Page 49 of The Rules of Courtship
“Kellinger.”
She shook her head. “He’s married, Oliver.” She pressed her hand to her forehead. “It hardly matters now,” she muttered.
Why did it hardly matter? Oliver yearned to close the distance and take her in his arms, soothing her until she felt calm and settled again. Agitation sloughed from her in waves, evidenced by her jerky motions and the frown bending her lips.
“Ruth, speak to me.”
She glanced at him briefly before stalking a few steps away, her hands, enveloped in silk dinner gloves, resting on her waist again. How was the woman not cold? The sun was gone, and with it most of the heat from the day. “What would you like me to say?”
Oliver’s chin tucked. “Wantyou to say? Ruth, you do not seem well.”
“Of course I’m not well. This entire party is a disaster. I have done nothing to encourage Mr. Bailey because of the mistaken impression he was already in love with someone else, when it was really my own stupidity standing in the way of a possible match.”
Jealousy coiled like a snake in Oliver’s gut. “A match with Bailey?”
“Why not?” she challenged, her eyes sparkling. “He is everything I need in a husband. Yet I have ruined any chance withhim. If I had not made assumptions, we could have spent the last few days better knowing one another instead of me keeping my distance. He was interested in doing so. He made that perfectly clear. I ruined my chance.”
“Perhaps not,” Oliver said, the words prying themselves from him with great effort. If Ruth returned to the drawing room now and doted on Bailey, it was definitive the man would forget anything that had happened the previous few days and bless his luck for her change in demeanor. He would be fortunate to have her, and he well knew it.
Ruth was the one who did not realize her own worth, nor the effect she had on other men.
“You did not see the way I ran from him tonight.” She closed her eyes, shaking her head again. The sense of loss permeating her features was more than he could bear.
Seeing her with another man—just the verythoughtof it—made Oliver’s body revolt. But he would not stand in the way of her happiness.
She heaved a sigh. “Oh, Oliver. I’ve made a mess of things.”
Heart racing, he faced her, finding concern lacing her features. “I didn’t realize you were so focused on finding a husband.”
“I’m not. My father would like for me to be married, for reasons I can only guess at. He sent me here with the express hope I would return to Willowbrook an engaged woman. Or, at the very least, in a courtship. I have done my part, reducing my rules, giving Samuel a chance, trying to fall in love, but it has all been pointless.”
“Surely Wycliffe will not be upset to have you return without a husband. You’ve only been here a week, Ruth.”
“Upset? No.” She paced away, yanking her gloves free before running her fingers along the scratchy hedge. Oliver followed her. “Disappointed, which is far worse.” Ruth stopped abruptly and pivoted to face him.
He was far too close now, but Oliver did not take a step back. He liked Ruth tipping her head back to look in his eyes.
“Listen to me going on about my failures when you are worried about your father. Oh, Oliver. How utterly thoughtless of me.”
His heart squeezed. No one said his name as she did, with meaning and comfort. “You have been providing a wonderful distraction,” he said truthfully. He had not thought about his father once since Ruth had appeared in the garden.
She pressed her fists to her eyes, her gloves gathered in one hand. “I am the worst sort of friend.”
Oliver took both of her wrists gently in his hands and pulled them away from her face. “You are not, and I would never lie to you, Ruth. You have been a wonderful distraction. I would prefer to speak to you at length, until the sun rises, than sit alone in this garden and worry about my father.”
She remained still, her wide blue eyes glued to him.
Dare he share how he felt? That he had run here to escape the image of Bailey’s hand on Ruth’s? His pulse thrummed, blood whooshing past his ears in a steady, quick rhythm—but no…that washerpulse as well. He could feel it through his fingertips, the quickening under her wrists. Holding firmly to her hands, he searched her face. She was either feeling the same connection he was, or she was frightened.
But Ruth was afraid of nothing.
Perhaps it was time Oliver put aside his fears and told her how he felt. What if she did not feel the same? Rejected him? Could he live with himself, with the possibility of losing her?
“You think I ought to return to the drawing room and tell Mr. Bailey I want to finish our chess game?” she asked, her voice strained.
Return to the—what the devil made her thinkthat? He still held her wrists like a deranged, lovesick fool. “No, I do not think you should do that.”
“But you said?—”
