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The Wife Campaign
Regina Scott


Whitfield Calder, Earl of Danning, would much rather spend a fortnight tending to his estate than entertaining three eligible young ladies. But when his valet insists that marriage is an earl’s duty, Whit agrees to the house party. He has no intention of actually proposing to anyone…until flame-haired Ruby Hollingsford declares she’d never accept him anyway. Ruby has been tricked into attending this charade, but she certainly won’t compete for the earl’s attentions. Yet, Whit isn’t the selfish aristocrat she envisioned. And with a little trust, two weeks may prove ample time for an unlikely couple to fall headlong into love.







Three Candidates. One Perfect Bride.

Whitfield Calder, Earl of Danning, would much rather spend a fortnight tending to his estate than entertaining three eligible young ladies. But when his valet insists that marriage is an earl’s duty, Whit agrees to the house party. He has no intention of actually proposing to anyone…until flame-haired Ruby Hollingsford declares she’d never accept him anyway.

Ruby has been tricked into attending this charade, but she certainly won’t compete for the earl’s attentions. Yet, Whit isn’t the selfish aristocrat she envisioned. And with a little trust, two weeks may prove ample time for an unlikely couple to fall headlong into love.

The Master Matchmakers: Wedding bells will ring when downstairs servants play Cupid for upstairs aristocracy


Ruby walked up to Lord Danning and nodded in greeting. “It appears I was mistaken, my lord. We meet again.”

He pulled himself out of his reverie and bowed. “Miss Hollingsford. A pleasure to see you again, particularly as you are not a dead body.”

Ruby couldn’t help chuckling. “I suppose I deserved that after my remark by the bridge. You may have noticed that I have a temper. I also tend to speak my mind.”

“Really?” he said, though she could see the twinkle in those purple-blue eyes.

“Surprising, isn’t it? And given that tendency, allow me to make something clear.” She leaned forward and met him gaze for gaze. “I meant what I said at the river. I’m not here for a proposal.”

“Excellent,” he replied, unflinching. “Neither

am I.”

Ruby frowned as she leaned back, but her father came out of his room just then, and the earl excused himself to start down the stairs ahead of them.

There had to be a reason she and her father had been included in the earl’s invitation. But for the life of her, she couldn’t understand why.


REGINA SCOTT

started writing novels in the third grade. Thankfully for literature as we know it, she didn’t actually sell her first novel until she learned a bit more about writing. Since her first book was published in 1998, her stories have traveled the globe, with translations in many languages, including Dutch, German, Italian and Portuguese.

She and her husband of over twenty-five years reside in southeast Washington State with their overactive Irish terrier. Regina Scott is a decent fencer, owns a historical costume collection that takes up over a third of her large closet, and she is an active member of the Church of the Nazarene. You can find her online blogging at www.nineteenteen.blogspot.com (http://www.nineteenteen.blogspot.com). Learn more about her at www.reginascott.com (http://www.reginascott.com), or connect with her on Facebook at www.facebook.com/authorreginascott (http://www.facebook.com/authorreginascott).


The Wife Campaign

Regina Scott






www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


For faith is being sure of what we hope for and certain of what we do not see.

—Hebrews 11:1


To my own Earl, for all your advice about fishing. May you one day catch the King of Trout.

And to my King, for opening his arms to catch me.


Contents

Chapter One (#u82142115-80a6-5f6c-a5cd-1e1b61c10b37)

Chapter Two (#uc72c14e0-fc42-5ec9-8718-8b82eb062199)

Chapter Three (#uecd3c8a8-e976-5ace-97f1-b6db9a9f311b)

Chapter Four (#ufc62a18f-ef45-5249-8488-a845bd745da7)

Chapter Five (#u1eb8325d-f934-5dbb-8b1e-a8f6147c941e)

Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)

Dear Reader (#litres_trial_promo)

Questions for Discussion (#litres_trial_promo)

Excerpt (#litres_trial_promo)


Chapter One

Fern Lodge, Peak District, Derbyshire, England

July 1815

Ruby Hollingsford threw herself out of a moving coach.

There was little danger—it hadn’t been moving very fast, the carriage slowing to take the gracefully arching bridge over the River Bell. And her father should have expected it. How else was she to react to his cork-brained, ninnyhammer of an idea?

I know I told you we were going to Castleton for business, her father, Mortimer Hollingsford, had said. But the truth is, the Earl of Danning has taken a fancy to you.

Ruby’s temper had flared like a match to oil. Not another aristocrat! I told you I’d have none of them!

He’d pulled a gilded invitation from the travel desk on the leather-upholstered seat beside him and held it out to her with a commiserating smile. Oh, he’s a fine fellow. I asked about him. He’s never invited a lady to his Lodge before. You behave for once, and your future will be secure.

If she had taken that note, she’d have torn it to shreds her hands had been shaking so hard. My future? Why would my future need to be titled? If you want a title so much, you marry one.

And then she’d bunched her skirts with one hand, wrenched open the door with the other and jumped.

She landed on the verge of the road, her ankles protesting, then gathered herself to stand. Behind her, she could hear Davis calling to the horses as he reined them in.

“Ruby!” her father shouted after her. “Oh, come now!”

In answer, she ran down the grassy embankment for the river’s pebbled edge.

Really, what else was she to do after such an announcement? She’d thought her father couldn’t shock her any further after she’d discovered an elderly viscount— an utter stranger to her—lounging in her withdrawing room, waiting to propose. After that, she had learned to be on her guard from her father’s future attempts, which thus far had been many and varied. What wastrel aristocrat in the vicinity of London didn’t leap to do her father’s bidding when he dangled her sizeable dowry? But to drag her all the way out to the wilds of Derbyshire, to make up a Banbury tale of business up north? That was the outside of enough.

Her father must have signaled Davis to continue, for their coachman gave the horses their heads, taking the carriage farther along the road. Very likely he was looking for a place wide enough to turn the coach and team and come back for her.

But she wasn’t ready to face her father, not when she was in such a temper. He’d always said there was a reason she’d inherited her mother’s sleek red hair and catlike green eyes. They were a warning to beware. A shame her father didn’t heed them.

Shaking out the folds of her wine-colored pelisse, she marched down the riverbank, gaze on the speckled stones to keep from tripping. But despite her efforts to calm herself, the anger bubbling up inside her found its way out of her mouth.

“Doesn’t bother to tell the truth, oh, no, not him.” She detoured around a leafy shrub overhanging the shore. “‘Think of it as a holiday, Ruby,’ he says. ‘A chance to see the sights.’ I’ll give him a sight—my back as I head for London!”

Someone coughed.

Ruby’s head jerked up, heart ramming against her ribs. She pulled herself to a stop to avoid colliding with a tall man who stood on the riverbank, blocking her way forward. “Oh!”

Her first thought was to run. Even in skirts and on a rocky shore she ought to be able to beat him to the road. But what help would she find there? All that remained of her coach was the dust lingering in the summer air.

As if he knew her fears, the man before her held up his hands to prove he meant no harm. Indeed, now that she looked closer, he didn’t appear particularly dangerous. His thick hair was not quite as bright gold as a guinea and neatly combed about his head despite the breeze that followed the stream down the dale. And his eyes were perfect for Derby: they matched the swirling combination of purple and blue found in the fabled Blue John stones native to the area that her father sold in his jewelry shop. His clean-shaven face was firmly molded like the alabaster statues her father imported, body tall and strong.

In fact, the only things about him that weren’t first-rate were his clothes, which consisted of scuffed, water-stained boots, corduroy breeches and a wool waistcoat over a linen shirt. He probably wasn’t even a second son, much less a selfish, self-absorbed aristocrat like she was sure to find in the Earl of Danning, who thought he could summon a gentlewoman he’d never met to Derby with a perfunctory note. With his head cocked and that smile on his handsome face, he looked as if he wanted nothing more than to help her.

However, looks could be deceiving, as she knew to her sorrow.

“Forgive me for intruding,” he said. “May I be of assistance?”

Nice voice—warm, earnest. Nice manners. She still didn’t trust him.

“I don’t need assistance,” she said, using a tone that brooked no argument. “My carriage will return for me any moment.” As her boxing instructor had taught her, she positioned her feet in a preparatory stance, one forward, one back, and held her arms loosely at her sides. She was tall for a woman, and she was fairly sure that if the situation called for it, she could hit that perfectly formed nose of his with sufficient force to make him think twice about pursuit.

He glanced at the road as if considering how quickly the coach would return. “I’m glad to hear you have an escort.” His voice betrayed his doubts.

She could only wish for an escort, but she’d failed to even snatch up her reticule and the pistol it contained when she’d jumped, worse luck!

Perhaps if she explained her circumstances, this fellow would be less likely to think her easy prey. She waved a hand to the north, where the coach had been heading, and hoped there truly was a lodge somewhere about, close enough that someone might hear her if she had to scream. “Oh, they’ll all be looking for me. I’m to attend a fortnight’s house party in the area.”

He frowned. “I didn’t realize His Grace had returned, much less begun entertaining.”

His Grace! Her temper thrust past her logic once more, and she threw up her hands. “Oh! My father said he was an earl! Another lie!”

A shadow flickered past his face, and he bent as if to keep her from seeing it. For the first time, Ruby noticed a long wooden rod lying at his booted feet. His fingers closed around it and tugged it up before the lapping water pulled it in. “I’m sorry, madam, but the only earl in this area is the Earl of Danning, and he isn’t entertaining.”

Ruby made a face as he straightened. “That bad, is he?”

He chuckled, one hand on the rod, which rose even above his considerable height. “Not really. I’ve even heard him called affable. What I meant is that he doesn’t come here to entertain.” He nodded toward the river. “He comes to fish.”

“Really?” She gazed at the swirling green waters as they leaped over stones, chattered past mossy boulders. Hard to imagine a puffed-up aristocrat willingly standing by a stream, angling for his dinner. Could there be more to this earl than the other nobs she’d met? Her look swung back to him. “How well do you know him?”

He hesitated, then shrugged. “Reasonably well.”

Such a cautious response. Was he a servant of his lordship and feared retribution if he gossiped? Was the Earl of Danning a vengeful man? She had no wish to put this kind man at risk, but she had to use the opportunity to learn more about the earl who had somehow taken a shine to her. She stepped closer. “Is it true he’s looking for a wife?”

He recoiled, eyes widening. “What?”

She smiled sweetly and repeated her question, enunciating each word with care. “Is. He. Looking. For a wife?”

He frowned at her, and it struck her that he probably thought she was bent on pursuing a title. Ruby shuddered at the idea.

“Forgive me for speaking so plainly,” she said. “Please understand, I’m not after him. I’d like nothing better than for you to assure me that he is old and fat and quite set in his ways, sworn never to wed.”

A muscle worked in his cheek as if he were fighting a smile. “He just reached his thirtieth year, and I believe some would consider him reasonably fit. However, I can promise you he is not actively seeking a bride.”

Relief coursed through her. All that worry, for nothing! But then, who’d sent the invitation? Oh! Not another prank! Far too many aristocrats of her acquaintance found juvenile amusement in reminding her and her father of their “place” in Society. She had learned to ignore their petty jokes, but her father still hoped for the best in them. When would he learn that interaction with the upper class led to nothing but heartache?

Her would-be rescuer was still regarding her as if not quite sure what to do with her. Ruby smiled at him.

“How rude of me,” she said, sticking out her hand. “Ruby Hollingsford. And you are?”

“Whitfield Calder,” he supplied, taking her hand and inclining his head over it as if he were honoring her. She liked that he was taller than she was. She was growing decidedly weary of looking down onto balding crowns when she danced.

Ruby beamed at him as he released her hand. “And apparently you and the earl have something in common. You like to fish, too. I’m very sorry to have interrupted you.”

He smiled. For some reason, she thought he was rusty at smiling. Perhaps it was how slowly his lips lifted. Perhaps it was the way his golden lashes veiled his eyes. Had he seen tragedy then?

“It was no trouble,” he assured her, bending to retrieve a tweed coat and shrugging in his broad shoulders. “Allow me to escort you back to the bridge. A lady should not be left alone.”

Ruby started to protest. For one, she wasn’t considered a lady by the standards of the upper class. She was merely the daughter of a cit, a merchant, if a happily wealthy one. For another, if she could protect herself on the streets of London as she’d been forced to do as a child, surely she could take care of herself on a remote road in Derby.

Yet he seemed so sincere, and so charming, as he offered her his arm, that she decided to let him think he was taking care of her. “How kind,” she said, linking her arm with his.

But as he walked slowly, carefully, putting his hand on her elbow and helping her over every little bump in the uneven ground, Ruby felt her charity with him slipping. Did he think her so frail that she couldn’t keep up if he walked his normal pace, or so clumsy that she’d trip over a stone? She might have been wearing a velvet pelisse with lace dripping at the cuffs, but her boots were sturdy black leather. Hadn’t he noticed that she’d already crossed the distance, at a run part of the way, with no need to lean on his manly arm?

As the ground rose sharply to the road, she broke away from him and lifted her skirts with both hands to complete the climb. Still, she felt him hovering, as if he expected her to take a tumble any second. When they reached the top, he positioned himself beside her, keeping her safely between him and the stone column of the bridge head. His deep blue gaze flickered from the road winding up the hill to the copse of trees across from them to the bridge, as if he expected a highwayman to leap from hiding. Concern radiated out of him like heat from a hearth.

What sort of man took such responsibility for a woman he’d known less than a quarter hour? What would he say if he knew she’d taken boxing lessons and could shoot the heart from an ace at fifty paces?

“Do you have sisters or a wife,” she asked, bemused, “that you’re so mindful of a lady’s safety?”

Again something crossed behind his watchful gaze. “Alas, no. I’m not married, and I’m an only child. My parents died many years ago now.”

An orphan. Instantly her heart went out to him.

The crunch of gravel and the jingle of tack told her a coach was approaching, and she could only hope it was her father’s. Sure enough, Davis brought the carriage around the bend and pulled the horses to a stop beside her and her handsome stranger, wrapping them in dust.

Her father lowered the window and scowled at them. “Leave you alone for ten minutes and look what you drag up,” he complained. “Are we hiring him or paying him off?”

Ruby’s cheeks heated as she waved her hand to clear the air. Though her father’s long face and sharp nose gave him a stern appearance, he was more bark than bite. The man beside her didn’t know that, of course, but he stepped closer to her instead of backing away in dismay.

“This man was very kind to wait with me,” Ruby explained. She turned to find her hero frowning as if he wasn’t sure he was leaving her in reliable hands. She could understand his concern. The coach was more serviceable than elegant, the team of horses unmatched except in strength. Even the two servants sitting behind looked common in their travel dirt. Nothing said that the master was one of the richest merchants in London. Her father was careful where he spent his money.

He was equally careful of her. “Well, wasn’t that nice of him?” he said. “And what did you expect in return, fellow?”

Mr. Calder inclined his head. “Merely the opportunity to be of service to a lady. If you have no further need of me, Miss Hollingsford, I wish you good day.”

“I’ll be fine, Mr. Calder,” Ruby replied, suddenly loath to see the last of him. “Know that I appreciate your kindness.”

He took her hand and bowed over it, and Ruby was surprised to find herself a bit unsteady as he released her.

Her father must have noticed a change in her, for he leaned out the window. “Calder, did you say? And your first name?”

“Whitfield, sir,” he said with a polite nod.

Her father’s narrow face broke into a grin. “Whitfield, eh? Very good to meet you, my lord.”

“My lord?” Ruby stared at him, heart sinking.

Mr. Calder, who had seemed so nice until that moment, inclined his golden head again. “Forgive me. I neglected to offer my title. I’m Whitfield Calder, Earl of Danning.”

* * *

In Whit’s experience, when a marriageable young lady was introduced to an eligible member of the aristocracy, she simpered or fawned or blushed in a ridiculously cloying fashion. Miss Hollingsford did none of those things. Her green eyes, tilted up at the corners, sparked fire, and her rosy lips tightened into a determined line. If anything, she looked thoroughly annoyed.

“Lord Danning?” she demanded as if certain he was teasing.

He spread his hands. “To my sorrow, some days.”

She turned her glare on her father. “Did you arrange this encounter?”

Her father raised his craggy gray brows. “Not me, my girl. Seems the good Lord has other plans for you.”

She did not look comforted by the fact.

Whit offered her a bow. “Forgive me for not being more forthcoming, Miss Hollingsford. I enjoy my privacy while I’m at Fern Lodge. I hope we’ll meet again under more congenial circumstances.”

“Over my dead body.” She yanked on the handle of the door. Whit offered her his arm to help her. She ignored him, gathering her skirts and nimbly climbing into the carriage. She slammed the door behind her.

“Many thanks, my lord,” her father called. “Looking forward to an interesting fortnight.”

“Drive, Davis!” Whit heard her order, and the coachman called to his team. Whit stepped away as the coach sped off back across the bridge.

Interesting woman. When he’d first seen her jump from the coach, he’d wondered whether she was in some sort of trouble. Her clothes had said she was a lady; her attitude said she was intelligent, capable and ready to defend herself if needed. The women he seemed to meet in Society were either retiring creatures so delicate that the least wrong word set them to tearing up or bold misses who angled for an offer of marriage. Miss Hollingsford’s open friendliness, without a hint of flirtation, made for a charming contrast.

But much as the intrepid Miss Hollingsford intrigued him, her father’s parting words seemed stuck in Whit’s head. An interesting fortnight, he’d said, as if he intended to spend that time with Whit. And his coach had originally been heading in the general direction of the Lodge, Whit’s private fishing retreat, shared only with his cousin Charles. Then again, Miss Hollingsford had said she was attending a house party. Could Charles have planned one?

Not if Whit had any say!

He ran back to the shore, snatched up his fishing gear and strode up the slope for the house. The road, he knew, wound around the hill to come at the Lodge from the front. The path he followed led to the back veranda and his private entrance.

His father had introduced him to Fern Lodge for the first time the summer after his mother had died attempting to bring his little sister into the world. Both were buried in the churchyard in Suffolk. Life had seemed darker and bleaker then, until the carriage had drawn up to this haven. Even now, the rough stone walls, the thatched roof, looked more like a boy’s dream of a wilderness cottage than a retreat of the wealthy. The humble exterior of the cottage orné masked its elegant interiors and sweeping passages. It had been his true home from the moment he’d entered.

These days, it was all he could manage to come here for a fortnight each summer. This was his time, his retreat, the only place he felt free to be himself.

I know You expect me to do my duty, Lord, but I’m heartily tired of duty!

He came in through his fishing closet, a space his father had designed, and hung up his rod on a hook. He shucked off his boots and breeches and pulled on trousers. He traded his worn leather boots for tasseled Hessians. The coat, waistcoat and cravat he’d have to change upstairs. Then he walked down the corridor for the entryway.

He found it crowded, with footmen in strange livery bumping into each other as they carried in bags and trunks while maids wandered past with jewel cases. His stomach sank.

His butler, Mr. Hennessy, who cared for the Lodge when Whit was not in residence, was directing traffic. A tall, muscular man who’d once been a famed pugilist before rising through the servant ranks to his current position, he had little patience with a job poorly done.

“No, the rear bedchamber,” he was insisting to one of the footmen, who was carrying an oversize case from which waved a series of ostrich plumes. “She is sharing with Lady Amelia.”

“Lady Amelia.” Whit seized on the name as the footman hurried off. “Lady Amelia Jacoby, by any chance?”

“Ah, my lord.” Hennessy inclined his head in greeting. “Yes, her ladyship and her mother are expected downstairs shortly, Mr. Hollingsford’s coach is just pulling up to the door, I believe your cousin Mr. Calder is to arrive before dinner, and the Stokely-Trents are awaiting you in the withdrawing room.”

“Are they indeed?”

His butler must have noticed the chill in his tone, for he frowned. “Forgive me, my lord. I understood from Mr. Quimby that that was your desire. Was I mistaken?”

Quimby. Peter Quimby had been his valet since Whit’s father had passed on. A slight man Whit’s age, his practical outlook and attention to detail had never failed. He knew what this quiet time at the Lodge meant to Whit. Why would he threaten it with strangers?

“No, Mr. Hennessy, you were doing your duty, as usual,” Whit assured him, heading for the stairs. “It was Mr. Quimby who was mistaken, greatly mistaken.” And he would tell the fellow that this very instant. He started up the stairs, and the footmen and maids scattered before him like leaves in a driving wind.

On the chamber story, Whit spun around the newel and into the room at the top of the stairs. He’d been given this bedchamber as a boy, and though it was the smallest of the seven, he still found it the most comfortable. He stopped in the center, the great bed before him, the hearth at his back, and thundered, “Quimby!”

His valet entered from the dressing room, a coat in either hand. As always, a pleasant smile sat on his lean face. Though his straw-colored hair tended to stick out in odd directions, his clothes, and the ones he kept for Whit, were impeccable.

“Good,” he said. “You’re back. Which do you prefer for dinner, the blue superfine or the black wool with the velvet lapels?”

“What I prefer,” Whit gritted out, “is to know why I have guests.”

“Ah.” Quimby lowered the coats but never so much that they touched the polished wood floor. “I believe each of the three invitations read that you are desirous to put an end to your bachelor state and would like to determine whether you and the lady suit.”

Feeling as if every bone in his body had instantly shattered, Whit sank onto the end of the bed. “You didn’t.”

“I did.” With total disregard for the severity of his crime or his master’s distress, Quimby draped the coats over the chair near the hearth. “You aren’t getting any younger, my lad. And we none of us are looking forward to serving your cousin should you shuffle off this mortal coil prematurely.” He glanced at Whit and frowned. “You look rather pale. May I get you a glass of water? Perhaps some tea?”

“You can get these people out of my house,” Whit said, gathering himself and rising. “Or, failing that, find me other accommodations.”

Quimby tsked. “Now, then, how would that look? You have three lovely ladies here to learn more about. I chose them with great care. I thought you rather liked Lady Amelia Jacoby.”

It was true that the statuesque blonde had caught Whit’s eye at a recent ball, but he’d never had any intentions of moving beyond admiration. “If I liked her,” Whit said, advancing toward his valet, “I was fully capable of pursuing her without your interference.”

“Of course,” Quimby agreed. He came around behind Whit and tugged at the shoulders of his tweed coat to remove it. “Yet you did not pursue her. I also invited Miss Henrietta Stokely-Trent. You did mention you thought she had a fine grasp of politics.”

He’d had several interesting conversations with the determined bluestocking last Season. “She’s brilliant. But perhaps I want more in a wife.”

“And perhaps you’ve been too preoccupied to realize what you want,” Quimby countered, taking the coat to the dressing room.

“Rather say occupied,” Whit corrected him, unbuttoning the waistcoat himself. “Parliament, estate business, the orphan asylum...”

“The sailor’s home, the new organ for the church,” Quimby added, returning. “I am well aware of the list, my lord. You are renowned for solving other people’s problems. That’s why I took the liberty of solving this problem for you.” He unwound the cravat from Whit’s throat in one fluid motion.

“Dash it all, Quimby, it wasn’t a problem!” Whit pulled the soiled shirt over his head. “I’d have gotten around to marrying eventually.”

“Of course.” Quimby took the shirt off to the dressing room for cleaning.

Whit shook his head. “And why invite Miss Hollingsford? I don’t even recall meeting her.”

Quimby returned with a fresh shirt and drew it over Whit’s head. “I don’t believe you have met, sir. I simply liked her. I thought you would, too.”

He had liked her immediately. All that fire and determination demanded respect, at the least. That wasn’t the issue.

Whit closed his eyes and puffed out a sigh as his valet slipped the gold-shot evening waistcoat up his arms. “Have you any inkling of what you’ve done?”

He opened his eyes to find Quimby brushing a stray hair off the shoulder. “I’ve brought you three beautiful women,” he replied, completely unrepentant. “All you need do is choose.”

Whit stepped back from him. “And if I don’t?”

“Then I fear the next batch will be less satisfactory.”

Whit drew himself up. “I should sack you.”

“Very likely,” Quimby agreed. “If that is your choice, please do it now. I understand Sir Nicholas Rotherford is seeking a valet, and as he recently married, I should have less concern for my future with him.”

Whit shook his head again. If Quimby had been anyone else, Whit would have had no trouble firing him for such an infraction. But he’d known Quimby since they were boys. The two had been good friends at Eton, where Peter Quimby, the orphaned son of a distinguished military man, had been taken in on charity. When Whit became an orphan, and the new Earl of Danning at fifteen, he’d offered his friend a position as steward.

“Who’s going to take orders from a fifteen-year-old?” Quimby had pointed out. “Make me your valet. They get to go everywhere their masters do. We’ll have some fun, count on it.”

At times over the past fifteen years, Whit thought Quimby was the only reason Whit had had some fun, even when duty dogged his steps. He couldn’t see sacking his friend now.

“Rotherford can find another valet,” Whit told him.

Quimby smiled as he reached for the coats.

“But don’t take that to mean I approve of this business,” Whit insisted. “I’ll do my best to clean up the mess you’ve made. I will be polite to our guests but expect nothing more. You can campaign all you like, Quimby, but you cannot make a fellow choose a wife.”

“As you say, my lord,” Quimby agreed, though Whit somehow felt he was disagreeing. “Now, which will you have tonight, the black coat or the blue?”

“Does it matter?” Whit asked as his valet held out the two coats once more. “By the time this fortnight is over, I’m the one most likely to be both black and blue, from trying to explain to three women that I don’t intend to propose.”


Chapter Two

Ruby was equally certain she would do no more than survive the fortnight as she and her maid were escorted to a lovely room overlooking the river. She’d tried to convince her father to return to London, but he’d refused, having Davis turn the coach once more and take them back to the Lodge, a quaint stone building tucked between the river and the rising hills.

Her father seemed even more certain than before that Lord Danning was part of some plan God had for her. After all, the earl had been waiting for her when she’d jumped from the coach. She didn’t believe God worked that way. God’s plans involved momentous things—war and peace, sun and rain and stars falling. Surely He wouldn’t intervene in the life of one Ruby Hollingsford.

Besides, she could take care of herself. She had her future all planned—good works, good books, a drive through the park and the opera on occasion. She didn’t need the unreliable companionship of a husband.

Hadn’t she managed in London alone when she’d been a child and her father had worked as a mudlark, scouring the banks of the Thames for treasure? After their wealth was established, hadn’t she endured the four years of tutelage at the Barnsley School for Young Ladies, where half the students shunned her because of her past? Wasn’t she spearheading the creation of a school in poverty-stricken Wapping? Hadn’t she survived when the one man she thought she might love turned out to be a scoundrel? The Earl of Danning would find her made of stronger stuff than the dewy-eyed Society damsels he probably courted.

But it did seem odd that, when she exited her room to try to persuade her father once more, the very first person she saw was the earl standing by the stairs.

He’d changed into evening clothes. Had he been dressed like that when they’d met, she would have had no doubt he was a member of the aristocracy. The black coat and trousers emphasized his height; the tailoring called attention to his shoulders. Though he did not seem to know he was being observed, he held himself poised, as if posing for a portrait.

She hadn’t noticed him on the riverbank at first, she’d been so angry at her father’s betrayal. This time she didn’t think he saw her, and for a similar reason. His hands were clasped behind his back in tight fists, and he was gazing down the stairs as if he simply couldn’t force himself to descend.

She shared the feeling. But why was he so loath to start the house party he’d instigated? And why had he organized the house party at all? He’d said he only wanted to fish. She’d seen the other carriages being unloaded at the door. More people were attending this party than just her and her father. How would having a house full of people allow him time to fish? How would fishing allow him time to court a lady? Was he as big a liar as the other aristocrats she’d had the misfortune to know?

She considered tiptoeing behind him for the room her father had been given across the corridor, but she thought Lord Danning would probably notice. She wasn’t exactly inconspicuous. She disdained the white muslin gowns young ladies were expected to wear because they made her dark red hair look like some sort of fire beacon. Instead, her evening dress was a smoky gray, with long sleeves wrapped in white lace and a band of the same lace around her neckline and hem. The gown tended to rustle as she moved. So he would either see her or hear her, and she’d be stuck making polite conversation anyway.

So she decided to start the conversation herself. She walked up to him and nodded in greeting. “It appears I was mistaken, my lord. We meet again.”

He pulled himself out of his reverie and bowed. “Miss Hollingsford. A pleasure to see you again, particularly as you are not a dead body.”

Ruby couldn’t help chuckling. “I suppose I deserved that after my remark by the bridge. You may have noticed that I have a temper. I also tend to speak my mind.”

“Really?” he said, though she could see the twinkle in those purple-blue eyes.

“Surprising, isn’t it? And given that tendency, allow me to make something clear.” She leaned forward and met him gaze for gaze. “I meant what I said at the river. I’m not here for a proposal.”

“Excellent,” he replied, unflinching. “Neither am I.”

Ruby frowned as she leaned back, but her father came out of his room just then, and the earl excused himself to start down the stairs ahead of them.

“Ah, getting to know the fellow already,” her father said, rubbing his white-gloved hands together. Now that he was dressed for the evening, anyone looking at him, Ruby thought, would see a prosperous gentleman. His blue coat and knee breeches were of an older style but of fine material, his linen was a dazzling white and a sapphire winked from the fold of his cravat. They wouldn’t know where he’d come from, how hard he’d worked to rise to the enviable position of jeweler to the ton.

The earl must know. An aristocrat would certainly want to be sure of the family he was considering uniting with his own. Yet why would he invite the daughter of a jeweler to stay? Was he pockets to let, like the viscount her father had offered up?

Either way, Ruby could not encourage her father’s tendency to matchmaking. “I have no reason to get to know our host further,” she told him. “I have little interest in the Earl of Danning.”

He grinned. “A little is at least a start. Come on, my girl. Let’s show them how it’s done.”

With a shake of her head, Ruby accepted his arm, and they descended the stairs.

So her father would not change his mind. She considered appealing to the earl about her enforced stay at his lodge instead. If he was sincere in not wanting to propose, perhaps she could convince him to rescind his invitation. Whatever his reasons for inviting her, surely now that they’d met, he’d seen that they would not suit. She was far from being the sort of exquisite beauty whose genteel manners and biddable nature might make her low birth forgivable. They could have little in common, nothing on which to base a true marriage. But when she and her father entered the withdrawing room, she found the earl missing. Instead, others were waiting, five in all, arranged in two groupings.

Indeed, two groupings was about all the manly space would afford. The withdrawing room at Fern Lodge seemed designed to dominate. The warm wood paneling was set in precise squares. Each painting celebrated capture, from grouse to fish to bear. The polished brass wall sconces ended in spikes like spears. The stags in the relief over the massive gray stone fireplace at one end of the room looked ready to leap from the wall and dash away to safety.

So did at least one of the women in the room. Two had claimed the sofa before the fire, and by the similarities in the lines of the patrician faces, Ruby guessed that they were mother and daughter. The daughter had hair the color of platinum, perfectly coiled in a bun at the nape of her neck, and a figure just as perfect, as if carved from marble. The drape of her silk gown said it cost as much as one of Ruby’s father’s Blue John ornaments. Every angle of nose and cheek shouted aristocrat—just as every facet of her expression showed her wish to flee.

The other group, positioned on chairs by the glass-paned doors overlooking the veranda, appeared to comprise a mother and father in staid but costly evening wear. The young woman standing beside them was likely their daughter, though she didn’t resemble them with her dark hair worn back from an alabaster face. She had an enviable figure in a lustring gown the color of amethysts. Her movements were sharp and precise, as if each was calculated for effect.

Why were they here? If the earl truly meant to propose to Ruby as the invitation implied, could these be his relatives or close friends? But if they were family, surely they’d stand closer, perhaps reminisce? If friends, why were they mostly women?

“Evening, all!” her father announced, strolling into the room and pulling Ruby with him. “Let’s call the ceiling our host and get to know each other better.”

As Ruby dropped his arm in embarrassment, he went to the ladies on the sofa and stuck out his hand. “Mortimer Hollingsford and my daughter, Ruby.”

The mother eyed his hand as if he had thrust out a dagger. “Lady Wesworth,” she said without physically acknowledging his gesture. “And my daughter Lady Amelia.”

Wesworth? Ruby knew the name and fervently wished her father wouldn’t reveal the connection. Somehow she didn’t think the Marchioness of Wesworth would want the rest of the guests to know that her husband had recently exchanged the diamonds at her throat with paste copies.

But her father was too much the businessman to ever betray a client. “Your ladyship,” he said with a bow. “News of your daughter’s beauty and charm has spread far, but I see that the gossips neglected to mention how much she takes after you.”

The marchioness visibly thawed, her double chins relaxing, her impressive chest settling. “I’m afraid I haven’t heard any stories of you, Mr. Hollingsford,” she said in a voice that managed to be polished and commanding at the same time. “Are you related to Lord Danning?”

If she asked the question, she couldn’t be related either. Ruby wandered closer to hear the conversation. The matter apparently interested the others, for they rose and joined the group by the sofa, as well.

“Not me,” her father promised. “Not at the moment, leastwise.” He winked broadly at Ruby.

The other man held out his hand to her father. “Winston Stokely-Trent,” he intoned as if the name should have meaning for all present. “My wife and my daughter. Did I understand you to say you hope to soon be related to the Earl of Danning?”

“You did not,” Ruby said, threading her arm through her father’s and giving it a squeeze in warning.

“Certainly not,” Lady Wesworth said, nose in the air. “I understand he has set his sights elsewhere.”

Her daughter blushed.

Mrs. Stokely-Trent smiled at her own daughter. “So I understand, as well.”

Ruby glanced from Lady Amelia, who had bowed her head in humility, to Miss Stokely-Trent, who had raised hers in pride. Had the earl really implied marriage in his invitations to the two of them as well as Ruby? How arrogant and how like an aristocrat!

Well, she wouldn’t stand for it. As soon as Ruby could, she drew her father away from the others, leading him to the doors overlooking the veranda. Twilight was falling, and a mist seemed to be rising from the river. But she could not afford to appreciate the view.

“This is a farce,” she whispered, mindful of the other guests. “Let’s make our regrets and go.”

“Now, then, you can’t be cowed by these girls,” her father insisted with a glance at the other two candidates for the earl’s hand. “Lady Amelia is a stunner, but she obviously lacks backbone. And I’ve heard Miss Henrietta Stokely-Trent is too clever for her own good. No, my girl, I’d cheer for you any day.”

“Then you’d be disappointed,” Ruby said. “I’ll have no part in this business. You know how I feel about these nobs.”

“Once a nob, always a snob,” her father agreed. “But they’re not all so bad.”

“Most of the ones I’ve met have been,” Ruby countered.

Just then another man strolled into the room. Like their host the earl, he was tall, blond and handsome. But his features were softer, as if he were the resin mold rather than the finished statue. His clothes were of cheaper material, lesser cut. Ruby recognized the signs immediately. So did her father.

“The poor relation,” he murmured as the man came forward.

Poor relation or fortune hunter, Ruby amended silently as he fawned over Lady Amelia and Henrietta Stokely-Trent. The others appeared to recognize the signs, as well. Lady Amelia’s shy smile was effectively countered by her mother’s curt stare. Miss Stokely-Trent quizzed him unmercifully. Ruby told herself not to feel sorry for him.

When at last he made his way to their sides, his charming smile was a little frayed.

“Hollingsford,” he said with a nod.

“Mr. Calder, good to see you again,” her father replied. “You may remember my daughter, Ruby.”

Why would he remember Ruby? She certainly didn’t remember him, though apparently he knew her father. Before Ruby could question either of them, the other man bowed to her. “A pleasure, Miss Hollingsford.”

Ruby inclined her head as he straightened. “And how do you know my father, Mr. Calder?”

He paled, but her father clapped him on one broad shoulder. “Business,” her father said and by his refusal to say more, Ruby knew that Mr. Calder had likely had to sell some jewel of great personal value to pay his bills.

Mr. Calder managed a smile. “I am in your father’s debt, and I will be forever in my cousin’s debt for inviting me to bask in the glory of three such lovely creatures.”

He said it as if he knew he had no hope of attracting any of them. Ruby couldn’t help trying to raise his spirits. “Oh, did your cousin catch so many fish today?” she teased.

He chuckled. “Ah, a wit, as well. I can see I shall have to be on my toes. But tell me, how do you know my cousin?”

Ruby glanced at her father, brow raised.

“Never met him until today,” her father proclaimed. “But he must have seen my Ruby at some social function else he wouldn’t have invited her.”

Ruby wasn’t convinced. She’d never seen the earl or his cousin at any event. But then, she ran in different circles. Her literary club comprised women who had either inherited money from trade or were independent, like her friend Miss Eugenia Welch. When she went out of an evening, it was most often with her father and his acquaintances.

Still, because she’d attended the prestigious Barnsley School for Young Ladies in Somerset, she knew any number of women currently on the ton. Unfortunately, some of her former classmates still snubbed her. They certainly had never mentioned her to the earl.

As if summoned by her thoughts, Lord Danning appeared in the doorway. His golden hair mirrored the candlelight. The diamond stickpin in his cravat sparkled. His smile of welcome included everyone in the room as he glanced about. She found herself wondering when the portrait painter would arrive.

Then his gaze met hers, and his smile deepened.

Ruby felt her face heating and raised her chin. Oh, no. He would not find her as easy to catch as his fish.

“Ladies, gentlemen,” he said, strolling into the room, “welcome to Fern Lodge. You were kind to accept the invitation. Join me for dinner, and we can discuss plans for the fortnight.” He held out his arm. “Lady Wesworth, if I may?”

Funny. Ruby wouldn’t have thought the earl such a stickler for propriety, not having met him in rough clothing on the riverbank. By the looks that crossed Lady Amelia’s and Henrietta Stokely-Trent’s faces, they’d also expected him to offer for someone other than the highest-ranking woman in the room. Had he meant what he’d said earlier, when he’d claimed he was truly not seeking a wife? If so, perhaps it wasn’t so much good manners as self-preservation that made him escort Lady Wesworth rather than any of the young ladies he’d invited to court. But if he was not seeking a bride, why invite them all in the first place? Just to amuse himself with their reactions?

The other pairings were nearly as interesting. Mr. Calder eyed Ruby, but she anchored herself to her father, and he excused himself to offer Lady Amelia his arm. Henrietta Stokely-Trent looked even more annoyed because she had to walk with her father and mother. The posturing for position at the table was nearly as laughable, with parents and offspring colliding and glowering at each other. Ruby wasn’t sure whether to be concerned or amused when Henrietta Stokely-Trent seated herself next to Ruby near the end of the table.

Of course, none of them had much choice. The Lodge, while decorated in sumptuous materials, was clearly meant for a retreat, not to host so many people. The mahogany table had been extended its full length to accommodate them all, and the high back on the earl’s chair said it belonged elsewhere in the house. Still the polished wood of the table mirrored the shine of the pristine china plates, silver service and porcelain platters of the dozen dishes the chef had produced for their delight.

One nice thing about Ruby’s vantage point near the end of the table, however, was that it gave her a good view of the earl. He seemed pleasant, answering Mr. Stokely-Trent’s imperious question about a bill coming up in Parliament as easily as Lady Wesworth’s lament that there were no pickled beets to accompany the meal.

Indeed, he chatted easily with Lady Amelia and her mother on either side, making sure they were given choice portions of the salmon and duck, smiling at their sallies. But she saw no spark, no furtive glance, no touch of hands as he passed the platters, to indicate that he had any feelings for the lady.

“An interesting gentleman,” Henrietta Stokely-Trent said as if she’d noticed the direction of Ruby’s gaze.

Ruby offered her a smile. “Have you known him long, then?”

“We’ve met several times this Season.” She lifted a forkful of the duck. “He’s reasonably intelligent, well read, with opinions of his own on any number of topics. Where did you meet?”

“On the riverbank this afternoon,” Ruby supplied, “on my way to the Lodge. But he sent the invitation earlier.”

Miss Stokely-Trent frowned. “Why would he invite you if you’d never met? Is he a friend of your father’s?”

“Not that I’m aware,” Ruby replied, looking across the table to where her father was regaling Mrs. Stokely-Trent with one of his tales. By the way the lady’s mouth was pursed in an O, Ruby would likely need to apologize at some point.

“Surely I can be of assistance, Miss Stokely-Trent,” said Mr. Calder on her other side, smiling winsomely. “Perhaps some more of the duck?” Henrietta turned her attention to him.

Ruby was just as glad to be left alone with her thoughts. There had to be a reason she and her father had been included in the earl’s invitation. But for the life of her, she couldn’t understand why.

* * *

Whit was also feeling the dining room a bit crowded as the visiting footmen brought in the second course. When he was in residence, he generally made use of Mr. Hennessy’s skills to serve rather than bothering with footmen. And he only ate a single course. If he’d been fortunate, it was of the fish he’d caught. But with a house full of guests, his chef had obviously determined that something more substantial was needed. And Whit had never been one to argue with strawberry trifle.

“So what do you plan for us, my lord?” Mr. Stokely-Trent asked from midtable, leaning back in his seat to rest his hands over the paunch of his stomach.

They all regarded Whit with interest. For some reason, he found his gaze centered on Miss Hollingsford near the end of the table. He hadn’t been sure of the color of her hair inside her bonnet as they’d stood by the river that afternoon, but when they’d met on the stairs earlier, he hadn’t been surprised to find it a deep red, like the fading glow of the coals at night.

Now it was sleeked back in a bun at the top of her head, and little tendrils like sparks framed her face. One corner of her mouth was drawn up, as if she expected his answer to be amusing. He would have been more amused if Quimby had given this house party some thought. Whit wasn’t about to sit around the Lodge conversing for a fortnight, and he hardly wanted all their company fishing. But his wants would have to give way to his duty, as usual—and duty dictated that he be an accommodating host, even to guests he had never intended to invite.

“Dovecote Dale is renowned for its sights,” he said. “Perhaps a walk into the hills. There’s a cascade about a mile up the side stream.”

Lady Wesworth fanned herself as if even the thought was tiring. “So long as we can take the carriage. I wouldn’t want Amelia to be exposed to the elements.”

By the pallor of the young lady’s creamy skin, Whit thought a little exposure to sunshine might not be remiss. Miss Hollingsford had been wearing a fetching ostrich-plumed bonnet to protect her skin this afternoon, and she positively glowed. She also looked less than impressed that a lady wouldn’t be able to make so short a jaunt.

“A visit to Lord Hascot’s horse farm might be entertaining,” Whit tried. “We can take the carriages there.”

“Does he raise draft horses, Thoroughbreds or common stock?” Henrietta Stokely-Trent asked.

“Are you a horse enthusiast?” Charles asked, leaning closer to her as if her answer meant the world to him.

She regarded him with a frown. “No,” she replied. “Just curious.”

Whit thought he heard a smothered laugh from Miss Hollingsford. She was enjoying his predicament entirely too much. “And what would you like to do, Miss Hollingsford?” he challenged.

All gazes swung her way. She dimpled at the other guests. “Return to London as soon as possible?” she suggested.

“What a tease,” her father said with a laugh. “I’m sure whatever interests you will interest us, my lord.”

“You could take us all fishing,” Miss Hollingsford added, with particular spite, he thought.

Mr. Stokely-Trent brightened, but Lady Amelia shuddered.

“Do you fish, Miss Hollingsford?” Charles asked, aiming his charming smile her way. Whit could only bless his cousin for intervening.

“Very likely for something larger than trout,” Lady Wesworth murmured. Unfortunately, in the small room, her voice was all too audible. Her daughter squirmed in embarrassment, but Mrs. Stokely-Trent nodded archly, and Mr. Stokely-Trent traded knowing looks with his daughter.

Whit frowned. Did they think Ruby Hollingsford a title hunter? From what he’d seen, nothing was further from the truth. In fact, given her questions at the river and the statement on the stairs, she had no interest in courting. It sounded as if she’d only accepted Quimby’s invitation at the insistence of her father.

“I’ve never had the pleasure of fishing,” she replied to Charles, and only the height of her chin said she’d heard the marchioness’s unkind remark. “What about you, Mr. Calder? Do you join the earl in his delight at capturing smelly creatures?”

Whit couldn’t help a laugh at her description of fishing.

“I do indeed, Miss Hollingsford,” Charles answered with a similar smile. “And I’d be pleased to teach any of you lovely young ladies the fine art. It takes patience, skill and daring, not unlike a courtship.”

Henrietta Stokely-Trent beamed at him. “I may accept that offer, Mr. Calder. I always like learning new things from a practiced teacher.”

“Then Charles would be perfect,” Whit teased. “He requires a great deal of practice.”

“Ho, a palpable hit!” Charles declared, fainting back in his chair as if wounded. “Miss Stokely-Trent, I will trade my services as an angler for yours as a nurse. Promise me you will never leave my side.”

“That might be difficult if you intend to fish,” Miss Hollingsford pointed out, but Whit noticed that the bluestocking was studying his cousin as if seeing his potential for the first time.

Now, there was a thought. What if he could pair up the ladies with someone else? That might take them off his trail. Charles was forever in need of funds, but he had a good heart and a sound mind. Henrietta Stokely-Trent could do far worse. Now who could Whit find for Lady Amelia?

As if her mother suspected the direction of his thoughts, she rose from her seat. “I believe the ladies are finished. Shall we wait for you gentlemen in the withdrawing room, my lord?”

Rather presumptuous of her to think he expected her to act as his hostess, but then he had escorted her in to dinner. Whit rose, as well. “If you’d be so kind.”

The other ladies stood and followed the marchioness from the room. Mr. Stokely-Trent eyed his wife, hands braced on the linen, but she cast him an imploring look and he excused himself, as well. Ruby Hollingsford offered Whit a grin as she sashayed past, but he was certain it had more to do with amusement than from any flirtation. Indeed, he rather thought he’d find greater enjoyment in the dining room in the company of Mr. Hollingsford and Charles than the ladies would have in the withdrawing room waiting for them.

How will I withstand two weeks of this, Lord?

As the footmen came forward to offer another drink, Charles and Mr. Hollingsford took the opportunity to move closer to Whit at the table. Neither of them seemed the least concerned with the turn of events. Charles had a smile playing about his mouth, as if he were genuinely pleased with the glimmer of a response from Henrietta Stokely-Trent. Hollingsford belched and covered the noise with his hand.

“Excellent dinner, my lord,” he said. “You’ve a talented cook.”

“I’ll be sure to pass your compliments to Monsieur Depavre,” Whit promised.

Hollingsford wrinkled his long, pointy nose. “Frenchie, eh? Normally, I prefer good English cooking, but he did very well.”

Whit hid his smile, knowing his chef’s opinion of so-called good English cooking.

“Better than usual,” Charles agreed, leaning back in his chair. “But I am surprised to be surrounded by so many guests, Danning. I thought it was to be just the two of us as usual.”

Whit could hardly tell his cousin the truth in front of Hollingsford. He still found it difficult to believe Quimby’s audacity. “It was a last-minute decision.”

“Well, I’m grateful.” Charles lifted his glass. “To the fairest ladies in England, all here at Fern Lodge.”

“Hear, hear,” Hollingsford agreed, and raised his glass, as well.

Whit joined them in a sip. They were lovely women. By the snippets of conversation he’d caught, they were intelligent, as well. Discounting the unkind attitude toward Ruby Hollingsford, any man would be lucky to court one of them. Yet none of them stirred his heart the way he had imagined a man should feel for his intended wife.

What was wrong with him? Had fifteen years of duty sucked the romance from his very soul?

Charles pushed back his chair. “Give a fellow a chance, eh, Danning? Wait ten minutes before joining us in the withdrawing room. That ought to give me sufficient time to steal a march on you.”

“If you can win a lady’s heart in ten minutes, you’re a better man than I am,” Whit said with a chuckle.

“You’ll find out shortly,” Charles promised, and he strode from the room.

Hollingsford chuckled, as well. “I like a chap with confidence.” He studied his glass, turning the stem this way and that with fingers as pointy as his nose. “If I may, my lord, I thought you had similar fire when we met this afternoon. But somewhere along the way you lost your spark. Is something troubling you?”

Whit regarded him. His head was cocked so that the candlelight gleamed on his balding pate, and his craggy brows were drawn down. He seemed sincerely perplexed and ready to offer support and guidance.

It had been a long time since Whit had seen such a look, not since his father had called him to his bedside fifteen years ago to tell Whit he’d soon be the earl. What would his father have said about this mess Whit found himself in?

What would Hollingsford say?

“I have a house full of guests to entertain,” Whit replied. “You heard them. They have little interest in seeing the sights, visiting the neighbors. I find myself wondering what I should do with them.”

Hollingsford grinned. “It’s not the sights or the neighbors they came for, my lord. I think you know that. They came here for you.”

The very idea made him want to stalk from the room, dive into the river and let it wash him out to sea. “I am unused to being the sole entertainment.”

“Now, then, it’s not so bad,” Hollingsford said, hitching himself higher in his seat as if he intended to deliver a speech. “You have three lovely ladies before you. It shouldn’t be so difficult to determine which you like best.”

Why had he even considered having this conversation? “I wasn’t prepared to begin serious courting,” he tried. “I haven’t given the matter much thought until recently.”

“No need to think,” Hollingsford insisted. “You take this lady for a drive, that one for a walk. You talk to them, ask them what they like, sound out their opinions, see how they relate to their Maker. Then, when you find one you like, you let her know and arrange for the banns to be read.”

Whit laughed. “You make it sound easy.”

“It is easy,” Hollingsford declared, reaching for the decanter the footman had left to pour himself another glass. “Courting is supposed to be fun. It’s the marriage part that takes work.”

Perhaps that was what concerned him. Surrounded by requirements, was he now to add the responsibility for a wife? He knew his duty to his family to marry and have an heir. It was a duty he took far too seriously to rush into a hasty marriage, especially now when he already had enough on his hands!

Besides, he couldn’t help remembering his father, sitting at this very table, staring at a painting of Whit’s mother that had then hung on the paneled wall. His gaze had never strayed to the food, as if she alone sustained him. He’d never even attempted to court again after her death. That, Whit couldn’t help thinking, was true love, that unbridled devotion, that all-consuming emotion. Having seen such a love, how could he settle for anything less?

“It’s not so bad, you know,” Hollingsford said, offering him the decanter. Whit waved it away. “Marriage can be a blessing. Someone to care about you, to encourage you. I still miss my Janey, and she’s been dead a good fifteen years now.” He took a deep draught from his glass, and Whit saw that his hand shook.

It seemed even Hollingsford had been touched by the tender feelings of love. Was it possible Whit might find it here at the Lodge, with one of these women?


Chapter Three

Whit wasn’t sure what to expect when he and Ruby’s father entered the withdrawing room a short while later. He had rather hoped Charles would prove true to his word and wrap Henrietta Stokely-Trent, at least, around his little finger. Whit had seen any number of ladies succumb to his cousin’s charm. Charles found it easy to converse, easy to smile. He found duty harder to swallow. Sometimes Whit thought they were exact opposites.

However, Charles had focused on Ruby Hollingsford, the two of them in close conversation as they sat across from each other in armchairs by the doors to the veranda. The candlelight from the brass sconce glowed in his cousin’s hair; his gaze was aimed directly at the feisty redhead.

But Miss Hollingsford seemed barely to notice. Her attention had wandered toward the door to the withdrawing room, and when her gaze lit on Whit, her lips curved.

For some reason, Whit wanted to stand a little taller.

“Looks as if you have a clear field, my lord,” Mortimer Hollingsford chortled as he passed Whit to stroll into the room. Whit blinked and quickly tallied his other guests. Instead of hanging on his cousin, Miss Stokely-Trent had discovered the ancient spinet he’d forgotten rested on the far wall and was tapping at the keys while her parents looked on and Lady Amelia sat expectantly on the sofa with her mother.

“How kind of you to join us,” Lady Wesworth said as if Whit had kept them all waiting. She glowered at her daughter. “Amelia was just saying how much she wanted to sing for you.”

Lady Amelia’s elegant brows shot up, and she visibly swallowed. If she had wished to sing, she now very likely wished herself elsewhere. Even though he could see her shyness, duty required that he encourage her, and the other gentlemen followed suit. But it was Ruby Hollingsford’s voice that won the day.

“I imagine you have a lovely voice, Lady Amelia,” she said, her own voice warm and kind. “I hope you’ll share it with us.”

Lady Amelia rose with a becoming blush. “Well, perhaps a short tune. I wouldn’t want to inconvenience Miss Stokely-Trent.”

The other woman eyed her as she approached the spinet. “I didn’t realize you’d require accompaniment. Don’t you play, Lady Amelia?”

The blonde’s blush deepened. “Not as well as you do, I fear.”

“Nonsense,” Lady Wesworth declared, but Henrietta Stokely-Trent appeared mollified enough that she agreed to accompany Lady Amelia. While they put their heads together to confer about the music, Whit drifted toward to his cousin and Ruby Hollingsford.

“I must say,” Charles was murmuring, leaning closer to the redhead as if to catch the scent of her hair, “that though your father may be a jeweler of some renown, he surely had his greatest gem in you, my dear Ruby.”

Whit couldn’t help frowning. How had Charles managed to gain the right to use her first name so soon? And what was this about a jeweler? Was that the source of his other guests’ disapproval? Were they so arrogant they looked down on a lady for having a father in trade?

Ruby Hollingsford shook her head at his cousin’s praise, hair catching the light. “You’ll have to do better than that, sir, if you hope to win one of these women.”

So she’d taken his cousin’s measure already. Whit tried not to smile as his cousin promised her his utmost devotion. Ruby just laughed, soft and low, a sound that met an answering laugh inside Whit.

Just then, Henrietta Stokely-Trent played a chord, and Lady Amelia began to sing. Whit was surprised to find she had a beautiful voice, clear as a bell and equally as pure. Ruby beamed as if she’d known it all the time. When Lady Amelia finished, the applause from all his guests was spirited.

Not to be outdone, Henrietta Stokely-Trent launched into a complicated sonata with precision and skill and earned a similar round of applause as well as a smug smile from her father.

Charles put his hand on Ruby’s, where it lay on the arm of her chair. “I would very much like to hear you play, Miss Hollingsford. I warrant you have some skill.”

Whit, too, wondered how Ruby would play. He’d have guessed with a great deal more emotion than Henrietta Stokely-Trent, but Ruby didn’t take advantage of the opportunity Charles had given her to preen.

She pulled her hand out from under his cousin’s. “I have little skill at the spinet,” she replied cheerfully. “And I’m not much of a singer either.”

“It is difficult for those outside Society to excel in the graces,” Lady Wesworth commiserated with a look to her daughter, who had returned to her side.

“Music, literature, poetry,” Mrs. Stokely-Trent agreed with a sigh. “Those are, indeed, the elevated arts.”

Ruby Hollingsford’s look darkened. “Oh, I learned to appreciate poetry. Shall I declaim for you?” She rose, head high, gaze narrowed on the two mothers.

“There once was a baker named Brewer, whose home always smelled like a—”

“Miss Hollingsford,” Whit interrupted, thrusting out his arm. “Will you take a stroll with me on the veranda?”

Everyone else in the room was staring at him. Ruby Hollingsford, the minx, turned her glare on him, yet managed a tight smile. “Surely I shouldn’t deprive your other guests of the pleasure of your company, my lord. Or isn’t that done in polite society? I know so little about it, after all.”

“Your knowledge is quite sufficient for me,” Whit said. “But I fear I must insist.”

He thought for a moment she would refuse, her face was so tight. But she slapped her hand down on his arm, and he opened one of the glass doors out onto the veranda and led her through. Behind him, he heard Charles inviting the others to play whist. Whit shut the door on their answers.

She drew away immediately, going to the edge of the veranda and putting a hand against one of the square wooden pillars that supported the roof. Night had crept over the dale. Above the trees beyond her, a thousand stars pricked out fanciful shapes in the sky. In the darkness, the River Bell called, eager to reach its joining with the Dove a few miles to the west. The cool air touched Whit’s cheek tenderly, leaving behind the vanilla scent of the fragrant orchids that crowded the meadow nearby.

Miss Hollingsford did not seem to appreciate the cool air or the scent. “If you intend to offer a scold,” she said, turning to gaze at him and crossing her arms over the chest of her gray evening gown, “get it over with or save your breath.”

The golden light spilling from the windows behind him outlined her figure, the tense lines and stiff posture. As he had suspected, the careless words a few moments ago had hurt.

“What I intended,” Whit replied, “was to apologize for my other guests. They diminish themselves in my estimation by their behavior.”

She took a deep breath and trained her gaze toward the meadow. “I should be used to it by now.”

She had obviously heard such slurs before. Why was it people felt so compelled to pick at each other? “You should not have to accustom yourself to abuse,” Whit told her.

She snorted. “Try telling that to Lady Wesworth. I’m sure she thinks she’s being edifying.”

“I intend to tell her. I thought it more prudent to speak to you first. One should not reward bad behavior.”

“Yet you rewarded mine.” She dropped her arms. “Forgive my fit of pique, my lord. I’ll try to keep my temper in check. Unless, of course, you’d like me to leave.”

She glanced back at him, brows raised. Even her tone sounded hopeful. She wanted him to send her packing. Having her leave would certainly solve part of his problem—one less woman to placate, two fewer guests to entertain. Yet she seemed the most practical person of the group, and he could not help feeling that, by losing her, he would lose one of his only allies.

“Please stay, Miss Hollingsford,” he said. “At least with you, I can speak plainly with no fear of losing my heart.”

* * *

Ruby ought to take umbrage. Was she such a hag that he could never admire her? So lacking in the social graces she embarrassed him? So beneath him that marriage was unthinkable?

But though she couldn’t see his face with the light shining behind him, she could hear the smile in his voice, feel his pleasure in her company, and she couldn’t be angry. Besides, he was right. It felt as if they were in this together.

“Very well,” she said. “I’ll stay. But you must answer a question for me.”

“Anything,” he assured her, taking a step closer.

Anything. She couldn’t imagine an aristocrat actually meaning that. What if she asked which lady he preferred? What if she asked whether an influx of cash from a dowry such as hers would be welcome in his finances? Somehow, she didn’t think he would answer those questions so easily.

She wasn’t even sure he’d answer the one that plagued her, but she tried anyway. “Why did you invite me? We’ve never met.”

“Likely not,” he agreed. “I’d remember otherwise.”

His tone was warm, admiring. Ruby smiled despite herself. “Well, it appears you know how to compliment a lady, my lord.”

He inclined his head, and she caught a glimpse of his grin. “It takes little imagination to find praise for beauty, Miss Hollingsford.”

She could feel heat creeping up her cheeks as he gazed at her. Did he think her beautiful? She’d had women enough complain about her red hair, as if she’d had any choice in the color. Then there were the men who ogled it, as if it somehow signaled her heart was as fiery. Some of them had learned it was a closer match for her temper.

And what was she doing wondering whether he found her winsome? She had no intention of competing for his hand, and she’d had a purpose in asking him that question.

“The other two ladies will appreciate your compliments even more, I’m sure,” she said, putting a hand back on the solid wood of the pillar to steady her thoughts. “I’d simply like to know why I’m among their number.”

He shook his head, gaze going out to the night as if it held the answer. “Believe me when I say that this house party was not my idea. Someone arranged it with the best of intentions, and I will honor those intentions to the extent I can.”

He was obviously shielding someone. Who would be so audacious as to sign an earl’s name to an invitation that could cause him to choose a bride? A parent came immediately to mind. Certainly her father would not be above such an action. Look at the way he’d manipulated her into coming to Derbyshire!

But Lord Danning had said he was an orphan. The only relative at the house party was Charles Calder. Had he arranged this? After conversing with him, she was even more certain they’d never met, despite her father’s remark. Now Ruby shook her head. Always it came back to her father. Very likely he’d encouraged Charles Calder to invite her. She could hear him now.

She’s a great girl, my daughter. You put in a good word with his lordship, and I’ll give you an excellent price on this diamond. She shuddered.

“Forgive me for keeping you, Miss Hollingsford,” the earl said, clearly thinking she’d shivered from the cool air. “I merely wanted you to know that I appreciate your presence here, and I’ll do all I can to make your time in Derbyshire enjoyable. Establishing a friendship with you and your father might be the best thing that could come of all this.”

A friendship with an earl? Surely such a thing was impossible. Oh, he seemed kind and considerate, his lean body relaxed as he stood there, rimmed in gold. By the tilt of his head, she thought those purple-blue eyes were watching her with kind regard. She steeled herself against them. She’d had warmer looks trained her way, and they’d promised lies. A shame the angler she’d met by the river this afternoon had turned out to be an aristocrat.

“Thank you for the explanation, my lord,” she said, pushing off the pillar and lifting her skirts to start for the door. “We should return to your other guests.”

He did not argue but merely opened the door for her and bowed her in ahead of him.

She thought she might be greeted by a fresh barrage of insults, but the other guests did not seem overly distressed by her and Lord Danning’s absence. Her father, Lady Wesworth and the Stokely-Trent parents had begun playing whist at a table brought in for the purpose, further crowding the withdrawing room. Mr. Calder was seated on the sofa between the other two ladies, and by the blush on Lady Amelia’s fair cheek and the smile on Henrietta Stokely-Trent’s pretty face, he was at least holding his own.

“You have a choice, Miss Hollingsford,” Lord Danning murmured beside her as they paused by the doorway. “Would you prefer to make the fourth in another game of whist, or would you like an excuse to escape?”

Ruby glanced up at him. His look held no censure. He truly was giving her the option to leave all these people behind. The very thought sent such relief through her that she knew her answer.

“You play whist,” she said. “I’ll run. And thank you.”

No one said a word as she slipped from the room.

The air in the corridor was still perfumed with the lingering scent of roast duck as she took the stairs to her room. Peace, blessed peace. No one to impress, no one to start an argument or berate her for simply being born without a silver spoon in her mouth. She filled her lungs and smiled.

And nearly collided with another man at the top of the stairs.

He caught her arms to steady her, then stepped back and lowered his gaze. He was not as tall as Lord Danning, and more slightly built, with hair like the straw that cushioned her father’s larger shipments and movements as quick as a bird’s. His dark jacket and trousers were of the finest material, the best cut. She couldn’t help the feeling that she’d met him before.

“Forgive me, sir,” she said. “I didn’t realize Lord Danning had another guest.”

Keeping his gaze on her slippers, he inclined his head. “I’m no guest, Miss Hollingsford. I’m Quimby, his lordship’s valet. I do hope you enjoy your time at Fern Lodge. I’m certain if you look about, you’ll find something of interest.” With a nod that didn’t raise his gaze to hers, he turned and hurried toward the front bedchamber, shutting the door with a very final click.

Odd fellow. She couldn’t recall meeting a valet before, unless she counted the manservant who assisted her father. But somehow she wouldn’t have thought them quite so subservient. Was Lord Danning such a harsh master? Perhaps she should do as Mr. Quimby suggested and keep her eyes open.

Unfortunately, it was her ears that troubled her that night.

The room she had been given was lovely to look upon, plastered in white with a cream carpet on the dark wood floor and golden hangings on the bed. A shame the designer had not taken similar care in the soundness of the structure. Ruby had just settled beneath the thick covers when she heard voices coming through the wall. Lady Amelia and her mother were evidently situated next door, and by the sound of it, Lady Wesworth was much put out about the fact.

“I have never slept two in a bed in my life,” she complained, so ringingly that the gilt-edged porcelain rattled in the walnut wash stand against Ruby’s wall. “Why can’t one of the others share?”

Lady Amelia must have answered, because there was silence for a moment before Lady Wesworth continued. “And why is she here at all? You cannot tell me Danning covets her fortune. With his seat in Suffolk and the leasehold here in Derby, he has quite enough to suffice.”

Interesting. At least she could cross fortune hunter off the list of potential concerns about Lord Danning. If she had been willing to consider him as a husband, of course.

“Well, I suppose she is pretty,” Lady Wesworth acknowledged to something her daughter had said, “but I doubt she came by that magnificent red naturally.”

Oh! Small wonder the minister preached against listening to gossip. She fingered a strand of her red hair, knowing that she came by it quite naturally.

“Oh, cease your sniveling, young lady,” Lady Wesworth scolded her daughter. “You can still have him. You must exert yourself tomorrow. Find ways to be close to him, and don’t let that Hollingsford chit get in your way.”

That Hollingsford chit reached for one of the feather pillows, thinking to block her ears before she heard any more.

“And he had the affront to advise me to be civil to her. Me! As if I needed to be reminded how to go about in polite society!”

Ruby paused in the act of covering her head. So Lord Danning had kept his promise and spoken to Lady Wesworth about her. His advice didn’t seem to have been taken to heart, but at least he’d tried. Remembering her own manners, she stuffed the pillow over her head and attempted to get some sleep.

In the morning, Ruby was swift to finish dressing in a green striped walking dress and disappear downstairs before she heard another word from her neighbors. She truly felt for Lady Amelia to live with such a termagant.

Ruby’s mother had died when Ruby was a child; she didn’t remember a great deal about her. She’d seen to her own needs until she’d gone to school, where a maid had been provided for her. Since graduating, she’d hired a maid in London, an older woman with an eye for fashion who sadly seemed to care more fervently for Ruby’s wardrobe than her well-being. So she’d never had a woman to fulfill what she’d always thought to be a mother’s role—fussing over her, encouraging her to reach her dreams. Somehow she’d always imagined such a person would be more uplifting than censorious.

If the other guests had heard anything of Lady Wesworth’s complaints, they did not show it. Ruby passed Mr. and Mrs. Stokely-Trent in the corridor, and both nodded civilly to her, making her wonder whether Lord Danning had spoken to them, as well. Charles Calder called to her from the withdrawing room, raising a silver teapot to indicate he had sustenance ready should she wish it. Very likely she’d need it; she could barely make out the lawn beyond the veranda it was raining so hard. But she had no wish to encourage him, so she waved him good-morning and hurried on.

She finally reached the dining room and stayed only long enough to grab an apple from the sideboard, then retreated to a room she’d spotted the previous day—the library. If ever any morning warranted curling up with a good book, it was this morning. Unfortunately, that room, too, was occupied.

Henrietta Stokely-Trent paused in her survey of the crowded walnut bookshelf on the opposite wall. The soft lace at the throat and hem of her white muslin gown was all frivolity. But the arched look she cast Ruby made it seem as if the floor-to-ceiling bookcases, which paneled two of the four walls, and the sturdy leather-bound chairs in the center of the carpet were hers alone.

“Good morning, Miss Hollingsford,” she said, inclining her dark head. “Looking for a novel?”

A novel, according to Miss Pritchett, the literature teacher at the Barnsley School, was considered by some the lowest form of literature. That hadn’t stopped her from sharing tales of the Scottish Highlands with her students, each book full of romance and adventure. But not all women were as open-minded as Miss Pritchett, and Ruby knew the offer of a novel was this young lady’s way of implying Ruby lacked the intelligence to read anything more challenging.

“Perhaps a novel,” Ruby replied, refusing to encourage her. She trailed a finger of her free hand along the edge of the spines nearest the door. “Or a Shakespearean play and some of Wordsworth’s poetry.”

“So you do know more than common rhymes,” the bluestocking surmised, watching her.

Ruby smiled. “I pick the poem to suit the audience.”

“Then you very likely chose well,” she said, to Ruby’s surprise. She moved to join Ruby. “I must apologize for the behavior of my family, Miss Hollingsford. Between our social connections and financial blessing, we tend to overestimate our own worth.”

Her gray eyes were serious, so Ruby decided to give her the benefit of the doubt. “The actual estimate, I suspect, is impressive enough.”

“But lording it over others is hardly fitting,” Henrietta countered. Then she leaned closer and lowered her voice, as if suspecting someone might come upon them at any moment. “Still, I must know. What do you make of all this?”

Ruby glanced around the library, thinking it only polite to pretend to misunderstand. “It seems a fine space to me, although if it often rains so hard here a bit more light would be warranted.”

The bluestocking’s lips twitched, but whether from annoyance or amusement, Ruby wasn’t certain. Unlike her calculated movements, her face was soft, pampered.

“I suspect you know I was looking for a different sort of enlightenment,” she said. “You were the only one to manage a private word with the earl last night. Is he truly intent on courting?”

Ruby refused to lie, but neither did she feel comfortable confiding last night’s conversation with Lord Danning. He had intimated she was the only one he truly trusted, if for no other reason than because she had made it plain she did not plan to participate in this business of choosing a bride.

“You would have to ask him,” she replied, edging away from the woman, gaze on the line of shelves.

“And what of you?” the bluestocking pressed, following her. “You do not seem to be trying to impress him. By your own admission, you are not well-known to him. Exactly why are you here, Miss Hollingsford?”

Ruby set her apple on a shelf, yanked out a book and flipped to a random page. Better that than to tell the woman to mind her own affairs. “I was invited to a house party,” she said, gaze on the precise lettering going down the page, more design than words. “I have no interest in courting.”

“That seems odd for a lady our ages,” Henrietta replied. “Are we not told that marriage is the sum of which we might attain?”

Was Ruby mad to hear bitterness behind the words? “Marriage is often needed for money or prestige. I have plenty of the former and have no interest in the latter.”

“And love?” Henrietta pressed. “Have you no use for it either?”

Ruby closed the book and set it back on the shelf. “I honestly don’t believe the love written about in all these tomes even exists.”

Out of the corners of her eyes she saw Henrietta frown. “And your father is amenable to supporting you throughout your life?”

“He will grow accustomed to the idea,” Ruby replied with a fervent wish she was right.

“Then you are more fortunate than most, Miss Hollingsford.” She turned toward the door, and Ruby felt her stiffen. “Oh, good morning. I didn’t know you were there, my lord.”


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.”


Chapter Five

Ruby had cause to ask herself about Whit’s intentions the very next day. Though the morning dawned gray and threatening, the air remained clear. When his guests had gathered in the dining room for breakfast, Whit announced his plans to take any who were interested to visit his neighbor down the Dale, Lord Hascot at Hollyoak Farm.




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