Page 4 of The Rules of Courtship
“Rosaline, of course.”
Ruth clutched the apple in both hands, watching Oliver’s long legs stride toward her house. He had seen through her. Did anyone know her as well as he did?
Chapter Two
Rule #2: Only feed Rosaline one apple per week to avoid rotting her teeth, even if she begs. The same could be applied to men, for too much indulgence leads to ruin
Oliver let himself into Willowbrook House. It was quiet, the family and servants otherwise occupied, leaving him to make his way to the study alone. Wood paneling lined the corridor, punctuated by paintings. He paused just outside the study door to peer at a familiar depiction—one of Wycliffe’s horses Ruth had painted. Oliver recalled watching her outline the horse’s body before her older brother, Ryland, had called him away. Oliver had been forever in this house as a lad, finding family and friendship and refuge within these warm walls.
He was intimately familiar with this home, this family, and the woman he had found in the tree outside—but none of that had prepared him to speak the words aloud he had been planning for weeks.
Ruth, will you be my wife?
Six little words. No, not little. Enormous with weight and meaning. It should not have been so difficult a task to complete. The opportunity had presented itself like a freshly wrapped package. Ruth had been alone outside, no listening ears nearby. But then she’d had to repeat her blasted rule about not courting a man from Harewood, and Oliver’s proposal had frozen. The words were there, a chunk of ice on his tongue, refusing to leave his mouth.
He had spent weeks convincing himself he was different—their friendship was different. But what if he was wrong? What would he have done if Ruth had laughed at him? Rejected him out of hand? Heknewher rules, of course, but some small part of him had wanted to believe that maybe she would flout them in favor of marrying him. Yes, he had been a little distant lately, but their shared love of horses had built a solid foundation, and their friendship was too old to so easily crumble. He had always been drawn to her vibrant personality, and he liked how he could make her laugh. None of that meant anything if a proposal would set him firmly on the friendship shelf beside Samuel and Dr. Burnside and the other men who had tried to win her heart. Fear had frozen him.
Foolish. He knew that.
Before losing cognizance, Grandmother had spoken to Oliver about finding a wife. After the reading of her will, he realized why: he needed to marry if he was going to save the estate from utter ruin, since his father’s navy fortune could not be relied upon. The man was likely to live for another thirty years, at least. Which left Oliver with a nearly ruined estate and a task: find a wealthy wife. The first person to come to mind had been Ruth—from there, the idea had grown on its own. Ruth was one of his closest friends, and he could see himself happy by her side.
Of course, he had been stubborn enough to try and save the estate without seeking a fortune these last nine months, but thus far, his progress had made a small dent in the debt left to him.
It was just as well Oliver had not asked for Ruth’s hand in marriage—his cousin Samuel would have taken personal offense if he had. The man had been in love with Ruth for as long as Oliver could remember. Oliver harbored similar feelings, but he had never told a soul. He’d thought…but no. It was a secret that would surely die with him.
He gave his head a shake and knocked at the study door before opening it.
“Come in, son,” Wycliffe said, waving Oliver into the room. He was seated in a burgundy wingback chair near the empty fireplace, lighting a pipe pressed between his lips. His dark hair, liberally peppered with gray, was neatly combed. Wycliffe was everything a father ought to be. Kind, welcoming, full of knowledge and glad to share it. He washere, instead of on a ship somewhere in the West Indies. Oliver’s father could not even be bothered to take leave and return home for his own mother’s funeral. He had not replied to a single letter in over a year. He’d been frustrated that his mother had asked him for money, evidently, but that was no reason to ignore his son. He was missing, and he didn’t seem to care that Oliver remained in Harewood, worried and alone.
Oliver couldn’t let himself think about that now. Suppressing his anger, he lowered himself in the chair across from Wycliffe.
“Trouble with the north field?” Wycliffe asked, his wiry eyebrows pulling together.
“No, the irrigation seems to work splendidly.” Oliver cleared his throat and rested his ankle on his knee. This man had stepped in and bridged the gaps in Oliver’s understanding of estates, helping him know what to do with his lands andproviding a respite from the grief that plagued him after his grandmother died nine months ago.
After all Wycliffe had given him, had Oliver really had the gall to ask for hisdaughteras well? It was ridiculous. Presumptuous. He was addled of mind to even consider it. Oliver had not learned of the state of his grandmother’s finances or how she’d asked his father for money until she had been lying on her deathbed. Oliver had, in turn, only shared the truth with two people—his butler and Wycliffe.
“What can I do for you, son?”
Oliver needed to say something. He could not leave the question dangling, and the truth of his original objective today was going to die with him. The reality that he needed a wife had not changed, though. If he did not have the necessary funds soon, his estate would collapse and countless people would be out of work. Maybe it was time to begin looking for a wife in earnest.
He would overcome his feelings for Ruth eventually, surely. He was nearly thirty, after all, mature enough to manage this business without involving emotions.
The idea settled over his shoulders, taking root and growing more comfortable by the minute. Perhaps his original intent in coming here could be satisfied in another way. “I need a wife.”
“Ah.”
Oliver lowered his ankle and crossed the other leg instead. “The trouble is, the estate has taken all of my attention.”
“A hazard of being a landowner, my boy. Have you considered attending the Season in London next year?”
He would never be able to afford it by then. “Spring will be a difficult time to be away.”
“It will,” Wycliffe agreed, nodding. He puffed at his pipe, glancing up in thought, before his eyes raked over Oliver. Had he surmised Oliver’s intent to ask for Ruth’s hand? To beg use of his money on top of everything else Wycliffe had given him?
Time to deflect. Oliver spoke the first thing that came to his mind. “I have been invited to a house party at the Rocklin estate in a fortnight’s time.”
“Lord Rocklin has two daughters of marrying age, does he not?”
