of her head, and little tendrils like sparks framed her face. One corner of her mouth was drawn up, as if she expected his answer to be amusing. He would have been more amused if Quimby had given this house party some thought. Whit wasn’t about to sit around the Lodge conversing for a fortnight, and he hardly wanted all their company fishing. But his wants would have to give way to his duty, as usual—and duty dictated that he be an accommodating host, even to guests he had never intended to invite.
“Dovecote Dale is renowned for its sights,” he said. “Perhaps a walk into the hills. There’s a cascade about a mile up the side stream.”
Lady Wesworth fanned herself as if even the thought was tiring. “So long as we can take the carriage. I wouldn’t want Amelia to be exposed to the elements.”
By the pallor of the young lady’s creamy skin, Whit thought a little exposure to sunshine might not be remiss. Miss Hollingsford had been wearing a fetching ostrich-plumed bonnet to protect her skin this afternoon, and she positively glowed. She also looked less than impressed that a lady wouldn’t be able to make so short a jaunt.
“A visit to Lord Hascot’s horse farm might be entertaining,” Whit tried. “We can take the carriages there.”
“Does he raise draft horses, Thoroughbreds or common stock?” Henrietta Stokely-Trent asked.
“Are you a horse enthusiast?” Charles asked, leaning closer to her as if her answer meant the world to him.
She regarded him with a frown. “No,” she replied. “Just curious.”
Whit thought he heard a smothered laugh from Miss Hollingsford. She was enjoying his predicament entirely too much. “And what would you like to do, Miss Hollingsford?” he challenged.
All gazes swung her way. She dimpled at the other guests. “Return to London as soon as possible?” she suggested.
“What a tease,” her father said with a laugh. “I’m sure whatever interests you will interest us, my lord.”
“You could take us all fishing,” Miss Hollingsford added, with particular spite, he thought.
Mr. Stokely-Trent brightened, but Lady Amelia shuddered.
“Do you fish, Miss Hollingsford?” Charles asked, aiming his charming smile her way. Whit could only bless his cousin for intervening.
“Very likely for something larger than trout,” Lady Wesworth murmured. Unfortunately, in the small room, her voice was all too audible. Her daughter squirmed in embarrassment, but Mrs. Stokely-Trent nodded archly, and Mr. Stokely-Trent traded knowing looks with his daughter.
Whit frowned. Did they think Ruby Hollingsford a title hunter? From what he’d seen, nothing was further from the truth. In fact, given her questions at the river and the statement on the stairs, she had no interest in courting. It sounded as if she’d only accepted Quimby’s invitation at the insistence of her father.
“I’ve never had the pleasure of fishing,” she replied to Charles, and only the height of her chin said she’d heard the marchioness’s unkind remark. “What about you, Mr. Calder? Do you join the earl in his delight at capturing smelly creatures?”
Whit couldn’t help a laugh at her description of fishing.
“I do indeed, Miss Hollingsford,” Charles answered with a similar smile. “And I’d be pleased to teach any of you lovely young ladies the fine art. It takes patience, skill and daring, not unlike a courtship.”
Henrietta Stokely-Trent beamed at him. “I may accept that offer, Mr. Calder. I always like learning new things from a practiced teacher.”
“Then Charles would be perfect,” Whit teased. “He requires a great deal of practice.”
“Ho, a palpable hit!” Charles declared, fainting back in his chair as if wounded. “Miss Stokely-Trent, I will trade my services as an angler for yours as a nurse. Promise me you will never leave my side.”
“That might be difficult if you intend to fish,” Miss Hollingsford pointed out, but Whit noticed that the bluestocking was studying his cousin as if seeing his potential for the first time.
Now, there was a thought. What if he could pair up the ladies with someone else? That might take them off his trail. Charles was forever in need of funds, but he had a good heart and a sound mind. Henrietta Stokely-Trent could do far worse. Now who could Whit find for Lady Amelia?
As if her mother suspected the direction of his thoughts, she rose from her seat. “I believe the ladies are finished. Shall we wait for you gentlemen in the withdrawing room, my lord?”
Rather presumptuous of her to think he expected her to act as his hostess, but then he had escorted her in to dinner. Whit rose, as well. “If you’d be so kind.”
The other ladies stood and followed the marchioness from the room. Mr. Stokely-Trent eyed his wife, hands braced on the linen, but she cast him an imploring look and he excused himself, as well. Ruby Hollingsford offered Whit a grin as she sashayed past, but he was certain it had more to do with amusement than from any flirtation. Indeed, he rather thought he’d find greater enjoyment in the dining room in the company of Mr. Hollingsford and Charles than the ladies would 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.
