Chapter 20

Twenty

R uth waited until Stephen left and then followed Lady Cecelia’s lead, pulling a dusty pitcher out of one of the ancient side tables and filling it with water for her bloom. She set it in slowly, carefully, looking at the way it caught the light. It was a magnificent blossom — the most beautiful she had ever seen.

“I can hardly imagine you were able to grow blooms like these right here on your property,” she breathed, smiling at the stunning beauty before her. “It seems impossible. These seem the sort you would find on the grounds of a palace.”

Lady Cecelia was humming to herself when Ruth began speaking, trimming and adjusting her own bouquet to the greatest advantage. She stopped humming and turned to Ruth, wagging her shears in Ruth’s direction with a sparkle in her eye.

“Although,” the older woman said, “you must have some thought about the color he chose for you.”

Ruth felt her heart leap into her throat again. She had, of course, had more than one thought about the color, but she was as ever unready to discuss such things with Lady Cecelia.

Red is the color of love.

“I am sure I don’t know what you mean,” she said instead.

“You young people are incorrigible,” Lady Cecelia said, abandoning her own flowers and coming back to sit by Ruth’s side. “In my day, when we loved someone, we told them. It was difficult, I suppose, and required some bravery, but we submitted to the forces of romance and affection.”

That is not entirely true, Ruth thought, remembering with sadness the last few pages of Lady Cecelia’s diary. Even in your day people had duties to greater masters than their own hearts.

“I am not trying to be incorrigible,” Ruth said. “Only practical. I believe your nephew was simply attempting to include me in a gift, so I would not feel outside anything. He is a gentleman in that way.”

Lady Cecelia shrugged. “Then you will have no interest in the new little novel Mr. Tylor brought me from London on his last visit. It is supposed to be all the rage, although I have no personal interest in such things.” There was a twinkle in her eye that belied this statement.

She walked over to the bookshelf and pulled out a little brown book with a forest green ribbon marking a spot in the center. The cover read Les Langues Des Fleurs.

“The Language of Flowers,” Ruth mused.

“Yes,” Lady Cecelia said, still affecting a mocking indifference. “And, as you have not personal interest in the kind of flower my Stephen brought to you, I do not suppose you will have any interest in this particular entry?” She flipped to the marked page.

Ruth saw there a small sketch of a red rose, with a little entry in French beside it. Rose Rouge: Je brule d’amour pour vous! Her French was quite good, especially after years of practice as a governess. A Red Rose: I burn with love for you! She blushed hotly and looked away.

“I do not believe men make a study of such things,” she said. “I will not credit Lord Darnley with such thoughts, and I am certain he would think it an impertinence if he were to overhear your speculation.”

The Duchess looked at her for a long moment in silence. Then she cleared her throat and spoke more softly, her voice taking on a sad, faraway tone. “It is not only the book that speaks for me,” she said. “I know a thing or two about red roses, and I assure you that they carry with them a significance of simplicity and love.”

Rose thought suddenly of the dried red roses she’d found in the Duchess’ box, just over the diary. Thoughtless girl, s he chided herself. She is only trying to relive some of her own feelings through you. Do not be so heartless. She reached out and patted the older woman’s hand.

“I will trust your greater knowledge on the subject,” she said, “but you must also allow me to reserve hope at present. I am not one who is given to fancy and imagination.”

Lady Cecelia brightened at this. “Then I shall have all the fancy and imagination for the both of us,” she chirped.

Ruth went back to her reading, but the words seemed to slip around on the page. Always, even when she wasn’t looking at it, she felt as though the rose was watching her; teasing in her peripheral vision. She couldn’t help wondering if it meant more, but whenever she faced the question head-on, the answer was the same: A man such as Lord Darnley may well harbor feelings for you, but such feelings can be aught but a flight of fancy, and will not last.

At dinner, Ruth found it easier to rein in her thoughts. Lord Darnley seemed entirely occupied with entertaining Lady Cecelia, telling her stories of his days at Cambridge and making her laugh. Ruth relaxed a little, almost forgetting about the rose waiting for her in the parlor.

After the final course, Lady Cecelia excused herself in favor an early bedtime, leaving Ruth and Stephen chatting easily in the flickering candlelight. Neither moved to go into the drawing room, or to end the meal. Ruth waited, watching for the slightest hint that her companion was bored with their conversation or wanted to leave, but it seemed that he was at ease with her as she was with him.

He leaned back in his chair and poured a small glass of port, offering some to her as well.

She took a sip, wincing at the harsh taste on her tongue. “I feel like a veritable gentleman,” she said with a smile. “Isn’t this what you men do when we ladies are sent ahead to the drawing room? Stay back and drink port and talk about the latest races?”

Stephen laughed. “It is not always port, and sometimes there are cigars.”

She opened her eyes wide in astonishment. “I may not be remembering my Fordyce’s a right, but isn’t it a scandal to even mention the word ‘cigar’ in a lady’s company?”

He laughed. “I would never think of introducing such a thing, nor will I speak of the stallion most likely to win next week at Tattersall’s.”

“You needn’t speak of what is obvious,” she said, searching in her memory for a headline she’d seen on one of his paper’s that very morning. “Diamond’s Edge is the crowd favorite, is he not?”

Now she’d really surprised him. Ruth felt a stab of satisfaction at the mild shock on Stephen’s face.

“Miss Selwyn,” he said, “I keep thinking that there is nothing you can do to surprise me, and yet here we are.”

You ought to be honest with him, she thought. “In truth, I merely saw the name on a headline. I know little of the matter.”

“Would you like to learn?” Stephen asked, leaning forward and smiling in a way that made Ruth’s knees weak.

“Certainly,” she said.

“Then here is the secret. There is only one sure way to win at the betting houses,” Stephen said. “And you will be surprised to learn that Diamond’s Edge is not the ticket.”

“What is the ticket, good sir?” she asked.

He lowered his voice, the confidentiality of the whisper making Ruth’s heart race.

“Don’t bet at all,” he said simply.

She laughed and leaned back. “Here I was thinking that you were actually going to treat me like an intelligent person,” she said. “I was hoping you would explain the betting to me, not feed me some bit of charming tripe that only a lady could stomach.”

“Charming tripe? Miss Selwyn, your language astonishes me,” Stephen retorted, laughing. “No, I was not vague on account of your femininity. The truth is, I have never been one for that bastion of masculinity where they buy and sell horses and lose fortunes all in a day’s duties. I think it is a bad steward who wagers all his savings on an animal.”

Ruth looked at him steadily for a moment, his words sinking in. You are remarkable, s he thought, wishing she could say the words aloud to him. This little emotional attachment of mine is not because you’re a nobleman, or handsome, or kind — you are simply one of the most remarkable men I’ve ever met.

She bit her lip. “I can’t fault you for that,” she said.

“I must say, I am pleased that you will be coming to the ball,”

Stephen said, changing the subject. “I have been thinking about it all day, and while such an event would usually fill me with a sinking dread, I find sincere enjoyment in considering the prospect of you and my aunt at my side.” He cleared his throat and swirled the amber liquid thoughtfully in his glass. “I wrote to my parents today,” he said after a moment. “I told them I would be at the first ball of the Season, and that you and Aunt Cecelia were coming.”

Ruth felt her heart leap. She wished she could have seen what he wrote: how he described her. This lady’s companion we hired. A woman by the name of Miss Selwyn who tends to my aunt. A friend. A dear friend. Now you’re getting carried away, she chided herself.

“I’m looking forward to it as well,” she said. “But I think you know that already. Your generosity with the ball gowns was a bit much for me to face. I confess I am unused to such gifts from an employer.”

“How did it go with the modiste?” he asked.

“I think I know about as much about style as you know about Tattersall’s,” she teased. “I don’t think the conversation would suit either of us well. I would not know of what I was speaking, and you would not know how to respond.” She shrugged. “But I will say that some very pretty things were found, and your aunt seemed happy.”

They sat in companionable silence for a moment. Ruth spoke again.

“Are you worried about seeing your parents again?”

Stephen took a long moment to respond, and Ruth had nearly determined that the question was too forward when he spoke again. “It is a good question,” he began hesitantly. “I think I miss them, actually. They are good people, even if their desires for my future do not match my own.”

Ruth took a sip of her drink. “What is it that you most disagree on?”

“Marriage,” he said, almost immediately. “I’ve alluded to this before, I know. Essentially, they want me to settle for an arranged match, and I want to marry for love.” His eyes were difficult to read in the flickering candlelight. “This disagreement has erected a familiar pattern over the years. Always, they try to push me towards romances, balls, and leading Season ladies. I give in, at times, and find myself facing yet another woman for whom I feel no love.”

“I have seen the leading women of the ton,” Ruth said quietly, not meeting his eye. “I know how beautiful and accomplished they are.”

“I do not wish to malign any of them,” Stephen said quickly. “I am sure there is a possibility for each and every one of them to find someone who truly loves them — whether their families will allow them to pursue that possibility is another question entirely. I am simply saying that I have felt no real connection with any of them.” He seemed strangely defeated. “I was discouraged when I read my aunt’s diary and see how someone as strong in her convictions as I currently feel could find herself bending to her parent’s pressure in the end.”

Ruth felt her heart seize with sadness at the thought. It seemed like a confession--that even Stephen expected himself to choose convenience in the end.

She wanted to ask him a question of her own, but knew that it was inappropriate. She looked off towards the painting at the end of the dining room — a dark landscape featuring a storm-clouded sky and a lone tree on a hill.

Stephen interjected after a long moment, “Tell me what you are thinking, Miss Selwyn. I would like to know what is causing you such a sober expression. ”

Ruth shook her head. “My thoughts must stay my own, my Lord. I do not believe they are fitting.”

Stephen leaned forward suddenly, and Ruth felt as though he’d stolen her air. She held her breath. His hand was very near hers on the table, although not quite touching.

“Miss Selwyn,” he said. “There is nothing improper in you asking me the question that is on your mind or telling me the thoughts that turn in your heart.”

Ruth knew that was not true, but his nearness and the emotion she’d been holding back for so long betrayed her. She looked up at him, catching his eye for a moment, and said, “Have you ever fallen in love with anyone, my Lord?”

He did not look away. “I think I am falling in love with someone right now,” he said softly.

Ruth could not deny the look in those eyes. He had not said her name precisely. He was far beyond her in societal standing. It was impossible to imagine on paper, and yet she knew she was not making up the desire in those eyes. He means me.

The door at the end of the hall swung open suddenly and Mr. Tylor stepped in to clear the evening table. Ruth and Stephen pulled apart quickly, the moment broken.

She stood, her heart beating fast.

“I should retire for the night,” she said.

“Yes, as should I.” Stephen cleared his throat. “Until tomorrow, Miss Selwyn.”

“Until tomorrow,” she answered, feeling hope for the first time.