Whit, however, glanced at the title on the spine, and his face lit. “The Compleat Angler. Excellent choice, Miss Hollingsford. One of my favorites. You cannot go wrong with Izaak Walton, Henrietta. He made this area famous.”
Henrietta’s gaze drew back to his, and she smiled. “Well, then of course I will read it, Danning.” She accepted the book from Ruby with a reluctance that belied her words. “Especially as you praise it so highly. I take it the book wasn’t to your liking, Miss Hollingsford.”
She meant to disparage Ruby. Why did these Society women have to make everything a competition? “Oh, I’m sure it’s an excellent book,” Ruby replied with a smile as false as the bluestocking’s. “It is only that I tend to prefer to learn a skill by doing. Driving a curricle, boxing, shooting.”
Henrietta arched her dark brows as if she doubted Ruby could do any of those things.
“Do you know Mr. Walton agrees with you?” Whit put in smoothly. “He believes one can only truly become an angler by practicing.” He brightened. “And speaking of practicing, would either of you care to join me at the river this morning for a short while before the others finish with breakfast?”
Ruby glanced out the window, where the gray light confirmed the tapping she could hear on the glass. “It’s still raining.”
“A mere passing shower,” he assured her. “And the rain on the water further disturbs it so that the fish rise to feed.”
He seemed to know what he was talking about, face shining in earnest anticipation. But Henrietta, unlike the fish, refused to rise to his bait.
“I fear I neglected to bring the appropriate attire,” she said. “But I shall read about Walton’s approach, and perhaps you would be so good as to compare it to your own when you return, Danning.”
Whit inclined his head. “Delighted, Henrietta. Until then.”
The bluestocking glanced at Ruby. “Coming, Miss Hollingsford?”
Though the request was a question, she seemed to expect instant obedience. After all, if she left, Ruby and Whit would be alone, for all the door was open. Ruby knew she should go, too, but she didn’t particularly want to spend more time with the woman. “I need to pick a book,” Ruby demurred.
Face tight, Henrietta excused herself.
Ruby felt Whit’s gaze on her. His head was cocked as if he were trying to understand what she was about, his purple-blue eyes holding a sparkle as if he appreciated the way she’d handled herself. “And did you, too, wish a recommendation, Miss Hollingsford?”
Ruby shook her head. “I’m quite capable of determining what I like and don’t like, my lord.”
“And what do you like?” he asked.
You. Ruby felt her face flaming and dropped her gaze, glad that she hadn’t spoken the word aloud. She knew the dangers of getting too close to an aristocrat. It never ended well for the cit.
But being little miss subservient would hardly help matters.
“I’m partial to Shakespeare,” she said, forcing her gaze back up. “His comedies, like A Midsummer Night’s Dream and The Taming of the Shrew.”
He raised a brow, but she couldn’t tell whether it was from surprise that she’d be so well read or amusement that she might resemble that shrew a bit too much. “So you, too, prefer to spend the morning reading rather than fishing,” he said.
“I fear I lack the dedication to stand in the rain, my lord,” she replied. Then she grinned up at him. “But I’ll be delighted to help you eat the fruits of your labors.”
He laughed, and again she felt warmed. “Let’s simply hope my labor bears fruit.” He sobered as if remembering his duty. “Will you be all right until I return?”
What, should she swoon from lack of his uplifting presence? “I’m sure I can find ways to entertain myself, my lord. You must have more than fishing tracts in this library. Go, catch your fish. I’ll try to keep the rest of them out of your hair for a half hour at least.”
* * *
A half hour to fish! It was less than he needed but more than he’d hoped for when he’d descended the stairs that morning. And he couldn’t believe how grateful he felt for the reprieve. He bowed to Ruby Hollingsford, quite in charity with her, and headed for his fishing closet.
Of course, it took him nearly a quarter hour to collect his accoutrements—his book of flies, his ash rod and brass reel and a leather coat slicked with paraffin to keep off the rain—and then reach the River Bell and set up for his first cast. Already rain ran in rivulets down his face and body.
Glorious. In the deep pool just beyond, he knew, the King of Trout lay waiting. All Whit had to do was cast.
He pulled out a length of silk line with one hand, then began to whip the rod back and forth, watching as the line lengthened. It floated across the stream. The fly kissed the top of the pool and hung there, tantalizing.
“Come on,” Whit murmured. “Where are you?”
Something silver flashed in the depths, and his breath caught. He reeled in his line, checked that his fly—black body with white wings, one of the best he’d tied—was secure, then drew back his arm again. He’d been coming to this pool for twenty years, since his father had introduced him to the fine art of angling at ten. And still he hadn’t managed to convince the wily King to take a bite.
He tried closer in, giving the rod an elegant flick. The fly landed as lightly as if it had been alive. He thought he saw another flash of silver, but the King did not rise.
“Come on,” Whit urged him again. “I used to have all summer to play with you, my lad. Now I’m lucky to have a fortnight.”
A fortnight he was going to have to share with his guests.
He pushed the thought away. He had now; that was all that mattered. He inhaled the scents of Derbyshire, brought out by the rain—damp earth, orchids, new growth. His hectic world dwindled to this place, this time. Something about fishing, the rhythm, the river, opened his heart, his soul.
He leadeth me beside the still waters; He restoreth my soul.
Prayer came naturally.
Lord, thank You for even this time to fish. Help me survive this house party. I know I must eventually wed to secure the line of succession. I only wish You’d send me a woman who would stir my heart the way my mother stirred my father’s.
A memory rose through the rain. He’d been standing here by the river, fishing alongside his father, a few years after his mother’s death. It had been early morning, the sun barely peeking over the hills to the east. Even the birds had been still.
Do you miss Mother? Whit had asked.
His father’s arm had stilled in midcast. Every moment of every day. That’s what happens when your wife becomes a part of you, Whit.
The devotion in his voice, the awe on his face, still spoke to Whit. He took a great pride in doing his duty, but when it came to marrying he refused to settle for anything less than that same love. Surely the Lord understood and would honor that.
“My lord! Danning!”
Whit pulled up his rod and glanced over his shoulder. The rain continued to pour, pounding the rocky shore and the grassy slope above it. Standing on the sodden hill was Ruby Hollingsford, an already bedraggled plaid parasol held over her head, her wine-colored velvet pelisse hanging heavily.
“My lord,” she called. “It’s been two hours. You are needed inside.”
Two hours? Guilt added weight to his rod as he reeled in. A house full of guests and a truant host. Yet none of them had sought him but Ruby.
She