Movement rolled through the room as Miss Gibson took her spot at the front. Bianca sipped her punch, watching the other couples line up according to their respective numbers. If she waited until the last minute, they’d be required to stand at the bottom.
With a nod, she set her cup aside and took Lord Stildon’s arm again. “Now we join them. All you have to do is watch the pattern as it comes down the line.”
They slid into place at the end of the dance configuration just as the music began. The intense look on his face as he studied the dancers made her grin. As the pattern came closer and closer to them, his countenance grew darkly determined.
“This is supposed to be fun,” Bianca whispered as she took his hand and they circled around another couple. “You might want to cease looking like you intend to stomp upon everyone’s feet. At least, I assume your intention is quite the opposite, as I am in evening slippers and not riding boots tonight.”
His face relaxed a fraction as he moved through the next step, though his gaze remained sharp. During a slight pause when they stood side by side, he leaned over to whisper, “Do I do this with you all evening, then?”
“Not unless you wish to declare our engagement at the end of the assembly.” Bianca almost immediately regretted such a quip. She might have been secretly contemplating marrying the man, but she hadn’t intended to jokingly offer herself up to him.
That didn’t stop a small part of her from being slightly offended by the look of alarm that dashed across his face, even as another part of her found it humorous.
She cleared her throat before continuing. “Seek out the attentions of whichever woman led the dance. She’ll move to the bottom every time.”
They fell silent as they continued through the pattern, moving their way up the line. It wasn’t until they were on their way back down the set that he leaned down to speak into her ear once more. “Do you come to my stables often?”
“Nearly every day.” His introduction of an entirely new topic of discussion indicated a certain level of comfort with the dance pattern. The pride she felt over that was uncalled for, given she’d done nothing but put him in a position to learn.
He gave a low hum of acknowledgment as the dance took them in separate directions. Through the rest of the set she waited for him to say more, to tell her she wasn’t welcome, to question her persistent presence, to . . . well, anything. Instead, he simply continued with the dance.
He stumbled a bit once, trying to move in the wrong direction. Bianca managed to swing him around before he could disrupt the pattern too much, but still he said nothing.
Once their set was complete, he bowed and gave her another smile. “Until we meet again, Miss Snowley.”
It was as close to permission as she was likely to get, and relief had her excusing herself from the next set instead of finding another partner. As she sipped another glass of atrocious punch, she watched Lord Stildon navigate an introduction to Miss Gibson, once more looking stiff and slightly terrified.
Her new neighbor might be excessively confusing, but at least he wasn’t cutting her off from his horses.
“The two of you barely spoke a word through that entire set. Is it your intention to impress him with demure silence? I do hope you realize there are several young ladies more accomplished at such a demeanor than you are.”
The sour punch, made all the worse by the undesirable company, left Bianca’s mouth feeling tight and dry. Still, she took another sip as she turned to acknowledge her stepmother.
Experience told her that silence was her best option, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t imagine dumping the remainder of the punch over the top of the older woman’s head. What would orgeat do to the elaborate grey-blond curls?
“I promised your father to help you along this year,” Mrs. Snowley continued with a sigh. “If Marianne manages to settle down before you, he’ll think it all my doing.”
Considering Mrs. Snowley hadn’t given a single thought to Bianca’s marriage prospects until halfway through Marianne’s first Season, the idea wasn’t entirely without merit. Bianca preferred to think that her lack of marital status had more to do with her own discernment.
It didn’t matter that her discernment had more to do with an eligible man’s stables than his prospects. Every girl had her criteria.
As her stepmother droned on, Bianca was more and more hopeful that Lord Stildon was going to prove of acceptable enough character that she could finally have a man to set her cap for.
IF IT WEREN’T for the fact that returning to India would require him to set foot on a boat, Hudson would chuck the entire business of his estate back into the hands of the solicitor. This time, though, there wouldn’t be any hope to sustain him through the horrible months onboard the ship. Instead he’d have to suffer the anguish of knowing he’d failed, along with the turmoil caused by the waves.
Staying here, even though it wasn’t going as he’d thought it would, was the better of the two prospects. It had been foolish, perhaps, to think because he’d been raised with the notion that England was his true home then merely being here would relieve him of that disjointed feeling of not belonging. Disappointment that things were simply foreign in a different way solidified his determination to make himself a place here.
After two hours of following Miss Snowley’s instructions, Hudson’s feet hurt and his resolve was cracking. He’d managed not to embarrass himself too much, but his cheeks ached from his attempts to appear a genial, happy fellow.
To make matters worse, it seemed that everyone in attendance only knew how to have three conversations. While that had the benefit of allowing him to know what he should say, it also numbed his mind. After all this dancing, he knew that the weather had been fine today but might not be tomorrow and that poor Judson Hughes had gotten drunk and managed to get himself stuck in his horse’s feed trough. Everyone also wanted to know if Lady Rebecca intended to make an appearance since having her debut Season in London in the spring.
Hudson didn’t know who Judson Hughes was and could only guess at the identity of Lady Rebecca, but he’d still probably mumble about them as he fell asleep tonight.
He’d caught enough words here and there to know a fourth conversation was bubbling about the room, but as he was the topic, no one was making him privy to the details.
Given what he’d heard at the training grounds earlier, that might be a polite blessing.
Despite the relative success, or at least the relative lack of failure, there was a pounding pain beginning to roll up the back of his head. The prospect of more dancing and more numbing conversation made the pain pound harder, so he excused himself and went in search of the cardroom Miss Snowley had mentioned earlier. The smell was indeed awful, but it was blessedly free of females and even more welcomingly free of dancing.
He’d received so many speculative glances in the past few hours that he barely acknowledged the new ones aimed his direction as he observed the tables to ensure that here, at least, all would be familiar.
After a brief introduction, he joined a game and settled in to an activity that he was finally confident he could do.
Conversation in the cardroom was somewhat more varied than what he’d heard while dancing. Familiar business discussions joined in with the swish of cards sliding across the table and the clink of money joining the pile in the middle, and soon the pain in Hudson’s neck and shoulders abated. Even if he didn’t know the names or the horses being discussed, he knew the rhythm of these conversations.
After a couple of hands, his companions started to test him, to allow him into the edges of their exchanges in order to take measure of his character and knowledge. There was an edge of hostility, though not as severe as he’d experienced at the training yard, even though at least one of those men was in attendance.
These were the men he’d spent his life waiting to join, preparing to do business with. What could he do to win the respect of the stable owners, gentry, and other area aristocr
ats?
“Gliddon said he’s offering up Hezekiah for stud this year,” an older gentleman said as he pulled out a tin of snuff. If Hudson had heard the man’s name earlier, he’d long since forgotten it. “One lucky bidder only, though.”
“His price is far too steep for me,” a younger man said.
Another man, Mr. Theophilus Mead, snorted and dealt out the cards. “He might as well declare it part of Lady Rebecca’s dowry and be done with it.”
“Now that would be a prize,” Lord Davers said before scooping up his cards and flaring them out. “Lady Rebecca for a wife and a near-guaranteed champion in the stable.”
Men who’d been playing cards at the next table wandered over to join the conversation. A balding man with tufts of grey hair over his ears frowned. “You think he’ll make that a requirement? That the man be ready and able to marry and worthy of a horse from Hezekiah’s line?”
“He’s a fool if he doesn’t at least consider it,” the old man who’d started the conversation said. “Hezekiah is a mighty enticement. He’ll at least hold on to the option until Lady Rebecca is settled.”
Mr. Mead shook his head. “Lady Rebecca has breeding, beauty, and a connection to the Earl of Gliddon and his stable. Along with her dowry and what she’s set to inherit when Lord Gliddon passes on, she hardly needs further decoration.”
“Do you intend to throw your hat in the ring, then?”
“Without a title, he doesn’t stand a chance,” Lord Davers said with a smirk before throwing his marker into the center of the table.
“One thing is certain,” one of the men surrounding the table said. “Every racing aristocrat with an eligible son is going to be descending on Newmarket soon in the hope of winning the prize—be it lady, stallion, or both.”
Hudson gave his cards enough attention to avoid any sort of significant loss, but his mind was circling around this new information. He’d needed a plan to impress these men, a way to prove to all of them that he was someone to be respected in the area of horse racing, and they’d all but handed him the way to do it.
He had a stable and a title, and though he hadn’t thought it his main priority yet, he was in need of a socially capable wife.
Only one question remained. Who was Lady Rebecca?
Seven
The past year had shown Hudson just how much he didn’t know about himself, but a few areas of confidence remained. He knew horses, he was fairly certain he still knew cricket, and he knew how to adapt. Life in India changed so often there was no choice but to adapt.
Saturday’s sun had yet to make an appearance in the Sunday sky as Hudson rose from his bed. He opened the doors that led from his room to a small balcony and stepped into the brisk predawn air.
The feel of the air, the smells, even the sounds were unfamiliar. What had he expected? That everything English would feel comfortable and natural just because he’d been raised to think of this as where he belonged?
Yes, some part of him had. It was a childish thought that had lingered in his mind as he reached adulthood, and it wasn’t until now, with the idea spectacularly disproven, that he realized how much he’d clung to it.
He took a deep breath and reminded himself that he was the same capable, knowledgeable man he’d been in India, where he’d had to adapt to the frequently changing town and culture. The only difference was that instead of one or two things changing, everything had changed.
When the chill seeping through the Indian banyan he used as a dressing robe grew too cutting for him, he returned to the house and went to the small study off the bedchamber.
Everything in this room was simple, chosen for efficient practicality instead of impression. He lowered himself into the large chair behind the desk and ran his hands along the well-worn arms.
Was this where his grandfather had sat when he read Hudson’s letters? Was this where he’d answered them? What activities were so private, so personal that they necessitated a second study?
Hudson began opening drawers, surprised to find several legal documents, including a copy of the quarter-end financial statements of the estates and stables. He had already seen detailed day-to-day books lined up on the shelves of the main study. Why keep a second set of books?
Another drawer revealed stacks of letters, bound together by twine. He removed a bundle and released the tie.
His father’s familiar handwriting strode across the page.
The date was a year before Hudson’s mother had succumbed to fever, and the contents were about Hudson. Specifically about whether he should return to England for school.
If my younger brother’s actions are as unpredictable as you say, then I cannot, in good conscience, send my son home for school. I will allow you to choose tutors, if that makes you feel better, but an uneducated heir is better than a dead one.
Hudson grinned at his father’s words. He’d never believed in being vague about something that could be stated plainly.
Many of the letters discussed Hudson and his upbringing—far more than he would have expected. He flipped through them, truly understanding for the first time the extent to which his life had been planned.
Lines he’d heard his father utter time and again appeared in several of the letters. There was something steadying and comforting about seeing the words here in England. It was a connection between his new life and his old.
My living in India has not weakened my appreciation for God and England. They are my true home. Madras is but a temporary residency, a necessity in order to ensure the line continues as it should.
How many times had Hudson heard something similar? How many times had he been told that he shouldn’t become attached, that one day he would be where he belonged, that home was a land on the other side of the globe?
The tone of the letters changed somewhat after the death of Hudson’s mother. All discussion of Hudson coming to England ceased, though Hudson had no way of knowing if that was because his grandfather stopped asking or because his father ignored the requests.
In fact, Hudson wasn’t mentioned much at all. More and more of the content turned to the work his father had poured himself into during the last few years of his life.
I believe the work I am doing with the local horsemen is something God brought me here to do. It may be a strange destiny to some, but I can see the improvements and changes daily.
Hudson tossed the letter back into the drawer. God might have placed his father in India with a purpose, but as far as Hudson had seen, that was the last time God had intervened in the man’s life.
Or perhaps it was merely Hudson’s life the deity didn’t feel a need to interfere in. The lack didn’t make Hudson angry—after all, he was more than capable of seeing to his own life—but he sometimes had difficulty reconciling the belief that God loved him with the fact that God had left him to deal with his problems on his own.
Which might be why Hudson was sitting in his house instead of venturing into town to attend church. Everything he’d thought he knew about life was crumbling under the weight of reality. He wasn’t sure his fragile faith could hold up under a similar attack.
In the next drawer down, Hudson found another set of letters written in an even more familiar hand—his own. He shifted those in childish scrawl out of the way, suddenly anxious to remember when he’d been confident and sure of the man he would become.
I negotiated the sale of a horse today. Father assures me that I am learning all the necessary skills for being an accomplished viscount. Some of the ways Father taught me to do business seem strange here, but he assures me that is how it is done in England.
When I come home, I will make you proud.
Hudson’s loose-fitting robe suddenly felt a little too tight. His experience over the last few months, even the last few days, proved how ill-prepared he was for life in England.
The last letter he’d sent was sitting in the drawer unopened. Had his grandfather even seen it, or had someone else taken care of it? Had a ser
vant slid it into this drawer with a sense of unease, wondering if and when Hudson planned to make an appearance?
He broke the seal and glanced over the words.
Surely India is no longer necessary for my protection. I am an adult now, no longer prone to the accidents of youth. An accident here would be far easier to explain away than one in England.
I am eager to start my life there. I yearn to be the man I was born to be. When I get there, I know everything will fit together as it should. My thoughts and mannerisms are those of an Englishman. My heart is that of British aristocracy.
India may have been Father’s destiny, but mine is England.
Hudson threw the paper down, glaring at it as he wished he could glare at the foolish man he’d been when he wrote it.
If he could answer that letter, what would he say?
You are not as prepared as you think.
This may be your destiny, but you will not slide into it with the comfort of a well-worn riding boot.
There is a fine line between confidence and arrogance, and you crossed it long ago.
Hudson sighed. All of those statements were fitting.
Last night had thrown him into a whirlwind of unfamiliarity that he’d had to endure in order to maintain his reputation. He’d managed to blunder through well enough, but to continue in such a state was unacceptable.
He’d been waiting twenty-eight years for this moment, and it hadn’t lived up to even his weakest expectations. Perhaps it was he who hadn’t managed to meet those expectations.
It was exhausting to realize the one hope he’d held on to since childhood wasn’t going to happen easily. He was going to have to work for it, demand that life make a space for him. Just the thought made him tired.
Hadn’t there been times when God told His prophets to go to bed and everything would be better in the morning? Perhaps that would work for him. Not that he could spend the whole day in bed, but maybe he didn’t have to solve all his problems today. Perhaps today, it would be enough to simply breathe and consider the fact that he was finally in England.
Vying for the Viscount Page 6
