Loving the Enemy

By P. Phoenix

What happens when you put two people who don't want to be together in a week-long country house party?

Adelaide Kendall has hated Philip Wyndham far longer than she had been in love with him (which was all of five days). Philip Wyndham has lusted after his good friend's sister far longer than he wants to (and she needs to keep away from him). So when they're forced to inhabit the same space for one week, what else could possibly happen except for...loving the enemy?

• Language: English
• Publisher: P. Phoenix
• Release date: Jun 22, 2022
• ISBN: 9780463618080

P. Phoenix

P. Phoenix's attempts to write started when she was but a young girl. So many characters lived in her head and she enjoyed seeing them come to life in her stories. About as much as she enjoyed reading about other characters. After numerous starts and one valiant attempt later, she finally managed to churn out something half decent that she would like to share with the world. Her first published work, Loving the Enemy, is finally seeing the light of the world.

Book preview

Loving the Enemy

By P. Phoenix

Smashwords Edition

Copyright

This work is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

© Alexandra Pang 2022

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favourite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Table of Contents

Copyright

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Epilogue

Sneak Preview

About the Author

Dedication

To my parents, for giving me the gift of literacy, and books.

And to you, dear reader, for picking up my first courageous attempt.

Trigger Warning:

Some mention of PTSD, repression of forward-thinking ideas, and extramarital affairs.

Allusions to verbal childhood abuse and emotional childhood trauma.

Prologue

14 June 1808

Dearest Beatrice,

I. Am. In. Love. Words cannot describe the rapture I’m feeling! The sun must have shone the brightest today, for I was blinded by the brilliant rays that reflected off the handsomest man I’d ever seen! He is a god amongst Man (though I haven’t seen many young men) but I shan’t ever be able to look at another without comparing the mortals to the god I saw today. Even Narcissus would shun his own reflection to gaze upon this perfect specimen.

You must be bursting with curiosity about this creature that I have declared myself in love with! A part of me is loathe to share with you who he is for I am sure you would be my rival, but I cannot keep him a secret. He is Garrett’s friend from Eton! His name is Philip Wyndham and the second son of the Earl of Dover.

Philip Wyndham. Such a wondrous name. Do you not think so too, my dearest friend? It rolls off the tongue so smoothly, like a drop of morning dew tumbling off a leaf.

I have imagined to myself a thousand times how I would be introduced next time. The Right Honourable Mrs Wyndham. Mrs Philip Wyndham. Does it not sound divine? I can hardly breathe whenever I think about it. I am well aware that I am but eleven and he sixteen, and there will be many years before we can marry (although I would have reached the age of consent for marriage come February next year, but I doubt Papa would consent though I can be very persuasive…) but I know I will marry him and he will not disagree.

He is to stay with us for the week. Such a short time but I shan’t dwell on the shortness of it. I will remind myself that I have seven days upon which I can gaze his masculine countenance. I know not if I would have the courage to converse with him without being reduced to a stuttering mess. But I shall endeavour to say a few words to him for his voice is as divine as his face. The low timbre sends shivers through my body, as if his words have touched every part of me. I cannot miss this chance.

As my dearest friend, I have to give you fair warning, for you will be inundated with my letters about him in the coming weeks and months and years until I’m married to him. I think even after I’m married, I will never tire of him and you will be bored to tears by my endless effusive praise of him.

Your friend in love,

Adelaide

*

20 June 1808

Dearest Beatrice,

I hate him! He is the most odious boy I have ever met and I am so ashamed that I fancied myself in love with that horrid person. If you still have that letter from me that I wrote to you the other day, please burn it at once! I cannot have such embarrassing correspondence lying around. Even as I write to you, I can feel my cheeks burning up. In mortification or anger I know not. Maybe both. For he is surely the world’s most odious toad! (I have repeated myself but it bears repeating!)

Wipe all thoughts of Mrs Wyndham from your mind! I have scrubbed him from my memory. Who he is to me is a nobody and he will remain that way for as long as I breathe.

You cannot convince me otherwise, Beatrice. My tender heart no longer cares a whit for that rude person. And to think I thought him a kind, intelligent soul! It is humiliating to even think I carried a tendresse for him.

I loathe the fact that tears are gathering in my eyes as I’m writing this to you. I’m thoroughly vexed by my broken heart and lingering feelings.

You must be confused dear friend. I apologise. I shall now summarise the events of yesterday after I sent off that (now too impulsively written) letter to you.

As my (shameful) letter stated, I approached him so that I might have the chance to hear his voice. I had thought the contents of his speech would bear no import, that as long as I had the opportunity to hear him speak, I would be in utter bliss. How wrong I was! I should have paid better mind and not ignore this seemingly little detail. He spoke such harsh words of ridicule that blistered my ears. He didn’t speak them in any other company, for I had caught him unawares in the library. Alone. But the words he used…I cannot bear to repeat them. Just know that he finds me irksome and a pest. There I have used at least one of his words. Pest. Oh drat. The letter is now tear-stained.

I will go now and wipe my tears away. I will write again when I am more composed.

Your forlorn friend,

Adelaide

*

25 June 1809

Dearest Beatrice,

He has come! I cannot believe my eyes. Why is he here again? Mama said he might not come although Garrett invited him.

I’m gnashing my teeth in frustration as I write to you. I’m utterly dismayed that my heart still races every time I see him and my palms become a little damp. It is because I’m angry about his rudeness, I suspect. It cannot be because I still nurse some feelings for him. I loathe him! Completely. Absolutely. Wholeheartedly.

More than anything, I utterly hate that he is still so handsome, and that a lock of hair would curl over his forehead every time he looks down at something. He looks to be taller than when I last saw him. Yet, he doesn’t look misshapen at all. How that is possible is beyond me. I remember Johnny the stablehand growing many inches as if overnight and he looked to be like Jack’s beanstalk. But not Wyndham. He is perfectly proportionate, the hateful boy. I wish he would look like Jack’s beanstalk. Then my heart wouldn’t beat faster and I would be able to look him haughtily in the eye without flinching.

He would be here for a week.

An entire seven days.

A 168 hours.

An eternity.

I am already counting down the hours till he leaves. Please say you will come every day to play with me. I cannot bear to be left alone with my dark thoughts and exasperation. Or maybe I should have you invite me over and we can walk into the town centre although Mama said it is dangerous. But anywhere is infinitely better than breathing the same air as him.

I await your reply eagerly.

Your anxious friend,

Adelaide

*

1 July 1810

Dearest Beatrice,

Why must Garrett still be friends with that repulsive oaf? I was overjoyed when Mother said he wouldn’t be coming in June. Definitely overjoyed. There was no little kernel of disappointment I felt at not being able to see him. Really. Nothing could have made me happier. They had planned for a trip to his family’s seaside estate with some of their friends. However, when the trip is to be concluded, they would come here. My joy splintered into a thousand pieces. I secretly hoped he would drown during the trip and I wouldn’t have to see him again.

But of course, I would not be so lucky as for that to happen. He entered the doors of our house yesterday evening looking as hale as ever. If anything, he looks taller and even more handsome than last year. I cannot fathom why he is always growing more than me. I have grown taller too. But he still towers over me like a veritable giant. In fact, he is taller than Garrett by a smidgen (well, if I were to be truly honest, by nearly half a head).

Maybe instead of wishing he won’t stop growing, I should wish that he continues to grow, until he can no longer fit comfortably in a carriage or through the door. Or he would grow so tall that if he were in the house, his head would touch the ceiling and he’d bump into the chandeliers. Much like Gulliver in Gulliver’s Travels.

The hot wax would drip onto his smooth cheeks and his hair would catch fire. Oh, that would be an amusing sight indeed.

I am thoroughly pleased I have conjured up this scene. I shall be able to go to bed tonight thinking of this farcical image instead of dwelling on the unpleasant fact that my breath still catches in my throat every time my eyes fall upon him.

Your gleeful friend,

Adelaide

*

1 August 1811

Dearest Beatrice,

We have just returned from his father’s funeral. Wyndham is now his brother’s heir. And today, I learnt that because Wyndham is still the heir presumptive, not the heir apparent, he will not be able to use the courtesy title — which is reserved for the new Lord Dover’s future male child. Wyndham will still be Wyndham, not a lord. However, Mama says that doesn’t change the fact that Wyndham is still the brother of an earl.

I hadn’t wanted to go but I could not find a suitable excuse with which to give Mama to beg off from this engagement. She declared the whole family would attend the funeral since Garrett is his good friend.

My first funeral and it had to be that of the father of my enemy. Would that it be his funeral instead that I were going to, then I would gladly attend so that I might gleefully declare myself finally free of his offensive existence.

Though his death would certainly bring me great joy, I now know the immense grief it would cost others. I suppose that because they were bereft that his mother was unnaturally still, as were his older siblings, while they were seated at the pews in the church. I never knew he had sisters (though I suppose I wouldn’t have ever had the chance to find out since we never have any polite conversation) and though their countenance were emotionless, they were still very pretty in their black gowns and veiled hats.

The whole affair was quite solemn. I freely admit that I fell asleep at some point while the vicar was delivering his sermon. Only when it was time for the coffin to be lowered into the ground did I wake up. We trudged outside to a gloomy sky with the smell of newly turned earth in the air.

After the coffin was put into the ground, Wyndham stepped forth to release a fistful of soil over the coffin. His blank gaze didn’t surprise me. A blackguard such as him wouldn’t feel anything at the death of his father. I, however, would definitely be distraught. Incoherent even. I cannot bear the death of Papa. I will surely die!

Tears are dripping down my cheeks at the thought of Papa dying. I will stop now so I may dry my face.

Your sombre friend,

Adelaide

*

2 May 1812

Dearest Beatrice,

I was finally allowed to accompany Mama and Papa to the night assembly at the town centre as part of the May Day festivities! They told me it is rowdier than what the balls in London would be like when I would go after my come-out. I didn’t mind the noise much or the raucous laughter. It was such fun! I couldn’t dance yet but there were many young men at the assembly - tradesmen and merchants’ sons and some of the landed gentry. It was a feast for the eyes! I’m now giggling even as I recall the admiring eyes and long appreciative gazes they aimed at me. It did my pride wonders to know that I turned quite a few heads. Some of them even turned my head! Though Papa wouldn’t ever let them near me, let alone introduce them to me, I felt there was no harm looking at them. They, of course, had no qualms looking back at me. The roguish grins or some of their faces quite heated my cheeks!

Then he had to go ruin everything by turning up at the assembly with Garrett. All the enjoyment I had vanished like the morning dew drying up in the sun’s rays.

He came forward and greeted Mama and Papa cordially, and because I was with them, he had to greet me too. He was a veritable gentleman, lifting a hand so I had no choice but to place my own gloved one in his lest I look like a churlish fool. He bowed over it very prettily and the heat that emanated from his fingers as he gripped mine wasn’t pleasant. I couldn’t remove my hand fast enough from his. I most certainly didn’t notice the fine cut of his coat and breeches or the way the stockings hugged his long, tapered calves. His shoes gleamed in the candlelight and the buttons of his coat shone like the surface of a pond in the morning sun.

He stood quite close to me afterwards and I am appalled to say that I grew uncomfortably warm. The next thing that happened was probably the strangest I had ever encountered. I knew I put some distance between the two of us for I very consciously inched away carefully when he wasn’t looking. However, he always still seemed to be just mere inches away from me every time I glanced at him out of the corner of my eye. How was that possible? Or maybe the question I should ask is why? We never got along and would desperately want to part ways the moment we are forced to be in each other’s company. So why would he deign to integrate himself in my presence tonight? It puzzles me so.

We probably spoke the most number of neutral words last night than we ever had over the last few years. He offered to bring me some punch but my parents declined on my behalf. He asked after my parents’ health, including me in the conversation, so I was left with no option but to reply that I was well and to return the courtesy of asking after his. He murmured some platitude. There was a short pause before he suddenly thanked us for coming to the funeral (again) although it had been almost year ago. It was ridiculous but manners dictated that I offer my condolences although he was no longer in mourning. After which, the silence grew stilted and I wished for him to dance with some chit so I could be left alone without feeling like I wanted to crawl out of my skin.

I got my wish, for he did decide that he wanted to dance. And who would he choose but me! I daresay my shock would rival that which the citizens of Troy must have felt when the Greeks emerged from the Trojan horse to slaughter them. Before I could reply, Papa turned him down and said I was here only as an observer - a taste of the marriage season if you will were his exact words (although that would not happen for at least a year or two. Mama hasn’t quite made up her mind about when she would present me at court).

He nodded and shrugged before bowing and moving off to find a partner to dance with. I frowned at his retreating back which seemed to move fairly hastily away from us despite the crush of the crowd. Even now, as I recall this peculiar incident, I cannot stop my heart from beating faster or my cheeks becoming heated. One would think that I would be used to my irritation with him or his imposing figure by now. Unfortunately, my traitorous body has other ideas. It is also coupled with the fact that my first public assembly and he had to be the one to ask for a dance. I pray fervently that when I make my debut, he would not be the first to ask for a dance then. I would not survive the encounter.

Your unsettled friend,

Adelaide

*

15 June 1813

Dearest Beatrice,

He has gone to war. I could scarcely believe my ears when Mama read the letter Garrett had sent. Mama exclaimed, He’s the heir! Why would he go to war? It is just not done. His mother thinks the same but she couldn’t stop him from signing a commission after he finished Cambridge. So Garrett is returning home alone to take up his duties as Papa’s heir, while the heir presumptive to the Dover earldom is marching across France to fight against Napoleon.

The deaths have been numerous, Beatrice, and now that I am old enough to understand, it is a terrible tragedy. I have been to help Papa whenever he meets his tenants and the young lives ruined because of the war is so very heart-breaking. I know not how the mothers and wives bear it but bear it they do. They tell Papa that life must carry on, so that they might survive. It seems that bravery isn’t only found in the trenches of war.

As much as he is my enemy, I would not wish harm upon his person. Or his family. I never thought I would ever write these words down, but I pray that he would return to us safely.

Only for his family’s sake, of course.

Your worried friend lost in thought,

Adelaide

Chapter 1

5 July 1815, London

With the start of each Parliamentary session comes the Season, and London becomes even more of a bustling city than it already is. Townhouses that have stood vacant for months on end can finally have their shutters and doors be opened and aired, the dust covers over the furniture within lifted and shaken, the silverware stored in cupboards washed and polished.

The young marriageable women and their mothers would descend en masse on the shops along Bond Street to ready themselves for the rounds of parties and balls and assemblies in the hopes of finding a husband.

Adelaide’s mother was no exception. They had attended endless rounds, but they hadn’t been successful.

However, they were near the end of the Season now. Parliament was due to close in a week and the aristocracy was preparing to decamp to their country estates. But Lady Healey hadn’t yet given up hope.

Hence, they were out for a soiree at Lady Holland’s. The countess had invited a number of those she considered her acquaintance and Adelaide was fortunate that her mother could count herself as one of those who was close enough to be issued an exclusive invitation.

She should have danced every dance and beguiled the gentlemen in attendance — who were many since Lady Holland was also hoping for her daughter to make a good match