than her well-being. So she’d never had a woman to fulfill what she’d always thought to be a mother’s role—fussing over her, encouraging her to reach her dreams. Somehow she’d always imagined such a person would be more uplifting than censorious.
If the other guests had heard anything of Lady Wesworth’s complaints, they did not show it. Ruby passed Mr. and Mrs. Stokely-Trent in the corridor, and both nodded civilly to her, making her wonder whether Lord Danning had spoken to them, as well. Charles Calder called to her from the withdrawing room, raising a silver teapot to indicate he had sustenance ready should she wish it. Very likely she’d need it; she could barely make out the lawn beyond the veranda it was raining so hard. But she had no wish to encourage him, so she waved him good-morning and hurried on.
She finally reached the dining room and stayed only long enough to grab an apple from the sideboard, then retreated to a room she’d spotted the previous day—the library. If ever any morning warranted curling up with a good book, it was this morning. Unfortunately, that room, too, was occupied.
Henrietta 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.”
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