The Wife Campaign. Regina Scott

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      Chapter One

      Fern Lodge, Peak District, Derbyshire, England

      July 1815

      Ruby Hollingsford threw herself out of a moving coach.

      There was little danger—it hadn’t been moving very fast, the carriage slowing to take the gracefully arching bridge over the River Bell. And her father should have expected it. How else was she to react to his cork-brained, ninnyhammer of an idea?

      I know I told you we were going to Castleton for business, her father, Mortimer Hollingsford, had said. But the truth is, the Earl of Danning has taken a fancy to you.

      Ruby’s temper had flared like a match to oil. Not another aristocrat! I told you I’d have none of them!

      He’d pulled a gilded invitation from the travel desk on the leather-upholstered seat beside him and held it out to her with a commiserating smile. Oh, he’s a fine fellow. I asked about him. He’s never invited a lady to his Lodge before. You behave for once, and your future will be secure.

      If she had taken that note, she’d have torn it to shreds her hands had been shaking so hard. My future? Why would my future need to be titled? If you want a title so much, you marry one.

      And then she’d bunched her skirts with one hand, wrenched open the door with the other and jumped.

      She landed on the verge of the road, her ankles protesting, then gathered herself to stand. Behind her, she could hear Davis calling to the horses as he reined them in.

      “Ruby!” her father shouted after her. “Oh, come now!”

      In answer, she ran down the grassy embankment for the river’s pebbled edge.

      Really, what else was she to do after such an announcement? She’d thought her father couldn’t shock her any further after she’d discovered an elderly viscount— an utter stranger to her—lounging in her withdrawing room, waiting to propose. After that, she had learned to be on her guard from her father’s future attempts, which thus far had been many and varied. What wastrel aristocrat in the vicinity of London didn’t leap to do her father’s bidding when he dangled her sizeable dowry? But to drag her all the way out to the wilds of Derbyshire, to make up a Banbury tale of business up north? That was the outside of enough.

      Her father must have signaled Davis to continue, for their coachman gave the horses their heads, taking the carriage farther along the road. Very likely he was looking for a place wide enough to turn the coach and team and come back for her.

      But she wasn’t ready to face her father, not when she was in such a temper. He’d always said there was a reason she’d inherited her mother’s sleek red hair and catlike green eyes. They were a warning to beware. A shame her father didn’t heed them.

      Shaking out the folds of her wine-colored pelisse, she marched down the riverbank, gaze on the speckled stones to keep from tripping. But despite her efforts to calm herself, the anger bubbling up inside her found its way out of her mouth.

      “Doesn’t bother to tell the truth, oh, no, not him.” She detoured around a leafy shrub overhanging the shore. “‘Think of it as a holiday, Ruby,’ he says. ‘A chance to see the sights.’ I’ll give him a sight—my back as I head for London!”

      Someone coughed.

      Ruby’s head jerked up, heart ramming against her ribs. She pulled herself to a stop to avoid colliding with a tall man who stood on the riverbank, blocking her way forward. “Oh!”

      Her first thought was to run. Even in skirts and on a rocky shore she ought to be able to beat him to the road. But what help would she find there? All that remained of her coach was the dust lingering in the summer air.

      As if he knew her fears, the man before her held up his hands to prove he meant no harm. Indeed, now that she looked closer, he didn’t appear particularly dangerous. His thick hair was not quite as bright gold as a guinea and neatly combed about his head despite the breeze that followed the stream down the dale. And his eyes were perfect for Derby: they matched the swirling combination of purple and blue found in the fabled Blue John stones native to the area that her father sold in his jewelry shop. His clean-shaven face was firmly molded like the alabaster statues her father imported, body tall and strong.

      In fact, the only things about him that weren’t first-rate were his clothes, which consisted of scuffed, water-stained boots, corduroy breeches and a wool waistcoat over a linen shirt. He probably wasn’t even a second son, much less a selfish, self-absorbed aristocrat like she was sure to find in the Earl of Danning, who thought he could summon a gentlewoman he’d never met to Derby with a perfunctory note. With his head cocked and that smile on his handsome face, he looked as if he wanted nothing more than to help her.

      However, looks could be deceiving, as she knew to her sorrow.

      “Forgive me for intruding,” he said. “May I be of assistance?”

      Nice voice—warm, earnest. Nice manners. She still didn’t trust him.

      “I don’t need assistance,” she said, using a tone that brooked no argument. “My carriage will return for me any moment.” As her boxing instructor had taught her, she positioned her feet in a preparatory stance, one forward, one back, and held her arms loosely at her sides. She was tall for a woman, and she was fairly sure that if the situation called for it, she could hit that perfectly formed nose of his with sufficient force to make him think twice about pursuit.

      He glanced at the road as if considering how quickly the coach would return. “I’m glad to hear you have an escort.” His voice betrayed his doubts.

      She could only wish for an escort, but she’d failed to even snatch up her reticule and the pistol it contained when she’d jumped, worse luck!

      Perhaps if she explained her circumstances, this fellow would be less likely to think her easy prey. She waved a hand to the north, where the coach had been heading, and hoped there truly was a lodge somewhere about, close enough that someone might hear her if she had to scream. “Oh, they’ll all be looking for me. I’m to attend a fortnight’s house party in the area.”

      He frowned. “I didn’t realize His Grace had returned, much less begun entertaining.”

      His Grace! Her temper thrust past her logic once more, and she threw up her hands. “Oh! My father said he was an earl! Another lie!”

      A shadow flickered past his face, and he bent as if to keep her from seeing it. For the first time, Ruby noticed a long wooden rod lying at his booted feet. His fingers closed around it and tugged it up before the lapping water pulled it in. “I’m sorry, madam, but the only earl in this area is the Earl of Danning, and he isn’t entertaining.”

      Ruby made a face as he straightened. “That bad, is he?”

      He chuckled, one hand on the rod, which rose СКАЧАТЬ