Loving the Enemy

Chapter 13

Philip looked across from where he was seated on the picnic blanket at Miss Kendall's smiling visage as she chatted enthusiastically with those seated in her circle.

He noted darkly at Mr Thrupp and Lord Strafford who were paying particular attention towards her, nodding zealously and replying animatedly. While they were perfectly amiable men, and they might even succeed at having her fall in love them, but those swains would never be worthy of her.

He knew it as surely as the sun rose in the East.

Just as he never would be too.

He should have been pleased that Miss Kendall was keeping her distance from him. After this morning's encounter where it seemed — on hindsight — that she was using her feminine wiles to snare him, he'd worried that she would continue to put herself in his path.

He'd thought of a hundred ways to dissuade her, none of them successful. However, it seemed that his fretting was for naught as she didn't approach him. Not that she could have, for she still required the assistance of John the footman to move around, but she'd gone from being carried to a hobble. So, if she'd wanted, she could have sought him out.

But she didn't.

She didn't even look in his direction. And he knew, because he'd been watching for an inordinate amount of time.

He dragged his gaze away from her and looked down at the drink in his hand as a distraction, turning it this way and that so the lemonade rose and fell. But it brought to mind the pale yellow gown she wore the day before when she drunkenly demonstrated her amore for him.

It brought a grin to his face, but it also reminded him that they could never be.

Lifting his glass to his lips, he drained it dry in one go. He wished he had some stronger drink on hand, though he suspected nothing would ease the ache he felt. He thought he'd have gotten used to this pain by now, but it was a different sort from the one that had plagued him whenever he thought about his fallen men and comrades.

This twinge was reminiscent of the moment he realised — at the age of eleven — that he was somehow different from his siblings, though he didn't know what it was then, and his mother would never love him the same way she did the rest of her children, if at all.

And wasn't that the crux of the issue? If he'd known love, he'd be able to shower it upon she who deserved it. Because she was pure of heart and affectionate and generous, she deserved someone who could love her as she did others.

"Mr Wyndham has been staring at you for almost the entire time we've been here," Frederica said in a low voice so that the rest couldn't hear.

Adelaide reached for a grape as an excuse to shift her gaze to him. He wasn't looking at her at all; he was only looking at his drink. His melancholy air was a sharp contrast to the backdrop of sunny summer skies and light-hearted banter that surrounded him.

She wasn't quick enough to shove aside the grip of emotion on her heart, but she forced a serenity she didn't feel into her voice. "Has he? I hadn't noticed. It is his choice at whom he wishes to look at."

Frederica looked at in commiseration though she said nothing. Adelaide struggled to maintain composure, but her insides were tumultuous. Why would he keep looking at her and destroying her resolve to stay away from him? It couldn't be that he still had an interest in her when he'd clearly indicated his lack of wanting to further anything despite his attraction towards her.

Whatever he wanted, he best make his bed with it. He had no business trying to sway her with supposed longing looks and a dispirited demeanour.

Her mother suddenly produced some shuttlecocks and battledores to the cheer of some of the others. Frederica glanced at her as if to ask permission to leave her side to play and Adelaide smiled and nodded at her. There was no need for the two of them to be melancholy while she was injured, and only slightly at that. Her friend squeezed her hand encouragingly before joining the rest.