Page 3 of The Rules of Courtship
Oliver swung around, his forest green eyes tracking her body, looking for injury—or so she assumed. He came around to stand beneath her and lifted his hands. Ruth took one of them, gripping tightly while she lowered herself to sit on the lowest branch. It was level with his shoulders.
His warm hand was large, enclosing hers. “Rest your hands on my arms and I’ll lift you down.”
“You will not drop me?” she verified.
“I’ll do my best.”
Ruth bit back a retort. She yanked her skirt free so it hung down beside her, and pressed her palms to Oliver’s wide shoulders. His hands went around her waist, gripping her tightly. “Ready?”
Something about the way he looked at her now, his handscircling her waist, made it oddly difficult to inhale a full breath. “Yes.”
He lifted her, swinging her to the ground effortlessly. Her boots hit the dirt with a soft thud. He stood near, his neck bent to look down at her face. This close, she could see the hazel flecks in his green eyes, the small smile lines bracketing his lips. He smelled of cedar and citrus, and she inhaled the smell she enjoyed so deeply.
Oliver silently regarded her, his attention making her antsy.
“You needed to speak to me?” she prompted.
“You were hiding,” he said instead. “I’d like to know why.”
“I told you. I was fetching Rosaline?—”
He picked up her empty hand, effectively cutting off her words. When had he removed his gloves? Surely he wore them to ride here. “An invisible apple?” he asked, his fingers pressing into her soft palm. “You forget I know you much better than that, Ruth.”
She pressed her lips together, removing her hand from his grip so she could think clearly. Dr. Burnside was not her first choice of suitors, but she did not wish to speak ill of him to anyone else—not even Oliver. Perhaps if he’d asked her this same question one year ago, she would have bared her feelings without reservation, but they had drifted apart over the previous nine months. She needed to guard her thoughts more closely.
“Surely you did not come here to discuss my marriage prospects.”
Oliver’s face tightened. His eyes swept over her face before dropping to the grass at her feet. “No. Of course not.”
Hmm. That did not sound genuine, though she could not identify what made her feel that way. His tone? The shifting of his gaze? Speech evaded her. The man standing before her was an Oliver she did not know how to handle, which was a dreadful feeling.
“Unfortunately, Dr. Burnside lives in Harewood, and youknow perfectly well how I feel about courting men from Harewood,” she said, infusing her words with enough humor to carry them past the last few moments of discomfort and back into safer territory.
Ruth had rules. Oliver knew her rules well.
“Is the good doctor aware of your rule?” he asked.
“I’m not sure. With how frequently he attempts to happen upon me, you would not think so.” She pressed her lips into a flat line. “My father ought to have told him.”
“Your father probably hopes to entice you with a prospect so tempting you will flout your rules and choose marriage instead.”
“I am not avoidingmarriage,” Ruth said. Only certain men.
Oliver did not say what they were both thinking—that her rule had only been made to tactfully avoid a courtship with Oliver’s cousin, Samuel, years ago. But Ruth had clutched fast to the rule with both hands.
She shifted to her other boot. Worry lines were not present now, but the ghost of their creases were evident on his forehead. After losing his grandmother to age and illness and—quite literally—losing his father without any way to contact the man, it was no wonder Oliver appeared as though he’d aged in the last year. She gentled her voice. “How are you, Oliver? Really?”
He glanced up again, his green eyes searching hers. “Better.”
“I am glad to hear it.” It felt as if there was more he hadn’t said, but Ruth didn’t wish to pressure him. “My father will wonder what has kept you.”
“I will tell him it was a fetching bird caught in a tree.”
Fetching bird? Was he trying to call her pretty? “You like my new habit?” she asked, lifting the train. “I am afraid the branches have torn it.” They’d certainly torn the skin on her calf, but she would not look at that until she was alone later.
“You look lovely, Ruth.” Oliver stepped past her. When he reached the other side of the tree, he plucked an apple from a low branch and tossed it to her.
“What is this for?” she asked, pleased to have caught it easily.
