Marianne’s easy capitulation was the only way Bianca managed to stay a step ahead of her stepmother. When Mrs. Snowley had gotten an irrational and sudden desire to clean out the attic before Bianca’s first Season, a bit of sisterly coercion had learned the reason. Bianca had barely had time to move the two trunks of her mother’s mementos and belongings before the dastardly woman could find them herself and subject them to whatever form of damage she thought she could get away with and have it look natural. Likely water and some form of mouse infestation.
“Perennial, dear,” Mrs. Wainbright said, leaning slowly toward Mrs. Snowley, “Marianne has far better chances this Season. Don’t you think Bianca is a bit long in the tooth?”
Bianca clenched her jaw to keep from gaping. Was the woman implying Bianca was too old to marry?
“Not yet,” Mrs. Snowley said firmly before giving a dramatic, overdone sigh. “That’s why we’ve decided we finally have to let her go. It’s been selfish of us to discourage her leaving until now. She brightens up the house so much. But parents must put their child’s welfare over their own.” She gave a sniff and a nod. “It’s time.”
Bianca was going to be ill. Or faint. Or run screaming into town as the woman before her revealed herself to be possessed by some mind-altering spirit. Mrs. Snowley had never encouraged Bianca to do anything except be silent or, on occasion, to be gone.
One thing was now clear, though, and that was that Mrs. Snowley had decided, with some urgency, that it was time for Bianca to marry. The only question that remained was, did she have a particular target in mind?
IF BIANCA THOUGHT she would be able to corner Marianne as soon as they arrived home from the plethora of exhausting visits, she was sadly mistaken. Upon their return, they walked into a house in hectic preparation.
Bianca recognized the bustle of midday cleaning and the various aromas competing for the identifying dish of the evening meal.
She’d forgotten Mrs. Snowley was having a dinner party. With the Meads.
If there had been any doubt that Bianca was being served up on the night’s menu, the day’s conversations with mothers, aunts, sisters, and even sisters-in-law of every eligible man under the age of fifty would have confirmed it.
“Do you have an even number for dinner? I understand if you need me to eat in my room.” The ploy wasn’t likely to work, but Bianca felt she had to try.
Mrs. Snowley frowned. “Successful pairings don’t simply happen, you know. One must constantly work to position herself to her best advantage if she wants to make a good match, and receiving invitations requires one also issue them.”
“Strange how my lack of participation in these invitations wasn’t a problem until recently.”
Mrs. Snowley ignored Bianca’s snide comment and shooed the girls toward the stairs. “Your gowns should be laid out and ready. I’m afraid we haven’t much time.”
Bianca dressed as hurriedly as possible, barely managing to hold still long enough to avoid being burned by Dorothy’s curling tongs. She wanted to be downstairs when the guests started arriving. The last thing she wanted was Mr. Theophilus Mead thinking she’d timed her entrance in order to impress him.
As she started down the stairs, familiar voices drifted up from the front hall, and she paused with her foot in midair and her hand on the banister. Hoping she was mistaken in the speaker’s identity, she squatted down and tilted her head to see the hall without descending into it.
Cold ran through her body, raising the hairs on her arms and making her fingers curl into her palms as the first man stepped into view. Mr. Octavius Mead, one of her father’s dearest friends.
She was too late.
The elder Mr. Mead was innocuous enough, though somewhat strange. He was married, but as far as anyone knew, his wife preferred to stay in Bath these days. No, the problem with Mr. Mead was that he rarely went anywhere without his odious son.
His odious, unmarried son who was likely in the hall now, positioned to admire her as she came down the stairs.
Was it too late to plead a headache or some form of digestive ailment?
“What are you doing?” Marianne asked, plopping down to sit next to Bianca on the step.
“Er,” Bianca said. She could hardly tell her sister that she was contemplating creating an excuse to avoid the gathering. Nor could she now feign illness since Marianne had seen her dressed and hale on the stairs.
“I caught my slipper on my hem and had to fix it so I didn’t tumble down the stairs.” She straightened to a stand and adjusted her skirts, wincing at the lie, hearing the vicar extolling on the evils of dissembling in the back of her mind.
“Oh. I’m glad you didn’t fall.” Marianne stood as well and gave Bianca one of those smiles that was impossible to interpret.
Did Marianne dislike Bianca as much as her mother did? Did she dislike her for other reasons? Did she perhaps not dislike Bianca at all but just smiled strangely? Was she thinking about something else entirely?
It was simply another unsettling thought to plague Bianca’s mind as the sisters continued down the stairs. At least the strange conversation had delayed them enough that the men had retreated to the drawing room.
Mr. Theophilus Mead was the first to see them enter the room, and his lips twisted into a curve that said he assumed they would be honored to be in his presence. Even his hair, with its thick swoop to the side and carefully pomaded disarray, looked smug and condescending. If the man spent half as much energy on his horses as he spent on his hair, she’d find him far more appealing. No, that was too far. She’d find him far more respectable.
Bianca took a deep breath and set her jaw. She could and would make it through this evening without embarrassing her father. Even if she had to make idle talk with a man who ran his horse ragged despite the pebble in its shoe and then sold it away when it turned up lame like a pouty little boy who’d broken his own toy and didn’t want to admit it.
Maybe she wouldn’t be sitting near him?
Unlikely, given the day’s revelations.
The Wainbrights arrived, along with another of her father’s good friends, which created an even number for dinner but an imbalance between the men and the women.
Mrs. Snowley could only have been more obvious if she’d tied Bianca up in a carriage and had her delivered to Mr. Mead’s doorstep.
By embedding herself in a stunningly boring conversation about Mrs. Wainbright’s roses, Bianca managed to avoid the younger Mr. Mead until it was time to progress into dinner.
There, the loathsome man had been seated to Bianca’s right while his father was on her left. The elder would prove no help whatsoever, as he’d been seated to her father’s right and would spend the entire night conversing with Mr. Snowley.
No matter. She would simply employ the same philosophy she used when forced to sit for tea with Mrs. Snowley. She would focus on taking the smallest bites of food possible. Even the most meticulous governess had never imagined someone giving as much attention to the cutting of meat as Bianca was about to do. And not even Mrs. Snowley could find fault with Bianca’s not talking with food in her mouth, no matter how tiny the morsel.
“May I say you’re looking particularly fetching tonight.”
No, you may not. Bianca ground her teeth together. “You flatter me, sir. Thank you.” She shoved a bowl in his direction. “Potatoes?”
He took the bowl, but his gaze never left her. “Are you attending the assembly this Saturday?”
Not if you are going to be there. “I imagine so. We usually do.” She served herself a bit of beef and then passed the dish on before Mr. Mead had managed to move along the potatoes. Bianca didn’t care. The sooner her plate was full, the sooner she could begin eating, and the sooner she could blame her lack of conversation on good table manners.
“I bought a new horse last week.” He juggled the meat platter in one hand while waiting for Mrs. Wainbright to take the potatoes. “A beautiful chestnut stallion. I believe he’ll do wel
l in the races next month.”
Provided you don’t run him lame before then. “How exciting. Do you intend to ride him yourself?”
“Of course not. I wouldn’t want to miss the fun of watching the race from the sides.” He leaned toward Bianca and lowered his voice. “I may even garner an invitation to the duke’s stand. I’ve been working on that for a year now.”
“Turnips?” She slid the bowl between them to force him to sit upright once more, and he was required to drop his gaze and attend to his plate if he didn’t want to risk dropping one of the dishes Bianca was pushing his way.
Finally there was enough food before her that she could begin eating. Unwilling to be completely rude, she tried to make appropriate nods and murmurs as the man went on about all the ways he’d tried to maneuver himself socially in order to gain the coveted invitation to the duke’s stand.
What she wanted to do was roll her eyes to the ceiling. She understood how much of a game Newmarket’s society was and how it connected to the actions of the Jockey Club, and therefore the races. After all, hadn’t she agreed to help Lord Stildon navigate the confusing business?
The difference with Lord Stildon was . . . well, it was . . . She frowned at her pudding. There was a difference, wasn’t there? Was Lord Stildon’s goal of a marriage and a stallion any more honorable than Mr. Mead’s desire to stand atop the duke’s stand and attain a better view of the races?
She poked at the dessert with her spoon. When looked at objectively, Lord Stildon’s goal was less honorable, as it affected poor Lady Rebecca. Or could possibly affect her. The lady was likely to be inundated with similar attempts to gain her hand, if not her affection, so it wasn’t as if Lord Stildon would be trying to trick her.
Her dislike wasn’t based on the action, then, but the man himself. Even more reason to avoid her stepmother’s machinations. Listening to the man speak made her hope he somehow stabbed himself in the lip with his fork.
Why had her stepmother orchestrated such an obvious matchmaking attempt? Never had Bianca indicated any sort of interest in the man.
She glanced up from her pudding, but before she could spear her stepmother with a glare, she saw Marianne and Miss Wainbright with their heads angled together and wide smiles as they darted looks toward Bianca over their nearly untouched desserts.
Bianca stabbed at her pudding with such vigor that a portion of it slid over the back rim of the bowl to plop onto the table. Once this torturous evening was over, Bianca was going to find out exactly what Mrs. Snowley was up to.
Twelve
Being cold was bad.
Being cold with the knowledge that the weather was only going to get colder was worse.
Being cold while knowing that everyone else thought the temperature was perfectly pleasant was downright miserable.
Hudson wrapped his hands around his cup and glared at the low-burning fire in the grate. After several moments, he gave his attention back to the book he’d propped against another book in order to be able to read it without having to hold it. Eventually he would become accustomed to the weather—hopefully—but the dreary, misty almost-rain that had moved in as the sun lowered in the sky had sunk a chill under his skin that refused to be chased away.
After drinking as much tea as his stomach could bear, he’d taken to having the servants send up pot after pot of hot water so he could pour a cup and hold it as it cooled. When combined with the strange look they’d briefly given him when he requested a fire, Hudson could only assume they thought him some sort of delicate flower.
This was yet one more botheration he could lay at the feet of his dead paternal figures. He hadn’t been prepared for the dismal weather, the horrid food, or the different social manners. Yes, he was alive, which he supposed he should thank them for, but his father and grandfather had left him in a rather embarrassing quandary. Had his grandfather foreseen these issues and given them as an argument for Hudson’s return? Had he put off Hudson’s requests to come because he knew his father’s denial would raise a son that might embarrass the title?
Chills apparently induced self-denigration.
He reached the end of the page and turned to the next one quickly so he could return his fingers to the warmth of his mug. A slight knock broke the quiet of the room, and he answered without looking up. “Enter.”
“What is that?”
After several hours of the timid kowtowing of the servants desperate to keep their positions, the bold question of his stable manager was rather welcome. Hudson glanced down at the cup in his hand before looking up at Mr. Whitworth standing two steps inside the library door. “Hot water.”
“Hot—” The man broke off his sentence with a chuckle. “I had been asking about the, well, I’m not quite sure what to call it. Robe? Jacket? But now I’m rather curious about the teapot as well.”
Hudson looked down at the brightly colored sleeve of his banyan. He was so accustomed to using it as a dressing gown that he’d forgotten he was wearing it. Unlike he’d done in India, though, he’d left his normal clothing on before donning the vibrant garment tonight. He’d even left his jacket on when cramming his arm into the wide sleeve and hooking the clasps until it covered him up to his chin.
Hudson rolled his shoulders and settled deeper into the warmth it provided. “It’s a banyan. A, er, dressing gown of sorts, I suppose. Don’t you have those here?”
Mr. Whitworth shook his head with another short chuckle. “Not like that.” He gestured to the teapot. “Feeling chilled, I take it?”
“Hmmm.” Hudson turned the page he hadn’t read and lowered his eyes to the book. He had only been at Hawksworth three days, and he was well and truly tired of feeling out of place. “I assume you have a reason for coming here this evening?”
Mr. Whitworth held up a pamphlet. “The racing calendar. The major races won’t be until October, but there are others worth considering. I thought you might like to discuss a plan without your well-meaning stable staff overhearing. Now I think you need a fencing partner instead.”
“Are you volunteering?” The skepticism he was feeling likely laced the statement, but he wasn’t in a mood to bank it down. The way he understood it, fencing was a sport of the elite in England.
One of Mr. Whitworth’s brows lifted in a gesture that reminded Hudson that a nameless arrogant aristocrat’s blood ran in the other man’s veins. “If you need it, I’d be happy to disarm you.”
“What a shame I haven’t any foils available, then,” Hudson murmured, quite glad for the fact that his mediocre fencing skills wouldn’t be challenged this evening. It didn’t sound as if Mr. Whitworth was at all unsure of his own ability.
“Yes, a pity.” Mr. Whitworth dropped the pamphlet on the desk beside a stack of mail Hudson had been ignoring.
He’d opened several of the letters, but each one had left Hudson feeling more overwhelmed than the one before it, so he’d chosen to ignore them instead.
Mr. Whitworth poked a finger through the pile, nudged one particular invitation away from the others, and stared at it for several moments, still as a statue. Finally, he looked back up at Hudson and sighed. “Have you cards?”
Hudson glanced around the room. Did he have any cards? There were still vast corners of the house, even of the main rooms, he’d yet to explore. “Probably. Why?”
“Because while Lady Rebecca will be on the dance floor, Lord Gliddon will be at the card tables.”
“You wish to subject yourself to more of my lack of English awareness?”
Mr. Whitworth huffed. “No, I wish to keep your insipid self-pity from ruining one of the best stables in Newmarket.”
Hudson was torn on whether or not to feel offense at the man’s statement but decided instead to be glad for his continued honesty. He stood and dropped his lap blanket onto the chair before stalking through the room, opening doors and cabinets.
“Haven’t had time to settle into your new home yet?” Mr. Whitworth chuckled as he positioned a chair on t
he other side of Hudson’s table, as far away from the pitiful fire as one could get while still being able to reach the flat surface.
Hudson grunted in response, unwilling to admit that he’d counted his ability to get to the library from his room without getting lost as a significant accomplishment. The fact that he’d had to go to the breakfast room first because that was the only place he knew how to get anywhere from was entirely beside the point.
“Did my grandfather have this place built?” Infernal cornerless house.
“I believe he added the east wing and the corridor connecting the stable to the main house. His father built the central section, though.”
Three decks of playing cards jostled against each other as Hudson jerked open another drawer in one of the built-in wall cabinets. He pulled one out and then ran his finger along the top of the curved drawer front. “Why round?”
“Why not?”
“Why not?” Hudson shut the drawer with more force than was required for the ten-foot-tall solid wood door in the front hall. Obviously hiding his displeasure was no longer on tonight’s agenda, assuming it ever had been. “Perhaps because a round house has no corners. There are no corridors. Just room after room circling about that winding staircase that somehow, despite it being in the very center of the building, never seems to be where I think it should be. I can’t remember how to get anywhere because there is no such thing as ‘turn left’ or ‘turn right.’ There’s merely ‘wander around until you see the red carpet and then use that door to reach the library.’”
He threw the cards onto the table, jerked the lap blanket from his chair, and dropped back into his seat. “That”—he snapped the blanket in the air before draping it over his legs—“is why not.”
Mr. Whitworth smirked but said nothing as he removed some of the cards from the deck. After a moment, he began to shuffle the remaining ones. “I am assuming you know whist.”
“Of course.” Hudson wasn’t a complete lackwit. He was simply cold and wanted food that didn’t taste like his lap blanket. He nodded to the lightened deck. “One uses all the cards for that.”
Vying for the Viscount Page 10
