Love at the House Party

by Stockton, Kasey

  When the women were excused after dinner, I followed my hostess into the drawing room, installing myself on the bench of the pianoforte right away. Mrs. Bancroft did not seem disturbed in the least by my removal from the women. She made herself busy with quiet conversation on the sofa, Mrs. Haley and Miss Pollard dutifully holding court.

  Sifting through the available sheet music, I chose a piece I hadn’t played in some time but once knew well, warming up my fingers on the ivory keys. I was aware of the women’s eyes warming my back as they spoke. I was undoubtedly the topic of their conversation, though I tried not to let the fact bother me. Miss Pollard was a long-time friend of the family; clearly she and Mr. Bancroft had grown up in one another’s presence. I was still the outsider, though I hoped I wouldn’t be for long. A tightness formed in my middle. Why did that thought make me feel so anxious?

  Focusing on the music notes, I shook the thought away. My relationship with the women aside, I needed Mr. Bancroft to propose. Noah’s drinking was growing worse by and by, and I had no other option available to me. If the worst were to occur, he would likely leave Charlotte and me both penniless and homeless. It was up to me to get ahead of the trouble we faced.

  I had made the right choice in accepting Mr. Bancroft’s invitation. I refused to wed another man who cared less for me than I did for him, and Mr. Bancroft was generous in his regard and his attention. Furthermore, each day spent in his company assured me more and more that he would not alter into a monster after we wed. Mr. Bancroft was security. He was constancy. Of both things, my life had been lacking for far too long.

  An image of Frank’s face passed through my mind. My thoughts were unfair. Frank had never been a monster. He simply had not cared for me. He was a man prone to anger when on leave from fighting Napoleon, but we were amidst war. He could have been different if our situations were changed, or so I told myself.

  The men entered the room and I glanced up, catching Mr. Bancroft’s beaming eye as he crossed toward the instrument.

  He grasped his hands behind his back, standing just to the side of the pianoforte. “I have boasted considerably about your skill, Mrs. Wheeler. I cannot wait for you to stun the crowd.”

  My fingers fumbled on the keys, coming to a halt as I sat up. He was in earnest, though it surprised me. He seemed to care quite a lot about impressing the other guests, and spoke as though my abilities might aid in his consequence. “Of course, sir. What should I play?”

  “Anything, my dear. Anything that will showcase your exquisite voice. I have dreamed of it these last few years.”

  Nodding, I put away the music as Mr. Bancroft called to the room, informing them of my presentation. The quiet settled on my shoulders with the weight of Mr. Bancroft’s expectations and I swallowed. Laying shaking fingers upon the keys, I closed my eyes and began to play from memory a song I had often recited when called upon during my Season in London.

  I performed with abandon, instantly transported back to a less complicated time, a less complicated me. Before my parents were killed in a carriage accident on their way to visit the Kensington gardens. Before I’d been ripped from the middle of my first Season. Before I’d been planted at my aunt’s dreary home in Northumberland with no friends or connections. Why I had become a ward of Aunt Mary and my sister, Charlotte, had become a ward of our brother was unclear to me. Perhaps my father had not intended to separate us but only forgot to change his will. It would not have been unlike him to have forgotten.

  My fingers played the final notes, drawing out the song with my voice far after the pianoforte completed its tune.

  Enthusiastic clapping reached my ears and I was stunned back to the present, turning to find the party watching me in my moment of vulnerability. The women all wore shocked expressions on their faces, though Mrs. Bancroft was more guarded than either of the younger women. The men looked pleased, though perhaps Mr. Pollard least of all. He clearly cared little for my singing, but I was pleased to realize his disapproval did not bother me in the slightest. He was likely only bothered that I had interrupted his nap.

  “Encore!” Mr. Peterson shouted, clapping once again.

  “Yes, do play again, Mrs. Wheeler,” Mr. Bancroft added, his voice extraordinarily pleased.

  “I should not like to hog the instrument. Perhaps Miss Pollard would like to play?”

  Her eyes widened as her face paled. Had I said the wrong thing? “Or Mrs. Haley?” I amended.

  Mrs. Haley stood. “I would love to.”

  I moved to a chair that sat at the side of the group, alone. Mrs. Haley began to play a light melody as Lord Stallsbury pushed away from the wall and came to sit beside me. I expected praise, it was what most people would have expected in the situation, and I was somewhat miffed when he failed to speak.

  “Do you enjoy music, my lord?” I whispered.

  He nodded, his gaze trained on Mrs. Haley.

  Several moments passed before he spoke again. “You are quite talented.”

  Warmth pooled in my stomach and I tried to suppress the smile his words ignited, particularly since I had requested the praise myself.

  “And thus you’ve been told time and again, I’d imagine,” he continued. “Though you do not need to hear it from me, allow me to reiterate that you have a gift. I look forward to hearing you perform again.”

  “Thank you,” I said softly.

  He leaned in slightly. “And how does your injured foot fare? I imagine it is, in fact, hurt?”

  “It is bruised,” I confirmed. “Though I think I will live.”

  “Bravo!” Mr. Bancroft clapped, startling me. Mrs. Haley curtseyed, closing the pianoforte with a thud and resuming her seat beside her mother.

  “I’ve got a mind to play a game of whist,” Lord Stallsbury said, his brown eyes locked on my own. “Would you care to join me if I can entice another pair?”

  I nodded and he stood, moving toward the group seated near the sofas. Mr. Bancroft stood, as well as Miss Pollard, and we assembled around a card table on the opposite side of the room.

  Lord Stallsbury refused to look at me while he dealt the cards and I had the distinct feeling that he desired to say much, and therefore said nothing. Mr. Bancroft more than made up for the marquess’s lack of conversation and he and Miss Pollard shared their favorite aspects of the county.

  “Rowland Vale would be a glorious setting for a picnic if we can but force this rain to cease,” Miss Pollard said, gazing into her hand of cards.

  “Perhaps we shall watch the weather for an opportunity to go,” Mr. Bancroft said, eyeing me. “Rowland boasts a glorious set of ancient ruins that was once an abbey, though now is little more than a pile of stones. The history is quite rich. Should you enjoy that, Mrs. Wheeler?”

  “Indeed, I would. I have always appreciated a decent set of ruins.”

  “How very British of you,” Lord Stallsbury droned. “If that is the case then you would love my house. I live in a historically rich pile of stones myself.”

  “But you live in a castle, my lord!” Miss Pollard said, awed. “You cannot be so callous as to call it a pile of stones!”

  He eyed her as Mr. Bancroft took his turn, and then laid down a card of his own. “It is a drafty place. Grand in design and perhaps even in theory, but the reality of growing up in a castle was hardly what the fairy tales depict.”

  The hard lines on his face were unmoving. It was clearly a topic that he cared to avoid.

  “Your gown is exquisite, Miss Pollard,” I said, waiting for her to lay down her card before I could play my own. “Did you have it made in London?”

  She glanced down, screwing up her face. “This old thing? I can’t quite remember. I’ve got so many of them, I can never recall where they were obtained.”

  “How enjoyable that must be for you.” I attempted to swallow my bitterness. Had I been successful? I set down my card, glancing up to catch Lord Stallsbury’s searching face.

  “My sister orders hers in Town as well,”
Mr. Bancroft put in, dutifully following my change of direction. “Says there isn’t a talented seamstress to be found around here.”

  “Though she lives in London,” Lord Stallsbury added, “so that is not at all strange.”

  “Where did you get yours?” Miss Pollard asked, the sweetness of her tone belying her false innocence. Clearly, I was not wearing the latest fashion, and Miss Pollard knew this.

  “It was a combined effort,” I explained. I was not about to announce to any of these people that I had rebirthed an old gown with fresh embroidery and an altered style.

  Miss Pollard eyed my gown and opened her mouth to speak when Lord Stallsbury cut her off, saying, “It is lovely, regardless of the modiste from which it came. I find that the blue is very becoming on you, Mrs. Wheeler.”

  “I concur,” Mr. Bancroft said heartily.

  I dipped my head, attempting to hide my blush. The men were kind, to be sure, but had not helped me to find a friend in Miss Pollard. The woman’s glare was faintly evident before I’d dipped my head, and I could feel the warmth of her dislike clearly. I felt like this woman’s rival, though I could not precisely say why.

  I had not made an enemy, exactly. But I certainly had not made a friend, either.

  Chapter 7

  “Are we to keep meeting this way?”

  The voice in the dark startled me, causing me to drop my candle on the rug. The flight had extinguished its flame and I knelt, feeling around for it on the smooth wooden floor. I was grateful for the distraction to give me a moment to calm my breathing.

  Lord Stallsbury lit a lamp on the table beside his chair and I glanced up, surprised to find him fully dressed and once again, sitting in the dark. His dark hair disheveled, he looked tired about the eyes and in the set of his mouth.

  “I had not expected to find you again,” I said, picking up the candle and pulling myself to stand. I crossed to the back of the wingback chair I had sat in during our previous meeting, resting my hands on it. “This is not the library,” I said at once. The lamp lit the room sufficiently to see that the only case containing books was near the door. The heavy wooden furniture and large desk at the far end inferred a different sort of room altogether.

  “No, it is not,” he agreed. “It is Bancroft’s study.”

  My cheeks warmed at once. It was a private space belonging to the master of the house and I had breached it twice in the night, believing myself alone. Utter mortification filtered through me.

  “I have been looking for the library,” I defended.

  “That would explain why you were reading a book then, last night.”

  I gave him a wry smile. “And this being a study would certainly explain why I only found boring books.”

  He mocked affront. “So you admit you care nothing for farming?”

  “I shall leave that to the professionals. I have only sought out some light reading to better pass the evenings.”

  “Our company is not sufficient?”

  “I was referring to the time when all others are sleeping.”

  “All others but ourselves,” he said softly.

  “I suppose that is true. What is keeping you awake this evening, my lord?” I circled around the chair, lowering myself on the plush cushion. His dinner jacket was open to reveal a fine waistcoat; his cravat had been removed, but that was the only indication that he had made himself comfortable.

  I couldn’t help but wonder if he’d remained dressed for my sake.

  “More of the same.” He crossed one ankle languidly over the other knee.

  “And have you grown closer to a conclusion?” I inquired.

  “I have not yet decided if I shall choose to marry or not, if that is what you mean. Or if the woman who drew me here is going to be a proper fit.”

  I took in a long, deep breath. I was defying convention with these frank questions. It was outside polite manners to inquire so, and he had every right to put me utterly in my place and storm from the room; neither of which he seemed inclined to do. His actions begged the question: did he wish to speak to me about these things? Perhaps he desired a listening ear who had no direct attachment to the things with which he struggled. I certainly was not interested in marrying him. Perhaps my objectivity appealed to him.

  “You must know what you would prefer to do, or this would not be such a difficult thing to decide,” I said. “What is it that holds you back?”

  “My family.”

  That came easily. “In what way?”

  His voice was quiet. I saw in him the vulnerable young boy that he likely once was. “I dare not disappoint them. I care not for my father’s opinion, but for my mother, Cameron, and Rosalynn. It would hurt me deeply if I hurt them.”

  “Do you mean Lord Cameron and Lady Rosalynn?” I asked. Surely it could not be a coincidence that I knew two titled siblings with the same names. “I had the pleasure of meeting them only last month in Shropshire.”

  He looked at me then. “What were they doing in Shropshire?”

  “Visiting Miss Hurst at Corden Hall. How would it hurt them if you were cut off? You would still inherit eventually.”

  He nodded. “I didn’t know she lived there.”

  He had not answered my question. I remained silent, waiting.

  “I know that Cameron is happy. He is married now, and they are content. They’ve only just bought an estate in Northumberland, not far from the castle. Neither of my siblings would want their penniless brother to hang onto them, stay for long periods of time. I would become the poor relation.”

  “Then you must decide if you would prefer to handle the consequences or simply acquiesce.”

  He shook his head. “I cannot depend upon my brother in such a way.”

  “Then your answer is clear,” I said simply.

  He ran a hand through his hair. “It is not so easy. Regardless of my choice I am depending upon another person in some form. There is no winning for me here.” Standing, he paced the length of the room, his long legs crossing the distance in few strides. After a round about the room he dropped into the chair again, holding his face in his hands.

  “Would you like to hold a competition?” I asked, trepidation running the length of my body.

  He glanced up slowly, his brow pulled together in confusion as his dark eyes searched mine. “What is the nature of the competition?”

  “Marriage.”

  That seemed to shock him. I hurried to continue before he could think I was propositioning him. “We have both come here with essentially the same end goal in mind: marriage. I have come to meet Mr. Bancroft’s family and acquaint ourselves to decide if we would suit. You came with the understanding that you must choose a wife or be cut off. And if I followed you correctly, you were enticed here with the possibility of a match with Miss Pollard. Regardless of your uncertainty, I feel that you know which path you are going to take. Whomever can secure an engagement first, wins.”

  “What would I win?”

  I laughed. “So sure of yourself, my lord?”

  His face was serious, but the set of his mouth was bent in a self-deprecating smile. “I need only walk upstairs and request a visit with Mr. Pollard and I can have a marriage agreement written within the hour.”

  My eyebrows hitched up. “You’ve made your choice quickly. Perhaps we ought to wait until the morning, though. It wouldn’t do to frighten your father-in-law into submission.”

  “What will I win?” he repeated, a gleam evident in his eye. Clearly I had hit upon his competitive nature.

  “To be honest, I had not yet thought of that.”

  He leaned back in his chair again, clasping his hands before him, his mind clearly working through the problem. “If you win, you shall have my horse. Do not deny that you were eyeing him while we were outside.”

  My cheeks warmed. Had I been so obvious? “I was, but then what would you ride?”

  He waved his hand, pushing the argument away as though it did not matter. “I can obtain another h
orse.”

  “And if you win?”

  “If I win, I may choose something of yours.”

  I scoffed. “But what? My lord, I have very little. I certainly have nothing to tempt you.”

  He watched me then, unspeaking. What had I said? Surely he did not desire my pearl earrings? They were the only thing I had received from my mother and the only thing I owned of any value. I refused to part with them.

  “You will sing for me.”

  Smiling, I tilted my head. “My lord, I sang for you this evening.”

  “No, you sang. But not for me.”

  Confused, I shook my head. “My song for a horse? That is hardly a fair wager.”

  “It is completely fair when one would consider the situation of the giver. I will give a horse, something of which I do not hurt to part with. You will give a song, of which you have infinite reserve.”

  I shook my head. In theory, it made sense. “How are we to take this seriously if neither of us has very much to lose?”

  He grinned, coming to a stand. “Because I very much like to win.”

  Chapter 8

  Lord Stallsbury sat at the breakfast table quite alone. He stood as I entered and I found the lack of shadows which would have been cast by a single candle unnerving. I had grown used to being shrouded in darkness when alone in the marquess’s company. Though I could not deny how much I appreciated his handsomeness in the light of day. His features were quite pleasing, and he was well-proportioned, his hair making up in height for the particular point to his chin.

  “Now that I know you are Lord Cameron’s brother,” I said, “it is not the least surprising. You look very much alike.”

  He picked up a roll and spread jam over it. “Yes, so we’ve been told. Both of my brothers closely resemble me.”

  “And who is the other?” I questioned, taking a bite of my coddled egg. I had only met the one, and of course his sister, Lady Rosalynn.

  “Geoff,” he answered quietly. “Though he died some years ago.”