Chapter Six

R uthie slammed the door in his face.

Hard.

Fuck .

Maybe that hadn't been the best way to propose. But Harry had never proposed to anyone before. He figured it would be best to get it out of the way first. Why wait to the end of the conversation, putting his nerves through needless torment? And he was nervous. Harry hadn't expected to be. In fact, the entire ride over to Ruthie's home, he'd only felt confident—magnanimous, even.

However, the second she opened the door, all that confidence had vanished. Did she have to look so adorable? From the grumblings in his club, he'd learned that marriages based on respect and admiration were better than ones where attraction and passion ran high and fast. But he was attracted. Very .

He'd considered that his near-death experience had created a romantic view of the woman, but he was happy to be wrong. Ruthie was just as pretty and interesting as he'd remembered, even as she scowled at him with her rosy lips puckered in distaste. Her color was high and bright, reminding him of ripe peaches, her long brown hair falling sweetly down her back. Even the pale freckles covering her entire face were enchanting to Harry. She reminded him of the baby doe, satiny soft and innocent, in need of great care and attention. In need of him.

Harry blinked at the door, wondering if he should knock again or leave. He heard a commotion inside the house. Two women speaking about hats and…the sun? One was definitely Ruthie, but the other voice sounded strikingly similar. Was it her sister or mother? Harry had performed his due diligence. Over the week, he'd made it his business to know everything about his intended fiancée. However, in all his research, nowhere were there clues that she would be the kind of woman to slam the door in his face.

Dammit . Should he knock again? It had taken all his reserves to stop after the first time. Usually, his annoying affliction forced him to knock five times. Not completing the cycle was absolute torture for him, but Harry was out in public and knew better. It took monumental strength, but he could control his aberrations when he had to; unfortunately, he didn't know how much more he had to spare today. He was using most of it to battle the pain in his side, which had only got worse during the jostling of the carriage ride.

He could feel his temper rising, but he'd be damned if he went home without an answer—the one he wanted, and a door slammed in his face wasn't it. He'd come too far.

Reluctantly, he raised his fist to knock for a second time, but Ruthie emerged with the fire still in her eyes, this time wearing a thin yellow shawl and a bonnet that was so wide that it could shade both of them.

"Hurry," she cried, stepping lightly down the steps onto the footpath. "I don't have much time."

"Wait," Harry said, trailing behind her, grimacing as he held a hand against his side. "Where are you going?"

Ruthie flicked her head to his carriage. "Is this yours? Good. Get in."

She didn't wait for an answer, or for his driver to climb down from his perch to open the door or let out the stairs for her. Ruthie launched herself inside and frantically waved at him to do the same.

Dumbfounded, Harry shared a look with his driver. "Drive us around the park," he muttered. He waited for the driver to look away before he touched the handle five times and followed the lady into the carriage.

It was like crouching in a tomb. Ruthie had closed all the curtains. Either she wanted Harry all to herself or she didn't want anyone to know she was in his conveyance. Unfortunately, he knew the answer was the latter.

Harry took his time settling into his seat. He removed his hat, placing it next to him, spinning it around and around until it was in the exact middle of the cushion. Only then could Harry spread his knees comfortably and regard the nervous woman across from him. This Ruthie was almost the exact opposite of the one he'd met that awful night, although now she was dressed as a woman, which was a lovely change. Nevertheless, her body language was withdrawn and cagey, showcasing a shadow of the person who'd gone head to head with him at his club. Harry was afraid she would jump out of her skin at any moment. Her bonnet hid most of her face, and the few inches he could see were directed at her lap. She reminded him of one of those hermit crabs who had lost its shell, all anxious and bare, fragile as fine sea glass.

"Why are you here?" she asked finally. Her voice was hardly above a whisper. Irritation grew inside Harry, and he didn't know why, nor could he comprehend what to do with it.

"I told you." He reached inside his pocket for his ten-pound note. He held it out to Ruthie, but she merely stared at it as if he were offering her spoiled mutton. Harry tossed it in her lap, managing to keep his voice civil. "I lived through the night—thanks to you. You won the bet."

Ruthie's nimble fingers traced a line across the note. "I didn't care about the bet. I don't need this."

"That's not what you said that night."

Her gaze claimed his. Finally, those cornflower-blue eyes came to life, and Harry inhaled long and deep. What was it about this rather ordinary girl that held him in such thrall? Harry could have anyone he wanted—and usually did—but this woman had him holding his breath. The carriage was stifling, the air was sticky with her condemnation, and Harry couldn't have wanted to be anywhere more. Just being near Ruthie made him feel safe, made him forget the whirling thoughts of dread.

"You're referring to my family's financial situation, I take it," she replied curtly.

"Naturally."

"That is none of your concern, since we are not at your club anymore, Mr. Holmes. I am glad to see you are healed and up and about, but you must understand the predicament you put me in by coming to my home—"

Harry opened his mouth, but Ruthie put up a hand to stop him. In her haste, two long tendrils of blonde hair fell over her right shoulder, taunting him.

Ruthie had no idea what those little pieces of hair were doing to him. Harry's fingers curled in his lap. The asymmetry was tortuous, and he couldn't do anything about it.

"And as for this nonsense about marriage, I… Well, I…" She blinked numerous times as she shook her head. The brim of her enormous bonnet made scratching noises against the upholstery, and Harry wondered if he would have to replace the fragile fabric after she left. He continued to stare at those wayward pieces of hair. "I don't think it's necessary," she went on. "You obviously have formed some idea in your head about needing to repay me for my services to you that night, but rest assured that I didn't do anything to warrant such a grand sacrifice. Your thanks is enough." She held up the ten-pound note. "And I'll take the money if it makes you feel better. A bet is a bet, after all."

Ruthie unleashed a ragged breath after her little speech, raising her chin toward him like she was slapping a period on the end of an overwrought sentence.

Harry scowled. Reading people came naturally to him, yet this woman was…stubborn? Perverse? Insane? Or was it something worse than all those? Was Miss Ruthie an elitist?

Harry shifted in his seat. He snatched his top hat and placed it back on his lap, sliding his fingers over the sleek silk fabric, giving his fingers something to do.

"I'm sorry that I'm not Lord Dawkins. I thought you'd only be too happy to marry a man you wouldn't have to lean down to kiss."

Ruthie answered with a loud gasp. "What do you know about that?"

Harry couldn't drag his eyes from the hair, though he fought to follow the conversation. His fingers itched. His whole body itched. "Oh, I know enough. Everything, really. I make it my business to know, just as I made you my business." He crossed one leg over the other, setting his shoulders wide against the seat as the carriage bounced along. He cocked his head, studying Ruthie, loving the way she squirmed under his contemplation. "Miss Ruthie Waitrose," he began easily. "Twenty-two years old. Father is the late Lord Jeffrey Waitrose, Baron of Chiswick, and mother is Lady Celeste. You have an older brother named Mason who has grown an affinity for the card tables, though he's terrible at them, and a younger sister named Julia. Your father left you with nothing, and now your brother seems determined to leave you with even less." Harry's words came out hot, like he was firing bullets, but he had to give the girl credit. She didn't try to stop him, nor did she cower. If anything, Ruthie matched his gaze with equal intensity. "Your mother—who I hear is quite the beauty—is relying on you to make a good match to save not only the family's reputation but also the family house. Although, from what I hear, Berkshire can be nice this time of year—rather boring, but nice enough."

She sat up in her seat. "How did you—"

Harry dusted a fleck of dust off his knee. "I told you. I wanted to know everything. Now I want to know why you laugh at my proposal when my only competition is Lord fucking Dawkins." He leaned closer. "Who, little birdies have informed me, has a hard if not impossible time keeping it up, if you understand my meaning."

"I most certainly do not!"

Harry's brow furrowed. "Oh. You've been spending so much time in gaming halls recently, I thought your education had expanded to bedtime activities."

The poor girl. There was no hint of freckles anymore. Her face had only one color—red. "I…I only played cards. I did not…talk to people of such things."

"Pity."

"I disagree, Mr. Holmes."

"Harry."

Ruthie found a smile, though it was more of a sneer. "I think, under the circumstances, Mr. Holmes is appropriate."

Harry grinned. "And I thought we knew each other better than to suffer through such formality. Though perhaps it's just me who knows you , which is why your prejudice is showing."

Ruthie laughed, causing Harry's stomach to flip. It was a deep laugh, full and throaty, a laugh without pretension. Harry had a thick desire to hear it again and again. He realized then and there that he would never grow tired of it.

Ruthie tapped her lap with the tips of her fingers. At first it alarmed Harry, though he could find no rhyme or reason in the act. Nothing like his tiresome routines. Ruthie tapped her fingers without even knowing it. How lucky. "You aren't the only one who did research," she said ominously. She let the words hang in the air, giving each one the proper time and space to hit him straight in the gut. "Your name is Henry Robin Holmes, and you were born in Ireland, though were settled in London quickly after."

A dismissive sound escaped Harry's mouth as he crossed his arms. "I told you as much."

"You did, indeed," Ruthie drawled. "But there's so much more to your story. Your mother raised you as a strict Catholic by herself, and you have no father to speak of. Your mother worked as a seamstress and never remarried. You left home around the age of ten, haunting the streets with fellow urchins, but your quick mind and unnatural grasp for numbers soon set you apart. After you opened the Lucky Fish, you became one of the richest men in England, though no one knows for sure how much money or land you actually have. Based on all the ancient tiaras and swords littering your room, I would assume you have matching castles for a few of them."

"More than a few," Harry replied. "And don't forget the vineyards. I have some of those, too. Good work, Miss Ruthie. Your cousin has kept you well informed, though you've told me nothing that I haven't heard before."

Ruthie rolled her eyes. "You have castles and vineyards and estates all over Europe—even America—but you don't use them. For a man with so much at his command, you ask very little. You never leave England—in fact, I have a sinking suspicion that you've never been on a train before. You live in a small room above your gaming hall filled with the loot you neither care about nor plan to use."

Ruthie's eyes swept over his body, and Harry had the odd notion that he was naked in front of her—and he didn't like it.

"Your clothes are impeccably made, but they are all the same—black. You dress as severely as one of your priests. You rarely touch alcohol, and never in your club. You eat the same bland food every day—chicken and root vegetables, porridge for breakfast. You curse like a sailor, live like a hermit, look like a monk, and never visit your mother, even though you bought her a home in Brixton."

Harry's hands clawed into his legs. "You were almost ten for ten. I did visit my mother—last month, before she died."

Ruthie's confidence faltered. "I'm sorry," she said, lowering her chin. "Losing a parent is never easy."

"You'd be surprised," Harry replied, stretching out the tension from his hands. He leaned forward again, attempting to regain his hold on the situation. Why had he allowed her to put him on the back foot? That was a stupid question. Harry hadn't let her do it; Ruthie had accomplished that all on her own.

Damn that gossipy cousin of hers. He must have been the person who'd showered her with all this information. None of the facts she tossed at him were that obscure; however, she'd used them to analyze him to a painful degree.

Ruthie squinted at him, biting her bottom lip as if unwilling to go on. "You have… quirks , though you try to hide them. You tap your fingers and… touch things…repeat your words."

Harry scoffed, but his voice was limp when he replied, "Everyone does."

"No." Ruthie shook her head. "Not like you. There's a method to it, a pattern. The number five. Like I said, you hide it well. I don't think I would have noticed if I hadn't spent the night with you."

Harry could feel something rise and bubble inside his chest. Hot and cold at the same time, he couldn't put a name to the sensation. So he ignored it. He ignored everything she'd just told him.

"Fine. Fine. Fine. Fine. Fine." Harry sucked in a breath, stifling a curse. Get a hold of yourself, man! You're not a freak, so stop acting like one! His smile was impossibly tight. "This is all well and good, but why don't we get back to the matter at hand? I take it your mother doesn't know that you slipped off to see me?"

"No," she said quietly. "I told her you that Reggie needed to speak with me and that I'd return quickly."

Harry whistled. "I doubt Ruth in the Bible would lie to her mother so convincingly. Perhaps she should have named you Eve."

"Eve didn't lie."

"But she didn't listen very well, either."

Ruthie pursed her lips. "You're right," she said. "I think it's time you take me home."

Harry chuckled. "But I don't have my answer yet."

"You can't possibly be serious about marrying me."

"By your own accounts, I seem like a most serious person."

"Yes…but…" Ruthie blinked wildly. Her wheat-colored lashes weren't long, but they were full, enticing in their own way. "I can't marry you. You have to know that. My mother…my mother would never consider it."

"Because of my poor upbringing?" Harry offered dryly. "I had no idea you peers were such snobs."

"You know very well they're snobs!"

It wasn't lost on Harry that she used "they're" instead of "we're," but he would ruminate on that for another time. He scratched his chin, hearing the telltale rasp. He already needed his second shave of the day. "I also know that peers' opinion of men changes depending on the amount of money in their pocket."

"You don't really believe that, do you? It doesn't matter how much money you make; they'll never accept you. They barely accept me."

"I don't give a fuck if they accept me," he replied, shocking himself with his harsh tone. "The majority of them are imbeciles, which is why I own most of their land. I don't care about them. I care about you—" Harry coughed. That was not what he'd planned to say at all.

Ruthie blanched at his choice of words. Harry hurried to finish. "I mean I only care about your opinion. Of me," he added. "Listen, please. I know this proposal is a bit of a shock. I know I'm not the man you ever thought you'd marry. I know I have"—he gritted his teeth—"quirks, as you say, but here I am anyway. Marriage was something I'd never really thought about until recently, but now that it's in my mind, I can't get rid of it. You say I can have anybody, but I don't want anybody. I want you. The kindness you gifted me that night showed me the kind of person you are, and that's the person I want as a partner. You are loyal and do what you say, forthright and relatively honest"—he smiled—"when you want to be. You aren't a silly girl with dreams of knights in your head. You're even-keeled and rational…levelheaded. Trustworthy."

Harry thought he was doing a fantastic job spoiling Ruthie with all these compliments; however, the more words that spilled from his mouth, the deeper she glowered.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

Ruthie sniffed. "It sounds like you want a dog—not a wife."

Harry sighed. "I want a companion, someone who will stay with me, someone who will be with me to the end."

"Again…that sounds like a dog." She scrunched her nose. "I hear dachshunds are quite nice."

"I don't want a bloody dog! I tried it once. It didn't work."

She cocked her head. "Why? Oh! Don't answer that. I don't care. And I don't want to marry a man who only wants me because he's afraid to die alone! You're just like my mother. You want Ruth from the Bible, someone who will devote her life to you, someone who will never leave you."

She whipped the wind right out of him. Ruthie continued to stare at him with that pitying expression.

"I'm not afraid to die," he retorted.

"Yes, you are," Ruthie replied gently. She reached across the carriage and laid her hand over his. He tensed at the action, grateful he was wearing his leather gloves. The warmth immediately soothed him, and Harry was instantly brought back to their night together. He wanted all his nights to be like that. He needed it. "A lot of people are scared," she continued.

"I'm not scared," Harry snapped. He sandwiched her hand with his other, loving the way they matched up so well. "I'm concerned, but it doesn't matter because I'm…handling it."

"How?"

"It doesn't matter," he said quickly. Harry slid back into his seat, letting her hand drop from his knee. "So that's it, then? Your answer is no?"

Ruthie's smile was awkward and wan. "I'm afraid so. We both know it's for the best, though I do appreciate the offer."

"I still owe you."

She searched for the ten-pound note and waved it with a flourish. "No, you don't. I've been properly paid."

Harry arched a brow. "That's nothing. How much did you say you needed to raise? Ten thousand…twenty thousand pounds? Have your cousin come to the club and I'll hand it over to him. There. Now you won't have to marry poor Lord Dawkins and spend the rest of your life minding his short, bald children."

Now it was Ruthie's turn to be lost for words. Her mouth dropped open like a trout's. "I couldn't… What do you… How could you…"

"What are you blathering on about?"

Ruthie scowled and tried again. "I can't take your money."

"Why?" he asked with a shrug. "If anyone offered me money, I would take it in a heartbeat."

"But you don't need it!"

"What the hell does that matter?"

Ruthie ignored his ridiculous question and peeked out the window. She played with her giant bonnet, fixing it straight even though it hadn't moved from its perfect position on her head. Harry would have known; he would have moved if it had. Her hair, on the other hand, was still driving him mad.

"So where does this leave us?" he said as the carriage slowed to a stop. "You have to let me give you something. I can't… I can't handle the lack of balance between us. You must allow me to make it right, make it even."

Ruthie reached for the door handle. Harry was almost certain she was going to jump out of the carriage like a thieving bandit, but she stopped to consider what he'd said.

"Is it true you made your fortune from gambling?"

"Not at all," he replied. "I started by stealing anything and everything."

Ruthie frowned. "I supposed I should be grateful that you're so honest."

"Only when it suits me."

"Yes, well…" She hesitated, her fingers dangling from the silver knob. "You are also a skilled gambler? Is that a correct assumption?"

Harry nodded, growing uneasy.

"Then…then you could you help me…you know…gamble and win at your club?"

"No." The word came out like a cannon. Besides the fact that she was asking him to teach her how to beat his own establishment, Harry couldn't imagine spending more time with the lady while others were around. Alone he could suffer through his issues, but with her… Harry's concentration lagged and his quirks were more difficult to contain. She put his discipline to the ultimate test. Losing money was nothing. His bloody reputation was on the line. "No," he repeated, waiting for her fine wrist to bend and open the door where freedom awaited.

But that didn't come.

"You owe me," Ruthie reminded him. "You said yourself that we are out of balance. This is the only way you can make it right."

Harry threw up his hands. "Why can't I just give you the money?"

"Because I want to earn it. I want to do this for myself. I want to prove that I can just as easily make it as my brother can lose it."

"No one can do anything that easy," Harry muttered.

"Help me," she said.

"Not like that. Not like that. Not like—" Harry screwed his lips closed. "No."

Ruthie released a puff of sardonic laughter. "Fine, then," she said, swinging the door open. Late afternoon sun roared into the carriage like a lion, momentarily blinding him. Harry couldn't see Ruthie as she left him, couldn't hold on to an image to carry him home. Instead, he was left with her forbidding words. "You'll just have to live with the unbalance, then." She gave him a pointed look, then tapped her fingers against the door four times. Not five. Four . "I have a feeling it won't be easy."

Harry yanked the door shut and held the knob that was still warm from her touch for as long as he could before performing his ritual. Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap.

He let out a sigh of disgust even as a faint smile made its way onto his face . I have a feeling it won't be easy.

"I'll be damned," Harry said to himself. "She really does know me."