Bianca needed a plan. A scheme that would free her of Lord Strapshire’s attention without sending her mother into fits. It was just then that she met a particular set of eyes that she usually avoided.
Mathew Hensley.
He might be her only hope.
TWO
The morning after the dinner party at the Davidsons’ home, Mathew Hensley was coming in from an early hunt—a brace of geese in the hands of his man—when he saw the carriage outside his home and stopped in his tracks. He blinked, but the scene before him did not change. It was the Davidsons’ carriage; he knew it well from his efforts to avoid it these last years.
He replayed the moment last evening when Miss Bianca Davidson’s eyes had met his. He’d seen something there, a kind of desperate decision being made, and his heart rate had increased then just as seeing her family carriage increased it now. He had wondered about that look. Miss Davidson usually avoided him, but even so he hadn’t expected she would follow the unexpected look with an even more unexpected call. He had assumed that moment of connection would be yet one more thing about that woman that would haunt him.
“I shall leave you to it,” he said to the servant who had attended him on the morning’s hunt. He was already brushing his hair into place with his fingers as he quickened his steps toward the house. He entered the back door, called for his valet, and took the servants’ stairs to his bedchamber. Ambrose was soon at his side.
“I need to repair my presentation,” Mathew said as soon as he entered his room. He was already halfway out of his coat, which Ambrose helped to fully remove. Mathew bent over to pull at one boot while hopping on the other foot. He realized too late that the bottoms of his boots were caked with mud. “Blast,” he growled as he held up his mud-covered hands and headed toward the basin.
“All is well,” the ever-calm valet said as he fetched a cloth from the basin before Mathew could reach it.
“How long has Miss Davidson been waiting on me?” Mathew asked as he took the wet cloth from Ambrose and cleaned his hands.
Ambrose lifted his eyebrows. “How do you know it is Miss Davidson?”
Mathew paused. How did he know? Yes, his parents were in London for another fortnight, leaving him the only family at the estate right now, but why did he assume it was Miss Davidson paying him a visit? And yet he did know. Her look from last night made him absolutely certain. “I just know,” Mathew said, avoiding his valet’s curious look. “How long has she been here?”
“Nearly half an hour.” Ambrose took the soiled cloth and handed Mathew a clean coat fit for a morning visit. “She was told you might be some time, but she said she would wait.”
Half an hour, Mathew repeated in his head, even more anxious. There must be some importance to her being here if she was willing to wait so long.
Ambrose cleared his throat delicately. “Is this about the . . . uh, the Incident?”
“We will not talk of that,” Mathew said, but his neck heated up just thinking of that horrible night. He shook his head to dislodge any thoughts that might increase his anxiety. He would not talk of it, nor think of it. He wished he could forget it entirely. Even if he could forget, however, he felt sure Miss Davidson never would. So why was she here?
Finally, Mathew hurried down the stairs and into the drawing room without being announced by a footman.
Miss Davidson started at his quick entrance and jumped to her feet, immediately fidgeting with the cord of her reticule that she held in both hands. She stared at him with wide eyes.
“Miss Davidson,” he said, bowing slightly. “What a pleasure to see you.”
She held his eyes with her wide blue ones—lovely wide blue ones. He hadn’t been near enough to admire them up close like this before, though he had admired them plenty from an appropriate distance. “Mr. Hensley,” she said, dropping a quick curtsey. “I’m very sorry to bother you.”
“You are not bothering me, Miss Davidson.”
She looked up at him again, and the moment was held between them like a breath until she looked away—turned away, in fact—and walked toward the window.
“I’m afraid you will not think as much after I tell you why I’ve come.”
“I doubt that,” he said, watching the way her skirts swayed with her steps.
She stopped in front of the window and took a deep breath, as though preparing herself for something disagreeable. “I promised myself I would never take you up on your offer to return the favor I . . . granted all those years ago.”
The embarrassment struck quick and sharp. Mathew looked at the floor and refused to let the images haunt him. She’d been so young, only twelve or thirteen years of age. She’d grown into a woman since then.
She continued before he had thought of anything to say. “However, I find myself in a situation from which I cannot free myself.”
When she turned to face him, he noticed that the blue of her eyes was almost the exact shade of the curtains his mother had chosen for this room.
“And you need my help,” he said, still fighting off humiliating memories of the situation he had been when they had first met. What would he have done if she’d run away that day instead of agreeing to help him? How would he have freed himself?
She nodded.
“I would like nothing more than to repay the favor I owe you,” he said with absolute honesty. He swallowed, feeling as though he should offer an apology; he’d never thought the opportunity to do so would present itself. “When I think of that day—”
She lifted a gloved hand, her palm stopping his words. “We will not speak of it,” she said, shaking her head, her cheeks pink with remembered embarrassment.
He sighed in relief and nodded his agreement. At least he had tried. “What can I do for you? What is your predicament?”
Her lips thinned and her jaw tightened. “My predicament is a pompous buffoon who will not hear my objections to his suit and a mother who can only see a pretty face, a silly title, and a fat billfold.”
Mathew held back a smile at her candor. He had thought she looked ill at ease last night, but word had circulated around Brookborrow these last few weeks that Miss Davidson and Lord Strapshire were perfectly suited for one another. Mathew’s mother had asked him to write to her in London if he heard anything about an official engagement while she was away. It was a smart match, his mother had said, and Mrs. Davidson was fortunate to have such a man take interest in her daughter. Mathew had ignored his pangs of jealousy toward the other man, and therefore felt relief at Miss Davidson’s similar judgment of the man’s character.
“Lord Strapshire and I were at Oxford together for a time,” Mathew said, “though I’m sure he wouldn’t remember it. I believe he and his reflection were rather taken with one another to the point where few other people were equal to his notice.”
A smile quirked at the side of her mouth, but she looked at the rug as though to hide it.
“So, how might I help you?” Mathew asked again.
She took another fortifying breath. “I can barely form the words of my request,” she said, shaking her head. “But . . .” She took yet another breath, then opened her mouth and let the words tumble as though released from a pen. “Lord Strapshire is convinced that he and I will make a good match. Everyone seems to agree, and the more I resist, the more he enjoys the chase, if you could call it that. I have done what I can to spurn his interest, but he is not to be thwarted and now my mother has made it very clear that she expects me to accept his attention and be glad for it for the good of my brothers. The idea makes me want to vomit.” She paused and bit her lower lip. “Forgive me, I should not have spoken so crassly.”
“By all means, be crass.” He waved her to a chair while he sat in the one across from her. He hadn’t thought to order tea, but glanced toward the door as though doing so was a request in and of itself.
“As I was saying,” Miss Davidson continued, “I cannot seem to shake his attention, but my mother said something last n
ight that has given me an idea. She said that if a man of higher situation showed interest in me, I would not be obligated to suffer Lord Strapshire’s attention.”
She raised her eyes to meet his, and he knew she saw the surprise on his face even though he tried to repair his expression quickly. Mathew’s father was heir presumptive to his uncle’s earldom. The current earl, Mathew’s great-uncle, was only a decade older than Mathew’s father and in very good health; the title would not fall to his father for some time.
Mathew, as the only son, would then be the heir apparent, although it would, he hoped, be some time before he inherited as well since he cared a great deal for both his father and uncle and would not inherit until they both passed. In the equation of status and title, Mathew’s inheritance trumped Lord Strapshire’s barony even if the inheritance felt so distant that it rarely factored into Mathew’s daily life. He was disappointed that Miss Davidson was here for his title alone instead of somehow having an interest in him for his own sake, but to expect such interest, after what had happened all those years ago, was nothing short of fantasy on his part and he knew it.
And, as he reviewed what she’d said, he felt his hopes rising once again. He had often wished she could see his true character, which was why he had accepted her mother’s invitation to last night’s dinner party. As usual, however, Miss Davidson had avoided him—until that look had passed between them. And now this.
“It would all be playacting, of course,” she said, puncturing his growing optimism. “It is only your title and position that will count toward anything at all, and if there were any other man in Brookborrow who could fill the role, I would not be coming to you for help. I know it will be very awkward for us both, but it need only last until Lord Strapshire realizes that my interest lies solidly elsewhere. Then I feel sure he will return to London and leave me in peace, after which you and I shall pretend a falling out and return to our current situation.”
Their current situation was avoiding one another rather pointedly, and yet Mathew had become increasingly aware of Miss Davidson each time he returned home these last years. He had wondered if his notice was because she was a woman he would never have or because she had grown to be so lovely and self-possessed. Were she to have a London season—only the very rich and titled bothered with such a thing in this county—she would be a Town favorite, he was sure. But she was not one to go to London, and Mathew was here more permanently now, intent on learning the way of estate management long before he had to take on the full responsibility.
He had not dared hope that his relationship with Miss Davidson would improve now that he was settled back in town, but her look from last night had pricked his wildest imaginations just enough to give them full run of his thoughts now that she stood before him, begging the return of the favor he owed her.
“Of course I will help you.”
Her eyebrows lifted in clear surprise. “You will?”
He nodded, smiling now that it was all decided. How many times had he wished he could show her that he was not some irresponsible miscreant without a modicum of rational thought in his head? It seemed fate had given him that very opportunity. Once the debt was repaid, perhaps there would be a foundation set for building something more.
“Really?” she insisted.
He could not help but laugh. “Did you not come with the expectation that I would accept?”
“Desperation more than expectation, perhaps.” Her expression softened. “Thank you.”
There were details they should discuss—like how Miss Davidson imagined her mother might react after Strapshire left and Mathew’s attention faded, but Mathew did not want to introduce such concerns.
“What precisely do you need me to do?”
“Will you, by chance, be attending the Beards’ ball tomorrow night?”
“Certainly.” Mathew had been besieged with invitations once it was known his return to Brookborrow was of a permanent nature. His mother had made it quite clear to him that part of his duty, now that his schooling was finished, was to begin a family. He had not been looking forward to being paraded around like a pony at a show, but this was different.
“Would you ask me to dance the first dance?” Her cheeks turned pink, and she shook her head in self-reproach. “I can’t believe I am doing this. My mother would roast me over an open flame if she knew what I was about.”
“Then we shall make sure she learns nothing of it,” he said with a smile. “I will present myself for the first dance and, then, perhaps a waltz as the evening progresses? Two dances will make a statement.”
“Yes,” she said, sounding relieved.
“And perhaps I might invite you to walk through the gardens after that second dance?”
“Oh, please do,” she said, sounding nearly breathless. “And I shall look at you adoringly, and we shall have to come up with all types of things to talk about.”
“I’m sure it will not be too difficult.”
She frowned. “I fear this will be horrid for you, Mr. Hensley, and I do apologize for my ill-mannered visit and request. If I were not desperate, I would not have come, but I do appreciate your sacrifice for me.”
Desperate? Sacrifice?
She stood and he followed suit. They again locked eyes.
“What is your favorite color, Miss Davidson?”
She drew her eyebrows together. “My favorite color?”
“So that I might sent round a posy, as they do in London, and have you bring it to the ball. When Lord Strapshire notices, you can tell him it’s from me.”
“He won’t notice,” she said with confidence. “But Mama will. My favorite color is yellow, but the dress shall be lavender tomorrow night.”
“Very good,” he said, inclining his head. He put out his hand. “Shall we shake on our agreement?”
She looked from his eyes to his hand to his eyes again, then put her hand forward. He wished she were not wearing a glove so that he might feel her skin instead of the kid leather. Still, her gloved hand was warm, and she gave his fingers an affirming squeeze.
“Thank you, again, Mr. Hensley,” she said.
He smiled, feeling just a little bit wicked at his true hopes for this arrangement. With a little luck, he would not only overcome the poor opinion she had of him but earn her regard in the process. Perhaps he could even help her forget the Incident entirely by supplanting those memories with new, far more pleasant ones. “My pleasure, I assure you.”
THREE
“Is that . . . a posy?” Mama asked once she was seated opposite Bianca in the carriage the evening of the Beards’ ball. Her eyes lit up and her expression turned to satisfaction. “Did I not tell you Lord Strapshire was a considerate sort of man?”
“It is not from Lord Strapshire,” Bianca said, trying not to sound as smug as she felt. She had been right that Mama would take notice of the small bouquet. “It is from Mr. Hensley.”
Mama looked at the small bouquet of violets wrapped in yellow ribbon, and then at Bianca with surprise. “Mathew Hensley?”
Bianca nodded, keeping her expression neutral as her mother tried to puzzle out this turn of events. The carriage jolted forward at the driver’s flick of the reins, and it took a few seconds for the wheels to fall into a steady rhythm in time with the horse’s clippity-clop steps.
“But you two have never said a single word to one another. Did you not argue with me about inviting him to the dinner party last Tuesday night?”
“I did,” Bianca said, looking away so that her mother might not read her eyes too closely. “He has always been so much older than I and, what with his father’s title and all those years he was away at school, I never expected that his interest would turn to me.”
She lifted the flowers to her nose and inhaled the fragrance of the tiny blooms. They really were lovely. A small but fragrant bouquet, wrapped tightly with satin ribbon around the stems so that they were easy to hold. The ribbons trailed down nearly two feet from the bouquet itself
. “I’ve never received a posy before.”
“Hmm,” Mama said, looking at her daughter with a ponderous frown. “One wonders why Mr. Hensley would seemingly avoid you—don’t tell me you haven’t noticed as much—and not even talk with you at the dinner party the other night, yet then send a bouquet.”
“He included a note,” Bianca said, grateful for that consideration on his part. She pulled the small paper from her reticule and handed it to her mother.
Mama read it aloud. “‘Please accept this token of my affection as an indication of my hopes of knowing you better. Yours truly, Mr. M Hensley.’” She stared at the note, reading it silently a second time. “I still don’t understand.” She regarded Bianca, who used all her strength of mind to keep from shifting beneath her mother’s gaze. To cover her nervousness, she raised the flowers to her nose again.
“I have never received a posy before.”
“You said that,” Mama said dryly.
“Well, I believe it bears repeating,” Bianca said, defending her redundancy. “Lord Strapshire has certainly never sent me such a consideration. Perhaps he sends flowers to himself instead.”
“Do not be unkind,” Mama said. But she posed no further argument and instead straightened her satin glove. The seam was not lined up correctly; perhaps she had put it on in a hurry. “I hope you remember that Lord Strapshire has been ever so attentive to you in other ways all the weeks he has known you, while Mr. Mathew Hensley has known you all of his life and is only now making any kind of connection.”
“Better late than never.” Bianca shrugged casually. “And he is to be an earl one day.”
A Lady's Favor Page 2
