Love At The House Party (Women 0f Worth Book 3)

by Kasey Stockton

  “What is it?”

  She clasped her hands before her, glancing through the window space toward our recent picnic area. Her eyes squinted as though what she was about to say pained her. “Your acquaintance is not of a long standing with the Bancroft family, and therefore you cannot know how to interpret their reactions as easily as I can. It was made abundantly clear to me that Mrs. Bancroft is not pleased with your engagement.”

  Was I meant to tell her that it was a fact made abundantly clear to myself, as well? And by the woman herself, no less?

  She took hold of my hand, her eyebrows drawn together. “I see that you do not believe me and I must beg you to understand that I do not say these things to cause mischief. Indeed, I have found that I am no longer concerned with Mr. Bancroft’s love affairs.” A small smile graced her lips. “Not when I am so thoroughly devoted to another.”

  “You cannot mean—”

  “No!” she said, anxiety written upon her features. “Do not guess. It is a tremendous secret and I cannot say his name aloud. I beg you will not ask me.”

  “You are betrothed, then?”

  Her grin spread slowly, highlighting the excitement on her dainty face. “I am not. Though I will not be surprised if I soon am.”

  The sentiment must be returned, then. I clarified. “And yet, you cannot tell me who it is?” I glanced through the open windows. Mr. Bancroft sat with the remainder of our party on the other side of the lawn. His face was trained toward the abbey while he discussed something with Thornton. “But it is a man presently staying at Bancroft Hill?”

  “Indeed.”

  It could very well be any of the four eligible men. I had not found Miss Pollard to be spending any length of time with any one man in particular. Lord Stallsbury stood, speaking to Mr. Peterson, before the two of them started toward the other end of the abbey. I watched them walk to the opposite side of the decrepit building before continuing down the hallway.

  “Miss Pollard, why are you telling me these things?”

  Her dainty face became solemn once again. “I only wish to warn you. A marriage to Mr. Bancroft includes residing with his mother. And besides that, he cares deeply what she thinks. I wonder if this course of action is wise for you.”

  I was referring to her potential betrothal, but evidently she was unbothered by the large piece of information she had dropped in my lap. “I am aware of Mrs. Bancroft’s feelings. Do not fear that I am ignorantly tying myself to a difficult mother-in-law.”

  “You are very brave.”

  Eyeing her from the side, I stifled a laugh. Brave was debatable. I was desperate, perhaps. Mr. Bancroft was a kind man, but he was also my safe option. Marriage to him was the precise fix that I needed to get Charlotte into a place where she could make her own match.

  “Now,” Miss Pollard said, stringing my arm through hers, “shall we discuss the house? When you become mistress of Bancroft Hill, there are a few minor changes you could easily make. You’ll want to put your mark on the home, after all.” We reached the end of the hallway and pivoted to return to the front doorway.

  “I should not like to step on Mrs. Bancroft’s toes. It would behoove me to smooth her ruffled feathers first, I should think.” Aside from that, I would be bringing Charlotte to live at Bancroft Hill. That was my first and only priority after I wed.

  “Well, I shall detail my advice regardless. I have longed to recover the chairs in the drawing room. The floral pattern is far too shabby for such a distinguished room.”

  I had thought the floral a lovely design. I would have shared my opinion on the matter if Miss Pollard gave me the opportunity, but, evidently, she had waited long to divulge her feelings on the decorating mistakes in Mr. Bancroft’s manor house. She clearly felt strongly about these fashion faux pas.

  I unstrung my arm from hers as we reached the doorway and halted. “You go on,” I said.

  “You are not returning to the picnic?”

  I indicated the looming tower behind us. “I would like to see that portion of the abbey.”

  She visibly shuddered. “I will leave you to it. It looks so gothic.”

  Precisely.

  I turned away from her and made my way through an open archway and into the center of the tall, open-roofed tower. Planting my feet, I gazed up, watching wispy white clouds trail slowly across the opening above me. Four walls closed in the space, the open window ways filtering in some light. I took a deep breath, filling my lungs with fresh earth-scented air.

  “You could be a ghost if you looked half so lovely.”

  I spun around, startled to find Lord Stallsbury leaning against the far wall swathed in shadows. My foot wrapped in my gown and I flailed, coming to land hard on my knees.

  “Mrs. Wheeler!” he called, crossing the distance and leaning down to assist me. His large hand came down around my own and I winced. “You are hurt.”

  “It is a trifle.”

  He held my hand in his own, turning it over to look for himself. Tugging at the fingers of my gloves one at a time, he pulled the thin, worn kid glove away, exposing my hand to a sudden chill. The leather had protected my palm, but a rock had ripped through the material and my skin, causing a minor, but still rather red scrape. He traced the cut lightly with his finger, causing a shiver to run up my arm.

  “I did not mean to frighten you,” he said. “I told you that you reminded me of a ghost, but perhaps an angel would have been more accurate. It was not the shadows surrounding you that created the ethereal image, but the light which shone on your face.”

  Slipping my hand from his own, I stepped away. “You are speaking nonsense.”

  “I am speaking truth. If you could see the image I have burned in my mind, you would understand. Alas, I fear you shall never see your own worth.”

  I shook my head. Where was this coming from? The marquess was acting peculiar. “I must return to the party.”

  “Allow me to escort you.”

  I held my hand out and waited for him to return my glove. Taking the opening in pinched fingers, he slid it into place, his eyes never leaving my own. My heart beat rapidly and I immediately snatched my hand away, clasping the folds of my gown. I refused to acknowledge his arm stretched forth, instead increasing my speed from the tower and pretending that I had not seen it. His long strides quickly matched my own and we crossed the lawn in silence.

  I would be thrilled to understand the meaning of the strange encounter, but I feared I never would. I would almost believe the man had designs on me, if it had not been made blatantly clear that I could never become a marchioness; I had to believe he respected me more than to infer anything less.

  Mr. Bancroft’s eyes followed me until I reached the picnic, his stone face studying my own. I had done nothing wrong. Indeed, I had been quite careful to keep my actions above reproach.

  So why did I feel so utterly guilty?

  Chapter 21

  The following morning dawned bright and sunny, foretelling a pleasant day. The dinner party was to be held that evening and Mr. Bancroft was anxious to announce our betrothal to his friends. Mrs. Bancroft, upon hearing this declaration, dropped her fork suddenly on her plate, effectively quieting the room.

  “Mother?” Mr. Bancroft asked, half rising from his chair.

  She looked hard at him before spearing me with a glare and fluttering from the room. The full breakfast table watched her go in silence, before turning their heads in unison to see how Mr. Bancroft would respond.

  The clock ticked three beats before Mr. Bancroft dropped his napkin on his unfinished plate and bowed to me. “You must excuse me. I should check on my mother.”

  Was this a pattern for the rest of my life? For Charlotte, I had to remind myself it would be worth it.

  Miss Pollard’s pitying gaze caught mine, her eyes widening slightly. I could read her thoughts to say, “Did I not tell you so?”

  I gave her a perfunctory smile before rising myself. The stares warmed my back as I retreated, but I
found I could not stay a moment longer.

  I escaped to the library, revelling in the solitude of the glorious room and the power it contained to distract me. Walking slowing along the shelves, I perused the titles, pleased to find a variety of genres. There were plenty of novels present, both classic and contemporary, and quite a few nonfiction and poetry volumes that caught my interest as well. I found a novel I had heard much talk about several years before titled The Green Door and curled up on the overstuffed armchair near the window, tucking my feet under me.

  I became immediately immersed in the characters, scandal and intrigue interwoven amidst the Fashionable World. I was at least a quarter of the way through the book when a voice called to me from the opposite side of the room.

  “Whatever you are reading must be vastly entertaining,” Lord Stallsbury said, leaving the door ajar and coming to sit in a chair near mine, “for I have been standing there waiting to be noticed for some time now.”

  I closed the novel, keeping my finger within the pages to save my place. “I apologize, my lord. But you are correct, this book is delightful.”

  He glanced down and immediately his joyful grin grew taut. Clearing his throat, he tilted his head to the side. “Were you aware that my brother wrote that book?”

  “Ought I to have been?” I glanced at the cover but it merely said Anonymous. “He is prodigiously talented. Did you enjoy it?”

  Lord Stallsbury scoffed, tossing his head back to watch out the window. “I haven’t read anything of his, truth be told. He is quite successful, though. He and his wife have formed a team writing books together. My mother is ashamed, but they are accepted by polite society and I don’t hold it against them.”

  “How could you,” I countered, “if you’ve never bothered to read one of their books? I can only speak for your brother and not his wife, but thus far I find him quite amusing.”

  “So do I.”

  I watched him a moment longer before slipping my finger from the pages and closing the book fully, setting it on my lap. I could sense something was troubling him, and if he sought me out—particularly in the light of day—then he likely wished to speak about it.

  “I have always envied my brothers,” he said, his hand gripping the ends of the armrests. “The older one because he did not have to wonder what he would do with his life, for he knew from birth that he would one day inherit the dukedom; the younger because he cultivated a talent from a young age to write, and was good enough to use it to create an income. As I told you before, I once thought I might join the navy, but then Geoff died and my choices were stolen from me.”

  “It cannot have been easy, losing your brother and facing the life-altering change in status all at once.”

  He turned solemn eyes on me. “I would not wish it on any man. I grieved for my brother, but I also grieved for myself.”

  I did not fully understand, but I was not meant to. His struggle was out of my realm, but it was no less real than my own.

  “I swore I would never become the brute my father is,” he continued softly, “and I have greatly feared becoming changed by the power and authority my title has given me.”

  I froze. His fear for himself was my fear for my future husband, Mr. Bancroft. Could it be that they would both be realized eventually and such was simply man’s nature? “Your father was a brute?” I questioned cautiously.

  “Not was, he is. He treats his family with little care and completely ignores my mother—part of the reason, I am sure, she wishes so desperately for me to wed. She could use a diversion.” He shook his head. “Not that I blame her. My father is thoughtless. His tenants are poor and living in wretched conditions, yet he refuses to take any measures to better their homes. It is a disturbing situation, and he will do nothing to change it. He cares too much for wealth; he sees not that he could be wealthier if he invested in his tenants.” Lord Stallsbury quieted his voice. “My older brother was becoming more and more like him every day. I loved Geoff, but I did not look forward to watching him reach his full power. He was difficult enough to manage as a marquess with a worthless courtesy title.”

  I could not help but return his little half-grin. He was belittling himself at the mention of the worthless title, but it was not incorrect. I could see how his struggles were valid. I had watched my own brother alter from my playmate into a horrid drunk. His playful innocence left him and was replaced by a bitterness that changed him into an angry man I no longer knew.

  “You understand,” he said. “I can tell.”

  I shook my head. “I sympathize, surely. But my trials do not relate.”

  “Tell me?” he whispered.

  “Trust me, it cannot compare.”

  “Allow me to make that determination of my own accord.”

  I let out a sigh. The man could be persuasive when he set his mind to it. His brown eyes were rich and dark and I found myself drawn into them as though they held a spell that made me their captor.

  “I was close to my brother as well, when we were younger.” I sighed, doing my utmost to remain impassive in my storytelling. “He went to university and found an affinity for drink. I watched him turn into someone else; all these years, I have yet to see my brother without some form of influence on him.”

  “You lost him,” he said knowingly.

  “But at least I have not lost him for good. Not yet, anyway.”

  “Mrs. Wheeler,” the butler said, interrupting. “The post for you, madam.”

  I took the letter from the silver platter and sliced it open with the proffered penknife before setting it back on the tray with a clank. Glancing at Lord Stallsbury as the butler receded, I said, “Do you mind? It is from my sister.”

  “Not at all.” He stood, stretching his arms. “I shall give you privacy.”

  He had only made it to the door before I had fully scanned the contents of the letter. My heart sank and my hands began to tremble. Dropping the thick, folded paper onto my lap I stared ahead, unsure of what to think, what to do.

  “What is it?” Lord Stallsbury asked, coming to kneel beside my chair. “Mrs. Wheeler, you look as though you are about to faint.”

  I faced him, holding up the letter. “It is Noah, my brother.”

  He waited expectantly while I gathered the courage to speak the worst.

  “It seems I spoke too soon. We may just lose him after all.”

  Chapter 22

  “I just wish that you were not leaving so soon!” Miss Pollard wailed. I quit gathering the things from my vanity and turned, sharing a look of confusion with Mrs. Haley where she sat on the edge of my bed.

  I had no qualms with Miss Pollard, not exactly. But hadn’t she acted my rival just over a week ago? Perhaps I ought to be grateful to Miss Thornton for arriving and giving Miss Pollard and me a common dislike.

  “It is only right, of course, that you should go,” Mrs. Haley said graciously. “No one would expect any less. But are you certain that you won’t take William’s escort?”

  “I cannot,” I said, firmly. I was not about to let Mr. Bancroft witness the squalor I had lived in. Charlotte’s letter had said that Noah had grown severely ill and the doctor recommended sending for me. That could mean a host of things.

  My first assumption had been that Charlotte sent for me so that I might have the opportunity to say a final goodbye. I simply needed to get home, and quickly.

  “But you will stay for one more dinner?” Miss Pollard asked between sniffles. “Mrs. Bancroft has put a great deal of effort into inviting the local gentry and I am quite sure that Mr. Bancroft would like to announce your proposal this evening.”

  “Yes,” I said, focusing on my shiny, round pearl earrings. What would my mother think were she to see what had become of her children? “We will set out at first light. But I am certain we shall see one another in the future.”

  Mrs. Haley nodded vigorously. “You shall both come and stay with me in London. It is settled. When you have things sorted, Mrs. Wheeler, you mu
st name the date.”

  Emma bustled past me, gathering gowns and preparing them to be packed in my trunk.

  “I suppose we ought to dress for dinner,” I said, hoping my company would take the hint and leave me in my room.

  They did not.

  “We have plenty of time,” Miss Pollard said. “Have you chosen when the wedding is to be?”

  I shook my head. How could they imagine that I would be able to plan a wedding when my brother was dying? Charlotte had been very clear in my need for haste in traveling home, and I felt guilt for not setting out right away. But what was I to do? It took time to prepare to leave.

  And Miss Pollard was correct. I was sure Mr. Bancroft wished to make a formal announcement about our betrothal at the dinner party. I could not leave him to do so alone.

  Mrs. Haley suddenly let out a muffled shriek, clapping her hands together. She looked between Miss Pollard and I, grinning vibrantly. “This will cheer you up, Mrs. Wheeler. I have heard the most delicious piece of gossip and I cannot believe I forgot to mention it before now.”

  My heart sped as I turned to more fully face her, clasping my hands in my lap. Miss Pollard bounced over to my bed and sat beside Mrs. Haley, her eyes hungry for scandal.

  “It is being bandied about the servants’ quarters that a certain gentleman has been disgraceful in regard to another woman in the house.”

  “How so?” Miss Pollard asked, her eyes widened.

  “Evidently, there is a gentleman who has been making secret assignations while the rest of us have slept. There is no tell of whom the lady might be—or if she is, in fact, a proper lady.”

  I felt the blood drain from my face. We had been caught out.

  “Mrs. Wheeler, you look positively ghastly!” Mrs. Haley said, leaping to her feet. “I know this is distressing. I, myself, cannot fathom who would be so careless of both Bancroft Hill’s reputation and the sensibilities in this house.”

  I nodded.

  Mrs. Haley turned to Emma. “You there, fetch some tea.” She took my hand and squeezed it. “You shall be much restored in a moment, dear. A spot of tea will do the trick.”