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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.
