Vying for the Viscount

by Kristi Ann Hunter

  AS HE SAT before a low flickering fire on Sunday night, the setting sun streaming over his shoulders, he realized that the situation wasn’t as horrid as it had seemed yesterday, and he didn’t feel as tired at the thought of carving out his own destiny.

  Finally all the work he did, all the decisions he made, would have effects that he could hold on to. Now he could craft whatever future he wanted instead of simply living in limbo in the one his father and grandfather had apparently argued over for years.

  Since he was a child, he’d wanted an esteemed stable of his own, a line of champion racehorses, and the respect of his peers. He’d been told all of that would be his when he came to England, and he had to believe that he could still have it, even if it hadn’t fallen into his hands as soon as he’d disembarked.

  If Mr. Whitworth was to be believed, Hudson had a prime mare in his stable. Matching his mare with the stallion everyone was admiring last evening would win him instant respect from the other racing gentlemen.

  And if it came with a quality wife and social success at the same time? Well, a single solution to all his problems might be enough for him to believe God was interested in having a hand in his life after all.

  BIANCA HAD STOOD before many a stranger in her lifetime. Never before had that stranger inhabited her own mirror. There was no denying that the image in front of her bore little to no resemblance to her normal Monday morning look.

  Artful curls fell on either side of her face, framing carefully pinched cheeks and skin brushed over with a bit of powder. Her best riding habit had been enhanced with a length of lace at the neckline, and her hat sat at a jaunty angle instead of its normal, practical positioning.

  Aside from the frown marring the perfectly adorned features, the picture was rather beautiful.

  During the entire dressing process, Dorothy had glanced frequently in the mirror, assessing Bianca. She couldn’t blame the maid. Until now, she’d been too impatient to sit for curls unless it was visiting day or there were evening entertainments. Lace had been saved for special occasions, and hats had been for keeping her hair contained and the sun out of her eyes.

  Was she truly changing all of that for a chance to catch the viscount’s eye? Yes, marriage would gain her confirmed access to exquisite horses and allow her to escape the scrutiny of her stepmother, but was it worth it?

  Lord Stildon had been all anyone could talk about at the assembly and before and after church, especially within Bianca’s hearing. Her well-known connection to Hawksworth and the fact that she’d stood up with him first had somehow made her the primary target for all the newsmongers.

  Obviously she’d kept her early-morning blunder to herself and insisted that it was merely chance that he’d noticed her first when looking for a dance partner. Her lack of knowledge wasn’t shared by everyone, and by the time the sun set yesterday, details others couldn’t possibly know about the man had been flying about in conversations.

  Despite the suppositions about his past and his character, one thing was certain: Lord Stildon was the current target for every marriage-aged female in the area. If Bianca wanted Hawksworth, or rather the viscount, for herself, she needed to press her one advantage quickly.

  The thought could far too easily be uttered in her stepmother’s voice. Somehow that woman had gotten into Bianca’s head and convinced her that manipulation was the only way to get what she wanted.

  Yes, she wanted to marry the viscount, but she refused to connive her way into a match.

  With angry swipes, Bianca jerked the pins from her hat and dropped it onto the dressing table before attacking the curls. With a swipe of her brush, a twist, and a few hairpins, she tucked all her hair away like it was most mornings. With a yank, the lace fichu drifted to the dressing table, and then she positioned her hat in its normal position, making the woman in the mirror far more recognizable than she’d been moments before.

  At the assembly she’d displayed her social skills. Now she would woo him with her practicality.

  Maybe.

  What if he wasn’t even a morning rider? What if he kept Town hours and hadn’t even risen yet? Not every aristocrat took advantage of the hours in which they were allowed to ride the Heath at will before it was closed for races, challenges, and training.

  All the questions threatened to have her second-guess her decision to wreck the elegant hair dressing, so she pushed away from the dressing table and left the room before she could give in to the urge to tuck the lace back into position.

  Her father’s study door was open as she passed, and she stuck her head in to greet him.

  His white hair was long and pulled back in a queue, though the style was far from fashionable anymore. Bianca’s knock drew a welcoming smile to his face, and he beckoned her in. “Off to Hawksworth already?”

  “Yes. My mount came up lame the other day, so I didn’t get much of a ride in.”

  “You could have ridden one of our horses, you know,” he said with a frown.

  Was it possible her father didn’t realize the difference between the grandeur of Hawksworth and the meager stable of Kendal Hall? Bianca gave a small hum of acknowledgment, unsure what to say. Father kept two aged carriage horses and an even older riding horse. She could walk faster than any of those animals plodded along.

  “I’ve heard the new viscount moved in,” Father continued.

  “Yes. He attended the assembly on Saturday.” Bianca moved farther into the room and sank into one of the chairs across from her father’s desk. It wasn’t often that the man was in the mood to chat, and Bianca wasn’t going to pass up the opportunity, even if it delayed her ride. “We danced.”

  “Good, good. Mrs. Snowley tells me he’d be a fine son-in-law.”

  “I’m sure she did,” Bianca murmured, trying not to wince at the idea of Marianne as the mistress of Hawksworth.

  “She meant he’d be a good match for you, I’m sure.”

  She gave a noncommittal murmur. If her father wanted to think his second wife thought of Bianca as a daughter, was there any point in correcting him? What good would it do?

  Father frowned. “She and I have discussed that you need to marry before Marianne, being the elder and all.”

  Bianca shifted in her seat. Would her father’s encouraging of Mrs. Snowley’s involvement help Bianca’s intentions or hinder them? “I have every intention of marrying, Papa. I’ll find the right man.”

  “I want both of my daughters well settled. My wife has asked me to mention Marianne to a few men at the club. You’ll let me know if I need to do the same for you.”

  Bianca had never thought to involve her father in the procuring of a husband, but it sounded as if he was paying far more attention to it than she’d thought. If tensions rose between Mrs. Snowley and Father because Marianne was set to marry before Bianca, what would that mean?

  The truth was, marriage had only recently become an active goal for Bianca, while Marianne had been planning her marital approach for years. If the viscount didn’t offer for Bianca, or if he took a long time to do so, Marianne could very well reach the altar first, and then Bianca would be a pitied spinster with an uncomfortable home life.

  Perhaps she could temper her father’s expectations.

  “I would like a partner. I’m trying to be like you and select someone who will bring what I need to the partnership.”

  Father had rushed into his second marriage, somewhat desperate to provide a mother for his infant daughter. There were times Bianca got the feeling he wished he hadn’t been quite as hasty in his decision, so she was determined to take her time to learn the measure of the man in question before committing to him, even though the idea of staying in the house with Mrs. Snowley after Marianne married was terrifying enough to send her running off with the traveling horse circus troupes.

  Father shuffled a few papers about on his desk. “Yes, well, there’s no need to decide today. Everyone isn’t back in town yet, so the pickings at assemblies will be light.” />
  All the more reason for Bianca to establish her place in the viscount’s mind early. Soon the area would be flooded with eligible ladies.

  “Speaking of being back in town,” Father said, reaching for a box on the corner of his desk, “I brought you something from my recent trip. Oh, and your brother sends his greetings.”

  Bianca eased forward on the chair and stretched her neck to get a look as he opened the box. “How does Giles like being a sixth-year student?”

  Sparkles of jewels greeted her gaze, and her excitement fell a bit. She adored a good bauble as much as any other young lady, but the ostentatious jewelry her stepmother and sister preferred had always felt cold and heavy. She much preferred the small collection of pendants and chains her mother had fancied.

  “Good, good,” her father said. “Same as always. He likes his language studies, hates maths.” Her father’s thick fingers reached into the box, pushed aside a bracelet covered in emeralds, and then emerged with a brooch. The smooth, delicate curves of the golden edges could be seen, along with the clasp at the back, but the front was entirely hidden. He looked down at the jewelry with a small smile before laying it faceup in his palm and extending it toward her.

  Bianca gasped. The brooch nestled in his palm was a cameo, intricately carved to show a woman standing beside a horse. The horse’s neck was curved around the woman so the head pressed against her chest. It was a charming and intimate look at a woman and her equine best friend.

  Her hand trembled a bit as she reached for it. “It’s lovely, Father.”

  “There was a larger one,” he said with a shrug, “but I thought it would be cumbersome to wear while you were riding. This one seemed . . . well, it made me think of you.”

  Bianca curled her fingers around it. He hadn’t lost sight of the fact that she was different from his other daughter or his wife. She circled the desk and placed a kiss on his head before straightening and affixing the brooch to her riding jacket. “It’s perfect.”

  “As are you,” he said with a gentle smile. “Now, go on with you before the sun gets too high and you miss your ride. I’ll say an extra prayer for you this morning that your horse doesn’t come up lame again.”

  Bianca laughed as she moved to the door. “I appreciate it greatly, Father. Perhaps your petitions along with mine will convince God to ease my way.”

  “Bah.” The man waved his hand through the air. “He’s already planned it out. Our prayers are to help us remember that.”

  Her mind stayed on the conversation as she took the well-worn path between the estates. She couldn’t help but tack one additional request onto her prayer. If God’s plan included Bianca’s having a stable of her own one day, she would dearly love it to be Hawksworth.

  Eight

  Arriving at the stable during the early morning hustle was far different from slipping in while the horses were off being exercised. The busyness distracted him from wondering when Miss Snowley normally made her appearance.

  Several grooms bustled about the wide stone central corridor, leading horses and seeing to their care. In the middle of it all stood Mr. Whitworth, occasionally making a notation in a notebook. Hudson waited for a pause in the flow of grooms and made his way over to the manager.

  “There’s a race in a few weeks,” Mr. Whitworth said by way of a greeting. “I’d been planning on entering Apollo in it.”

  Hudson nodded, hoping he looked as if he knew enough about the lay of the land to have an opinion. He wasn’t even certain which horse was Apollo. “You can move forward with those plans. I’d like to know about the horse’s training later.”

  “Of course.” Mr. Whitworth made a note in his notebook. “I’ve made a few changes to his training this year that should improve his performance. He’s going to have a good year.”

  That was as good an opening as Hudson was going to get. “What do you know about the horse Hezekiah?”

  All of Mr. Whitworth’s attention hit Hudson as the man lowered his notebook to his side and cocked his head to study his employer. Action ceased in the two nearest stalls as well. A gruff man with deep wrinkles worn into his tanned face stepped out of a stall and approached.

  “This is Mr. Knight,” Mr. Whitworth said with a nod. “He’s your head groom. When did you hear about Hezekiah?”

  “At the assembly.”

  One side of Mr. Whitworth’s mouth kicked up. “How did that outing go?”

  “As well as could be expected.” Assuming a man wasn’t riding the unrealistic childhood expectation that life was going to go easily at some point.

  Mr. Knight grunted. “What was said about the horse?”

  Hudson crossed his arms over his chest and considered the two men. How interesting that these men were far different from the ones collected around the card table two evenings ago, and yet the conversation was so very similar. “Apparently Hezekiah is going to be available this year. Is that uncommon?”

  Mr. Knight snorted while Mr. Whitworth nodded. “Lord Gliddon doesn’t truly need the money, but he enjoys the exclusivity and how everyone fawns about trying to get him to select their request. Of course, the fact that every horse sired by Hezekiah has done well means whomever he honors with his blessing pays an exorbitant sum. He never chooses more than two per year.”

  Mr. Knight looked over to Hestia’s stall. “Hezekiah and Hestia. Just imagine the fine specimen they could produce. That horse would be the envy of the country.”

  Hudson had been intrigued by the idea before, but the awe on the head groom’s face all but solidified it for him. If he could make this happen, he would gain the respect of everyone far sooner than he would if he had to wait years to see if he’d made a breeding misstep. Hudson glanced at Mr. Whitworth. “You agree?”

  “That Hezekiah and Hestia would make a fine foal? They certainly have the potential, and their foal would be one everyone would watch.” Mr. Whitworth clearly held a bit more caution than Mr. Knight, but his gaze was somewhat unfocused as he looked toward Hestia’s stall.

  He blinked a few times and then turned back to Hudson. “I’ve heard a few rumors about Hezekiah myself. More than the horse is on the market this year.”

  “I heard similar rumors at the assembly.” Would Mr. Whitworth volunteer other information? Was Lady Rebecca a complete harridan? If so, he’d have to find another way to succeed. But if she wasn’t? If she was sweet, biddable, and everything his father had told him Englishwomen were? He didn’t see why he shouldn’t attempt to court her.

  Mr. Whitworth narrowed his gaze. “You’d make a lifetime commitment for a chance at a champion horse?”

  Mr. Knight stepped back before looking from one man to the other. After a moment, he returned to the stall he’d been working in.

  Hudson met Mr. Whitworth’s steady regard. “You don’t believe in subtlety, do you?”

  “Not really. I’ve better things to do with my time than try to decipher a man’s meaning as we pretend to talk about another subject entirely.”

  “Which explains why you went into horses instead of politics.”

  “Politics tends to require legitimacy. Horses don’t care which side of the blanket you’re born on as long as you strap theirs on right.”

  Hudson wasn’t going to maneuver this man by making him uncomfortable, as it seemed that was the manager’s preferred form of manipulation. If they both tried to use it on each other, the conversation could move from awkward to embarrassing rather quickly.

  He could use a bit of candidness right now, though. “Is Lady Rebecca a shrew?”

  “Hardly.” The manager sighed and rubbed one hand against his temple. “She’s an English rose of the highest order. Her father is an earl, her mother the granddaughter of a duke. She’s beautiful, admired, and accomplished, according to all accounts.”

  “Which means I won’t be the only man with this idea.”

  “No, you won’t. You aren’t.” He sighed and shook his head. “You have Hestia. That might be enough of an i
nducement on its own. You should simply make the request. Lord Gliddon is a horse man after all.”

  Hudson might know pitifully little about English etiquette, but he did know that a man only had one chance to approach a prospective partnership. If he asked about the horse and was turned down, his asking for the lady’s hand would not be well received.

  Besides, just yesterday he’d determined that a well-positioned wife would solve other problems as well.

  Still, a champion mare wasn’t enough to overcome his shortcomings. He couldn’t afford to look like a fumbling colt who didn’t know his own legs in each new social situation.

  “I’m afraid India is far more different from England than I anticipated.” Given the reaction to Mr. Whitworth’s presence at the training grounds, it was unlikely the man would be able to help, but Hudson didn’t have anyone else to ask. “I don’t suppose you know the particulars of moving about the local society, do you?”

  A splutter of a snicker sounded from the taller man, who quickly pressed his lips together until his face began to turn red. Then he released a loud laugh that startled more than one nearby horse and caused a roaring echo of thuds and jangles to fill the stable.

  “I say, whatever could make you laugh with such boisterousness, Mr. Whitworth?” A gentle, somewhat familiar female voice cut through the cacophony. “I’m not sure I’ve seen you do more than crack a smile in all the time I’ve known you.”

  Mr. Whitworth turned toward the newcomer, and his smile shifted into one of indulgent exasperation. “What’s there to laugh about when I’m dealing with your pestering presence?”

  “I’m a delight and you know it.” Miss Snowley grinned at the manager before sneaking a hesitant look Hudson’s way. Her smile drooped and then propped back up, somewhat stiffer than it had been before. “Besides, if I didn’t exercise some of these horses, you’d have to hire another groom.”

  Mr. Whitworth shook his head but said, “I have to admit that I would—or rather, Lord Stildon would.”