Chapter Ten

T he hair on the back of Ruthie's neck had been at full attention all evening. She couldn't put her finger on it, but the mood was curious, and not a little bit terrifying.

Lord Dawkins was hardly a loquacious fellow—it was one of the traits that Ruthie appreciated most about him—however, tonight, as he sat across from her at the Waitrose family table, he was positively chatty.

And Lady Celeste was loving every second of it. Clad in a simple gold gown that served to make her dark hair gleam even more than usual, Ruthie's mother was practically glowing over the lord's constant stream of conversation. She didn't seem to notice, or mind, that Lord Dawkins never made a point to ask others their opinions; her smile was as unbreakable as British steel.

And that was the real reason keeping Ruthie on edge. No one found the Corn Laws that exciting—especially after forty-five minutes.

Sitting at Lord Dawkins's right, Ruthie's little sister, Julia, made the most of her time being ignored and stretched her tongue out long in an attempt to touch the tip of her nose. Ruthie snorted into her water, splashing some into her face. She had to give the little devil credit—she almost made it.

Lord Dawkins flinched in his seat, startled by Ruthie's unladylike performance.

Quickly, she used her napkin to wipe the water off her cheeks. "Excuse me," she muttered, feeling the hot poker of her mother's gaze stab her right in the chest. "I am just so in awe of your knowledge on the subject, my lord. You are such a…" Ruthie wished someone could come behind and squeeze the words out of her body. "You are a worldly man. So much more than me."

Lord Dawkins returned a patronizing smile, his beady eyes never traveling higher than her clavicle. Not for the first time, Ruthie wondered if there was something the man didn't like about her face. Too many freckles? Too long and masculine? Her chest couldn't be that inspiring, could it? She'd certainly never thought so, had always assumed it was just like every other woman's.

"Sometimes I forget how young you are, Miss Ruthie," he said, casting Lady Celeste an approving, knowing look.

"It feels like she only just left the nursery," Lady Celeste replied with a sanguine smile. "But you know how we mothers are. It's so hard to let go of our babies."

Luckily, Ruthie wasn't holding her glass, because she was certain she would have snorted again.

"I understand completely," Lord Dawkins said. His head was shiny and slick with the kind of greasy sweat that would have made Harry Holmes tremble. Ha! Ruthie smiled at the memory. Harry's aversion was evident to anyone paying attention—and Ruthie was. Whenever anyone had the ill grace to mop the sweat from their brow or temples, Harry's upper lip would curl back in utter disgust. The movement was small, infinitesimal—and Harry would most likely deny ever doing it—but Ruthie was becoming a quick study of the gaming hall owner. And what she learned continued to surprise and delight her.

Unlike her current dining companion, whose pale face grew ruddier with each passing minute. The room was pleasant enough, not too warm or cold. Was all the talking tiring the lord out? If so, he wasn't ready to give up yet. "Young people need an education," he went on, puffing out his paltry chest. "Someone to take them in hand and show them the ways of the world. Someone they can trust."

Julia perked up. "Mother, Mason mentioned that he was going to take a trip to the Continent next year. Do you think we can go with him? He could show me the ways of the world!" She clasped her hands together and pressed them to her heart. "I cannot wait to see Paris. I hear it's the most beautiful city in Europe!"

"How could it be?" Lord Dawkins scoffed. "It's full of Frenchmen, and stinks even worse!"

He broke into peals of belly laughs that ended in him coughing uncontrollably into his plate of half-eaten sole and peas. Earlier, he'd apologized to Lady Celeste for his lack of appetite, but his gout was flaring terribly.

Lady Celeste tittered jovially. Paris had been her favorite city. One of Ruthie's most beloved memories was her parents, in one of their détentes, telling their brood stories of their adventures in France while sharing secret, scandalous looks with one another. Julia was much too young to have the same memory, though Ruthie had done her best to recount the stories as best she could over the years.

At the rebuke, the girl sat slumped in her seat, crestfallen and disillusioned while shoving her own peas around her plate with her fork.

"You're too young to go to Paris," Lady Celeste answered, lowering her voice to soften the sting. "Your brother is a young man and not an appropriate chaperone. I could hardly expect him to look after you."

"Especially when he can barely look after himself," Ruthie muttered, shocking her mother so much the woman dropped her fork.

The room lapsed into a bewildered silence. Instead of frightening her, the sharp emptiness emboldened Ruthie to go a step further. "Where is our dear brother, by the way? I find it hard to believe he's not hungry. He couldn't possibly be thirsty with all his late night carousing—"

"That's enough!" Lady Celeste barked. Swiftly, she turned to Lord Dawkins, breaking the awkward moment with a startling laugh. "Those two," she said in a long drawl. "They are the best of friends, always teasing one another. And where do you think a lady should travel, my lord, for her spiritual and social education?"

It wasn't a perfect segue by any means; however, the lord was only too glad to pivot away from the family squabble. "Ah…yes, let me think. You know, I've been to so many places, it's so hard to say. My friends always tell me that I'm one of the best-traveled people they've ever met."

This time it was Julia's turn to snort in her water when Ruthie rolled her eyes so hard her head almost toppled to the table.

"I'm sure we would agree with them," Lady Celeste replied, throwing a scowl at her insubordinate daughters. Still lost on the Continent with his adoring friends, Lord Dawkins didn't notice the furtive exchange. "Travel gives a person an unmistakable substance," she continued. "Everyone should make it a priority. It is a fault of character if they do not."

"I didn't know you valued it so much, Mother," Ruthie remarked, exaggeratedly biting the fish off her fork.

Lady Celeste shook her head at Lord Dawkins playfully. "You know very well that I do. Don't be absurd, Ruthie. I cannot wait for you to see the world. You'll be better for it."

It was so difficult not to be charmed by her mother. The lady was simply too beguiling, too lovely. Her handsomeness provided the perfect mask for her subterfuge. Like a moth to a flame, Ruthie couldn't help but fall for her light and found herself believing her mother…or wanting to.

"Do you really mean it?"

"Of course! You know I only want the best for you—for all my children." Once more, Lady Celeste's laughter was nervous and for Lord Dawkins's benefit. "How can you ask me that?"

Ruthie stared at her food uncertainly, maintaining even breathing. If ever there was a time, it was now. "Then I have something I'd like to discuss with you," she began evenly, trying to mask the hope in her voice. "I've been approached with a chance to travel—it's not to Paris or Rome, but it's still very exciting."

Lady Celeste's smile didn't budge. It was as if Ruthie had morphed into Medusa and her serpentine words had turned her mother to stone. "Now isn't the time, my dear. Let's speak on this later."

But later would never come, Ruthie was certain. Pressing her mother now in front of their guest was her only chance. "Oh, but you don't mind, do you, Lord Dawkins?"

The odious man opened his mouth, but Ruthie beat him to it, unwilling to let him speak and ruin her moment. Who knew when he would stop? "I wouldn't have to go far or be away that long—three weeks, maybe four," she said. "The cricket club has been invited to play exhibition matches in a few cities around the country. It's an honor that they want us to come. You know how much the club means to me, Mother."

Lady Celeste's smile fell. "My dear—"

Ruthie cut her off, leaning over the table. "All the travel expenses have been paid for by a benefactor, and we would be staying with good families—good ton ," she added, though she had no idea if that last part was true. It probably was. "Mrs. Everett and Lady Bramble will act as chaperones. And it isn't for a few more weeks, so I won't be missing many social events, since the Season is almost over, and you always say it's important for me to meet new people, and this would be a great opportunity to do that—and did I say we wouldn't be going far? Only to Exeter and Bath and maybe Ipswich and Manchester."

She sucked in a breath. If she didn't, she was afraid she might pass out. But she'd had to get it all out before her mother could reply. She had to lay everything on the table so Lady Celeste could hear all the facts and give a fair and rational answer. Ruthie had to make her mother see not only how important this was to her, but also how beneficial.

The silence was no longer encouraging. The longer Lady Celeste stayed quiet, the more Ruthie wanted to bang her head on the table. Julia's eyes had doubled in size during Ruthie's never-ending speech, while Lord Dawkins scratched at a food stain he'd found on his jacket.

Ruthie shrank under her mother's scrutiny. Lady Celeste filled the eerie silence by lifting her wine glass and taking a long sip. She licked her bottom lip and regained her smile. But it was thin and mirthless.

"Meet new people?" she repeated curiously, lifting her eyebrows. "In Manchester ?" Lord Dawkins chuckled, but Lady Celeste didn't shift her focus from her wayward daughter. "I'm afraid it's out of the question." She returned her wine glass to the table; the dull thud gave her words extra finality.

"But how? Why?" Ruthie asked. "You don't need me here."

"That's correct. I don't." Her mother cocked her head, sharing a knowing grin with Lord Dawkins, whose face flared as red as a beet.

Ruthie's stomach dropped. No. No. No. No.

This cannot be happening. Not now.

Her next words felt like they were covered in broken glass and were cutting her throat as they left her mouth. "I…I don't understand."

But Ruthie did. All too well. She just didn't want to. Because she knew once her mother explained the truth of that smile then it would all be too real. And Ruthie couldn't handle that. Not now. Not when she'd been working so hard on a plan to rid herself of this man and the unfathomable future as his wife.

Nevertheless, Lady Celeste would not spare her. "I wanted to wait to tell you after dinner," she said, mercifully relenting on her smile. "I assumed that Lord Dawkins would want to do the honors, but he thought it best that I told you the happy news."

"What happy news?" Julia asked.

Lady Celeste didn't take her eyes off Ruthie. It was as if she were willing her oldest daughter to be overjoyed, begging her not to embarrass the family by being anything other than grateful. By sticking with the plan. By having purpose. "Your sister is going to be married."

Julia frowned. "To whom?"

"To Lord Dawkins, of course."

"Lord Dawkins?" Julia exclaimed, scrunching her face up in confusion. "But he's so ol—"

"He's so perfect for her!" Mother interrupted. "Yes, I know. That's why this is such wonderful news."

Sweat .

Lady Celeste's temples were sweating. Ruthie lost herself in a tiny bead as it trailed down the side of her mother's face, fading away under the crevice of her sharp jaw. Even Harry Holmes would have a difficult time finding Lady Celeste's sweat unappealing. The woman had once had the very best of London eating out of her palm. Men had come from miles away just to witness her awe-inspiring beauty. She'd had adoration; she'd had excitement; she'd had true love.

And now she was selling her daughter off to the highest bidder—to the only bidder. Did it upset her to know her daughter would have none of those things? Even under her delighted fa?ade, Lady Celeste had to be aware that Lord Dawkins was incapable of loving anyone but himself, and his years of excitement were decades behind him. And as for adoration… Did Lady Celeste now contend that it was a childish emotion best left to young men and over-stimulated spinsters who read too many novels?

Ruthie's marriage would be a quiet one. Respectable. One-note and reserved. And she must be grateful. Always grateful.

And never satisfied.

Never. Satisfied.

Never happy.

Never…wanted.

But that wasn't what Ruthie wanted. Ruthie wanted more.

"This is terrifying," she said softly.

"I'm sorry, dearest. What did you say? You have to speak up," Lady Celeste said.

Ruthie lifted her head. "I said I'm terrified."

Agitated, her mother shook her head apologetically at the lord. "Every girl is nervous to leave her home and be married. It's completely normal to be a little scared of the exciting future ahead, but don't worry. You will be a wonderful wife and mother."

"I'm not nervous, Mother. I'm terrified—" Ruthie's words broke off as she held back a sob. She would not cry in front of Julia. She wanted her sister to remember this moment and be proud of her one day.

More importantly, Ruthie wanted her sister to know what courage looked like.

She placed her napkin on the table and stood up from her seat. "But I don't want to be terrified anymore," she said, proud that her voice was so even. "And I don't want to be a part of your plan. For once in my life, I want to be brave."

Lady Celeste pursed her lips, her calm fa?ade vanishing. "What are you talking about? Sit down!"

Ruthie ignored the order. "Lord Dawkins, thank you for your proposal, but I cannot marry you."

The man answered with a blustery, disbelieving chuckle. "Whyever not? You have to be aware that I'm the only one who wants you."

"No," Ruthie replied, astonished that his words didn't hurt her. She was wearing a shield, and they merely bounced off. "You don't want me. You need me."

"What the devil does that mean?"

Ruthie smiled. Unlike her mother's, there was no chill to it, no mask. It was a true smile born of true happiness. Because Ruthie had no idea how she would feel in the morning. She didn't know what the future had in store. She only knew that at this moment—this one small moment—she felt alive and happy, and she valued herself and her decision.

She was betting on herself.

*

Ruthie didn't look over her shoulder as she walked down the street. No one was following her anyway. Her mother had been too stunned; Lord Dawkins had been too stumped. No one had tried to stop her when she fled the dining room. Most likely, Lady Celeste was too busy placating the lord over her daughter's bewildering and rude behavior. A gentleman's ego was a fragile thing; it would have to be massaged.

Ruthie hadn't exited the house right away. She'd made one stop to her room to pen a quick letter to her sister, explaining where she was going and how Julia could contact her if needed. In the end, it wasn't necessary, as her sister's light footsteps could be heard outside Ruthie's bedroom just as Ruthie was signing her name to the note.

In her haste, she hadn't shut the door, and Julia paused through the small opening staring at her older sister with a mix of awe and alarm.

Ruthie had dropped her pen on her desk. "I'm sorry you had to see that."

"I'm not," Julia replied, taking tentative steps into the space. "It was like being on the stage during a play."

Ruthie laughed. "But it wasn't a play," she said, trying not to relive everything she'd just done. If she did, she might regret it and run back downstairs to apologize. "It was very real, and I'm not sure what the repercussions will be."

Julia shrugged. "Mother will be furious. But she'll forgive you. She has to."

Sweet young girl. "No, she doesn't."

Julia played with the ends of her braid. "Perhaps you should keep to your room for a few days. Stay out of her sight until she cools down and realizes that what you did was for the best. She couldn't possibly expect you to marry that old man. He's… old ."

Ruthie laughed despite herself. She walked over to her sister and enveloped her in a bone-crushing hug. "Thank you for understanding."

Julia's words were muffled against Ruthie's chest. "You've never done anything like that before. It's like you're a different person."

"I feel different," Ruthie said, resting her chin on Julia's head. Too bad she didn't know if that was a good or bad thing.

"What were you writing?"

"A letter. To you."

"To me?" Julia pulled away. "Why?"

Ruthie's body tingled. So many emotions were running through her veins, threatening to overwhelm her fledgling calm. Her sister's innocent question was almost too much. Tears pooled along Ruthie's lids. "I can't stay here. I'm leaving. Tonight."

"But where will you go?"

"I have a plan," Ruthie said, avoiding the question. "You don't need to worry."

"Will you come back?"

"Of course!" Ruthie had lied to Julia before, but they'd always been small and inconsequential. They were falsehoods for her own good. This one was different. This lie was for Ruthie's peace of mind, because she couldn't leave the only home she'd ever known believing she would be allowed back. "I need to do this," she said, pulling her sister in for one more hug. "I'll always regret it if I don't."

Julia murmured against her heart, "And you promise that you will be fine?"

Tears had finally slid down Ruthie's face. "I do," she'd lied again. "Better than fine."

Now, with the moon overhead, Ruthie lengthened her stride as if the memory was nipping at her heels. More tears threatened to come, so she dashed her sister from her mind. She couldn't look back. Forward was all she had now. She'd made sure of that. Her old life was gone. She'd burned it to the ground. Ruthie hadn't the heart to tell her sister that their mother would never forgive her for this. Lord Dawkins had been the family's lifeline. Lady Celeste had been counting on the lord's money and protection.

But Ruthie could fix that. She had an idea—all she needed to do was convince her mother to trust her. Easier said than done.

Ruthie turned on St. James Place. The area hummed with people enjoying themselves, carriages picking up and dropping off revelers as the night commenced. The closer she came to the Lucky Fish, the closer doubt came to tripping her up. What if Harry said no? What if he'd changed his mind?

That was another thing Ruthie refused to contemplate. She steeled her body and her mind as she sidestepped a group of disheveled, clearly inebriated men engaged in an argument. She was about to tackle the club's stairs when a voice called to her.

"Miss Ruthie?" Ernest emerged from the middle of the heated group of men. "One moment, gentlemen," he said to them, quickly walking toward her. "I won't let them inside until they go home and change," he explained, nodding to the group. "The Lucky Fish has standards, after all, and their combined smell is offending all of them."

She nervously reached out to grab the butler's hands. "I need to speak to Mr. Holmes. Is he here? What am I saying—of course he's here."

Ernest spoke in a low voice. "Is everything all right, Miss Ruthie? You look… unsettled ."

Ruthie tried to smile but could see it did little to quell his worry. She took a deep breath. "I'm fine, truly—I just need to speak to Mr. Holmes. It's of the utmost importance."

Why wasn't he running inside to do her bidding? Why did he continue to regard her as if had just escaped the asylum? Ruthie patted the hair off her face. Her hair had come undone during her walk. She must appear crazed and disheveled.

"Did you walk here, Miss Ruthie? It isn't safe. Let me call a carriage for you so you can go home."

Ruthie squeezed the butler's hands so tightly she heard a knuckle pop. "Listen to me, Ernest. I am not going home. I am never going home again. Now, if you don't take me to Mr. Holmes this minute—"

"What the hell are you doing here?"

Ruthie turned to the doorway where Harry stood, arms crossed, the pale light of the hall silhouetting his intimidating figure. He swiftly descended the steps, his annoyed features becoming more apparent the closer he came. "You can't show up announced. It isn't safe."

"That's what I just told her!" Ernest cried.

Harry flicked his head, and the butler immediately left, returning to the group of men who still hadn't stopped their squabbling. He loomed over her, and the exquisite relief Ruthie felt was palpable. His nearness served as a balm for her worries. His concern—masked in irritation—almost sent her to her knees.

But Ruthie couldn't fall yet. She pulled at her reserves, knowing that this was it. This moment would alter her future. She would see it through with clear eyes and heart. She hadn't planned it, but she'd jumped at it nevertheless.

"Well?" Harry asked. "Do you have anything to say for yourself?"

Ruthie's lips trembled. Anxiety was a cold, cold thing. "I…I lied…when I told you what I wanted."

Harry didn't speak. As always, his expression was blank, but she knew him better now. The way his eyes darted back and forth between hers, the way his tendon jumped in his neck, the way he pretended not to swallow—he wanted her there. He wanted to hear what she had to say.

"Will you let me play cricket?"

He replied instantly, "Yes."

"Will you let me see the world? Will you let me live the life I want to live? Will you let me be who I want to be?"

Ruthie didn't know where these questions were coming from. She hadn't meant to ask them, but once they came out of her mouth, she recognized how important they were. As did Harry. It was a small change, but his face softened, and an understanding floated between them like a gentle breeze.

The last question proved to be the hardest to get out. "Do you still want me?" Ruthie asked.

"Yes."

"Good."

Ruthie closed her eyes. And then she moved.

She closed in on Harry, wrapping her hand around his neck, pulling him toward her. Ruthie's lips landed on his with single-minded determination. She pressed into Harry with a lifetime of yearning and something, tasting the bitterness of his cigar, the sugary sweetness of wine. His mouth was warm and inviting, the lips lush and pillowy against hers. Ruthie had never kissed a man before; she'd assumed Harry would be all prickly skin and rough angles, but as he breathed against her, he succumbed to her desire, canting his head to hers, taking all the uncertainty and emotion inside her and guarding it with his strength.

He opened his mouth, catching her gasp as he swept his tongue inside, swallowing her surprise and coaxing a response. Harry's neck trembled under her palm; his stomach tensed and flexed as she placed her other hand on him, fighting an urge to search for the skin she'd once sewn back together.

The night disappeared around them. Ruthie had lost all sense of time. She could have kissed this man forever if the world let her. She was so lost in the kiss, she only slightly noticed that Harry's arms didn't circle her as she would have wanted, nor the fact that he'd positioned himself in between cracks in the pavers beneath them. Those little things didn't matter. The passion was undeniable. The thrust of his tongue, the growl in the back of his throat, told Ruthie the one thing she needed to know.

A whistle dragged her back to her senses. Harry's lips paused on top of hers. He sighed and slowly retreated, his disappointment obvious. He made to kiss her again, and Ruthie closed her eyes in giddy anticipation, but then he spoke.

Her letdown was quelled by the kindness in his voice. "How does it feel to finally be brave?" he asked.

Ruthie's laughter was dismal. "Absolutely terrifying."

Harry chuckled. "Yes, that sounds about right."