Page 1 of The Rules of Courtship (Hearts of Harewood #3)

Chapter One

Rule #1: Do not climb up unless you can climb down

If Ruth had known she would end the morning stranded in an apple tree, she would not have bothered finishing her breakfast. Had she left the house ten minutes earlier, she would now be safely tucked on her horse, riding the hills instead of hiding from a would-be suitor.

Balmy sunlight beat through the branches, warming her bonnet-less head and making her grow hot and sticky. She wiped perspiration from her forehead with her wrist, then reached to pluck a round, reddish-green apple from a nearby branch and rubbed it on her sleeve before taking a bite. Sour, but satisfying. She munched quietly, her cheeks clenching and juice running down her chin, while she watched the stable door safely from above.

Papa would never go so far as to arrange a marriage on her behalf, but he had not disguised his intention to introduce her to every eligible gentleman of his acquaintance over the course of the last year. Ever since her stepbrother Ryland had fallen in love and married his son’s governess, Papa wanted Ruth to have that same security. His need to be rid of her would be mildly offensive had he not confined his search to the immediate vicinity. At least he wished for her to remain nearby.

Even if it meant ignoring the rules by which she lived her life. Namely: never court a man from Harewood.

Of all Ruth’s rules, that was the most important.

She took another bite from the juicy apple, partially satiating her thirst. A bird called as it passed overhead, but no other sounds broke the peaceful silence. Ruth leaned against the branch, searching the front of the stables for any sign of Papa’s current favorite, Dr. Burnside. The man had moved to their small hamlet of Harewood only two months ago, and since he’d come with the express purpose of replacing their aged parish doctor, Papa heartily approved. Dr. Burnside was young, fit, had a healthy career and life ahead of him, and was in possession of a decent house near the heart of Harewood—what more could she possibly want?

Indeed, if Ruth had not made the rule long ago that she’d not court a man from Harewood—including men like Dr. Burnside who had recently moved in—she would consider allowing him to take her out for a ride. But as it stood, Ruth lived by her rules. What sort of person would she be if she broke them on a whim?

Unreliable. Weak. Susceptible to the pressure of others.

Possibly even married to a man she did not love. She shuddered. The idea of a loveless marriage was the most distasteful of all.

Papa’s voice floated from the stables. “You are always welcome, Dr. Burnside.”

“Yet it seems Miss Wycliffe is never on hand when I stop in,” Dr. Burnside said, his clear tone carrying through the breeze. “If I was a less confident man, I would fear she was avoiding me. ”

His confidence was getting in the way of his understanding, for that was exactly her intent.

“She is strong-willed,” Papa said carefully.

Hmm. That did not feel the compliment it ought to be. Ruth gripped her apple tightly, holding her breath as the men stepped from the stables. If they turned and looked up, they would see her. It was a pity she found herself in this situation wearing her new violet riding habit. It didn’t blend into the apple tree in the least while the sun shone from its midday perch. She sat very still, hoping the doctor would leave before noticing her.

Hoofbeats pounded the lane, causing both men to turn their attention away from her, allowing her shoulders to relax.

Bless Oliver Rose and his superior timing. He slowed his horse before reaching the men, with perfect form and an envy-inspiring command of the creature. He sat tall and handsome, his dark hair tucked beneath a black hat. Did he have an appointment with Papa? Since inheriting his grandmother’s estate nine months ago, he had come to Papa more often for advice. His land abutted the Wycliffe fields, so they’d come to an arrangement—Oliver learned all he could and, in return, oversaw the new irrigation techniques being implemented in both men’s neighboring fields.

It was not lost on anyone that Papa and Oliver had an exceptional love of horses, too. Ruth was certain they did not spend all their time discussing land.

Oliver’s posture was straight, the seat of a man who was quietly comfortable in his own skin. His brown coat was unbuttoned, the lapel falling open in the breeze and revealing a flawless cravat tucked into a steady gray waistcoat. He looked every inch the gentleman, though Ruth knew he was not afraid to dirty his hands if the need arose. He had lost the grandmother who’d raised him nine months ago, and he’d thrown himself into the estate she’d loved. Since her passing, he had spent increasingly more time with Papa and next to nothing with Ruth. They used to ride together often, but their friendship had since suffered.

Ruth blamed his grief, which meant she could hardly lay any blame at all, could she? Though eager for his easy friendship to be restored, she understood he would come about again when he was ready. His eyes flicked over Papa and Dr. Burnside before searching beyond them. Was he looking for her? A frisson of excitement ran through her veins. Could this mean he was ready now ?

And here she was, stuck in a tree.

“Good day, Oliver,” Papa said pleasantly.

Oliver touched his hat and dipped his dark, pomaded head to each of the men. “Wycliffe. Burnside.”

“Good day, Mr. Rose,” Dr. Burnside said, readjusting his hat over his auburn hair.

“It’s far too warm to toil in the fields today,” Papa said, though Ruth hadn’t the faintest notion why. Her father hadn’t toiled in all her life. He was a hard worker indoors, creating plans and directing his people with thoughtful care, but he did not lift a scythe himself. “Can I entice you inside? Or have you come in search of Ruth? I will warn you; she has made herself scarce this morning.”

Oliver had the audacity to glance at Dr. Burnside upon hearing this.

Though she did not know why. She would have scoffed at the notion of Oliver coming in search of her if she had not been trying to hide. He hadn’t met her for a ride in the better part of a year. She rather assumed he’d tired of her company. Outgrown it, perhaps? He was the man of Boone Park now, with business to occupy him and lands to cultivate and no time for frivolous things like Ruth.

She swallowed her bitterness. Oliver had always been a dear friend, but something had happened when he lost his grandmother, and he hadn’t been the same since .

“I hoped to speak to you,” he said to Papa, “but I can return at a better time.”

“Nonsense, you are here now. Give your horse to Jameson and we can talk inside.”

Oliver glanced at Burnside.

“The doctor was just leaving,” Papa explained.

The Wycliffe groom, Jameson, led Dr. Burnside’s horse to the mounting block. The men bade stiff farewells before the doctor mounted his horse and left. Ruth’s body relaxed with Dr. Burnside’s retreat, grateful the moment he turned the bend out of sight.

Well, that was intriguing. Whatever did Oliver hold against the good doctor?

“I must speak to Jameson about my horse,” Oliver said. “Shall I meet you inside?”

Papa was already walking toward the house. “Very well, son. Come to my study when you are ready.”

The ease and comfort between them would have been envy-inducing if Ruth was a lesser person. The tight coiling of her stomach now was likely due to the apple and not jealousy, of course.

When Oliver disappeared into the stables, Ruth released a sigh of relief. Her hand relaxed and the apple fell, hitting a branch on its journey to the ground. Ruth sucked in a breath, holding still. Papa’s stride did not slow—he must not have heard her. When another minute passed undisturbed, she allowed herself to relax. Only a few minutes more. Oliver would cross the drive to the house, and she could crawl down?—

“What are you doing, Ruth?”

She squealed, the sound catching her by surprise. Twisting to see who had spoken behind her, she slid from the branch and fell hard on the one just below it. She clutched the trunk to keep from falling to the ground, the rough bark digging into her palms. Why had she forgotten her gloves ?

Oliver leaped forward, but halted when it seemed she’d gained stability.

“You oughtn’t sneak up on a woman in a tree,” she said through her teeth.

“Perhaps you oughtn’t be in the tree,” he countered, tilting his head and blinking at her. His green eyes were unusually bright in the sunlight, reminding her of fresh spring grass. No—of weeds . He was in her black books at present. “Is Burnside truly so abominable?”

Amusement and outrage both flashed hot within her. “I’ll have you know my current situation has nothing at all to do with Dr. Burnside. I was…in need of a treat for Rosaline.”

He reached up and plucked a perfectly good apple from the lowest branch. “Your horse needed the highest apples available? These low-hanging fruits are not good enough for Rosaline?”

“They are…riddled with disease,” she lied.

Oliver rubbed the apple against his waistcoat and took a large bite, keeping his eyes on her while he chewed and swallowed. “Seems perfectly acceptable to me, but what do I know about the whims of spoiled horses?”

“Spoiled! That’s rich, coming from you. Did you not feed Apollo by hand for the entire summer after he was born?”

Amusement shone in his dark green eyes. “Can I help you down now, or are you determined to stick to your story?”

“I do not know what you mean by that, Oliver. I have exactly what I came up here for.” She gripped the branch tightly and searched for a place to rest her feet, seeing her apple resting in the dirt. Blast. Or rather, she had what she came here for. “Though I would certainly appreciate some privacy.”

Oliver dutifully turned his back to her.

Ruth found a place to stand and lowered herself another level. The tricky thing was that while she had climbed this tree more times than she could count, never before had she attempted to climb down in a habit with such a long train. She gathered the fabric and pushed it to the side, hoping it would allow her boots ample space to securely grip the branch.

“Do you need help?” Oliver asked, beginning to face her again.

“Privacy,” she reiterated. He immediately put his back to her again. With her skirts this high, he most certainly shouldn’t look. “I only need to find…the right…place…”

“Ruth,” he said, drawing her name out with faint disapproval. “I can help you.”

He could, but then she would have to face him and the reality that she wasn’t able to climb down on her own. Ruth was much too stubborn for that. “Why are you here?” she asked, hoping to distract him long enough to find a good path down.

He seemed to hesitate briefly before answering. “Well, since you should ask, I came to see you.”

Ruth’s foot slid, making her fall again. She clutched the trunk, but her leg stung. She’d scraped it. Drat her pride.

“Then you might as well help me down,” she conceded. Her knee needed attending, but she wouldn’t tell him so.

Oliver swung around, his forest green eyes tracking her body, looking for injury—or so she assumed. He came around to stand beneath her and lifted his hands. Ruth took one of them, gripping tightly while she lowered herself to sit on the lowest branch. It was level with his shoulders.

His warm hand was large, enclosing hers. “Rest your hands on my arms and I’ll lift you down.”

“You will not drop me?” she verified.

“I’ll do my best.”

Ruth bit back a retort. She yanked her skirt free so it hung down beside her, and pressed her palms to Oliver’s wide shoulders. His hands went around her waist, gripping her tightly. “Ready?”

Something about the way he looked at her now, his hands circling her waist, made it oddly difficult to inhale a full breath. “Yes.”

He lifted her, swinging her to the ground effortlessly. Her boots hit the dirt with a soft thud. He stood near, his neck bent to look down at her face. This close, she could see the hazel flecks in his green eyes, the small smile lines bracketing his lips. He smelled of cedar and citrus, and she inhaled the smell she enjoyed so deeply.

Oliver silently regarded her, his attention making her antsy.

“You needed to speak to me?” she prompted.

“You were hiding,” he said instead. “I’d like to know why.”

“I told you. I was fetching Rosaline?—”

He picked up her empty hand, effectively cutting off her words. When had he removed his gloves? Surely he wore them to ride here. “An invisible apple?” he asked, his fingers pressing into her soft palm. “You forget I know you much better than that, Ruth.”

She pressed her lips together, removing her hand from his grip so she could think clearly. Dr. Burnside was not her first choice of suitors, but she did not wish to speak ill of him to anyone else—not even Oliver. Perhaps if he’d asked her this same question one year ago, she would have bared her feelings without reservation, but they had drifted apart over the previous nine months. She needed to guard her thoughts more closely.

“Surely you did not come here to discuss my marriage prospects.”

Oliver’s face tightened. His eyes swept over her face before dropping to the grass at her feet. “No. Of course not.”

Hmm. That did not sound genuine, though she could not identify what made her feel that way. His tone? The shifting of his gaze? Speech evaded her. The man standing before her was an Oliver she did not know how to handle, which was a dreadful feeling.

“Unfortunately, Dr. Burnside lives in Harewood, and you know perfectly well how I feel about courting men from Harewood,” she said, infusing her words with enough humor to carry them past the last few moments of discomfort and back into safer territory.

Ruth had rules. Oliver knew her rules well.

“Is the good doctor aware of your rule?” he asked.

“I’m not sure. With how frequently he attempts to happen upon me, you would not think so.” She pressed her lips into a flat line. “My father ought to have told him.”

“Your father probably hopes to entice you with a prospect so tempting you will flout your rules and choose marriage instead.”

“I am not avoiding marriage ,” Ruth said. Only certain men.

Oliver did not say what they were both thinking—that her rule had only been made to tactfully avoid a courtship with Oliver’s cousin, Samuel, years ago. But Ruth had clutched fast to the rule with both hands.

She shifted to her other boot. Worry lines were not present now, but the ghost of their creases were evident on his forehead. After losing his grandmother to age and illness and—quite literally—losing his father without any way to contact the man, it was no wonder Oliver appeared as though he’d aged in the last year. She gentled her voice. “How are you, Oliver? Really?”

He glanced up again, his green eyes searching hers. “Better.”

“I am glad to hear it.” It felt as if there was more he hadn’t said, but Ruth didn’t wish to pressure him. “My father will wonder what has kept you.”

“I will tell him it was a fetching bird caught in a tree.”

Fetching bird? Was he trying to call her pretty? “You like my new habit?” she asked, lifting the train. “I am afraid the branches have torn it.” They’d certainly torn the skin on her calf, but she would not look at that until she was alone later.

“You look lovely, Ruth.” Oliver stepped past her. When he reached the other side of the tree, he plucked an apple from a low branch and tossed it to her .

“What is this for?” she asked, pleased to have caught it easily.

“Rosaline, of course.”

Ruth clutched the apple in both hands, watching Oliver’s long legs stride toward her house. He had seen through her. Did anyone know her as well as he did?