Romancing Her Rival - Joanna Barker Page 0,44

him prying conversation from her that day that felt so long ago. She’d still been so certain he was a conniving cad, but he’d only acted like the gentleman he was.

The library doors stood open, left that way when Cole had interrupted her and Mother in the midst of their argument—one she could only hope he hadn’t overheard. Her smile faded. What would he say when he learned she had no dowry? She would have to tell him, if her suspicions about tomorrow were correct. But surely it would not matter. Surely he cared enough for her.

Something white on the floor just inside the library caught her eye. Daphne stepped closer and picked up a folded paper. She furrowed her brow. It was addressed to Cole. He must have dropped it earlier.

Without thinking, she absently opened the letter and read the first lines. But then she stopped. She stared. And then she read them again.

Was she understanding the words, or had her mother’s presence here drained all of her sense? Because it appeared that Cole had agreed to sell land to Mr. Steele, the man that Aunt Hartwell had opposed most vehemently the night of the ball. Had she changed her mind? Daphne gave a swift shake of her head. She knew far too well her aunt’s stubbornness. No, Aunt Hartwell could not have approved such an action.

I will abide by your wishes to postpone the actual sale until circumstances are appropriate, the note said. Clearly, Cole wished to finalize the sale after Aunt Hartwell left on her travels, when he would be in full control.

Her hands shook, and she nearly dropped the letter. She clutched it to her chest and ran up the stairs, locking herself in her room. She read the note again and again, but her interpretation did not change. It was perfectly clear: Cole was going directly against Aunt Hartwell’s wishes.

She set the letter on the mantel and paced away. She could hardly believe it. This was it. This was what she’d been hoping to find when she’d first arrived at Cheriton—proof that Cole was not perfect, that he had disobeyed Aunt Hartwell’s explicit instructions. But now that she had it…

Cole had to have a good reason, she scolded herself. Good intentions. He did nothing without thinking it through and weighing his options. It was not for her, who knew so very little about running an estate, to question him. And anyways, if tomorrow turned out the way she was so desperately hoping—

She gave a sharp nod, though the decision had been made nearly the second she’d realized what she’d read. Aunt Hartwell would never know about this letter. Daphne took the note and strode to the writing desk, slipping the letter inside the drawer and closing it with a satisfying thump.

“Miss Windham?”

Daphne spun, catching her balance on the desk. “Oh, Jenny, you startled me.”

“Sorry, miss.” Jenny’s eyes flicked to the desk behind her, but there was no suspicion in her face. “The housekeeper said you had a headache, so I brought some powders.” She held up a glass jar as evidence.

“Thank you,” Daphne said hurriedly. “How very kind of you.”

“Might I help you dress for bed?”

“No, no.” Daphne stepped forward to take the jar from her maid. “I think I just need a bit of quiet. I can manage for tonight, thank you.”

Jenny nodded, lips pressed together, then curtsied and left the room. Daphne sighed and set the jar on the vanity. She did feel a slight headache coming on, no doubt punishment for lying about one earlier. She changed into her nightrail and fell into bed, burying her face in her pillows. It did not matter, she told herself. If Cole could look beyond her penniless state and want to marry her, then she could keep secret his one small indiscretion.

That is, if he did want to marry her.

Daphne squeezed her eyes shut. Oh, how she prayed that the morning could bring the happiness she’d always longed for, in the form of a question she’d never imagined Cole asking.

She fell asleep envisioning how it would feel to say yes.

Chapter 13

Cole woke to a sharp and unrelenting knock at his door. Bleary eyed, he threw on his banyan and stumbled down the stairs to the front door, opening it just as Charles, the footman, raised his fist to knock again.

“I assume you know the time?” he growled. The sun hadn’t even risen yet, the eastern horizon a soft pink.

“Yes, sir.” Charles looked apologetic. “Sorry, sir.