The Wife Campaign. Regina Scott
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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.”
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
Whit 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