.
“Are you all right?” he whispered.
She shook her head. “Not in the least,” she said, her voice fragile. “I forgot how it feels to be trapped beneath her heel.”
He wanted to take her in his arms then, like he had the night of the ball. No one should be made to feel as she had, and certainly not by one’s own mother. Protectiveness surged within him, clawing at his chest. Mrs. Windham could not be allowed to treat Daphne this way. And yet, what right did he have to interfere? He was only her friend. He could do nothing.
But if he were her husband…
Just the day before, he’d forced himself to wait, wanting to be sure his heart was ready—that Daphne was ready. But Mrs. Windham had hastened everything. He could wait no longer. He had to act.
“Daphne.” He pulled her to a halt. “Will you meet me tomorrow morning? Ten o’clock at the kissing gate?”
She looked up at him, startled. “Why?”
He glanced ahead at Mrs. Windham, and Daphne followed his gaze. They could not speak freely here. “Will you?” he pressed.
She hesitated only a moment more, then nodded. “Ten o’clock,” she repeated, her hand tightening on the crook of his elbow.
“I’ll be waiting,” he promised.
Mrs. Windham glanced back and they hurried to follow her again, but not before Cole caught the slightest smile on Daphne’s lips and the hint of a blush across her cheeks. It was a good sign, he told himself.
It had to be, or he’d be making a blasted fool of himself when he proposed tomorrow.
Chapter 12
Daphne could only bear a half hour with her mother in the drawing room after dinner. Even with Cole sending her reassuring looks every few minutes and Aunt Hartwell’s remarkable stoicism, Daphne soon claimed a headache and excused herself, leaving the other three to certain awkwardness.
It wasn’t just her mother, though, that caused her to need peace and quiet. Why had Cole asked her to meet the next morning? What did he have to say that could not be said now?
Hope—that dratted, blasted hope—sprung unchecked inside her. He couldn’t possibly… That is, he couldn’t mean to…
She rubbed her forehead as she strode down the corridor toward the stairs. He wouldn’t propose, would he?
It did not seem so hard to imagine now, not after their time together on the beach and the earnestness in his eyes when he’d asked her to meet at the kissing gate. The kissing gate, of all places! If he’d had anything less monumental to discuss than marriage, could he not do it in the garden or library?
She passed the library now, and she smiled at the memory of