Читать книгу The Wife Campaign - Regina Scott - Страница 12

Chapter Four

Ruby whirled to find the earl standing in the doorway. This morning he was once more dressed in his fishing clothes, a rough cravat knotted at his throat. Something stirred inside her at the sight. Had he sought her company, or was he looking for Henrietta Stokely-Trent? Or did that pleasant smile mask dismay to find his peaceful library disturbed?

“Good morning, Miss Stokely-Trent, Miss Hollingsford,” he said, venturing into the room.

Henrietta Stokely-Trent went to meet him. “Do you not find that tedious, the whole Stokely-Trent business? Perhaps you could call me Henrietta.”

Bold, Ruby thought, turning to pluck another book from the shelf at random and flipping to a center page, the leather rough beneath her fingers. Could she say such a thing to a fellow? Hollingsford is such a long name. Call me Ruby. She winced at the thought.

But Lord Danning didn’t seem to be offended. “I would be honored, Henrietta,” he replied, and out of the corners of her eyes Ruby saw him bow. “I am generally called Danning.”

Ruby wrinkled her nose. Danning. His title. She’d have preferred to call him Whit. It far better suited the angler.

“You have a fine library, Danning,” Henrietta said. “An excellent mix of literature.”

He chuckled, and the sound was like a warm wave, lapping Ruby. “I stock this room with some of my favorites,” he confessed. “So I imagine it must seem rather eclectic. You should see the library at Calder House in London. My father was something of a collector. He had an early fragment of the Odyssey and a Shakespearean first folio.”

Impressive, Ruby thought, glancing over at them despite her best effort.

Henrietta had clasped her hands in delight. “Oh, Danning,” she said breathlessly as if he’d laid the riches of the Nile at her feet. “I would love to see them.”

“Stop by anytime you’re in London,” he offered. “I’ll tell my staff to expect you and your parents.”

Generous. Was Whit truly as noble as he seemed? Henrietta must have thought so, for Ruby could see her blushing with obvious pleasure.

Ruby shifted, facing the bookshelf once more. She wished she could snatch up her apple and quit the room, let Whit get on with courting if that’s what he wanted. Unfortunately, he and Henrietta Stokely-Trent stood between her and the door, and Ruby had been placed in the position of serving as chaperone.

“How kind of you, my lord,” Henrietta murmured. “I wonder, would you recommend a book? I’m having trouble choosing among so many excellent tomes.”

And there she went again! How well Henrietta played the game of flirtation. While Ruby enjoyed a good tease now and again, she balked at the veiled insinuations, the fulsome compliments, that seemed part and parcel to the way aristocrats talked to one another. Even her father had gotten into the habit of tossing out praise long before he knew whether it was merited.

“Is there something in particular you enjoy?” Whit asked.

Ruby glanced at the couple in time to see Henrietta flutter her lashes and lean closer. Was she actually asking for a kiss?

Well, if Ruby was stuck playing chaperone, perhaps she should embrace the role. She strode forward and thrust her book at Henrietta. “You might try this one.”

Henrietta snapped upright, gray eyes narrowing to silver as if she knew exactly why Ruby was so eager to step between her and Whit. As far as Ruby could tell, the bluestocking ought to be glad it was only Ruby who’d caught her in such brazen behavior. Her mother would likely have boxed her ears!

Whit, however, glanced at the title on the spine, and his face lit. “The Compleat Angler. Excellent choice, Miss Hollingsford. One of my favorites. You cannot go wrong with Izaak Walton, Henrietta. He made this area famous.”

Henrietta’s gaze drew back to his, and she smiled. “Well, then of course I will read it, Danning.” She accepted the book from Ruby with a reluctance that belied her words. “Especially as you praise it so highly. I take it the book wasn’t to your liking, Miss Hollingsford.”

She meant to disparage Ruby. Why did these Society women have to make everything a competition? “Oh, I’m sure it’s an excellent book,” Ruby replied with a smile as false as the bluestocking’s. “It is only that I tend to prefer to learn a skill by doing. Driving a curricle, boxing, shooting.”

Henrietta arched her dark brows as if she doubted Ruby could do any of those things.

“Do you know Mr. Walton agrees with you?” Whit put in smoothly. “He believes one can only truly become an angler by practicing.” He brightened. “And speaking of practicing, would either of you care to join me at the river this morning for a short while before the others finish with breakfast?”

Ruby glanced out the window, where the gray light confirmed the tapping she could hear on the glass. “It’s still raining.”

“A mere passing shower,” he assured her. “And the rain on the water further disturbs it so that the fish rise to feed.”

He seemed to know what he was talking about, face shining in earnest anticipation. But Henrietta, unlike the fish, refused to rise to his bait.

“I fear I neglected to bring the appropriate attire,” she said. “But I shall read about Walton’s approach, and perhaps you would be so good as to compare it to your own when you return, Danning.”

Whit inclined his head. “Delighted, Henrietta. Until then.”

The bluestocking glanced at Ruby. “Coming, Miss Hollingsford?”

Though the request was a question, she seemed to expect instant obedience. After all, if she left, Ruby and Whit would be alone, for all the door was open. Ruby knew she should go, too, but she didn’t particularly want to spend more time with the woman. “I need to pick a book,” Ruby demurred.

Face tight, Henrietta excused herself.

Ruby felt Whit’s gaze on her. His head was cocked as if he were trying to understand what she was about, his purple-blue eyes holding a sparkle as if he appreciated the way she’d handled herself. “And did you, too, wish a recommendation, Miss Hollingsford?”

Ruby shook her head. “I’m quite capable of determining what I like and don’t like, my lord.”

“And what do you like?” he asked.

You. Ruby felt her face flaming and dropped her gaze, glad that she hadn’t spoken the word aloud. She knew the dangers of getting too close to an aristocrat. It never ended well for the cit.

But being little miss subservient would hardly help matters.

“I’m partial to Shakespeare,” she said, forcing her gaze back up. “His comedies, like A Midsummer Night’s Dream and The Taming of the Shrew.”

He raised a brow, but she couldn’t tell whether it was from surprise that she’d be so well read or amusement that she might resemble that shrew a bit too much. “So you, too, prefer to spend the morning reading rather than fishing,” he said.

“I fear I lack the dedication to stand in the rain, my lord,” she replied. Then she grinned up at him. “But I’ll be delighted to help you eat the fruits of your labors.”

He laughed, and again she felt warmed. “Let’s simply hope my labor bears fruit.” He sobered as if remembering his duty. “Will you be all right until I return?”

What, should she swoon from lack of his uplifting presence? “I’m sure I can find ways to entertain myself, my lord. You must have more than fishing tracts in this library. Go, catch your fish. I’ll try to keep the rest of them out of your hair for a half hour at least.”

* * *

A half hour to fish! It was less than he needed but more than he’d hoped for when he’d descended the stairs that morning. And he couldn’t believe how grateful he felt for the reprieve. He bowed to Ruby Hollingsford, quite in charity with her, and headed for his fishing closet.

Of course, it took him nearly a quarter hour to collect his accoutrements—his book of flies, his ash rod and brass reel and a leather coat slicked with paraffin to keep off the rain—and then reach the River Bell and set up for his first cast. Already rain ran in rivulets down his face and body.

Glorious. In the deep pool just beyond, he knew, the King of Trout lay waiting. All Whit had to do was cast.

He pulled out a length of silk line with one hand, then began to whip the rod back and forth, watching as the line lengthened. It floated across the stream. The fly kissed the top of the pool and hung there, tantalizing.

“Come on,” Whit murmured. “Where are you?”

Something silver flashed in the depths, and his breath caught. He reeled in his line, checked that his fly—black body with white wings, one of the best he’d tied—was secure, then drew back his arm again. He’d been coming to this pool for twenty years, since his father had introduced him to the fine art of angling at ten. And still he hadn’t managed to convince the wily King to take a bite.

He tried closer in, giving the rod an elegant flick. The fly landed as lightly as if it had been alive. He thought he saw another flash of silver, but the King did not rise.

“Come on,” Whit urged him again. “I used to have all summer to play with you, my lad. Now I’m lucky to have a fortnight.”

A fortnight he was going to have to share with his guests.

He pushed the thought away. He had now; that was all that mattered. He inhaled the scents of Derbyshire, brought out by the rain—damp earth, orchids, new growth. His hectic world dwindled to this place, this time. Something about fishing, the rhythm, the river, opened his heart, his soul.

He leadeth me beside the still waters; He restoreth my soul.

Prayer came naturally.

Lord, thank You for even this time to fish. Help me survive this house party. I know I must eventually wed to secure the line of succession. I only wish You’d send me a woman who would stir my heart the way my mother stirred my father’s.

A memory rose through the rain. He’d been standing here by the river, fishing alongside his father, a few years after his mother’s death. It had been early morning, the sun barely peeking over the hills to the east. Even the birds had been still.

Do you miss Mother? Whit had asked.

His father’s arm had stilled in midcast. Every moment of every day. That’s what happens when your wife becomes a part of you, Whit.

The devotion in his voice, the awe on his face, still spoke to Whit. He took a great pride in doing his duty, but when it came to marrying he refused to settle for anything less than that same love. Surely the Lord understood and would honor that.

“My lord! Danning!”

Whit pulled up his rod and glanced over his shoulder. The rain continued to pour, pounding the rocky shore and the grassy slope above it. Standing on the sodden hill was Ruby Hollingsford, an already bedraggled plaid parasol held over her head, her wine-colored velvet pelisse hanging heavily.

“My lord,” she called. “It’s been two hours. You are needed inside.”

Two hours? Guilt added weight to his rod as he reeled in. A house full of guests and a truant host. Yet none of them had sought him but Ruby.

She shivered as he bent to retrieve his book of flies then moved to join her.

“Thank you, Miss Hollingsford,” he said as they started up the slope. He reached for her elbow to assist her, but she was busy trying to angle the parasol to cover him, as well.

He waved her back. “Are my guests at their wits’ end?”

“If they aren’t, you soon will be,” she predicted. “Lady Wesworth insisted that Lady Amelia practice on the spinet, the same song over and over for the last hour.”

Whit inwardly cringed.

“Then your cousin Mr. Calder tried to interest everyone in another round of whist, but Mr. Stokely-Trent refused to continue playing and implied that Mr. Calder cheated.”

He’d have to intervene there. Though Charles had perpetual trouble balancing his finances, he had too much honor to cheat.

“Not to be outdone,” she concluded, “my father fell asleep while Mrs. Stokely-Trent was lecturing him on the proper way to discipline a daughter. I was the only one to be pleased by that turn of events.”

Whit wanted to smile at the picture, but he could not help feeling a little responsible for the behavior of his guests. He was their host, after all. As far as they knew, he’d invited them here. If they were bored, it was his fault. Shouldn’t he do something to see to their needs?

As if Ruby suspected his feelings on the matter, she laid her free hand on his arm. “You have two choices as I see it, my lord. Either give them some task to work on other than snaring you or provide them with some entertainment.”

Whit nodded as they reached the house. “Excellent advice, but neither Lady Wesworth nor the Stokely-Trents strike me as delighting in a job well done.”

“Unless it was for charity,” she suggested as he opened the door for her to his fishing closet, the quickest way into the house. “The only place I’ve ever seen an aristocrat roll up his sleeves was in the name of a good cause. At the very least then he might take some of the credit!”

A rather dismal view of his kind, but he knew to his sorrow that some of the lords and ladies of London approached life in just that manner. He’d had to argue his peers out of some ridiculous plans for the orphan asylum that would have benefited them far more than the orphans they claimed to want to help.

“Has Derby no indigent farmers who need gloves knitted?” she asked, gazing up at him. “No aged widows who require a song to brighten their day?”

Her eyes were liberally lashed a shade darker than her hair, and he found himself drawing closer as surely as he did the call of the stream. He had to force himself to turn away to hang up his rod. “I fear Dovecote Dale is remarkably free of troubled souls.”

Obviously caught by his gesture, she glanced about, then thrust out her lower lip as if impressed. “What an interesting room.”

He supposed it was. He only knew of a few others in existence. Originally designed as a sort of study, his father had replaced the papered walls with white paneling from which hung shelves, hooks and cupboards to store all their fishing gear.

“My father had it built,” he explained. “Fern Lodge was his fishing retreat, after all. Why not dedicate a room to it?” He grinned at her. “And the staff is quite pleased to find my mud generally confined to one room.”

She closed her parasol and hung it on the wall with a nod of approval. Then she looked over at him. “A shame you don’t have more rooms in the house. At least then you could separate your guests. If there are no charities in the area, I fear entertainment it must be if you hope to survive this fortnight, my lord.”

“Whit,” he said, pulling off his dripping coat and hanging it up. “If I am to be on a first-name basis with the other ladies, I should be with you, as well.”

“Whit,” she said slowly as if trying it out, and something about the way she said it felt like a benediction. Then she frowned. “But you told Henrietta Stokely-Trent to call you Danning.”

He had, but only because she’d been so bold as to force her first name on him. “Most of my acquaintances call me Danning. My father always called me Whit. He said I would be known by one title or another my entire life, so I should have a name that was mine alone.”

To his surprise, she blushed and lowered her gaze. “Whit it shall be, then.” Her fingers trembled as she undid the silver clasp at the throat of her pelisse.

Whit helped her pull the heavy velvet from her shoulders. When his chilled fingers brushed her neck, she shivered as she stepped away. “Thank you, Whit,” she said, though the words came out breathless.

Whit felt unaccountably breathless himself. The fishing closet felt impossibly small, her body brushing his as she passed him for the door. He thought he caught the scent of cinnamon, and the dry, warm spice seemed the perfect complement to her personality.

A personality he appreciated more and more as the day wore on.

With Ruby’s help, Whit rallied his guests for parlor games like charades and forfeits until tea, then had each lady take turns reading from Guy Mannering, a new novel by the author of Waverly, until it was time for dinner. After an excellent meal of duck in plum sauce with sundry fresh fruits and vegetables, he organized two groups for whist, being careful to keep Charles and Mr. Stokely-Trent on opposite sets.

For one round, Whit partnered Henrietta and found her a brilliant player, even though she had the habit of shaking her dark head when he played a little less brilliantly. For the other round, he partnered Lady Amelia, who, while competent, betrayed every emotion on her lovely face, from delight over an excellent hand to dismay when she could not follow suit.

He would have counted the evening a relative success if it had not been for Charles’s behavior. His cousin partnered Ruby in the first round, opposite Whit and Henrietta, and his constant banter set Ruby to blushing and Whit’s teeth on edge. That his cousin managed to gain her as his partner in the second round did not go unnoticed.

“It appears we know where one star is hitched,” Lady Wesworth commented as she and her daughter made for the stairs and their bedchamber.

“Appearances can be deceiving,” Ruby replied to no one in particular as she followed.

Whit caught his cousin’s shoulder as he attempted to retire, as well. “Stay a moment.”

Charles frowned but returned to a seat by the fire while the others made their various excuses and left. Whit closed the withdrawing room door behind the last and went to sit by his cousin.

Charles had his feet stretched to the fire, hands idly rubbing the wool of his black evening trousers. He resembled Whit enough to be his brother, and certainly they’d been raised as closely, attending the same schools, spending holidays together in Suffolk and at Fern Lodge. Their closeness made what Whit had to say so much harder. Yet he had promised himself to do his best for his guests after this morning’s lapse, so he could not let his cousin’s actions go unremarked.

“I want you to leave Ruby Hollingsford alone,” Whit said.

Charles’s blond brows shot up. “I beg your pardon?”

“It’s hers you should be begging,” Whit replied, giving the wrought iron fender a tap with his toe. “Don’t you think some of your comments were inappropriate?”

“Not in the slightest, particularly when my intentions are entirely honorable.” He adjusted his cravat. “A gentleman must move quickly if he wishes to pluck the rose before it blooms.”

Ruby Hollingsford was no flower, though her hair was as red. “This isn’t London, Charles,” Whit informed him. “You needn’t capture her heart in one night.”

“Or at all, apparently.” Charles leaned farther back in his seat to eye Whit. “Have you made up your mind, then? Do you intend to offer for her?”

“No.”

Either the answer was too quick or too firm, for Charles’s brows came crashing down again.

“That is,” Whit amended, feeling his neck heat, “she didn’t come here for an offer.”

“Then why agree to attend this party?” Charles asked, obviously perplexed. “She must have some interest in marrying.”

Whit could not help remembering how he’d first encountered her, leaping from a coach and marching down the river bank muttering about her father’s perfidy. Such a temper! And such a strong sense of right and wrong.

“I believe she may have been persuaded to attend by her father,” he told his cousin.

Charles rose and went to the glass-paned doors to peer out into the night as if the veranda held better answers. “Why would her father care about a house party in Derby?” he asked the view.

His cousin’s shoulders were high and tight. Was he expecting Whit to confess some secret agreement? He’d already told Charles he didn’t intend to offer for Ruby. “I suppose,” he guessed, “he’s hoping for a title in the family.”

Charles turned with a grin, shoulders coming down. “Then he’ll simply have to settle for charm instead.”

Whit shook his head as his cousin returned to his side. “While he managed to get her here, I doubt he can force her to the altar. She’s made it clear she doesn’t wish to marry.”

Charles waved a hand as he dropped into his seat. “Every woman wishes to marry. All that is required is the right bridegroom.”

Whit wasn’t so sure about that. When he’d first wandered into the library this morning, he had heard enough to be certain Ruby Hollingsford had determined that the single state best suited her. Besides, the same nonsense about marrying had been said of a fellow in possession of a fortune, or a title, that he must wish for a wife. Whit certainly didn’t, at least not any wife.

“Nevertheless,” he persisted, “I ask that you honor her intentions. If you wish to win a heart this fortnight, turn your attentions elsewhere.”

Charles snorted, shifting in his seat as if the conversation was making him uncomfortable. “To Lady Amelia, perhaps? No, thank you. I have no wish to be eaten by her dragon of a mother.”

“Lady Wesworth is protective,” Whit replied. “But if her daughter pleases you and you her, she will come around.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” Charles said, tucking his long legs under his chair as if to anchor himself. “And I prefer the bluestocking in any regard. At least she’s willing to look you in the eye when she sneers at you.”

Whit stiffened. “If any of my guests has had the temerity to sneer at you, she will be leaving in the morning.”

One corner of Charles’s mouth turned up. “Doing your duty, eh, Danning? Never you fear. None of them would dare sneer, to my face.”

Whit leaned closer. “You’re in an odd humor. Do you honestly think you’re less than I am?”

Charles glanced up, then quickly down again. “Can you honestly say I’m not, my lord?”

Whit frowned. “There is that, of course, but only for certain circumstances would that make you less than me.”

“Circumstances that are all too apparent,” Charles insisted. “You have the title, and in addition you’re taller, smarter and wealthier than I’ll ever be.”

“You forgot to add better looking,” Whit teased, leaning back.

“And humble as well!” Charles grinned at him. “Even if I am the better fisherman.”

“Ho! You know I cannot let that comment stand.” Whit reached out to cuff him on the shoulder.

Charles chuckled. “No more than you could let my pursuit of Ruby Hollingsford stand. Admit it, my lad. You like her.”

Of course he liked her. How could any man dislike energy and fire, all wrapped up in a pretty package? “As I said, Miss Hollingsford has no interest in courting, so my feelings have no bearing on this conversation.”

“Maybe,” Charles replied, slapping his knees and rising to leave. “But I think when you are performing your devotions this evening, you should ask the Lord why you’re so set on protecting her, even from your own cousin.”