An Ideal Companion. ANNE ASHLEY
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with a steaming bowl of nourishing broth to warm you up, which ought to keep you going until supper time, when I dare say, should you wish, you’ll be invited to eat with the servants in the house.’
The bags turned out to be much heavier than she might have supposed and she felt quite out of breath, not to mention unbecomingly flushed through the exertion. Consequently, she wasn’t best pleased to see none other than the Colonel himself emerging from the drawing room the instant she had deposited her burdens down on a chair in the hall.
His slight frown betrayed his disapproval even before he said, ‘Miss Harrington, I very much appreciate you offering sanctuary beneath this roof, but I certainly don’t expect you to dance attendance upon me. I’m not too proud to carry my own belongings. I’ve been doing so for years.’
She felt like a schoolgirl being scolded for some slight misdeed. With the possible exception of Agatha Whitton, and very occasionally Lady Beatrice herself, no one had ever attempted to criticise her actions for a good many years, not since her mother died. Perversely, she felt more amused than chastened by the mild rebuke, but even so, she had no intention of tamely accepting the reprimand like some cowed child, most especially not from a virtual stranger.
Although he towered above her, her head barely reaching his shoulder, she faced him squarely, resolute, but singularly lacking the least feeling of hostility towards him.
‘And I’m not too proud to offer assistance where I can, sir,’ she countered, her voice pleasantly level, with perhaps just the faintest trace of resolve. ‘I do not think you perfectly understand my position in this household.’
‘Perhaps not,’ he conceded. ‘But from what I’ve gleaned thus far, I’m fairly certain you’re not employed as a servant.’
Which instantly begged the question of just what he’d discovered about her during her short absence from the drawing room. Lady Beatrice wasn’t given to gossiping as a rule. After all, she was rarely in company often enough to enjoy the pastime, Ruth mused. Yet, something must have encouraged her to talk reasonably freely in front of her unexpected guest. Evidently, the Colonel possessed a manner that inspired confidence and induced even the most reticent of souls to reveal information they might ordinarily keep to themselves.
Ruth regarded him with dawning respect, realising all at once that much, much more lurked behind the air of affability and that polished easy manner of his; that behind the amused glint she’d already observed in those masculine eyes dwelt a character that was possibly both strong-willed and unerringly astute. Yet another salutary lesson, she mused, never to make snap judgements about people. And never to go by appearances alone!
Doing her level best to suppress a wry smile, though not altogether successfully if the Colonel’s faintly suspicious frown was anything to go by, Ruth sensibly turned away, while she attempted to school her features, and her eyes fell on the travelling bags once again.
‘Rest assured, Colonel, I have no intention of taking your belongings any further than this. And I shouldn’t attempt to do so either, if I were you,’ she advised. ‘I doubt very much your bedchamber is ready for you quite yet.’
‘In that case, Miss Harrington, would you be good enough to direct me to the stable block so that I might consult with my manservant?’
She did so with alacrity and Hugo was very soon making his way steadily across the cobbled yard to find his henchman engaging in a sportive exchange with a kitchen wench.
By clearing his throat noisily he made his approach known, which resulted in the, now, furiously blushing maidservant scurrying away and his own servant wearing the most wickedly self-satisfied grin. ‘You’re an incorrigible flirt, Finn! Kindly remember we’re not in Spain now.’
‘Wenches are the same the world over, sir. Thems that are willing, and thems that ain’t.’
‘Well, so long as you keep it to flirting, I’ll not object,’ Hugo told him bluntly, while staring out with some dissatisfaction at the amount of snow still surrounding the unappealing grey-stone house. ‘After all, we don’t know how long we’ll be obliged to kick our heels here. I shouldn’t wish to outstay our welcome by causing trouble among the staff.’
‘I shan’t do that, Colonel, ’ave no fear,’ Ben assured him, staring up at his master thoughtfully. ‘You don’t seem too ’appy to be putting up ’ere, sir. That scatty wench let fall that they don’t get too many callers to the ’ouse as a rule.’
‘I’d already come to that conclusion myself,’ Hugo admitted. ‘Seemingly, Lady Beatrice Lindley has turned into something of a recluse since her husband’s death. Through choice, I strongly suspect.’
‘Do you know ’er then, sir?’
‘I knew of her, yes. The seventh Duke of Chard was her brother-in-law. Married the duke’s young brother. Seem to recall he was something of a rum cove. I never did much socialising when I was in the capital. Not my scene at all, so it’s unlikely our paths ever did cross. But she knows my sister.’
Ben cast an eye over the rear aspect of the house. ‘Grim sort of a place. Not like your new ’ouse in Dorset, Colonel. I’d not take kindly to being stuck out ’ere all year round.’
‘No, and neither should I,’ Hugo wholeheartedly agreed. ‘From what I’ve seen of the place thus far, it distinctly lacks the Manor’s comfortably friendly atmosphere.’
‘Maybe so. But that Miss ’Arrington be a friendly sort,’ Ben ventured.
There was no response.
‘Very pretty...nice smile,’ he suggested, but again received no response. ‘Lovely big blue eyes.’
‘They’re brown,’ Hugo corrected, staring fixedly at the gateway entrance to the property.
‘Ah, so you did notice ’er then!’ Ben announced triumphantly. ‘I were beginning to wonder.’
‘Of course I noticed her. A very personable young woman. Unlike you, though, I’ve no intention of setting up a flirtation with her.
‘Besides which, I doubt very much she’d appreciate such overtures, as it very much appears she’s going to be kept busy,’ he added, gesturing towards the gateway, where a group of decidedly bedraggled and weary travellers were making their way towards the house.
Chapter Two
Ruth took one final look at her overall appearance in the full-length mirror. Vanity had never been one of her besetting sins; at least she sincerely hoped it had not. Notwithstanding, she had always taken pride in her appearance, and, yes, attempted to make the best of what nature had seen fit to bestow upon her.
Unlike her mother who had been breathtakingly lovely in her youth, Ruth had never considered herself in any way out of the ordinary. Oh, she was well enough, but certainly no ravishing beauty, she decided, taking a moment to glance at the portrait that had always taken pride of place in the bedchamber, before returning her critical gaze to her own reflection.
The large brown eyes, which had been acclaimed by more than one discerning soul as very fine, and the mass of glossy chestnut locks had most definitely been inherited from her father’s family. Only the fairness of her skin and a gently curving mouth, which was neither too wide nor too small, could have been said to have come from her mother. Thankfully, she was neither overly tall nor too short and, although slender, her figure was accounted very good indeed. Yet, her reflection on this occasion brought scant satisfaction.
Although Agatha—bless her!—had arrived unexpectedly and had gone to the trouble of arranging her chestnut hair in a more elaborate style, nothing could detract from the fact that her best gown was sadly outmoded now and, worse still, made her look faintly dowdy. She resembled nothing so much as a well-mannered governess who might be asked to join the family for a special occasion, but who knew well enough how to appear insignificant and fade into the background.
But did it really matter how she looked? Who was