Authors: Jillian Hart
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 usualâand 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.”