The Wife Campaign. Regina Scott

for her elbow to assist her, but she was busy trying to angle the parasol to cover him, as well.

      He waved her back. “Are my guests at their wits’ end?”

      “If they aren’t, you soon will be,” she predicted. “Lady Wesworth insisted that Lady Amelia practice on the spinet, the same song over and over for the last hour.”

      Whit inwardly cringed.

      “Then your cousin Mr. Calder tried to interest everyone in another round of whist, but Mr. Stokely-Trent refused to continue playing and implied that Mr. Calder cheated.”

      He’d have to intervene there. Though Charles had perpetual trouble balancing his finances, he had too much honor to cheat.

      “Not to be outdone,” she concluded, “my father fell asleep while Mrs. Stokely-Trent was lecturing him on the proper way to discipline a daughter. I was the only one to be pleased by that turn of events.”

      Whit wanted to smile at the picture, but he could not help feeling a little responsible for the behavior of his guests. He was their host, after all. As far as they knew, he’d invited them here. If they were bored, it was his fault. Shouldn’t he do something to see to their needs?

      As if Ruby suspected his feelings on the matter, she laid her free hand on his arm. “You have two choices as I see it, my lord. Either give them some task to work on other than snaring you or provide them with some entertainment.”

      Whit nodded as they reached the house. “Excellent advice, but neither Lady Wesworth nor the Stokely-Trents strike me as delighting in a job well done.”

      “Unless it was for charity,” she suggested as he opened the door for her to his fishing closet, the quickest way into the house. “The only place I’ve ever seen an aristocrat roll up his sleeves was in the name of a good cause. At the very least then he might take some of the credit!”

      A rather dismal view of his kind, but he knew to his sorrow that some of the lords and ladies of London approached life in just that manner. He’d had to argue his peers out of some ridiculous plans for the orphan asylum that would have benefited them far more than the orphans they claimed to want to help.

      “Has Derby no indigent farmers who need gloves knitted?” she asked, gazing up at him. “No aged widows who require a song to brighten their day?”

      Her eyes were liberally lashed a shade darker than her hair, and he found himself drawing closer as surely as he did the call of the stream. He had to force himself to turn away to hang up his rod. “I fear Dovecote Dale is remarkably free of troubled souls.”

      Obviously caught by his gesture, she glanced about, then thrust out her lower lip as if impressed. “What an interesting room.”

      He supposed it was. He only knew of a few others in existence. Originally designed as a sort of study, his father had replaced the papered walls with white paneling from which hung shelves, hooks and cupboards to store all their fishing gear.

      “My father had it built,” he explained. “Fern Lodge was his fishing retreat, after all. Why not dedicate a room to it?” He grinned at her. “And the staff is quite pleased to find my mud generally confined to one room.”

      She closed her parasol and hung it on the wall with a nod of approval. Then she looked over at him. “A shame you don’t have more rooms in the house. At least then you could separate your guests. If there are no charities in the area, I fear entertainment it must be if you hope to survive this fortnight, my lord.”

      “Whit,” he said, pulling off his dripping coat and hanging it up. “If I am to be on a first-name basis with the other ladies, I should be with you, as well.”

      “Whit,” she said slowly as if trying it out, and something about the way she said it felt like a benediction. Then she frowned. “But you told Henrietta Stokely-Trent to call you Danning.”

      He had, but only because she’d been so bold as to force her first name on him. “Most of my acquaintances call me Danning. My father always called me Whit. He said I would be known by one title or another my entire life, so I should have a name that was mine alone.”

      To his surprise, she blushed and lowered her gaze. “Whit it shall be, then.” Her fingers trembled as she undid the silver clasp at the throat of her pelisse.

      Whit helped her pull the heavy velvet from her shoulders. When his chilled fingers brushed her neck, she shivered as she stepped away. “Thank you, Whit,” she said, though the words came out breathless.

      Whit felt unaccountably breathless himself. The fishing closet felt impossibly small, her body brushing his as she passed him for the door. He thought he caught the scent of cinnamon, and the dry, warm spice seemed the perfect complement to her personality.

      A personality he appreciated more and more as the day wore on.

      With Ruby’s help, Whit rallied his guests for parlor games like charades and forfeits until tea, then had each lady take turns reading from Guy Mannering, a new novel by the author of Waverly, until it was time for dinner. After an excellent meal of duck in plum sauce with sundry fresh fruits and vegetables, he organized two groups for whist, being careful to keep Charles and Mr. Stokely-Trent on opposite sets.

      For one round, Whit partnered Henrietta and found her a brilliant player, even though she had the habit of shaking her dark head when he played a little less brilliantly. For the other round, he partnered Lady Amelia, who, while competent, betrayed every emotion on her lovely face, from delight over an excellent hand to dismay when she could not follow suit.

      He would have counted the evening a relative success if it had not been for Charles’s behavior. His cousin partnered Ruby in the first round, opposite Whit and Henrietta, and his constant banter set Ruby to blushing and Whit’s teeth on edge. That his cousin managed to gain her as his partner in the second round did not go unnoticed.

      “It appears we know where one star is hitched,” Lady Wesworth commented as she and her daughter made for the stairs and their bedchamber.

      “Appearances can be deceiving,” Ruby replied to no one in particular as she followed.

      Whit caught his cousin’s shoulder as he attempted to retire, as well. “Stay a moment.”

      Charles frowned but returned to a seat by the fire while the others made their various excuses and left. Whit closed the withdrawing room door behind the last and went to sit by his cousin.

      Charles had his feet stretched to the fire, hands idly rubbing the wool of his black evening trousers. He resembled Whit enough to be his brother, and certainly they’d been raised as closely, attending the same schools, spending holidays together in Suffolk and at Fern Lodge. Their closeness made what Whit had to say so much harder. Yet he had promised himself to do his best for his guests after this morning’s lapse, so he could not let his cousin’s actions go unremarked.

      “I want you to leave Ruby Hollingsford alone,” Whit said.

      Charles’s blond brows shot up. “I beg your pardon?”

      “It’s hers you should be begging,” Whit replied, giving the wrought iron fender a tap with his toe. “Don’t you think some of your comments were inappropriate?”

      “Not in the slightest, particularly when my intentions are entirely honorable.” He adjusted his cravat. “A gentleman must move quickly if he wishes to pluck the rose before it blooms.”

      Ruby Hollingsford was no flower, though her hair was as red. “This isn’t London, Charles,” Whit informed him. “You needn’t capture her heart in one night.”

      “Or at all, apparently.” Charles leaned farther back in his seat to eye Whit. “Have you made up your mind, then? Do you intend to offer for her?”

      “No.”

      Either the answer was too quick or too firm, for Charles’s brows came crashing down again.

      “That is,” Whit