Stokely-Trent paused in her survey of the crowded walnut bookshelf on the opposite wall. The soft lace at the throat and hem of her white muslin gown was all frivolity. But the arched look she cast Ruby made it seem as if the floor-to-ceiling bookcases, which paneled two of the four walls, and the sturdy leather-bound chairs in the center of the carpet were hers alone.
“Good morning, Miss Hollingsford,” she said, inclining her dark head. “Looking for a novel?”
A novel, according to Miss Pritchett, the literature teacher at the Barnsley School, was considered by some the lowest form of literature. That hadn’t stopped her from sharing tales of the Scottish Highlands with her students, each book full of romance and adventure. But not all women were as open-minded as Miss Pritchett, and Ruby knew the offer of a novel was this young lady’s way of implying Ruby lacked the intelligence to read anything more challenging.
“Perhaps a novel,” Ruby replied, refusing to encourage her. She trailed a finger of her free hand along the edge of the spines nearest the door. “Or a Shakespearean play and some of Wordsworth’s poetry.”
“So you do know more than common rhymes,” the bluestocking surmised, watching her.
Ruby smiled. “I pick the poem to suit the audience.”
“Then you very likely chose well,” she said, to Ruby’s surprise. She moved to join Ruby. “I must apologize for the behavior of my family, Miss Hollingsford. Between our social connections and financial blessing, we tend to overestimate our own worth.”
Her gray eyes were serious, so Ruby decided to give her the benefit of the doubt. “The actual estimate, I suspect, is impressive enough.”
“But lording it over others is hardly fitting,” Henrietta countered. Then she leaned closer and lowered her voice, as if suspecting someone might come upon them at any moment. “Still, I must know. What do you make of all this?”
Ruby glanced around the library, thinking it only polite to pretend to misunderstand. “It seems a fine space to me, although if it often rains so hard here a bit more light would be warranted.”
The bluestocking’s lips twitched, but whether from annoyance or amusement, Ruby wasn’t certain. Unlike her calculated movements, her face was soft, pampered.
“I suspect you know I was looking for a different sort of enlightenment,” she said. “You were the only one to manage a private word with the earl last night. Is he truly intent on courting?”
Ruby refused to lie, but neither did she feel comfortable confiding last night’s conversation with Lord Danning. He had intimated she was the only one he truly trusted, if for no other reason than because she had made it plain she did not plan to participate in this business of choosing a bride.
“You would have to ask him,” she replied, edging away from the woman, gaze on the line of shelves.
“And what of you?” the bluestocking pressed, following her. “You do not seem to be trying to impress him. By your own admission, you are not well-known to him. Exactly why are you here, Miss Hollingsford?”
Ruby set her apple on a shelf, yanked out a book and flipped to a random page. Better that than to tell the woman to mind her own affairs. “I was invited to a house party,” she said, gaze on the precise lettering going down the page, more design than words. “I have no interest in courting.”
“That seems odd for a lady our ages,” Henrietta replied. “Are we not told that marriage is the sum of which we might attain?”
Was Ruby mad to hear bitterness behind the words? “Marriage is often needed for money or prestige. I have plenty of the former and have no interest in the latter.”
“And love?” Henrietta pressed. “Have you no use for it either?”
Ruby closed the book and set it back on the shelf. “I honestly don’t believe the love written about in all these tomes even exists.”
Out of the corners of her eyes she saw Henrietta frown. “And your father is amenable to supporting you throughout your life?”
“He will grow accustomed to the idea,” Ruby replied with a fervent wish she was right.
“Then you are more fortunate than most, Miss Hollingsford.” She turned toward the door, and Ruby felt her stiffen. “Oh, good morning. I didn’t know you were there, my lord.”
Chapter Four
Ruby whirled to find the earl standing in the doorway. This morning he was once more dressed in his fishing clothes, a rough cravat knotted at his throat. Something stirred inside her at the sight. Had he sought her company, or was he looking for Henrietta Stokely-Trent? Or did that pleasant smile mask dismay to find his peaceful library disturbed?
“Good morning, Miss Stokely-Trent, Miss Hollingsford,” he said, venturing into the room.
Henrietta Stokely-Trent went to meet him. “Do you not find that tedious, the whole Stokely-Trent business? Perhaps you could call me Henrietta.”
Bold, Ruby thought, turning to pluck another book from the shelf at random and flipping to a center page, the leather rough beneath her fingers. Could she say such a thing to a fellow? Hollingsford is such a long name. Call me Ruby. She winced at the thought.
But Lord Danning didn’t seem to be offended. “I would be honored, Henrietta,” he replied, and out of the corners of her eyes Ruby saw him bow. “I am generally called Danning.”
Ruby wrinkled her nose. Danning. His title. She’d have preferred to call him Whit. It far better suited the angler.
“You have a fine library, Danning,” Henrietta said. “An excellent mix of literature.”
He chuckled, and the sound was like a warm wave, lapping Ruby. “I stock this room with some of my favorites,” he confessed. “So I imagine it must seem rather eclectic. You should see the library at Calder House in London. My father was something of a collector. He had an early fragment of the Odyssey and a Shakespearean first folio.”
Impressive, Ruby thought, glancing over at them despite her best effort.
Henrietta had clasped her hands in delight. “Oh, Danning,” she said breathlessly as if he’d laid the riches of the Nile at her feet. “I would love to see them.”
“Stop by anytime you’re in London,” he offered. “I’ll tell my staff to expect you and your parents.”
Generous. Was Whit truly as noble as he seemed? Henrietta must have thought so, for Ruby could see her blushing with obvious pleasure.
Ruby shifted, facing the bookshelf once more. She wished she could snatch up her apple and quit the room, let Whit get on with courting if that’s what he wanted. Unfortunately, he and Henrietta Stokely-Trent stood between her and the door, and Ruby had been placed in the position of serving as chaperone.
“How kind of you, my lord,” Henrietta murmured. “I wonder, would you recommend a book? I’m having trouble choosing among so many excellent tomes.”
And there she went again! How well Henrietta played the game of flirtation. While Ruby enjoyed a good tease now
