Regina Scott - The Wife Campaign

In fact, the only things about him that weren’t first-rate were his clothes, which consisted of scuffed, water-stained boots, corduroy breeches and a wool waistcoat over a linen shirt. He probably wasn’t even a second son, much less a selfish, self-absorbed aristocrat like she was sure to find in the Earl of Danning, who thought he could summon a gentlewoman he’d never met to Derby with a perfunctory note. With his head cocked and that smile on his handsome face, he looked as if he wanted nothing more than to help her.

However, looks could be deceiving, as she knew to her sorrow.

“Forgive me for intruding,” he said. “May I be of assistance?”

Nice voice—warm, earnest. Nice manners. She still didn’t trust him.

“I don’t need assistance,” she said, using a tone that brooked no argument. “My carriage will return for me any moment.” As her boxing instructor had taught her, she positioned her feet in a preparatory stance, one forward, one back, and held her arms loosely at her sides. She was tall for a woman, and she was fairly sure that if the situation called for it, she could hit that perfectly formed nose of his with sufficient force to make him think twice about pursuit.

He glanced at the road as if considering how quickly the coach would return. “I’m glad to hear you have an escort.” His voice betrayed his doubts.

She could only wish for an escort, but she’d failed to even snatch up her reticule and the pistol it contained when she’d jumped, worse luck!

Perhaps if she explained her circumstances, this fellow would be less likely to think her easy prey. She waved a hand to the north, where the coach had been heading, and hoped there truly was a lodge somewhere about, close enough that someone might hear her if she had to scream. “Oh, they’ll all be looking for me. I’m to attend a fortnight’s house party in the area.”

He frowned. “I didn’t realize His Grace had returned, much less begun entertaining.”

His Grace! Her temper thrust past her logic once more, and she threw up her hands. “Oh! My father said he was an earl! Another lie!”

A shadow flickered past his face, and he bent as if to keep her from seeing it. For the first time, Ruby noticed a long wooden rod lying at his booted feet. His fingers closed around it and tugged it up before the lapping water pulled it in. “I’m sorry, madam, but the only earl in this area is the Earl of Danning, and he isn’t entertaining.”

Ruby made a face as he straightened. “That bad, is he?”

He chuckled, one hand on the rod, which rose even above his considerable height. “Not really. I’ve even heard him called affable. What I meant is that he doesn’t come here to entertain.” He nodded toward the river. “He comes to fish.”

“Really?” She gazed at the swirling green waters as they leaped over stones, chattered past mossy boulders. Hard to imagine a puffed-up aristocrat willingly standing by a stream, angling for his dinner. Could there be more to this earl than the other nobs she’d met? Her look swung back to him. “How well do you know him?”

He hesitated, then shrugged. “Reasonably well.”

Such a cautious response. Was he a servant of his lordship and feared retribution if he gossiped? Was the Earl of Danning a vengeful man? She had no wish to put this kind man at risk, but she had to use the opportunity to learn more about the earl who had somehow taken a shine to her. She stepped closer. “Is it true he’s looking for a wife?”

He recoiled, eyes widening. “What?”

She smiled sweetly and repeated her question, enunciating each word with care. “Is. He. Looking. For a wife?”

He frowned at her, and it struck her that he probably thought she was bent on pursuing a title. Ruby shuddered at the idea.

“Forgive me for speaking so plainly,” she said. “Please understand, I’m not after him. I’d like nothing better than for you to assure me that he is old and fat and quite set in his ways, sworn never to wed.”

A muscle worked in his cheek as if he were fighting a smile. “He just reached his thirtieth year, and I believe some would consider him reasonably fit. However, I can promise you he is not actively seeking a bride.”

Relief coursed through her. All that worry, for nothing! But then, who’d sent the invitation? Oh! Not another prank! Far too many aristocrats of her acquaintance found juvenile amusement in reminding her and her father of their “place” in Society. She had learned to ignore their petty jokes, but her father still hoped for the best in them. When would he learn that interaction with the upper class led to nothing but heartache?

Her would-be rescuer was still regarding her as if not quite sure what to do with her. Ruby smiled at him.

“How rude of me,” she said, sticking out her hand. “Ruby Hollingsford. And you are?”

“Whitfield Calder,” he supplied, taking her hand and inclining his head over it as if he were honoring her. She liked that he was taller than she was. She was growing decidedly weary of looking down onto balding crowns when she danced.

Ruby beamed at him as he released her hand. “And apparently you and the earl have something in common. You like to fish, too. I’m very sorry to have interrupted you.”

He smiled. For some reason, she thought he was rusty at smiling. Perhaps it was how slowly his lips lifted. Perhaps it was the way his golden lashes veiled his eyes. Had he seen tragedy then?

“It was no trouble,” he assured her, bending to retrieve a tweed coat and shrugging in his broad shoulders. “Allow me to escort you back to the bridge. A lady should not be left alone.”

Ruby started to protest. For one, she wasn’t considered a lady by the standards of the upper class. She was merely the daughter of a cit, a merchant, if a happily wealthy one. For another, if she could protect herself on the streets of London as she’d been forced to do as a child, surely she could take care of herself on a remote road in Derby.

Yet he seemed so sincere, and so charming, as he offered her his arm, that she decided to let him think he was taking care of her. “How kind,” she said, linking her arm with his.

But as he walked slowly, carefully, putting his hand on her elbow and helping her over every little bump in the uneven ground, Ruby felt her charity with him slipping. Did he think her so frail that she couldn’t keep up if he walked his normal pace, or so clumsy that she’d trip over a stone? She might have been wearing a velvet pelisse with lace dripping at the cuffs, but her boots were sturdy black leather. Hadn’t he noticed that she’d already crossed the distance, at a run part of the way, with no need to lean on his manly arm?

As the ground rose sharply to the road, she broke away from him and lifted her skirts with both hands to complete the climb. Still, she felt him hovering, as if he expected her to take a tumble any second. When they reached the top, he positioned himself beside her, keeping her safely between him and the stone column of the bridge head. His deep blue gaze flickered from the road winding up the hill to the copse of trees across from them to the bridge, as if he expected a highwayman to leap from hiding. Concern radiated out of him like heat from a hearth.

What sort of man took such responsibility for a woman he’d known less than a quarter hour? What would he say if he knew she’d taken boxing lessons and could shoot the heart from an ace at fifty paces?

“Do you have sisters or a wife,” she asked, bemused, “that you’re so mindful of a lady’s safety?”

Again something crossed behind his watchful gaze. “Alas, no. I’m not married, and I’m an only child. My parents died many years ago now.”

An orphan. Instantly her heart went out to him.