Page 52 of The Rules of Courtship
“I will write to you with the details when I have them,” Ruth said. “I hope Jane would like to come.”
“She most certainly will.” Catherine’s sharp gaze cut from Ruth to where Oliver stood speaking to Mr. Bailey near the window. “Now that you have taken the most eligible bachelor here, we will need to make new plans.”
That was uncomfortable. Ruth gave a small smile, unclear if she was meant to find humor or rebuke in that sentiment. Sherose to her feet, choosing escape above all. “There are certainly many gentlemen in Locksley who love to dance.”
Ruth caught Oliver’s gaze but looked away swiftly. They’d not spoken since last night, and her nerves buzzed just looking at him—there was no way she would be able to speak comprehensive sentences as well. She turned away, walking toward where Jane sat at the pianoforte, looking at music.
“Miss Wycliffe,” Oliver said, intercepting her before she reached Jane. Drat.
“Yes, Mr. Rose?” she asked, giving him a wide smile.
His confidence flickered. “I have not had the chance to speak to you today. Are you well?”
“Exceedingly.” She had not slept above a few hours the night before, tossing and turning and thinking of their kiss until dawn. Just now, looking at his lips, she wanted to do it again.
But a parlor filled with acquaintances was not the place for kissing. No, they really ought to be in a dark garden now. Or a small, empty room would suffice. Where was an antechamber when she needed one?
“I am not,” he said ruefully. “I hardly slept last night.”
Ruth looked into his green eyes and found the flecks of gold highlighted by the sunlight coming through the window. Her body yearned to lean forward, but the whiff of cedar and citrus coming from him now was already making her knees weak.
Oliver cleared his throat. “We plan to leave within the hour.”
Ruth nodded. “Sarah is packing my trunk now. We will likely do the same.”
“Shall I come directly to speak with your father?”
“Is that necessary?” she asked. She knew it was, but that made things feel soreal.
Oliver rubbed the back of his neck. “It would be, yes, if we’d had a traditional courtship.”
“Nothing about us is traditional.”
“I suppose not, but it is still important to me. Your father’s good opinion is important to me.”
She stepped closer so she could speak even more quietly, without being overheard. “We needn’t hurry anything along. You have more important things to concern yourself with at present. The last thing you need to worry about is this farce.”
“Farce?” He tucked his chin, leaning back in surprise. “I intend to go ahead with it, Ruth. We would hardly be able to avoid a scandal otherwise.”
Distraction. Scandal. No mention of feelings, of love. Her teeth clamped together while she searched for patience. Father would know best how to extricate them from this arrangement. Perhaps he could refuse Oliver’s suit and that would free them. She needed time to think.
“Wait until tomorrow,” she said. “I need to prepare him first.”
“Very well,” Oliver said. His dark hair fell over his forehead.
Ruth had the sudden urge to run her fingers through his hair. Blast, but this was harder than she thought. “I should probably see if Sarah needs me.”
“Your maid?” he asked, sounding exasperated. “You believe your maid needs your help packing?”
Ruth straightened her spine. “I am not utterly useless, Oliver. I can fold things.”
“It was not a skill for folding I questioned.”
“Oh? What, then?”
“Ruth, please.”
“Am I reacting badly?” she asked, fully aware that she was, indeed, overreacting. “Then allow me to?—”
