Authors: Jillian Hart
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
R
uby 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.
Ruby had never heard of the fellow, but her father filled her in as they sat together near the end of the table, partaking of the coddled eggs and salmon laid out for them.
“Horse mad, absolutely horse mad,” he declared between bites.
“He raises riding horses,” Whit supplied from the top of the table with a smile to Ruby. “Mostly hunters, with power and stamina. A gentleman knows he's made his mark when he obtains a Hascot horse.”
“Indeed,” Lady Wesworth intoned, poking at her salmon as if she would subdue it anew. “Lord Wesworth has even considered purchasing one.”
“I'm certain Henrietta would do one justice,” Mrs. Stokely-Trent said with a nod to her husband, who harrumphed and kept his gaze on his eggs.
“Indeed she would,” Ruby's father agreed with a wave of his silver folk. “You might speak to Hascot when we visit today. It's not as if you'll meet him in town. He only comes off that farm of his once a year to bid at Tattersall's and perhaps commission a nice bit of gold.”
So that's how her father knew the fellow. He must be a customer. “And he'll welcome a gaggle of visitors?” Ruby asked as the other women began arguing over who would sit where in the carriage.
“Only if they come to buy,” her father predicted with a grin.
Ruby felt for Lord Hascot, but she felt more for Whit. He sat at the head of the table, interjecting in this conversation, interceding in that argument. Since returning from the river yesterday, he'd done all he could to keep his guests happy. Unfortunately, the only thing that would satisfy most of his guests was the one thing he refused to offerâa proposal of marriage.
In the end, Lady Wesworth agreed to use her landau, a portentous beast, with the hoods down so that her guests might better enjoy the scenery.
“My man had it from her maid that she takes it everywhere,” Ruby's father confided to her. “I don't envy the servants riding in it with the baggage while she and Lady Amelia travel in the larger coach. Those leather hoods can stink when they're closed for any time.”
By the width of the two facing seats, Ruby guessed two abreast would be comfortable, but no one appeared content to be elsewhere. So Ruby found herself seated next to Henrietta and her mother, while the two fathers and Lady Wesworth sat opposite. By the set of their shoulders, she thought it a tight squeeze.
Luckily, Lady Amelia, Mr. Calder and Whit rode alongside, although, at Whit's suggestion, all the young ladies had changed into riding habits in case they might choose to ride one of Lord Hascot's famous horses. Ruby's was a slate-gray affair, tailored, with black braid across her shoulders and frogging down the front. With her plumed shako on her head, she fancied she looked rather dashing. Lady Amelia's plum-colored skirts were more practical than fashionable, and Henrietta's navy coat with its velvet lapels nearly matched the coat Charles Calder was wearing.
That gentleman didn't seem to notice. He urged his horse from one side of the carriage to the other, first flirting with Henrietta and then Ruby. Ruby shook her head at his antics. Though his compliments grew more fulsome each time he talked to her, she put no stock in them. Unlike Whit, his cousin seemed more interested in the art of flirtation than a commitment of lasting devotion.
Whit, of course, was the attraction of the day. He rode at the head of the cavalcade, calling back comments and occasionally stopping to point out a sight of greater interest. He wore a black felt broad-brimmed hat to shield his eyes from the sun, should it ever peek out from the misty clouds overhead, and his brown riding coat was conservatively cut across his broad shoulders. His nankeen breeches met brown-topped boots, his legs hugging the sides of his chestnut mare. Once again, she could not help thinking that the party was significantly lacking a portrait painter.
Whit had explained that Dovecote Dale was a hamlet tucked among the rounded hills, and Ruby felt as if she was sitting in a cup of verdant green as the carriage set off from the Lodge. The hills surrounded them, and the river chatted away like an old friend. Besides Fern Lodge, Lady Wesworth told them all, only three other decent-size houses speckled the valley. Bellweather Hall, home of the Duke of Bellington, was just over the rise from Fern Lodge, while Hollyoak Farm and Rotherford Grange lay deeper in the dale.
“Of course, the Grange is nearly empty now,” Whit said, riding alongside as they took the bridge over the River Bell. “Sir Nicholas Rotherford's on his wedding trip to Vienna.”
“Vienna,” Charles Calder said with a wink to the carriage in general. “Now there's a place I've always wanted to visit. Perhaps it will do for my wedding trip. What do you say, Miss Hollingsford?”
“I have no idea,” Ruby said, then couldn't help a grin to Whit, who was frowning at his cousin. “I suspect it would depend on the fishing.”
Whit let out a laugh and urged his horse forward.
But though she'd never visited Vienna, she had to admit the Dale had its own beauty as the group made its way deeper. Tiny farmsteads hugged the rising hills; willows and ash hugged the bubbling stream. Twice deer bounded away at the sound of their approach, and when they stopped to let a farm wagon cross their path, Ruby heard doves cooing from the nearby bush.
Whit seemed to be in his element, pointing out the limestone spires rising on the other side of the river, the caves pocketing the cliffs. Lady Amelia rode beside him, glancing about with a smile of pleasure that likely had as much to do with the view as the fact that she'd escaped her tyrant of a mother for a time. The master of horse at the Barnsley School would have praised her seat, the effortless way she guided her mount. Ruby had to admit she was a fetching sight.
Beside Ruby, Henrietta seemed more interested in the scenery, throwing questions to Whit and his cousin about plant life and climate. Lady Wesworth nodded condescendingly, and Mr. Stokely-Trent was too busy arguing with Ruby's father over some matter of the Exchange to pay attention.
“And this is the village of Dovecote,” Whit called as they rolled past a little stone inn with flower boxes under the windows. A few cottages crowded nearby, some with shops in front, but the village's crowning glory appeared to be its church. The stone chapel stood on a rise overlooking the area, the white walls holding up a gilded steeple that surely must be visible for miles. As they passed, the bell tolled the hour, and the sound echoed down the valley.
“A fine house of worship,” Lady Wesworth pronounced it.
“I would not have expected such in this setting,” Mrs. Stokely-Trent agreed.
“The Duke of Bellington has the living,” Whit explained, “and each of the landowners has done his part to help.”
Ruby could hear the pride in his voice. Though Lady Wesworth had said he owned a seat in Suffolk, Whit clearly felt that Dovecote Dale was home. But building a church?
While she attended Saint James's, Piccadilly, with her father each Sunday, and her father had been known to advance monies toward the church's upkeep, she could not say she was overly enamored of the place. The congregation, made up in large part of wealthy financiers and tradesmen, tended to flaunt their circumstances in the finest clothing, the costliest perfumes. At times she thought a few of them came more to worship themselves than their Maker. She wondered if it would be any different when she attended services with Whit and his guests this Sunday.
Shortly after the village, they crossed another bridge over the river, this one low and flat, as if the builder had felt even ornamentation too frivolous for his purposes. The road drew into a stretch of open pastureland gradually rising toward the hills. Elegant creatures nibbled at the emerald grass, their manes rippling in the cool, moist breeze. Ruby counted a dozen horses before the carriage reached the main house.
Compared to the charm of Fern Lodge, the main house at Hollyoak Farm was a rather boxy affair, three stories of reddish stone about as high as it was wide. Even the bow window jutted out squarely, as if giving no quarter. Stretching on either side behind it were gray stone stables with arched windows and wide polished doors, evidence of where the owner focused his attentions.
The carriage rolled past the house and came to rest in a graveled area behind it, between the two stable wings. Grooms came running to hold the horses for Whit, his cousin and Lady Amelia.
“Lord Danning, welcome,” one groom said, holding the horse so Whit could dismount. Another groom scrambled to lower the step and help the others from the carriage.
“And where is your master?” Whit asked as his boots crunched against the gravel.
The groom pointed. “Just coming in now, my lord.”
Ruby followed his finger. Out on the pasture behind the house, a set of obstacles had been erected: low wooden fences with ditches on one side and taller stone walls before small ponds. A powerful black horse, big chested, long limbed, was maneuvering among them. The man on its back looked completely in control, moving with the beast as it sailed over a wall and ditch and continued without missing a stride.
“Magnificent,” Lady Amelia murmured as she stood beside the carriage, holding her horse's reins. When Ruby glanced her way, she blushed. “The horse. I've heard much of Lord Hascot's stock is descended from the Byerly Turk.”
The name meant nothing to Ruby, but the fact appeared to impress Henrietta as well, for she craned her neck to get a better look as the horse and rider cantered closer.
“I doubt that one is,” she said as Lord Hascot drew abreast. “Arabians are fine-boned fellows from what I've read. This creature has power.”
Ruby might have said the same thing of the man astride him. His black hair waved about his sharp features; his dark brown eyes seemed to miss nothing as he reined in and slung a leg over the saddle to dismount.
“Danning,” he said in a deep voice that sounded as if it was rarely used. “I wasn't expecting so many when you sent word you intended to visit.”
“Neither was I,” Whit assured him. “But it seems your fame precedes you, for all my guests wished to make your acquaintance.” He went on to introduce the various visitors. Lord Hascot neither shook hands nor bowed, his dark eyes resting briefly on each person. But Ruby noticed his gaze remained the longest on Lady Amelia. As if she'd noticed as well, Lady Amelia dropped her gaze, her high-cheekboned face turning a pleasing pink.
“Good lines,” Lord Hascot said with a nod in her direction.
“I'm not entirely sure he means her horse,” Henrietta murmured to Ruby.
“The mount is not for sale,” Lady Wesworth snapped, pushing her way forward. “Give the groom your reins, Amelia, and take Lord Danning's arm.”
“It seems an earl in the hand is worth two barons on horseback,” Ruby's father whispered to her as he passed. “Perhaps you should have ridden, my girl.”
“I don't care much for horses,” Ruby replied. She'd meant to keep her voice quiet, but it had evidently carried as far as Lord Hascot, for he turned and glared at her as if she had impugned his very honor.
“I would be delighted to wait at the carriage with you, Miss Hollingsford,” Charles Calder offered. He had dismounted as well and now moved to join Ruby. His smile was its usual charm, but she certainly didn't want to sit in the carriage like some exotic plant in a conservatory while everyone else had all the fun.
As if he had the same thought, Whit came back to her side. “Allow me to escort you, Miss Hollingsford,” he said. She could only wonder why he so carefully put himself between her and his cousin. “I'm sure seeing Lord Hascot's amazing creatures in the flesh will give you a whole new appreciation for the breed.”
Ruby wasn't so sure about the horses, but if he kept smiling at her so warmly, she was afraid she just might develop a whole new appreciation for Whit Calder!
* * *
Whit could cheerfully have ordered his cousin back to Fern Lodge. What was Charles doing, asking Ruby questions about wedding journeys, offering to stay behind in the carriage with her as if he wanted nothing better than to get her alone? Had nothing Whit said last night penetrated his cousin's thick skull? Or was Charles truly bent on capturing Ruby's heart?
The question tugged at him as he led his guests into the nearest stable, Ruby Hollingsford tucked protectively beside him. He knew Charles needed moneyâhis cousin's interests always outpaced his income. But surely he'd seen how the others had reacted to Ruby.
If she was to marry into upper Society, she needed a husband with sufficient consequence to overcome the prejudice against her father's trade. Even though Charles currently stood as Whit's heir presumptive, his cousin had to know the chances of him inheriting the title were slim. And lacking a title, his consequence would never be sufficient to shield Ruby from gossip. Instead of seeing a cherished wife, Society would claim he'd married Ruby for her money alone. She would never be accepted. If Charles cared anything for Ruby, he must consider that.
But Charles didn't seem troubled to have lost Ruby's attentions, if he had ever had them. He complimented Lady Amelia on her riding, her mother on her turn of phrase, Henrietta on her knowledge of horse breeding and Mrs. Stokely-Trent for having birthed such an amazing female. Perhaps Whit had no reason for concern. Perhaps his cousin had become so used to flirtation he no longer realized when it was inappropriate or inadvisable.
“I hope my cousin has not been annoying you with his conversation, Ruby,” Whit murmured, making sure to keep the two of them at the back of the group as Hascot led them down the center aisle of the stable. Her only reply was a polite smile as she took in their surroundings. Around them, horses lounged in high-sided stalls, the wood lacquered in cream and topped by black latticework. Along the walls, troughs offered clean water, fresh hay. Hascot had seen to every need for his beasts. A shame Whit had had less success with his guests.