Groom by Design. Christine Johnson

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      She stopped at the gated walkway, intimidated as always by the turreted three-story home. Already cars lined the lawn, meaning Mrs. Vanderloo’s party was under way. This would not be pleasant.

      “After you.” Sam opened the gate and motioned for her to precede him.

      She summoned her courage and stepped ahead. In passing, his hand brushed her sleeve. A thrill ran through her, like one got from going too fast in a motorcar or running the rapids in a rowboat. She gasped at the unfamiliar sensation.

      “Is something wrong?” he asked.

      She swallowed hard and shook her head.

      “Don’t worry. I’ll handle everything. Let me do the talking.” His casual smile would have set her at ease if not for his hand on the small of her back. “I know how to smooth things over with irate women.”

      Women? Plural? How many women had he managed to infuriate and why? Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea to introduce him to Jen after all.

      * * *

      Sam couldn’t help noticing that Ruth’s eyes were the most delicate shade of blue, like winter ice. If she hadn’t lifted her gaze in surprise, he would never have seen how perfectly they matched the blue of her hatband. Her pale brows arched above her glasses, and her lips pursed into a question that was never uttered.

      When she again ducked her head, he realized he’d put that badly, made it sound as if he was a scoundrel around women.

      “I meant female customers,” he added hastily. “In my business I often deal with complaints.”

      Her brow only furrowed deeper. “Are you in sales, then?”

      It was the question he’d been dreading and avoiding. He refused to outright lie, and since Father insisted no one know that a Hutton’s Department Store was opening in town, he’d avoided all but necessary contact with the locals. Crashing into Ruth had ended that tactic.

      So he rushed past a full answer. “I do have a lot of experience working with customers. Please, allow me to take the lead.”

      The question mark vanished from her lips and the furrows from her brow, replaced by determination. “Thank you for your offer, but Mrs. Vanderloo is my customer.”

      “And this—” he waved at the dresses “—is my fault. I trust we don’t have to go over that again.”

      After a brief internal battle that played out on her lovely face, she acquiesced with a quick nod. They set off for the house. For such a small town, the home was fairly sizable, rather like a country house for a wealthy New Yorker. A circular driveway cut through the lawn, and several automobiles lined its edge, their headlamps and windshields reflecting the late-day sun. Tall oaks and maples dotted the property while crimson geraniums spilled from large clay urns on either side of the front door.

      He let Ruth drop the heavy brass knocker against the thick oak door. Once its dull thud faded, the faint clink of glasses and murmur of voices drifted past on the afternoon breeze.

      “She must be in the garden,” Sam said.

      “Her housekeeper should answer.” Ruth knocked again.

      Sam’s arm had begun to ache from holding the dresses for so long. He draped them over his other arm, drawing a critical look from Miss Fox.

      At last the door opened, and a trim socialite stared up at him. The perfectly coiffed hair and expensive summer suit left no doubt he was looking at Mrs. Vanderloo.

      “I’m sorry. It’s an inconvenient time.” The woman began to close the door.

      She thought he was a peddler, a door-to-door salesman!

      Sam caught the door before she fully closed it. “I beg your pardon, Madame.” He swung the dresses before him with a flourish. “I’m afraid there’s been an accident.”

      “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Vanderloo.” Ruth’s voice shook, only making the situation worse.

      That was when the woman noticed Miss Fox, and all the venom that might have been directed at him spewed instead on Ruth. “What have you done to my gowns?”

      Ruth flinched. “Th-th-there was a little accident.”

      “Little? It looks like you threw them in the mud and trampled on them. What were you doing? You were supposed to bring them before five o’clock.”

      “Yes, I know.” Poor Ruth’s complexion got blotchy. “I would have been here if I hadn’t dropped them—”

      Sam was not going to let her take the blame. “The only reason she dropped them was because I ran into her. The fault is entirely mine and so is the remedy.”

      Mrs. Vanderloo didn’t seem to hear him. “I trust you’ll make this right, Miss Fox, or I’ll have to take my business to a more reliable establishment.”

      Sam clamped his jaw shut so he wouldn’t speak his mind. He would like to tell the woman that she’d have a tough time surpassing the excellent stitching he’d noted on these gowns, but Ruth rose to the occasion with surprising grace.

      Calm as a pool at nightfall, she expressed her sympathy and regret, ending with “Of course, I’ll compensate you for your loss.”

      She would compensate Mrs. Vanderloo? It took all of Sam’s will to hold his tongue. Ruth had claimed the credit, when he was paying the bill. Part of him wanted to correct the record, but another part remembered that Ruth’s father was in the hospital with a serious illness. Justice against charity. In the end, charity—and the lovely Ruth Fox—won out. It wouldn’t hurt his pride too much if Mrs. Vanderloo thought that Ruth was paying the full cost.

      He shot the socialite his most disarming smile. “Not only will she make it right, but Miss Fox has promised to buy you two new dresses to replace those that were ruined. That’s quite a generous offer.”

      As expected, Mrs. Vanderloo’s ire diminished. “I, uh—”

      He lifted an arm of the ivory georgette dress to drive home the point. “Considering how outdated these frocks are, you’re making quite a bargain of it. Two new gowns in the latest fashion. You won’t find that guarantee elsewhere. Miss Fox can drop off some catalogs tomorrow.” He’d make sure Ruth had those catalogs before they parted ways tonight. “Make your choices at your leisure. We don’t want to keep you from your guests any longer.”

      The woman seemed placated, until one last burst of petulance sneaked out. “But it doesn’t help me tonight. I’d planned to wear one of them.”

      “That would have been a dreadful mistake.” Sam snuffed out her objections with the kind of observation that had won over reluctant girls in his college days. “The color and style are all wrong for you. Mint-green? Ivory? Not with your complexion. And the length. They must come to the ankle. Not at all stylish these days. In my opinion, that delightful navy suit brings out the copper in your stunning auburn hair.”

      Mrs. Vanderloo primped with a girlish giggle, and Sam knew the battle was won.

      Until he looked at Ruth. Miss Fox’s lips were СКАЧАТЬ