Vying for the Viscount

by Kristi Ann Hunter

  Hudson jerked his head around to see a young lady standing between two windows. There was no candle on the wall above her, so the moonlight streamed in the two windows and created a small pocket of shadow that she was well ensconced in. Only the outline of her could be seen, the paleness of her dress and her skin creating a lighter patch within the shadow.

  The boldness of the woman to address him first and without introduction reminded Hudson of his morning encounter in the stable. Clearly his father and tutors had been out of touch with the modern English woman. Perhaps women had been quiet and biddable when those men had been younger, but obviously something had changed over the years.

  Hudson took a small step in the woman’s direction, trying to make out her features. “I don’t want to do what?”

  “Leave.” She nodded toward the people filling the main area of the assembly room. “Someone has noticed you, I’m sure. If you leave now, they’ll think you’ve cut them. You can’t leave until midnight.”

  Hudson’s eyebrows shot up. No one had given him such an order since his father had passed. Suggestions, yes, even strong encouragements, but no one had commanded him in years. “I can’t?”

  “Not without an excuse that somehow involves death or dismemberment, preferably your own.”

  How was he to respond to that? It was such a ridiculous notion that he couldn’t quite credit it. “On what authority should I accept your assessment? You don’t know me, and you seem to have a significant connection to them.” He tilted his head toward the more populated side of the room.

  Her laugh was light as her head dropped forward and a bit of moonlight caught the dark curls piled on top of her head. “If I were to scream like a banshee and throw my shoe at your head, I’m sure you would be able to place me. That might draw a bit of unwanted attention, though.”

  Hudson couldn’t help giving a smile and brief laugh of his own. “Ah.” He took a step closer to the figure in the shadows, and a few more details became visible. The dress was a light shade of green, and the dark curls were framing a face he could now recognize, though the expression was considerably more self-deprecating than accusing now. “You now intend to keep me captive instead of running me off?”

  “It isn’t a punishment, I assure you. It’s an apology of sorts.”

  “You mean you don’t think I was stealing the horses?”

  She sighed. “A bit hard to steal something you already own.”

  One statement was all it took for Hudson to once more feel at a loss. Having people know who he was without any sort of proper introduction left him feeling somewhat exposed and vulnerable. “Confinement seems a strange way of making amends.”

  “If you leave now, they’ll all think you want nothing to do with them, and they will reciprocate in kind. Not once will it occur to them that they frighten you to bits.”

  He opened his mouth to object to her assessment of the situation, but truth was truth. Were he to deny it, he’d seem as high in the instep as she said they’d accuse him of being.

  “If you don’t mind,” she continued, “do turn away a bit. It looks like you’re conversing with a wall instead of merely standing by one, and I don’t wish to have my favorite hiding place revealed.”

  Though being so rude as to turn his back to a woman went against everything he’d been taught, he shifted to face the crowd. “Is that better?”

  “Much.”

  Everyone still seemed to be ignoring him, but the woman behind him had been confident that wasn’t the case. He had no choice but to take her word on it. That didn’t mean he was ready to venture into their ranks and experience their more direct scrutiny.

  He cleared his throat. “I am assuming that someone over there is aware that you arrived here tonight. Aren’t you afraid they’ll think you’ve committed the unpardonable sin of departing before midnight?”

  “Oh, I’ll come out once the dancing starts. Until then, I’d rather avoid . . . certain people.”

  Every prayer and plea to the Lord that Hudson had ever heard or considered sliced through his mind on its way heavenward. There was going to be dancing? Would it be considered rude if he took her shadowy hiding spot once she abandoned it? “How does one go about avoiding people without damaging their reputation?”

  “Stay on the dance floor as much as possible,” she said with a light laugh. “That’s what I do.”

  That was one tactic that would make him look more of a buffoon instead of less. He was probably better off having them think he walked about with his nose in the air. At least then there was a chance their dislike would still contain respect. He hadn’t a clue how to dance. Attempting to do so would likely cost him all chances of gaining anyone’s good opinion. “Are there other options?”

  “There’s a cardroom to the right. It’s small, and within an hour it will smell like a barn on fire from all the candles and the men. If you stay in there all night, most of your conversation will be with older gentlemen.”

  Her tone made it sound as pleasant as mucking out three-day-old straw, but Hudson rather thought he could manage an evening of it. “I’ll take that under advisement.”

  Her laughter was a bit louder this time and accompanied by a snort of derision. “Do you really intend to sit among the grouchy husbands who couldn’t convince their wives to stay home tonight?”

  “It would seem I have no other options.”

  “You hate dancing that much?”

  Was hating dancing better than not knowing how to do it? Probably, but Hudson’s mind was far too jumbled to maintain even the mildest of lies. “I wouldn’t know. I’ve never done it.”

  “You’ve never danced?” Astonishment was clear in her voice. “Where have you been hiding? You know, two hundred years ago people would be saying you were some sort of magically created being. Fortunately, we’re now more modern than that and simply question the legitimacy of your claim.”

  Hudson sighed. What he wouldn’t give for one hour to ask his father and grandfather what they’d been thinking. Apparently India hadn’t been safe enough. The only way to protect Hudson had been hiding his very existence.

  “No one knew about you, you know,” the woman continued, “until your grandfather’s solicitors informed all the estate and stable workers to carry on as they were until the heir arrived. One year later, here you are.”

  Hudson winced. She was only stating plainly what he’d managed to piece together earlier that day, but it seemed worse hearing it instead of assuming it.

  It also killed any idea he had that his uncle wasn’t as bad as his father had claimed.

  He cleared his throat. “As I grew up in India, well aware of the existence of my grandfather and England, I can’t speak to the fact that the reciprocal is not true.”

  She huffed out another short laugh. “You sound like my brother, spouting off fancy words when he comes home from school, trying to look educated and important. The accent gives you away, though. India explains that.”

  He hadn’t noticed that his speech was any different from the others around him. Of course, he hadn’t interacted with that many people. Still, the last thing he wanted was her—or anyone else’s—scrutiny.

  She moved to stand beside him, giving him a chance to take in her features without shadow or obscuring boot swings. Brown hair, brown eyes, straight nose. She looked like the few other women he’d met from England, but she certainly didn’t behave like them. “Are you no longer afraid of being seen?”

  “The dancing is going to start soon.”

  “Is there a great deal of that expected tonight?”

  “Is there a . . . India must be a truly foreign place. Dancing is all there is tonight. Well, aside from the cardroom and the spinsters in the corner. It’s certainly the main entertainment.” The woman looked over at the musicians. “All the dances tonight are to be called. Mr. Pierre isn’t including the waltz until next week’s assembly. As long as you go to the end of the line, you’ll have plenty of time to observe the m
ovements before having to execute them yourself.”

  “As accommodating as that sounds, I have no idea what you mean.” He should hold his tongue, or at least not be quite so curt. She was trying to help, to apologize, as she’d said earlier. Not knowing how to accept her generosity was almost as frustrating as not knowing what to do in the first place.

  Her mouth pulled to the side as she considered him for a moment.

  “Leave it to me,” she said with a sigh. “You go find Mr. Pierre and introduce yourself. After tonight he’ll expect you to pay the subscription fee, but your newness and title should appease him for one evening. Then ask him to introduce you to me and ask me to dance the first set with you.”

  She started to turn, but Hudson reached out an arm to stop her. “What are you going to do?”

  “If I take the time to explain that, we’ll lose our opportunity.” She nodded toward a cluster of men. “Now, go. Mr. Pierre is over there in the green vest.”

  She slipped around the edges of the conversing groups of people with the ease of someone who felt as comfortable in this atmosphere as they did in their own home. Did he trust her?

  Did he have a choice?

  True, she’d tried to knock his head in with a boot, but it had been with noble intentions. If one considered her motives, the encounter had been honorable and courageous. He’d rather have such a person on his side than against him.

  Since a cramped, smoky, smelly cardroom sounded much too close to the confines of the ship he vowed never to set foot on again, he resettled his thick, encumbering jacket and went off in search of Mr. Pierre.

  He’d foolishly thought that coming to England would ease all the discomfort that had plagued him for years, but thus far being here had only given him more questions. Since a full life wasn’t simply going to come to him, he was going to have to go out and get it.

  Six

  Every woman knew that some apologies required more than simple words to be authentic, though perhaps Bianca understood this more than most.

  How many times had she heard her stepmother apologize under the stern look of her father, only to have nothing change? The older woman still forgot to tell Bianca about social invitations, scheduled trips to the modiste for times when Bianca was already busy, and insisted that the girls’ shared lady’s maid, Dorothy, attend to Marianne the moment she wished, even if Bianca was in the middle of getting dressed.

  Mrs. Snowley’s apologies had meant nothing, but Lord Stildon would have no such cause to doubt Bianca’s. Attacking a man in his own stable was a rather significant offense, but she was certain that she genuinely could make amends.

  Perhaps she could even make those amends in such a way that left him feeling beholden to her. Only hours ago she’d come to the conclusion that marriage would solve all her problems, and here was her chance to gain the attention of an extremely eligible bachelor. He seemed kind, and he obviously had a sense of humor. Did she really need more than that?

  She took a deep breath and looked around the room. This evening needed to go well if she was going to consider a life with the man and his horses. All she needed now was a plan. Given the look of clear terror on Lord Stildon’s face a few moments ago, it needed to be a really good plan.

  Taking out the ticket she’d been given upon entering the room, she ran a thumb across the number engraved upon it. Eight. How many ladies had taken tickets when they entered? Not that it mattered. Eight had as much chance of being drawn from the bowl as any other number.

  If she prevented that, though, she’d be able to ensure that she and Lord Stildon were situated at the bottom of the set. If the man couldn’t learn the pattern by the time the dance worked its way down to them, there wasn’t much else she could do.

  A string quartet sat in the corner of the room, preparing their instruments for the night’s festivities. A bowl sat near the foot of the violinist.

  Perfect.

  She plastered a grin onto her face that she hoped appeared somewhat abashed and aimed it at the violinist as she reached for the bowl.

  “Don’t mind me,” she whispered as she rummaged through the tickets, searching out the one that matched hers. “I’m feeling rather shy tonight.” Once she found the number eight, she held it up next to her ticket so the musician would know she wasn’t sabotaging any other woman’s evening, and then tucked both tickets away into the small reticule dangling from her wrist.

  As this was hardly the first time the man had played for one of Mr. Pierre’s assemblies, she could hardly blame him for appearing shocked as she sidled away. Shyness had never been a problem for her. As she’d told Lord Stildon, she survived these evenings by spending the entire time on the dance floor. Dancing all night was exhausting, but not half so much as listening to Mrs. Snowley contrive to find Marianne an exemplary match while simultaneously telling Bianca everything she was doing wrong.

  If it weren’t so uncomfortable, her stepmother’s talent might be impressive.

  Bianca wove her way through the people, keeping her eyes down so as not to invite conversation. She needed to situate herself in a reasonable position for Lord Stildon to request an introduction, or her removal of herself from leading the first dance would have been for naught.

  She didn’t have much time, since dancing always started promptly at half past eight and pairs would soon begin to form, but moving about the room turned out to be quite easy since everyone was staring in Lord Stildon’s direction.

  And the man had thought he could simply slip away unnoticed. Bianca chuckled to herself as she found a good position. A stranger could hardly enter the town, much less the assembly hall, without being noticed. Did he have any idea that he’d already been the topic of a day’s worth of gossip?

  Probably not, but he would soon. There was little chance he could get through this evening without knowing that everyone in here was speculating as to his identity, his authenticity, and his intentions.

  He turned from speaking to Mr. Pierre and locked eyes with her. She offered him an encouraging nod. The half smile he returned caused the three girls behind Bianca to emit tiny gasps.

  Unless someone could drag up something to illegitimatize or demonize the man, he was going to have quite a reputation about town. The mothers and daughters would make sure of it.

  Assuming, of course, that Bianca could get him through this night without any undue embarrassment.

  Mr. Pierre strutted toward her with Lord Stildon at his side and a large smile on his face. Handsome, mysterious bachelors were good for assembly subscriptions. Titled ones were especially beneficial.

  “Miss Snowley,” Mr. Pierre said in a quiet, gentle voice that indicated his delight hadn’t affected his discretion, “may I present to you Lord Stildon?”

  Bianca curtsied and tried to appear solemn and honored by the man’s attentions, but all she wanted to do was laugh. The situation was amusing enough, but Lord Stildon’s own attempt at solemnity pushed the entire business into the realm of hilarity. Both of them were exuding far more gravitas than the situation required.

  “Good evening, my lord.” Bianca dipped her head in Lord Stildon’s direction.

  “The honor is mine.” Lord Stildon bowed in response. “I wonder, if you are not yet engaged, would you stand up with me for the first dance?”

  How had he known exactly what to say? If it came about that he wasn’t as helpless as he’d seemed, she would throw him to the wolves.

  Without him knowing, of course. She didn’t want to ruin her apology.

  “Of course, my lord.” Bianca narrowed her eyes as she attempted to further assess the man. She should know better than to assume surface impressions were always accurate. Still, she rested her hand on his proffered elbow. “If it wouldn’t be an imposition”—my, weren’t they being all that was polite?—“may we take a short round by the refreshment table first? I was on my way for a cup of punch.”

  “As you wish.” He guided her, or rather appeared to guide her, as she was the o
ne who tugged him along to the table in the corner.

  “Did I get it right?” he whispered as she sipped the cup of punch. “I overheard another gentleman asking someone to dance as Mr. Pierre led me over, so I copied the words.”

  Clever and observant, but not a liar. That was good. She wouldn’t want to marry a liar. “Yes, perfect.”

  “What do we do now?” He shifted his weight and darted a nervous glance toward the large gathering of people. “I confess to a bit of confusion at asking you to stand up with me when we’re already on our feet.”

  “Later the women waiting to dance will be in chairs.” Bianca watched the clock in the corner, trying to time the completion of her punch perfectly. More than half the room was watching her, and she couldn’t make her plan obvious. “For now, though, we wait. We need to allow everyone else to line up first, then we take the spot at the end.”

  “Should I get punch as well?”

  “Only if you’re desperately thirsty. It’s not exactly pleasant fare.”

  A glimmer of humor dispelled some of the tension from his gaze as his mouth tipped up into a small smile. “Then I appreciate your sacrifice all the more.”

  “As you should.” She grimaced. “Although I do rather owe you after this morning.”

  “Think nothing of it.” He shrugged, and the tension returned as he looked at the crowd from the corner of his eye. “If I hadn’t wanted an adventure, I’d have stayed in India.”

  Something about the statement felt wrong, but she hardly knew the man well enough to know if he was prevaricating or not. Perhaps it was simply the irony of the statement that felt jarring. “Usually young men hie off to India to find adventure and escape the doldrums of England.”

  “I suppose it all depends upon one’s perspective,” Lord Stildon murmured.

  “The dancing shall now commence.” Mr. Pierre picked up the bowl Bianca had recently rummaged through and shuffled the tokens around before selecting one. With grand ceremony, he held the ticket up to read the number. “Our first dance will be led by the lady holding ticket number four.”