“I know, miss, but—”
“I’m not wearing pink if Marianne is wearing pink.” Bianca’s boots thudded against the wall, adding a sort of definitive firmness to her sentence.
The maid sighed. “Yes, miss.”
Twenty minutes later, Bianca was moving toward the stairs, giving her skirt one more shake and tucking away an errant curl that she’d been too impatient to allow Dorothy to affix properly. She was already ten minutes late to the drawing room. Any further delay would have the woman suggesting Bianca’s trips to Hawksworth’s stables be reduced.
While Bianca was certain her father wouldn’t agree, he did have an irritating tendency to follow his wife when it came to the raising of their daughters, simply to keep the peace.
“Good morning,” Bianca said cheerfully as she joined the other women in the drawing room. No callers had arrived yet, fortunately, but that didn’t stop Mrs. Snowley from pinching the corners of her mouth together in disapproval.
“Whatever have you done with your hair?” Mrs. Snowley sneered as she poured Bianca a cup of tea.
“I thought perhaps if I secured it as a windblown look, it would remain the way I left it,” Bianca said as she accepted the cup of darkly steeped, bitter tea without sugar or milk. Just the way she hated it.
Mrs. Snowley pressed her lips together in a tight frown. Bianca merely smiled. She’d long ago learned that if her responses were sufficiently ridiculous then her stepmother couldn’t come up with an intelligent rejoinder, and she refused to speak unless she believed she sounded brilliant.
Marianne held no such compunction. “Do you truly think that would work? Won’t your hat still smash it down?”
Bianca tried to look like she was thinking over her half sister’s statement. She’d never quite decided if Marianne was as simple as she seemed, or if that was her way of manipulating people. Until she knew for sure, she tried to err on the side of kindness. “Probably. Perhaps I’ll simply maintain my chignon from now on.”
If possible, Mrs. Snowley’s look grew darker. She preferred a certain level of elaborate decoration both in her house and on herself, but Bianca was only willing to endure so much frippery. “We have guests coming for dinner Monday evening,” Mrs. Snowley said with forced brightness.
Bianca blinked. Monday? They never had company to the house on Mondays. She wasn’t going to ask, though, she absolutely wasn’t. She did not want to show any sort of interest in anything Mrs. Snowley was planning. Every time she did, her stepmother either took great glee in the event being something Bianca would hate, or she managed to find a way to postpone or cancel it. It was much safer to simply drink tea and eat biscuits.
To that end, Bianca selected a treat from the tray and took a large bite. If her mouth was full, even her stepmother couldn’t expect her to talk.
“Who’s coming?” Marianne asked. Bianca’s curiosity blessed the girl.
“Mr. Octavius Mead and his son, Theophilus.”
Satisfaction practically dripped from the words, and Bianca refused to look at the older woman to see it stamped across her features. The prospect of spending an evening in the company of Mr. Theophilus Mead was appalling. It didn’t matter that his father was a particular friend of her father’s, Bianca would never like the man. There were many rumors about the way he treated his horses, and every one of them appeared to be true, as far as Bianca was concerned.
It was a shame, really. He was relatively handsome, personable, and a decent rider. While Bianca’s main goal was to find a husband with adequate stables and enough leniency to allow her to work with the horses, she had to admit it would be nice if he also wasn’t an utter bore. Personality did not win out over mistreatment of horses, though.
Bianca took a bite of biscuit and uncouthly followed it with another large swallow of tea, allowing the sweetness of the food to balance out the bitterness of the drink. As she swallowed and sank her teeth into the biscuit once more, she silently imagined the crunch was Mr. Mead’s shin being kicked by the horse he’d been whipping mercilessly in his impromptu race against Lord Davers last week.
“I’ve told Dorothy to give you extra attention that evening, Bianca. I expect you to cooperate.”
The biscuit lodged momentarily in Bianca’s throat before sliding painfully the remainder of the way down. She croaked out, “What?”
Mrs. Snowley frowned again. “It’s past time you marry. You cannot live on my and your father’s charity forever.”
Taking care of one’s family wasn’t truly charity, but debating that would avoid the true point.
“I have every intention of marrying.” Bianca took a swallow of bitter tea.
“Unless you plan on marrying a groom from Hawksworth, I don’t know how you think you’ll find an appropriate match. Mr. Mead is ideal, and I’m putting myself out a great deal to have guests on a Monday evening. I expect you to make the most of the opportunity.”
Bianca gaped at her stepmother, trying to form an adequate answer, but she didn’t have one. The truth was, she didn’t do what other women did to secure husbands. She’d always assumed that because she wanted something different in a husband, her method of finding one would be different.
What if it wasn’t? Was she too late?
Mrs. Snowley had said her piece about Bianca’s participation in the upcoming dinner and so changed the subject to what Marianne should wear to entertain their guests and which dishes should be served at the dinner.
Bianca selected another biscuit and nibbled at it.
She liked dresses and she enjoyed her food, but of much more concern to her was that her stepmother had dropped any hint of subtlety in her attempt to get Bianca to marry.
Given that even Bianca had considered she should increase her attempts at finding a husband, she couldn’t argue Mrs. Snowley’s point. She could, however, dread the measures her stepmother would go to accomplish the goal.
It was likely that every conversation for the rest of the morning would include the same rehashing of clothing and food choices and more than one veiled, or perhaps not so hidden, barb at Bianca’s increasing age and decreasing marriage chances.
Unless, of course, someone arrived with a distracting on dit. Wouldn’t that be nice? Someone with actual news to discuss, even if it was only news about who would be attending that night’s assembly.
Bianca had never wanted to hear a bit of gossip more in her life.
The first callers, Miss Wainbright and her mother, entered the room with such bright faces it was obvious they knew something more luscious than whether or not there would be waltzing at the evening festivities. Bianca sat up a little straighter, as did Marianne and Mrs. Snowley.
Their skirts hadn’t even settled on the edge of the settee before Miss Wainbright was speaking. “Have you heard?” Of course they hadn’t heard. If they had, one could lay bets on Mrs. Snowley speaking about it first.
Miss Wainbright folded her hands into her lap as if she expected to be crowned queen at any moment. “The new Lord Stildon has arrived.”
The biscuits Bianca had eaten earlier turned into lead in her gut. The new Lord Stildon had been nothing but speculation for so long that she’d begun to think the man didn’t exist.
Bianca set her cup down to bury her suddenly shaky fingers in her skirt. Surely the man she’d seen that morning in the stables wasn’t the new viscount.
Dear God, please don’t let that have been him.
It wasn’t exactly a fair prayer, but Bianca didn’t much care at the moment. If the fear curling through her gut proved true, she was going to have to come up with an amazing apology.
Marianne eased forward to perch on the edge of her seat. “When did he arrive?”
“Late last night. Word is that he arrived on a late stage but wouldn’t spend the night at the inn and hired a man to take him on to Hawksworth, despite the dark hour.”
“Was he alone?” Mrs. Snowley asked.
Mrs. Wainbright nodded in the exact same manner as
her daughter. “Completely alone. He’s young too.”
“He’s quite handsome,” Marianne added.
Bianca frowned at her sister. The girl hadn’t even known the man existed until two minutes ago. “By whose account?”
Marianne flipped a hand through the air. “Oh, everyone’s.”
“He’s a young viscount, Bianca,” Mrs. Snowley said firmly. “Why shouldn’t he be handsome?”
As the Wainbright women murmured agreement, Bianca wondered if the whole lot had gone mad. Did they not remember the baron who had attended last year’s races who looked like his face had been stomped on by a horse? Or was a baron too lowly a title to overcome a less-than-desirable physical appearance? Or had the baron’s happily wedded status decreased his handsomeness potential?
Still, these women hadn’t even met the viscount yet.
Bianca rather hoped she hadn’t met him either, though if she had, Marianne was going to be proven right. Despite his bedraggled appearance and seemingly nefarious purposes, the man hadn’t been bad to look at, objectively speaking.
“You should send over a maid to buy an egg.” Mrs. Wainbright leaned toward Mrs. Snowley. “Have her see if she can catch a glimpse of him.”
“At the very least she could ask about him,” Marianne said thoughtfully.
“Didn’t Miss Snowley go riding there this morning? Did you see anyone new?” Miss Wainbright shifted her entire body to face Bianca, gripping her hands together in anticipation.
What should Bianca say? That she had seen a man but that she’d beaten him with her boot? The fit of vapors Mrs. Snowley was likely to have from such an admission almost made it worth giving, but Bianca held her tongue. If that had been the viscount, she was in enough trouble as it was.
Of course, if it hadn’t been the viscount, then she had bought herself a great advantage. Should the new viscount be pleasant and unattached, was it possible she could marry into the very stable she dreamed about and measured every other stable against?
As soon as the idea lodged into her head, she had to wonder if that wasn’t exactly what she’d been waiting for the past few years. Though the idea felt somewhat mercenary, Bianca had to admit being the mistress of Hawksworth was an incredibly appealing dream.
A dream she’d likely already crushed. There was little chance that the same day a new, unknown viscount came to town was the same day an inept horse thief descended as well.
Her heart raced, and she took a deep breath to calm herself. “I’m afraid it was straight to the stable and back, as usual. I don’t venture up to the house.”
“Perhaps you should start.” Mrs. Wainbright turned her attention to the biscuit selection, now that the important information had been delivered.
“Or you could take Marianne with you next time.”
Bianca narrowed her gaze at her stepmother. There was something very uncomfortable about the gleam in the other woman’s eyes.
Now was not the time to argue, however. It was much safer for her if the conversation lingered on speculation about the new viscount. “Do you think he’ll come to the assembly tonight?”
The other women jumped at such a notion, and once more the discussion turned to clothing as they speculated over what the unmarried ladies in the group should wear—or rather, what Marianne and Miss Wainbright should wear. As long as Bianca wasn’t dressed in a way that brought shame to her family, Mrs. Snowley wouldn’t give her one bit of extra attention.
Bianca ignored the idle chatter, but her mind was on a similar course. If the new Lord Stildon did make an appearance tonight, she needed to be ready to apologize. What was the appropriate outfit for a woman to wear when she groveled?
Five
If his own stables had been a marvel, the training yards were a revelation. So was the reaction of the people milling about.
“So, you’re the mysterious heir we’ve been waiting on?” A man with a head of messy dark curls who’d been introduced as Lord Davers sneered as he took in Hudson’s loose-fitting, lightweight clothing. “Your father was Lord Stildon’s elder son, you say?”
“Yes,” Hudson confirmed, wondering once more what his grandfather had been thinking.
“What do you intend to do with Hawksworth?” another man asked as he leaned on a fence and watched a trainer work with a horse in the distance.
Do with it? Hudson darted a glance toward Mr. Whitworth, but the man had stepped away from the group to lurk in a corner shadow. There wouldn’t be any assistance from that direction. “I intend to live there.”
The men around him chuckled, but it didn’t ease the tension Hudson was sensing. “Do you intend to let Whitworth have his way there? The Earl of Trenting does that. The man can’t be bothered to learn his own horses.”
“I know horses.”
The looks that came his way ranged from disbelieving to indifferent. “We’ll see.” Lord Davers knocked his boot against the fence post to dislodge a bit of dirt before taking a step toward Hudson and lowering his head, as if to speak a confidence despite their public position. “Piece of advice? Be careful around Whitworth. The man knows his horses, but he sometimes forgets his place. Unless you’re seeing to the horses or checking on the trainer, being seen with him, well, makes us wonder about this title you’ve mysteriously inherited.”
Though the other two men had clearly overheard Lord Davers’s less-than-subtle words, they said nothing as the dark-haired man walked away and instead turned their talk to horses. Twice, Hudson inserted his own thoughts and knowledge into the conversation, and while the men accepted his presence and participation, neither sought it.
Eventually the entire situation became unbearable and Hudson walked away, moving toward the corner where Mr. Whitworth leaned.
“I need a tailor,” Hudson announced. “One that will adjust an existing order for the right price so I can have at least one set of new clothing now.”
One of Mr. Whitworth’s eyebrows winged upward. “Is this for any particular occasion?”
Hudson nodded. “A social event. The first one I can procure access to that has most of the local horsemen in attendance. Is there a club? A dinner?”
From what he’d seen of the men who traveled to the Indian racecourses, horsemen the world over were the same. They were a cozy group and didn’t welcome outsiders until they’d proven they belonged. He’d forgotten that, given that he’d never been on the outside before, but he wasn’t going to let those men, or even one man, question his parentage or his ability to run a stable.
Mr. Whitworth rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. “There’s an assembly tonight. It’s public. Anyone can attend for the price of a subscription.”
“I’ll do that, then.”
The manager opened his mouth, then snapped it shut and shook his head. “If you’re going to the assembly, you’re definitely going to need new clothes.”
SOMEHOW, DESPITE THE strange clothing he’d put on to leave his strange house and make his way into a strange town, Hudson had expected the event he was attending to feel familiar. After all, it was a small gathering of like-minded individuals of a similar class, wasn’t it? How different could it be from the ones he’d attended in India?
As it turned out, it could be as different as an elephant was from a horse.
Colors swirled about the scene before him. That part looked familiar, as he’d seen many an item of colorful clothing growing up. He’d even seen that colorful clothing draped over many female forms. What he hadn’t experienced was the lighter, delicate feminine tones mingling with the deeper male voices in a variety of conversations that created a general rumble through the room.
He tugged at the cuff of his jacket and shrugged his shoulders, uncomfortable despite the fact that he could find no fault in the tailor who’d rushed to alter a proper suit of evening clothes he’d been preparing for another order. The thick fabric lay across Hudson’s shoulders exactly as it should, but that didn’t make it feel any less stiff and cumbersome.
At least it did make him somewhat warmer.
The lack of chill seeping into his bones didn’t help his current situation any, though. If asked before this moment, he would have sworn his father had taught him everything necessary about being a gentleman. There had been tutors, dinners, opportunities to have veiled business conversations over a friendly game of cards.
But none of that had prepared him for the scene before him. What if all the women were like the one from this morning? Would they pepper him with dancing slippers as soon as they recognized he was a newcomer? Probably not, but they might when they saw he hadn’t the first idea how to establish himself in mixed company. It certainly wasn’t going to lay anyone’s concerns about his ineptitude to rest.
He moved his gaze around the room, tracing one face and then another, seeing one stranger after another, and then he came to the undeniable conclusion that this had been a mistake.
A small burst of laughter rose above the general rumble, and the craving for personal interaction swelled through him, filling every space that wasn’t eaten up by fear that he should have waited.
Fortunately, most errors could be corrected by removing oneself from the problem and trying again. He would simply slip out the way he’d come and try to insinuate himself into his new society in a smaller way tomorrow. In the future, he would avoid assemblies, now that he knew what they were.
Part of him wanted to blame Mr. Whitworth for not explaining that an assembly was . . . well . . . this, but the man likely had no idea Hudson had never seen a gathering such as this. It seemed part of Hudson’s acclimation difficulty was going to be in not knowing what he didn’t know.
With a shake of his head, he turned on his heel. Simply putting the entire cacophony to his back eased the tension in his chest. Yes. Tomorrow he would try again.
“You don’t want to do that.”
Vying for the Viscount Page 4