Friends and Foes (17 page)

“I see I have armed you quite dangerously.” He smiled in amused resignation.

Sorrel tossed the glass in the air and caught it expertly in her hand, a look of triumph on her face. “You shouldn’t hide behind all of this, Philip,” she said, gently patting the sleeve of his jacket, the one with buttons twice the size of a guinea. As if sensing her serious tone unnerved him, Sorrel flicked the folds of his cravat with her fingertips. “Especially this monstrosity.”

“You suggest I forgo cravats entirely?” Philip tried to look as horrified as a fop ought to have at such an affront to his personal fashion. “I would go straight from dandy to eccentric.”

“Just a different knot,” she corrected.

“Shall I track down my valet and demand he make another go of it?”

She looked thoughtful for a moment before shaking her head. Sorrel reached up and began tugging at the folds of his neckcloth. Philip certainly hadn’t been expecting that!

“You plan to strangle me?” he asked, trying to mask the damage her actions were wreaking on his equilibrium. She smiled a little and continued fussing.

Philip worked hard to swallow and breathe. Her fingers occasionally brushed against him, causing every hair on his neck to stand on end. If she didn’t stop soon, he was going to suffocate or collapse or kiss her. Just as Philip became convinced one of those outcomes was inevitable, she pushed away from him, her eyes narrowing as she focused on his cravat.

“That is a vast improvement,” she said as though surprised by the outcome. “A little wilted, perhaps, but much better.”

“Shall, um—” He cleared his throat and tried to organize his thoughts. “Shall we show off my new look to the others, then?”

“Just don’t tell my mother I had anything to do with it.” Sorrel allowed him to help her to her feet. Philip kept a reasonable distance between them—he still hadn’t entirely recovered from her ministrations. “She would collapse in a dead faint if she knew I’d done anything so unladylike.”

“I won’t say a word.” Philip worked on steadying his breathing.

Lampton War Tactic Number Twelve: The enemy should never be trusted with a neckcloth unless she promises to strangle the wearer.

“‘God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen.’ I insist.” Lady Lampton had been insisting on various carols for more than an hour. Her sons had objected to each, though their reluctance was obviously feigned.

Charlie groaned. “Oh, Mater. Not that one.”

“I did not give life to a gaggle of gentlemen only to have them object to such a fitting carol.” Lady Lampton gave them all a withering look.

“I refuse to risk Mater spilling my claret and ruining my newly corrected cravat,” Philip announced with arrogance Sorrel was beginning to suspect was entirely feigned. The blush she felt steal across her cheeks when he raised that overly expressive eyebrow at her was not feigned in the slightest. “‘God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen’ it is.”

A conspiratorial look spread through the group of Jonquils. They’d intended to honor their mother’s request, and everyone in the room, except Mater, seemed to realize as much. They made quite an impressive choir, in all honesty. Every male vocal part was accounted for, and they seemed to know the most intricate of harmonies for each carol requested. But, then, Philip had acknowledged caroling was a tradition of sorts.

The entire family came within a few inches of each other in height—even Charlie—who couldn’t have been more than seventeen. All the brothers were tall and slender. Only Layton didn’t fit the mold. He stood out from the others, and not simply because he was robust. He also seemed to lack the Jonquil joviality. Even Harold, whom Sorrel had overheard Layton and Philip refer to as “Holy Harry,” seemed more lighthearted than his second-eldest brother.

God rest ye merry, gentlemen. Let nothing you dismay . . .

Sorrel found her eyes drifting to Philip as the singing continued. She hardly noticed his ridiculously bright red waistcoat nor the dozen fobs dangling from his watch chain. She found his face far too mesmerizing. The most decidedly happy wrinkles appeared faintly around his eyes as he smiled. He sent looks to his brothers that communicated volumes about their years of connection and camaraderie. What an enigma the man was! At times he epitomized a self-absorbed dandy, and yet there were moments when he proved to be anything but.

The brothers had barely sung the first “tidings of comfort and joy” when a decided change came over Layton. His expression grew pensive, more withdrawn. He rather abruptly stopped singing and stood with his brows furrowed. By the time the group reached the middle of the second verse, Layton’s eyes wandered to the windows. A few lines later, his body followed.

The relaxed atmosphere the entire assembly had adopted made his departure easy to overlook. Guests stood about in clusters. The choir itself stood all around the pianoforte. But Philip, Sorrel noted, had taken notice of his brother’s defection. Philip’s expression grew concerned as soon as Layton’s voice dropped out. His eyes followed Layton to the window. But he continued singing with his remaining brothers and even managed a smile and a look of ease.

Sorrel saw his concern beneath the mask. Her eyes darted between the two men through the remainder of the song. Lady Lampton expressed her joy at her sons’ indulgence and apologized to the group in general for so monopolizing the evening. Lizzie laughed and dropped down at the pianoforte as the choir dispersed.

Sorrel wasn’t at all surprised to see Philip join Layton shortly after the carol ended. The conversation, though Sorrel could not hear a word, seemed tense. Philip appeared determined to be heard. Gone was the nonchalance of the Town Tulip, the fribble-obsessed attitude Philip had exuded the first time they met. He was, at that moment, nothing short of a mature, caring gentleman.

Layton waved off whatever Philip said. Philip laid a hand on his brother’s shoulder, obviously attempting to reach him somehow. The gesture was shrugged off. The two men stood in uneasy silence for a moment. Sorrel’s heart broke to see it. Though she didn’t understand what passed between them, Philip was obviously concerned for his brother but couldn’t seem to help.

Philip turned, a look of frustration on his face, and began making his way from the room. Suddenly seized with an almost overwhelming need to do something, Sorrel pulled herself to her feet. Marjie had crossed the room to Stanley’s side the minute the Jonquil caroling had concluded. No one objected to nor took note of Sorrel’s departure.

She moved more slowly than Philip. He had nearly slipped out of sight by the time she reached the corridor.

“Philip,” she called after him, wishing once again she moved as easily as she once had.

Ahead Philip stopped and turned back toward her. The look on his face was almost unrecognizable. Frustration. Agony. Bewilderment. Seeing it made Sorrel want to cry, and she
never
cried.

He seemed to take pity on her and closed the distance between them rather than make her stumble to where he stood. “Is my cravat wilting?” he asked, but the feigned dandified tone fell short.

“Will you walk with me?” Sorrel asked impulsively.

Philip couldn’t have looked more surprised. “Walk with you?”

“My limp is acting up.”

With a weak smile and a short bow, Philip offered his arm, and they began a slow stroll down the corridor. “Have you been neglecting to walk your limp, then?”

Sorrel nodded. A sadness had entered Philip’s eyes, making an answer all but impossible. Obviously he ached at his brother’s unhappiness. Sorrel felt her heart constrict with pain at the memory of a few less-than-flattering words she’d uttered about Philip’s shallowness. She’d seldom felt so ashamed of herself. She’d apparently severely misjudged him.

Philip interrupted her thoughts. “You seem pensive, Sorrel.”

“I might say the same about you,” she answered, watching him closely. “You seem concerned about your brother.”

“Which one?”

Sorrel really did feel ashamed of herself. The burden of his concerns was more than apparent in his face and tone of voice. She held more tightly to his arm hoping to somehow convey her support.

With a breath of frustration, Philip began a confession of sorts. “Corbin never has outgrown his paralyzing timidity. Jason is working himself to the bone. Stanley cannot seem to heal from the wounds of war—not all of which are physical. Harold retreats behind his studies. Charlie is in constant mischief.”

“And Layton?” She noticed he’d left out the brother who seemed to weigh heaviest on his mind.

A look of unsettling emotion flitted across Philip’s face. “I can’t even reach him anymore.” He spoke in little more than a whisper. “He was always my best friend. And now . . .” Philip shifted his jaw awkwardly and kept his eyes diverted. “Every time I see him, it’s as if . . . I’m . . .”

“Losing him?” Sorrel finished for him.

He replied with the slightest of nods. His pain-filled eyes focused somewhere down the vast, empty corridor. They’d stopped walking, though Sorrel didn’t think Philip realized it.

He let out a long, tense breath. Sorrel closed her arm more tightly around his.

“There. You’ve reduced the shallow dandy nearly to tears,” he said almost bitterly. “I suppose that would be a tactical victory.”

“Philip.” Sorrel couldn’t tear her eyes away from his face. “I shouldn’t have said you were shallow.”

He still didn’t look at her. Where was that easy smile? The carefree dandy had entirely disappeared.

“I hardly even knew you at the time. I was being unkind and judgmental. It has always been one of my faults.” Sorrel took a deep breath and steadied herself for confession. “Fennel told me I was doing it again.”

Philip looked at her finally, his curiosity obviously piqued. Suddenly she couldn’t bring herself to look at him. She studied the marble tile beneath her feet.

“I have made it a habit of mine to . . .” Heavens, she disliked admitting to personal shortcomings. “I have, since childhood, taken to fighting people who . . . who hurt me.”

“Have I hurt you, Sorrel?” Philip cupped her face with his hand, his tone soft and tender.

By pointing out what she already knew? By reminding her of her lost hopes and unattainable dreams? By forcing her to realize that more was broken two years earlier than her leg? Yes. It had hurt. It hurt a great deal.

“I have known from the moment I awakened after the incident with the horse that all my . . .” Sorrel fought the sudden flood of emotion her words were creating “. . . expectations, my . . . dreams were shattered. If I lived, which was not entirely certain at the time, my life would be fundamentally different from the one I had always imagined. I knew no one would ever see anything but my injuries.” Sorrel felt a warm tear escaping her eyes. She never cried! “I did not particularly enjoy hearing all of that delineated so succinctly by a stranger.”

“I was that stranger, then?” Philip brushed the tear from her cheek.

“Reminding me that society could never overlook what had become of me.”

“Sorrel—”

“And that a lady with a limp could never be beautiful.” Sorrel felt another tear slip, and she hated herself all the more for it. “Yes. That hurt.”

“Did I really say such idiotic things?”

Sorrel couldn’t bring herself to look at him. She hadn’t intended the conversation to become a confessional.

“Then let me say this, Miss Sorrel Kendrick.” He gently nudged her face until she had to look at him once more. “Your walking stick is a positively endearing affectation. Your limp is quite easily overshadowed by your wit. And”—he narrowed his gaze as if to emphasize his words—“you are inexplicably beautiful.”

No one had ever before called her beautiful. Her father, no doubt, would have chastised her for her vanity if he’d known how much she enjoyed hearing Philip praise her as he had. Sorrel closed her eyes in a futile attempt to steady her emotions. She hadn’t cried in years. How had mere words reduced her to tears?

“Sorrel.” Philip’s voice reached her ears as little more than a husky whisper. She felt his hand slide to the nape of her neck and pull her tenderly toward him. She could feel his breath on her cheek but didn’t dare open her eyes. “I don’t want to be your enemy. I don’t want that at all.”

“And what of our war?” she asked as he feathered kisses across her forehead.

“I suggest we negotiate a peace agreement.” He kissed her cheek.

“I’ve told you before—I do not retreat,” Sorrel warned, her heart pounding so hard she could hardly speak.

“Then I surrender.”

His lips brushed hers, so lightly she wasn’t entirely sure she’d been kissed. Philip whispered her name before pressing his lips to hers with more fervor. Sorrel grasped her walking stick as tightly as possible, afraid her aching limb would give way and tear her from a kiss she was only beginning to realize she’d been longing for from almost the moment she’d met her erstwhile enemy.

Philip’s arms wrapped around her, holding her so protectively she hardly needed her cane. All her weight seemed to lift off her leg, and relief she hadn’t known in years spread through her body. Seemingly on their own, Sorrel’s arms wound around Philip’s neck as she returned his kisses. Her walking stick slipped from her grasp and hit the floor with an echoing clang.

“A peace offering, my dear?” Philip asked, pulling back far enough to smile at her. “Abandoning the highly disputed affectation?”

Sorrel laughed and laid her head against him.

“This seems a highly efficient way of eliminating one’s enemies.” Philip chuckled. “Too bad I didn’t think of it sooner.”

“You mean you don’t kiss all of your enemies?” Sorrel attempted to sound surprised.

“Do you?” Philip responded far too seriously. Sorrel only offered a noncommittal laugh.

“Let’s walk that limp of yours, dear,” Philip said, bending down to pick up her walking stick. “We can discuss your war tactics and every ‘enemy’ you’ve ever had.”

The man sounded jealous, Sorrel thought with a smile. She laughed again. Philip kissed her hand before tucking it into the crook of his arm. They walked in companionable silence. Sorrel realized that, for the first time in recent years, she was grinning.