– and they knew it.
Lottie was the first one to scramble back onto the grass in a sprawling unladylike manner. Her fingers were hard on their rescuer’s forearm and were hastily removed for appearance’s sake, while she muttered darkly about her ruined dress and sought to blame someone for it. Others came to help her, friends, ones Ruth did not share.
“Come on, love, let’s get you up,” said the man to the forgotten girl, slipping his warm hand into hers and pulling her to her feet. “Steady now, I’ve got you.”
And he did, for she could not have let go if she tried.
Speechless, Ruth allowed herself to be guided onto the bank, where Albert – sopping wet – was berating the nearest servant he could find for his “brush with death” and stealing away any attention or concern that might have been offered her way. And although Ruth was coasting away from the crowds, beyond sight and prying eyes, she wanted it. To escape Albert – her future – and Lottie and the awkward conversations with people who did not even care to remember her name.
A stone bench squatted nearby and Ruth was steered towards it. She groped for the cold surface. There was no one to stare here, no quips to reach her, a chance to gather herself. It was almost like solitude, were it not for the man who lingered beside her – an afterthought.
“I – I don’t understand these people,” she stuttered, after taking a deep breath, fighting to find her calm. “They all stood and watched. I heard them laughing.”
Mocking ghouls, monstrous smiles, masked intentions.
“No one even tried to help until you – you – I – I, you’re – forgive me, I haven’t even thanked you,” she forced out, dragging her eyes up to meet the stranger and losing any other words she might have offered.
This man was not like Albert. Where her future husband was circular, puffy and flappable, this man was the exact opposite: broad shoulders, hard features, dark eyes and tanned skin. There was nothing ridiculous or comical about him at all. No faults, no failings, no foppish tendencies.
She had not known men could look like that, like the ones from her books. The legends about knights and brave warriors had been fiction, a lie, non-existent, with crumbling illustrations in old yellow tomes. No one real, no one in existence had ever stirred the deeper, darker places in her core. Yet the figure who stood before her was very much flesh and blood.
A warmth curled in Ruth’s stomach. She felt a blush rise up her neck, and once she knew she was blushing, she blushed further.
“No thanks are necessary.” The way he stood, shadowed by the fading sun, made it hard for her to see his face. “You were far from danger; the creature was harmless.”
His clothes were dark and heavy with canal water. They clung to him and invited her gaze.
He spoke again, disrupting her thoughts – and she was glad for it – for that chance to find her composure. “You have the same expression you wore when confronted with the snake,” he said, his low laugh only adding to the warmth in her cheeks. “Surely I am not that frightening?”
Lips parted, she shook her head and averted her gaze. Frightening? No, yes, a little, but in all the right ways.
She needed to speak. It was her turn; it was only polite. Ruth was bad at this. She’d had no practice. She didn’t know what to say. “You have ruined your clothes,” she told him, hating how meek she sounded.
“I can get new ones.”
Another silence, further words needed, a space to fill. “We’ve rather ruined the party for you, haven’t we?”
“There’ll be others.”
“You shouldn’t have done it. We would have managed, and – and what if you catch a cold?”
“It will have been worth it,” he remarked, with a curve to his mouth that made her glad she was a small distance from him, for she wanted to lean into it. “Though I had thought you’d be more grateful.”
“Oh,” she grew pinker still. “Of course, I am entirely—”
“Forgive me, it was a poor attempt at humour and like I said, you were in no danger.”
“But you did keep Lottie from knocking the boat over and I cannot swim.”
“The canal isn’t deep.”
“Then you saved us from humiliation at least,” she told him, before clamming up entirely, realising she was almost bickering with him, when she had never argued with anyone in her life. And he was – this man, he was – well, quite unlike any other she had ever seen. He was not over fifty, he was not overweight, and he was no straggly youth trying to put worms down her dress. Not like…
“I need to find Albert,” she remembered, alert, alarmed.
The thought turned her stomach.
“Let me help you,” he said, extending a hand that she would not take. If she touched him again… God, she would never want to stop touching him. A mutinous thought crept into her skull: was this what it was meant to be like between a man and a woman?
“No, I can manage, I—”
“Ruthie!” On Lottie’s lips, her name sounded like an accusation. The young woman’s red hair was back to its casually coifed place, with her fan wafting feverishly as she breezed towards them. “Aren’t you going to introduce me to our dashing hero?” The question was asked without giving Ruth any time to reply, for Lottie instantly turned to the gentleman in question, her lips pressed together in a wide smile. “Sir, you saved our lives. We are quite in your debt.”
An odd feeling, akin to envy, lined Ruth’s stomach. It was unwelcome, unwanted and unfamiliar, as she listened in on the conversation she no longer felt a part of. And yet, the stranger met Ruth’s eyes and hers alone, mouth quirking up at the edge: their own secret communication. Though he was attentive enough as he considered Lottie’s words.
“The rumour is that you are a viscount, while others say you are the mysterious fellow who put this entire evening together. Which is it? You must tell me! Who are you?”
“Isaac Roscoe.” He inclined his head towards her. “And I am neither, more’s the pity.”
“Aren’t you going to introduce me, Ruth?” Though the long gown hid Lottie’s shoes, Ruth could have sworn she stamped her feet. “You cannot keep him all to yourself, especially not when you are already engaged.” She emphasized those last two words. The remark was made purely to shame her and she knew it. Mrs Pembroke. That was her future, her unhappiness.
“I – yes,” mumbled Ruth, almost tripping in her haste to stand up. “This – uh, is my friend Miss Charlotte Griswell.” Isaac’s eyes were a darker brown than Ruth’s own and once she caught them, she knew he’d guessed the paths her imagination had ventured down. A smirk found him, a mocking one that would have been cruel were it not for the mischief there, for the suggestion.
“What have you done to my dress, Ruthie?” Lottie came between the pair. “It’s beyond stained. It will have to be thrown out.” With a breathy sigh, the redhead angled herself towards the gentleman, conscious
