Chapter Thirteen

R uthie woke the next morning feeling intolerably sore, and it had nothing to do with her body. As the sun streamed in through the window, she grabbed her pillow and shoved it over her face. She couldn't face it. Her heart hurt too much, and it was only exacerbated by the profoundly lovely feeling her body continued to enjoy. Every tiny movement elicited a flood of memories that made her stomach flutter and her fingertips curl into the cool sheets. Even the innocent touch of those silky sheets awakened something deep inside of her. Two days ago, that harmless occurrence would have been disregarded; now, it was like a siren's cry of possibility and change.

But that wasn't the only reason Ruthie lolled in bed. There was also the little problem that she had not the slightest idea what to do with herself. Despite leaving her home in spectacular fashion the day before, she couldn't call Harry's famous den of iniquity her home either—especially since he'd left her and hadn't come back.

Was someone supposed to wake her? Even though Holly had been more than helpful last night, Ruthie didn't believe that she was her permanent maid. One would have to be found. Had Harry thought of that? Probably not. A bachelor for so long, he most likely wouldn't have a clue as to the needs of a wife—especially in the limited timeline that Ruthie had given him.

Ruthie hmphed and squirmed onto her belly, burying her face into the sheets. There were many things that Harry would have to learn, she thought dismally. Like how to treat a wife after lovemaking. Would he always turn tail and flee like that? Was it her fault?

Ruthie hadn't meant to reach for him. She'd lost her head, so overcome by what she'd experienced—by what they'd shared—that she merely wanted to touch him, to let him know what she was feeling.

But he hadn't wanted that. Harry hadn't physically pushed her away, but by the expression on his face, he might as well have. Ruthie understood that she'd stepped too far. There was an invisible line, and she'd crossed it. Now she had to decide if toeing the line was worth it, or if she would demand her new husband draw a new one. Worse, she didn't even know if he could.

Luckily, a knock on the door saved her from delving deeper into her mysterious husband.

Tucking the covers under her chin, Ruthie was relieved to find Ernest on the other side, along with a young, pretty maid she remembered from the night Harry had been shot. The girl bobbed with a tray in her hand and placed it next to the bed. Ruthie didn't think she'd ever been so excited to see toast, butter, and a pot of tea in her life.

Ernest's smile was brighter than the sun as he waited for the maid to finish. "And how you are this lovely morning, miss? I mean"—his eyes twinkled as he coughed into his fist—"Mrs. Holmes."

Ruthie couldn't contain her blush. "F-fine, thank you, Ernest," she replied, mustering all the decorum her mother had drilled into her. She smiled at the maid. "Thank you…"

"Jessica," Ernest answered for the maid, who bobbed again and swiftly exited the room. "She won't be your full-time maid, but I will hire one today as soon as possible. You, of course, will get the final decision."

The butler's generosity struck Ruthie. She'd never been given the final say on any of her mother's servants. "I'm sure whoever you choose will be fine," she replied.

Ernest nodded. He glanced at the door before turning back to her. "Well, then, if there's anything else…"

"Where's my husband?" Ruthie asked. She fixed her gaze on the light blue teapot as embarrassment blazed across her cheeks.

"He left early this morning, ma'am. He likes to do that. Start the day with the sun." He flicked his head to the window. "He should be back this afternoon. I'll let him know you were asking for him."

Ruthie's hands flew out in front of her, nearly upsetting the tray. "No! Please, don't do that. I…I mean… I hate to bother him."

"I'm sure it's no bother at all."

"I just mean…" Ruthie searched her mind to salvage this dismal conversation. Suddenly she felt young and immature, incredibly na?ve, and was certain that Ernest knew it. "I don't want Mr. Holmes to think I'm following him. I just… I'm not sure what my duties are, is all. We, ah, didn't have time to discuss it."

"Duties, ma'am?"

"In the house."

Ernest frowned. "This isn't much of a house, ma'am. It's a gambling hall. Mr. Holmes and the rest of us just happen to live here. It was my understanding, or at least my opinion, that you would live in the Belgravia townhouse."

"Belgravia?"

"Yes, ma'am," Ernest replied. "I doubt Mr. Holmes would want you to stay here."

Ruthie's chest tightened. "Oh, he wouldn't, would he?"

Either Ernest missed the anger in her voice or he dutifully ignored it. "It would hardly be proper, ma'am, for a woman such as yourself. A baron's daughter."

"My husband could have mentioned that pertinent fact to me," Ruthie muttered.

Ernest hesitated, tapping his teeth together. "Last night was rather…abrupt. We were all taken a little off guard by the pleasant circumstance." His ebullient smile came back. "No matter now, though. We'll have everything worked out as quickly as possible. You'll feel at home in no time. Just let us take care of the details for you. You won't have to do a thing."

*

Ernest couldn't have known it, but doing nothing was one of the things Ruthie had hated most about her old home. Lady Celeste ruled the household—as was her right—but she also ruled her daughter's life, down to the amount of food she ate each meal. Ruthie was tired of doing nothing, tired of allowing others to make decisions for her. She'd thought marrying Harry and taking her future into her own hands would solve that problem, but that giant leap was only the beginning. She hadn't considered that every day after she would need to find the confidence to make her own decisions. But it was like Harry told her: each day is filled with these tiny deaths and births, these new versions of the person you choose to be.

Ruthie had chosen this new life, and she would have to continue to choose it. And her first choice was to not allow her husband to dump her in Belgravia—not unless he came with her. She had wanted freedom, but that didn't mean she wanted to be alone.

With that decided, Ruthie's spirits immediately lifted, as if a load had been released from her shoulders. Suddenly, getting out of the bed didn't seem so difficult anymore. In fact, nothing seemed difficult.

With Jessica's help, she got ready for her day. She washed and dressed in what she'd worn the day before and set off for a walk. Her body was restless, anxious, but in a good way. Energy coursed through her. She needed to think, and moving was the best thing for that.

Nevertheless, it only took one foot out the door for Ruthie to realize something was wrong. The impression wouldn't go away; it was heavy and cumbersome, which didn't make sense, since Ruthie felt impossible light. The morning was chilly without a cloak, but the sun was bright and toasty—

Sunny . That was it.

Her bonnet. Or her lack of bonnet.

As Ruthie made her way into St. James Park, it finally came to her. For the first time in forever , she was out of the house without one of her mother's gigantic bonnets wrapped around her head to ward off the sun and prevent more freckles. Such a silly little thing, but it seemed monumentally liberating. And Ruthie could see ! She didn't have to tilt her head at odd angles to make out what was happening at her sides. The park was grand and delightful, already filled with riders and walkers catching the unlimited potential of morning.

Ruthie had always considered the night to be her favorite part of the day. That was the time when she believed anything was possible. Now, as she skipped off the well-worn path and her slippers grew damp with the morning dew, she realized she might have been wrong. And that wasn't a bad thing. Because experience taught her that. And she was now a woman with experience.

A married woman.

A woman who'd… made love to her husband (she still wasn't sure if she could use that foul word again).

A woman who was now on the receiving end of many odd stares.

Chuckling to herself, Ruthie returned to the dirt path and attempted to appear somewhat presentable. Experienced women didn't have to be eccentric, although it gave her an inner thrill that she could be if she wanted.

Maybe some other time. She was busy. Logistics had to be considered. For instance, her clothing. She didn't have much, but she should write a letter to her mother, asking her to send along her things—minus the bonnets. Would her Lady Celeste acquiesce, or would she ignore it? On second thought, maybe Ruthie didn't need her old clothes. Nothing was stopping her from asking Harry to purchase her a new wardrobe.

Although…that didn't sound very brave. She would have to face her mother sooner or later—especially if she wanted to see Julia.

But did that day have to be today?

Ruthie shook her head, enjoying the unencumbered sensation. No. It could be tomorrow. Or even the day after that. She was sure she'd be feeling much braver by then.

"Miss? Miss? Would you mind?"

Ruthie turned to see she wasn't alone on the path. Two little girls were following close behind, each with a palm outstretched. Their faces were clean, and their hair was pulled back into dark black plaits down their backs, but their dresses had seen better days. Threadbare and thin, they offered very little in the form of comfort, and even less warmth.

Arresting Ruthie's attention, the taller of the two came forward, thrusting her little hand in Ruthie's chest. "We're hungry, miss. Please, have mercy."

Her accent was unmistakably Irish. It wasn't a foreign sound to Ruthie. So many Irish were moving to England, especially since the famine had decimated the small country's potato crops. Ruthie winced. She hadn't only forgotten her bonnet. She also forgot her reticule. "I'm sorry," she said lamely. "I wish I could help you, but I have nothing."

The older girl eyed Ruthie's clothing warily. As modest as it was, her dress clearly showed her status.

"Orla! Maeve!" Dust kicked up behind the girls as a woman with matching raven-colored hair came running down the path. She grabbed their arms and yanked them away from Ruthie, swatting the fronts of their dresses as if to rid it of dirt and sin. She looked up at Ruthie with guilty desperation. "I apologize, miss. They got away from me. I'm sorry if they bothered you."

"Not at all," Ruthie said, recognizing the concave cheeks and frank hunger the mother wore as easily as her daughters. "I'm just sorry that I cannot help."

The woman nodded absent-mindedly, towing her daughters away. "We don't need charity, miss. The girls know that. We're not beggars."

"I know you're not," Ruthie said, scurrying after them. "They were just hungry."

"Please don't be telling anyone about this, miss," the woman pleaded, grimacing when she noticed Ruthie following her. "They won't be bothering you again."

"They weren't a bother," Ruthie said. "If you'd only stop, maybe I can help you. I live close by. If you come with me, I can get the children something to eat."

"No thank you—good day, miss."

"But Mam!" the older daughter whined, tugging her arm out of her mother's clutches. "We're so hungry."

"Be quiet," the mother snapped.

"Ruthie? Ruthie, what's going on?"

Ruthie spun around to see Harry watching a few feet behind them, watching the entire scene with a confused scowl. Dressed in an overcoat and top hat, he was decidedly better outfitted for the day than she. And exceedingly handsome.

She twirled a few loose ends of hair around her fingers, wishing for the safety of a bonnet, before throwing up her hands. "I'm just trying to offer them something to eat. They won't listen to me. They're hungry, Harry."

Her husband's steps were measured as he came up to the group. He reached into his pocket and revealed a handful of coins.

The mother instantly backed away. "We don't want any problems, sir. We weren't following your woman."

"I know that," he said gently. "Where are you from?"

"London," she replied quickly, focus bouncing between Harry and his money.

He smiled softly. "Where are you really from?"

The youngest girl gasped at his pronounced accent and wiggled her mother's hand. "He's from home!" she whispered.

"No, lass," Harry replied wistfully, "I haven't been there for a long, long time."

"We left a month ago," the woman said, her sadness tangible. Her face was impossibly tired and had more wrinkles than anyone her age deserved. "We came from Wexford. Thought we'd have more of a chance here."

"Ah," Harry said, rubbing his smooth chin. "I'm a Kilkenny man, myself, but I won't be holding that against ya."

The mother laughed, and it was a brittle sound, as if it hadn't been done in many days, and for one brief moment, Ruthie saw the years of toil and stress leap off her narrow shoulders.

Harry nudged the coins into her hand. "Get the girls something to eat. And find a safe place to stay tonight."

The money seemed to frighten the woman. "I can't take it, sir. It's too much."

"Take it," Harry said once more. "I know how hard it is here. You'll need it to get started."

The girls didn't need to be told twice. They jiggled their mother's arm until she accepted every coin from Harry and then began to drag her down the path in case she changed her mind.

Ruthie watched them go, not taking her eyes off the family until they were out of sight around the bend of the trees.

"Thank you," she said, turning to Harry. "They needed that."

He shook his head, still looking off toward the bend. "It won't be enough." He reached into his pocket and brought out a small ledger and pencil. He swiped through a few pages and made a small mark before returning it to his pocket.

"What was that?"

"Nothing." Harry began to walk toward the park's exit. "What's different about you today?" he asked, squinting at the top of her head. "You look…incomplete, for some reason."

Ruthie's hand whipped to the top of her head, and she felt herself blushing. "I'm not wearing a bonnet," she replied. "Now, don't change the subject. What was that? What did you write down?"

"It's nothing."

"Harry!"

Her husband groaned and dropped his head playfully. "I keep a ledger."

"I can see that. Of what?"

Harry stared ahead, his easy gait becoming stilted. "Of my good deeds."

"Your what?"

His expression was like thunder. "You heard me. I like lists, and I thought keeping one of my good deeds would be beneficial."

"For whom?" Ruthie had to hold back her laughter. Something told her that this wasn't a laughing matter to her husband.

"For me, obviously," Harry snapped. "If or when I find myself before my creator, I thought it would be helpful to have a list I could give him…so I could plead my case…show him that I wasn't completely useless."

"Plead your case?"

"Please stop repeating everything I say as if I'm crazy. I'm not crazy. I'm resourceful. And"—he lifted his chin—"I've been attempting to spend more of my money more charitably these last few months, and I don't want to forget anything."

"Yes, I remember that now."

"How did you know?"

"Myfanwy mentioned it while we were visiting Lady Anna a few months ago." Ruthie scrunched her nose. "She isn't convinced it will work."

Harry scoffed. "That woman is never going to stop hating me no matter what I do."

Ruthie cocked her head. "Can you blame her?"

A year ago, Harry had been the reason Myfanwy showed up late for the cricket club's match against the matrons. He had placed a bet on the matrons, and he'd hoped that by locking Myfanwy in her house, the matrons would pull off the win. Unfortunately, Myfanwy had escaped, helped her club beat the married women, and had, as yet, refused to forgive him.

Harry squirmed under Ruthie's scrutiny. "I was going to let her out eventually."

Ruthie couldn't believe she was laughing. "I don't see how the person in front of me could do something that diabolical."

Harry flashed a devilish smile. "You don't know the half of it, my dear. But that reminds me. Now that I have you here, I have something to tell you."

"I have something to tell you too," Ruthie said, remembering her decision from the morning.

"I need you to spend my money."

"I'm sorry?"

Harry's footsteps stalled, his expression slightly bashful. "Well, not all of it. But I really don't have time, and you women are supposed to know all about these types of charities and things. I don't care who you give it to, just let me know and I'll handle it. I trust you."

Ruthie blanched. "I'm glad you trust me, Harry, but I don't know that much about charities. My mother wasn't much for giving."

Harry dashed a hand in the air. She zeroed in on his gloves. The gloves he needed to touch her. Suddenly their night came pouring back to her, the way he made her feel when he was with her—and, unfortunately, the way he made her feel when he left.

Harry was too lost in his grand idea to notice the change in her demeanor. The words spilled out of his mouth. "You don't have to know anything about charities. Start your own. I don't care. Hire anyone you need to help you."

"But shouldn't it be a personal endeavor? I don't see how I could become involved in something that I didn't feel passionate about or have a genuine interest in."

Harry grimaced as if she'd just told him he'd have to hug every person in his club that night. "Personal? Charity isn't personal, and nor would I want it to be. Just come up with an idea and be sure to tell me everything you spend. I'll want to write it down."

Ruthie was becoming more and more flustered. How could he make charity seem like such a remote venture? In her experience, it had been the exact opposite. The time that she'd given to Anna's cricket clinics had been immensely rewarding, not only because she had enjoyed helping but because she'd believed in the end result. Introducing little girls to cricket and showing the value it could bring to their lives was a noble and important goal. How could he expect her to put that energy and drive into something any less substantial to her? The philanthropy would suffer. "I've never started a charity before. Who would even listen to anything I had to say? You just saw me. I tried to give those little girls food, and they practically ran away from screaming."

"You're being dramatic."

"I'm not!" Ruthie cried. "I'm not a natural leader. People don't like to listen to me. You're not even listening to me right now!"

Harry jerked straight, his mouth shutting into a grim line. With a frown, he regarded her closely, almost like her mother used to when she'd count her freckles after Ruthie came inside from a walk.

Only, his attention never made her want to cower in shame. It made her feel seen…in a good way. Now was her moment.

"I'm sorry that I tried to touch you last night," she said.

Harry ducked his head. "Don't apologize."

"I forgot. It won't… Last night won't happen again. You tried to tell me, and I didn't listen."

"It won't?" he asked softly, almost sadly.

"No."

Harry released a torrent of a breath, as if he'd been just as insecure over what happened as Ruthie. "Yes. Fine. Good."

They stood there for a few seconds, unsure of how to act, how to move forward. Harry took off his top hat and rolled it around in his hands, tapping its brim five times before placing it back on his head. He was nervous, Ruthie concluded. She was beginning to understand that the tapping was a sure sign of that.

He glanced at the exit. "Should we go home now?"

Ruthie didn't budge. She wasn't done yet. "Home?" she asked slyly. "Or Belgravia?"

Harry jerked. "Belgravia isn't my fucking home."

"But is it mine?"

He sighed and dug his hands into his pockets. Ruthie didn't know where all this strength was coming from. She'd never had the courage to stand up to her mother; how could she do it so easily with Harry Holmes?

Because I'm not afraid of him.

He continued to contemplate her before grabbing her hand with his glove. "Your home is with me."

He held her the entire way to the club. To their home.