Love at the House Party

by Stockton, Kasey

  Sudden pity washed through me and I saw in his hurt face a vulnerable boy—the one who grew up carefree, no concern for the title, estate and wealth he would one day inherit.

  “What did you intend to do with your life before you became the marquess?”

  He glanced at me sharply. “I considered joining the navy. I’ve always had a fascination with the ocean.”

  I had not expected that.

  “You are surprised,” he said. “Most of my family would be too, had they known. It was not something I was eager to announce.”

  “Whyever not? It is a worthy profession. Surely they would not oppose you.”

  “I only think they would not find me worthy enough to lead a ship full of men.”

  At once I saw the true root of the problem. The issue was not whether Lord Stallsbury’s family deemed him worthy of leading a ship, it was whether he found himself worthy enough.

  “Do you not think,” I said gently, “that your family loves you, and would support whatever gentleman’s profession you chose?”

  He watched me, his mouth in a straight line, his eyes uncertain.

  I continued, against my better judgment. “I believe if you had pursued a career in the navy it would have all worked out for good in the end.”

  “Do you believe that now?” he asked, his voice soft.

  “You are going to be a duke now. You have no need for employment.”

  “I do not mean that. Do you believe that if one has good intentions, it shall all work out for the good?”

  I laughed. He seemed so intent on the answer I would deliver that I felt pressure to relieve the tension in the room. “I am no master of theology. I only know I must rely on my own hope.”

  “And do you?”

  “Have hope?” I asked, shaking my head in hopes that I might shake away my nerves as well. “Yes, I do. I must, for otherwise I would still be lonely and miserable.”

  He tilted his head to the side. “And you are not lonely and miserable now?”

  He seemed to see me in a way that no other person did. Or perhaps it was the lateness of the hour and the lack of social graces between us. I stood, unclear on the direction of the conversation and uncomfortable with betraying too much about myself to a man I hardly knew.

  “This conversation cannot be moving in a good direction. We should call it a night before—”

  “Before I say something I regret?” he asked, his lips forming a sad smile. “I cannot help but consider both of our plights and the cause we have for being here, searching for a spouse. And yet, our friendship formed so naturally that I cannot help but wonder…”

  I held my breath, standing before him as though awaiting conviction. He mentioned our equal need for marriage. It was a preposterous route to take, but…

  Could the marquess be contemplating a union with me?

  Shaking his head, he chuckled lightly. Sudden discomfort washed over us. “Nevermind. I see how it is impossible.”

  I cleared my throat. It was true, I was utterly unfit to marry a marquess. I was embarrassed that I had let my imagination run away with me. It was a blessing the man could not read my thoughts. “Goodnight, my—”

  “Tarquin,” he interrupted, coming to a stand. “I didn’t mean to frighten you away. But I find I value your opinions, Mrs. Wheeler.”

  “I cannot think why,” I said, without considering.

  “If you saw yourself the way I do, you would not question it. I will not do you the dishonor of requesting the use of your given name, but I will no longer abide any my lord from your lips.”

  “Goodnight.” I could not bring myself to call him by his Christian name. He, a future duke. It was absolutely appalling. My mother was likely watching me that very moment and shaking her fist at him for his uncouth behavior.

  Although, his motives, I believed, were pure. There was no misunderstanding between us. We had both been very clear from the beginning regarding our feelings, and I believed him when he stated that he simply wanted to be called by his own name. Though it was perhaps an unconventional request, clearly he mourned the loss of his previous life. And if I had read his emotions accurately, he did not have a friend whom he could confide in about this.

  I slipped from the room and up the stairs, smiling to myself. I was that friend for him. He might have an unnatural way of acting when separated from the rest of the party, but I found that I enjoyed it very much.

  Chapter 12

  We set out for a walk after breakfast, Mr. Peterson quickly passing out the umbrellas he’d acquired in Gersham.

  “The sun is shining, sir,” Miss Thornton said, eyeing him with confusion. “But I suppose one never can be too cautious of freckles.”

  “And one can never be too wary of the possibility of rain,” he replied, winking at me.

  I ignored him and walked ahead, training my face to the sky to welcome a few freckles, simply to spite Miss Thornton.

  Mrs. Haley chose to stay behind with her mother and Mr. Pollard, but the remainder of the party gathered to take a turn about the gardens. And, if Miss Pollard did not object, perhaps the duck pond as well.

  Lord Stallsbury offered Miss Thornton his escort and Mr. Peterson followed suit quickly with Miss Pollard. When Mr. Bancroft approached me at the same time as Mr. Thornton, I clasped my hands together and walked between them as we brought up the rear.

  “Now tell me how you have been recently,” Thornton inquired. “You live with your brother now, I assume.”

  “Yes, he’s taken a house in Linshire. While the society may not be quite as varied as that found in Town, I find that it suits me just fine.” I grinned, but Thornton must not have caught on to my joke.

  “You were content with Frank in his small country home. I don’t see why Linshire should be any different. Though I must admit that I have not visited that part of the country. I am sure, Mrs. Wheeler, that you have the disposition to be quite pleased regardless of your surroundings.”

  I had to bite my tongue to keep from arguing that point. Was he calling me brainless or merely exceedingly positive? I was only human; I required conversation and companionship as much as any person.

  “I find that you lift my spirits,” Mr. Bancroft said. Clearly, he took Thornton’s words to imply acute positivity. “And I believe that you will have the opportunity to get a taste of what Gersham has to offer at church on Sunday, and the ball as well. Mother is endeavoring to fill our ballroom to the brim and has invited a great number of local families.”

  “That will be delightful, though I must confess I have yet to receive a proper tour of the house. Does it contain a ballroom?”

  “You have yet to have a tour? I have been remiss in my duties. The house does contain a ballroom and it is most splendid. See those doors there?” Mr. Bancroft asked, pointing to a row of long rectangular windows flanking a set of doors at the far end of the house. “They lead to the ballroom. Though not as large as one might find in a grander house than ours, it does well enough for our purposes.”

  “And how fortunate you are to have the ability to open doors right off the ballroom and into the garden,” I said. “I find balls in general easily become too hot and stuffy for my taste and are never sufficiently aired by mere windows. Doors leading outside directly from the ballroom indicate superior design.”

  Mr. Bancroft preened as though he had designed the house himself, and not his ancestors, and I worked to suppress my grin.

  “I do love a good ball,” Thornton said, clasping his hands behind his back. “Always a decent card game to be had, and a spot of dancing available when one tires of losing.”

  This was no surprise to me, given how often he took Frank away to lose money at cards. Evidently, neither of them were very successful when it came to winning.

  We followed the group through the gardens, admiring the shaped hedges and pruned flowers. Circling back around the lawn I discovered that we were approaching the duck pond when I noticed Miss Pollard visibly stiffen before me
.

  “Any good fishing, Bancroft?” Thornton asked over my head.

  “We’ve got a decent stock of trout. They aren’t too eager to bite but you are welcome to it if you’d like to give it a try.”

  The ducks swam lazily along in the shallows, one meandering about a patch of grass on the bank. Miss Pollard’s steps slowed until they were directly before us and I caught her glancing between her escort, Mr. Peterson, and Miss Thornton just ahead of us. If I was not mistaken, she was panicking, and likely hoped to keep her fear of ducks unknown to our present company. Given Mr. Peterson’s constant teasing, and Miss Thornton’s need to be superior, I found that I did not blame her.

  “Mr. Bancroft,” I said loudly, clutching his arm, “would you be so kind as to escort me back into the house? I find that the warmth of the sun is giving me a headache and I think it would be best if I returned inside.”

  “That is likely wise. You would not want to ruin our lovely outing with rain,” Mr. Peterson said, clever man that he was.

  “Oh, you poor creature!” Miss Pollard gushed, bouncing to my side at once. “I shall bring you inside immediately. I can see that you are clearly unwell.”

  Must she go that far? I was doing this to aid her, after all.

  “Thank you, Miss Pollard,” Mr. Bancroft said chivalrously, “but I do not mind escorting Mrs. Wheeler inside.”

  “I shall come,” she demanded, gripping my arm so tightly I was sure to bruise. “Now let’s get you into the house right away, Mrs. Wheeler.”

  She dragged me away at a decent clip, Mr. Bancroft scurrying to keep up. I did my best to keep my smile to myself and glanced over my shoulder to find the remainder of our party following us at a sedate pace, Miss Thornton once again on Lord Stallsbury’s arm, the other two men flanking them.

  She had lost no time in putting herself into the marquess’s good graces, that was certain. Surely I had no room to complain. At least he had been correct. They would rub along well together. Neither, it seemed, were overly concerned with obtaining a love match, and the connections were sufficient to please both families well enough.

  Not that Miss Thornton had much of a family to please, her brother being her guardian and the last remaining member of her immediate family.

  I turned my attention to the woman who was now digging her fingers into the flesh of my upper arm.

  “Miss Pollard, you may release me now,” I whispered, “we are nearly back at the house.”

  She let go at once and relief instantly swept through my arm.

  “I do apologize for keeping you in the sun too long,” Mr. Bancroft said, his eyes downcast with sorrow.

  “It is not common for me to be bothered by the sun,” I explained quickly. “I am sure I shall be fit for company again quite soon.”

  It would not do to marry a man and have him think I was too weak of constitution to enjoy a hearty walk in the sunlight. It was, in fact, one of my most favorite things to do to occupy my time. While the headache I claimed was not entirely feigned—Miss Thornton’s droning was positively weighing on me—claiming it was due to overexposure was certainly false. But I could not feel guilt for the lie when it saved Miss Pollard from extreme distress and subsequent embarrassment.

  I thought to ask her the cause of her fear the next time we were alone, for it made little sense to me. Ducks were so small, and quite harmless little creatures. And they were darling, besides.

  “I should love to give you a tour of the house when you return from resting,” Mr. Bancroft said, leading me to the base of the staircase while Miss Pollard let herself into the drawing room. “Please let me know if you find yourself in need of anything.”

  He picked up my hand and placed a kiss on the back of my glove. I glanced up as the front door opened and watched the rest of the party filter inside.

  “Mrs. Wheeler,” Mr. Peterson called from the foyer. “You shall never credit it, but it has begun to rain!”

  I chuckled to myself, ignoring his playful grin. The open doorway revealed fine weather, but water drops on Mr. Peterson’s umbrella were evidence that he spoke the truth. Though I did not think I would count a small sprinkling of rain that occurred after I stepped into the house as evidence of my curse.

  Lord Stallsbury released Miss Thornton, watching me with puzzled eyes as I thanked my escort and turned up the stairs. I felt his gaze follow me until I disappeared from his sight, and released the breath I’d been keeping in.

  Eager for the rest of the day to pass so that I might have the opportunity to speak privately to the marquess, I found myself too anxious to relax. Pulling the novel from my trunk, I made myself comfortable on the bed and found my place, forcing myself to delve into the story of the young heroine and her highwayman-turned-earl.

  Lord Stallsbury might not be my hero, but he surely played a large role in my ability to find the house party enjoyable. I was sure that he would find Miss Pollard’s fear of ducks quite as entertaining as I did—and furthermore, he would be willing to help her out of any future situations in which she would prefer not to inform the rest of the party about her irrational fear.

  Sharing the information with Lord Stallsbury would not be breaking the trust of a friend, it would be aiding her in support.

  With that neat little line of justification, I nestled into my book, pleased at once to find myself enjoying the story as I’d hoped.

  * * *

  I had fallen asleep during the final chapter of my novel and awoke to Emma laying out an evening gown for dinner. Rubbing my eyes, I pulled myself to sit up and swung my legs over the side of the bed.

  “I cannot believe I slept so long.” Yawning, I realized that it was, in fact, entirely believable. I had been staying up late every night since my arrival at Bancroft Hill with conversation in the study. It was no wonder that I found myself lethargic and in need of a restoring nap.

  “The house here is quite unrivaled, is it not?” I asked, watching Emma put up my hair through the looking glass.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  I could not tell whether Emma had glanced away due to my question, or if she had simply been focusing on my hair. But a flit of feeling in my gut told me that there was something which she was not sharing.

  “Emma, are you well?”

  “Of course,” she said, her widened eyes finding mine in the mirror.

  Clearly I had surprised her with my question. “But the house, it is not to your liking?”

  “The house is lovely, ma’am.”

  I felt as though I was yanking along a particularly stubborn mule. Would she not simply come forth with whatever it was that was bothering her?

  I lowered my voice. “Emma, come. Tell me what is bothering you. I can see that something is not right.”

  Her hands paused, her eyes flicking to mine momentarily before she fixed them securely on my hair. “The house is lovely and I’ve no qualms with the other servants. ’Tis only that I heard some women talking. I’m sure it’s nothing, ma’am, but I can’t shake it.”

  I tried not to stare at her too closely, but my body went still. Something did not feel right.

  “I don’t make it a habit of listening to conversations,” Emma continued. “’Tis only that they were talking about you, ma’am, so I hid behind the door and listened.”

  I bit my tongue and shoved back the temptation to correct her horrid speech. “What were they saying?”

  She paused, her hands lingering over my head. I wanted to turn around and demand that she speak but did not want to frighten her. I could only hope the wait she was forcing me to endure would be far more uncomfortable than the secret she had yet to reveal.

  “They were saying you came down in the world and aren’t fit to be mistress of Bancroft Hill. That you were only here because you’re greedy and feeding on Mr. Bancroft’s infatuation.”

  My hands shook as I lowered them to my lap. “Who said this, Emma?”

  She lifted her shoulder. “Don’t know, ma’am. I was hiding.”r />
  I nodded, my gaze trained forward. I could only guess that the speaker of such cruel and unkind thoughts was either Miss Thornton, fueled no doubt by her anger over our shared past, or Mrs. Bancroft. The idea that such severe words could come from the woman who was to be my mother-in-law stung. But I could not lay blame without proper knowledge. It would not do to feel a similar dislike for a woman who had not earned my wrath.

  When Emma completed my toilette, I closed my eyes and let out a long sigh, breathing out the negativity that itched my body and unsettled my spirit.

  Mr. Peterson met me at the base of the stairs, bowing and offering his escort to the drawing room. “I trust you had a pleasant nap? You have missed an eventful day of whist, dear madam,” he said. “And I believe the women have prepared a game of charades for us to play this evening.”

  “Splendid,” I said, doing my utmost to appear excited. “I haven’t participated in charades in quite a few years. I am likely rusty.”

  “Nonsense. I am sure it will all come back to you the moment we begin.”

  We entered the drawing room and a sudden hush fell over the occupants. Mrs. Bancroft stood near the fireplace, cheeks ruddy, chest heaving in indignation.

  Mrs. Haley stood beside her, her hands forward in a placating gesture, watching Mr. Bancroft with confusion and anxiety. I admit that my acquaintance with Mr. Bancroft was short in its entirety and I did not know him as well as I would have liked, but it was clear to me that he was angry—no, furious—and I had never before seen such blatant displeasure on his face.

  “Mrs. Wheeler!” Mrs. Haley shrieked, her mother and brother turning toward me in accord. Instantaneously the anger dropped from their countenances, Mrs. Bancroft displaying tight irritation, and Mr. Bancroft the very picture of congeniality.

  My chest went cold, fear and confusion swirling inside me. I’d had no reason thus far to question the sense of a union between Mr. Bancroft and myself, no need to fear the man I had thought gentle and kind. I had once vowed never to wed a man who did not hold me in as high regard as I did him, and I had thought that Mr. Bancroft was a safe choice. That I hadn’t known him capable of such fierce anger before opened the door to the possibility that I might not know his character as well as I thought.