Authors: Jillian Hart
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
W
hit 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 aâ”
“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 problemâone 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.