The Wife Campaign. Regina Scott
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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 a—”
“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 problem—one 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