Vying for the Viscount Page 9

  This waltz was supposedly more so, though, enough that special permission was required. Did he have to attain that as well? Where would he get it?

  “She’s had permission, almost from the first of the Season,” Mr. Whitworth said as he relaxed and clasped his arms behind his back. The tight smile he’d been wearing earlier changed to a grin. “Even if she didn’t, Lady Jersey is hardly going to appear and harp on what happens in Newmarket’s assembly hall.”

  Miss Snowley’s eyes narrowed at Mr. Whitworth’s grin. Some sort of unspoken conversation was transpiring between the two of them, and Hudson didn’t have nearly enough information to try to interpret it. Where was his manager’s frank way of speaking now?

  “How do you know she has permission? I thought you didn’t dance,” Miss Snowley said with a smug smirk.

  “I don’t. But I can assure you that gentlemen enjoy gossip as much as ladies do.” He darted a quick look in Hudson’s direction before returning his attention to Miss Snowley. “I have friends in London. I hear things.”

  With a decisive nod, Mr. Whitworth turned in the same direction the other men had recently run. “Now, as the waltz requires only two people, I do believe I’ll leave you to it.”

  “But—but, you can’t!” Miss Snowley took a step toward a retreating Mr. Whitworth. She then turned back to Hudson before seeming to think it better to go after the manager again. Back and forth she went, making her heavy riding habit swirl about until she appeared to be doing some strange dance of her own.

  Hudson waited. He didn’t know dancing and he didn’t know about the habits of English women, but he knew how to wait out a businessman who was warring through his options in his own head. This seemed a rather similar moment.

  Finally, she turned back to him, her smile brittle, her every mannerism telling him she was as likely to bolt as she was to stay.

  At that moment, his need to prove himself, his dislike of nearly everything about his new homeland, and his confusion over the new society fell away and left behind a burning need to know what this woman was thinking. Why, when she’d simply barreled through with her plans to teach him to dance everything else, did this one cause her trepidation?

  She was acting like a skittish horse, and those he knew how to handle.

  The tension he’d been holding in his body as he feared making a misstep even among a group of horrible non-dancers disappeared, and he eased forward, arms wide, palms facing outward. He dropped his gaze to her shoulder, trying to gauge her reactions in his periphery vision. He didn’t have any food with him, and he rather thought beckoning her with a morsel of chocolate or a tea biscuit would be more insulting than helpful, so he began to talk in the same low voice he used with his horses.

  “If learning this waltz is essential to my making a bid for Lady Rebecca’s affections, I would be most appreciative of any help you can provide. I realize it is asking a lot of you, though, and you’ve already done quite a bit.”

  “That’s what friends do,” she said in a thin, high-pitched voice. He fought a grin at her failed attempt to sound unaffected and calm.

  Were they friends? The concept was foreign to him. Not the idea of friends in general, but the idea of female ones. The women he’d encountered until now were to be revered and respected but kept at a distance. Still, he had to admit that since leaving India his best conversations had been with this unpredictable woman and an unconventional employee who both was and wasn’t of his social class.

  “This waltz, then, is a dance?” The foolish question would hopefully prompt her to start explaining. Maybe once she was instructing him again, she would forget whatever was causing these nerves.

  “Yes, though it’s fairly new to England, or at least in London and here. It is nice for courting couples, though, as the pair stays together for the entire dance.”

  “I can see how that would be advantageous.” A step forward brought him within touching distance of her if he stretched his arm fully forward, so he came to a stop. The next move would have to be hers. “What do we do first?”

  “Well.” She looked up at him. “The waltz is a series of movements performed in a circle. It won’t be easy to hide that you’ve never properly learned.”

  “Isn’t that a problem you are correcting?” He gave her a grin that he hoped conveyed jovial humility.

  A small answering smile curved her lips. “I can hardly make you an expert in a matter of minutes.”

  “Very well.” He drew himself up tall. “At least save me from total ignorance.”

  She laughed and dropped her gaze, and an uneasy feeling curled through Hudson’s middle now that he was no longer having to focus on keeping her from bolting. This was sounding an awful lot like a flirtation. As he had his intentions set on another woman, that wasn’t a proper thing to indulge in.

  “Where do we start?” He dropped his smile and his eye contact and looked at his feet, as if waiting for her to command him as she’d done earlier.

  “With the arms.” She pulled the pins from her hat and placed it near a tree. “That would be constantly bumping you in the nose if I left it on.”

  Hudson blinked. They were going to be that close to each other?

  With brisk movements, she shifted his arms until one curved in front of him and the other reached above his head.

  Then she stepped into the space created.

  Her back settled against one hand while she reached up and took hold of his other. Her second hand came to rest on his shoulder. Her upturned face was only inches from his own.

  No wonder the waltz was considered scandalous.

  “Then what?”

  “We go about in a circle. Sometimes we walk hand-in-hand, other times we’ll pirouette about, but for the most part, we slowly spin.”

  She hummed a tune as she directed him through their first pass around the small section of lawn. Once he got past the idea of this being a dance, he realized how similar this felt to riding and guiding a horse. By the second pass around, he felt quite confident in the basic movements.

  “How does one keep this from being an awkward interlude?” he asked. “The other night you said I am not allowed to dance multiple times with a single lady. That means I am sure to find myself in this position with a woman I am not courting.”

  “Such as now?” She peeked up at him with a mischievous grin.

  Hudson coughed. “Yes. Such as now.”

  She tilted her head, considering him as he continued to guide her about the grass. “You talk.”

  “About what?”

  “Anything. I think that’s part of the scandal, you know. A couple can hold a personal conversation that only they can hear while still maintaining propriety. It’s as close to alone as some couples can get, at least in the city.”

  Hudson chuckled and experimented with their pirouette in a way that drew a small laugh from Miss Snowley. “Does that mean I shall get to hold a conversation that is not about the weather or the antics of a drunken idiot? The only other conversation I had at the assembly speculated upon Lady Rebecca’s arrival, and I hardly think the lady would like to discuss that.”

  “No, I would think not.” Miss Snowley grinned up at him, and he felt a bit of tension leave her as her back settled more solidly against his hand. “You could talk about your own arrival. That was what everyone else discussed on Saturday.”

  Hudson winced. “I supposed as much. Please tell me that will eventually become an uninteresting topic.”

  She smirked. “How long have you been in England?”

  Hudson counted back the days, surprised to discover his feet had been on solid ground for only a mere week. “Not long. I’m afraid I still have quite a few adjustments to make.”

  She pinched the lightweight fabric of his jacket. “Such as clothing?”

  He nodded. “I’ve pressed one of the footmen into service as a valet. I heard him grumbling about my clothing as he unpacked. Said the fabrics were fit for a women’s shop.”

  �
��We do tend to wear far thinner fabrics than the men.”

  He shuddered. “How do you keep from freezing?”

  “Capes?”

  “Hardly practical.”

  “When practical clothing is called for, we wear heavier fabrics. See my riding clothes? Your coat should be made of wool such as this.” She rolled her shoulders. “Admittedly, it is making this dance far more difficult than normal, but I rather think your coats will be cut a bit differently from mine. Eventually you’ll become accustomed to it.”

  “I fear there are many things to which I need to become accustomed.” He slid his hand a bit lower on her back to guide her around a plant he’d accidentally brought them too close to. “Is all English food dreadful?”

  “I, er, well. . . . Admittedly, Mr. Pierre isn’t known for arranging particularly delectable refreshments, but there are other foods.”

  Hudson grunted. He wished he was only referring to the paltry offerings at the assembly, but indeed he’d now suffered through several meals within his own home that had been sufficiently filling but hardly enjoyable. “I wonder if my cook is of the same mind as Mr. Pierre.”

  “I doubt it. While Newmarket has more than its share of aristocracy thanks to the horses, working at Hawksworth isn’t a position a servant wants to risk losing. You can’t think the servants aren’t trying to impress you.”

  “You mean to tell me that all English food is that bland?”

  She laughed. “We make up for it with saucy women who attack men in their own stables.”

  “Ah yes,” he said with a laugh, pulling her a bit closer before he thought to stop himself. Yes, this was a scandalous dance indeed, but he didn’t cease their endless circle. “I think, given the choice, I’d rather have bland food than boring company.”

  “It’s a rather good thing you met me then, isn’t it?” she asked quietly.

  “Yes, I think it is,” he answered in a whisper, all too aware of the fact that there wasn’t any part of her that was more than six inches away from him.

  It was close enough to distinguish the warmth that came from being in the proximity of another living body. The sensation was quite different from being in the vicinity of a horse, though. While the animals could envelop a man in heat, this was a more delicate sensation, almost more of an impression than a feeling he could truly identify.

  He wasn’t sure which of them stopped the dance as they stumbled to a halt, but both of them jerked away from each other and looked anywhere but at the other person.

  “There’s—” She paused to clear her throat again. “There’s more than dancing that you’ll need to know. I’m assuming you’ve learned proper table habits in India?”

  He pulled his gaze from a large pink flower to consider her. Was she being serious? “Yes. I’ve even been using a fork for a full year now.”

  A slash of pink started at her ears and slid across her cheekbones even as she lifted a hand to hide her small smile. “Of course you have. I’m positive it’s been at least two since you stopped slurping from your spoon?”

  “Oh, nearly three.” He looked her way and, thankfully, the strange sensations of moments ago were nowhere to be found. All he felt was the camaraderie they’d known earlier. “I’m afraid, though, that this is a case of not knowing what I don’t know.”

  “If you want more help dancing before the next assembly, let me know,” she said quietly. “I’m here most mornings anyway.” She clasped her hands in front of her and lifted her chin. “To ride.”

  He bit his cheek to keep from smiling. “I do believe you are simply angling for access to my horses, Miss Snowley.”

  “Well,” she said with a grin, “I have known the horses longer than I’ve known you.”

  “Speaking of riding—”

  “Yes. Odysseus. Mr. Knight said he would have him saddled for me.” She twisted her hands in front of her. Obviously she found this moment as difficult as he did. That was good. It would mean they would both avoid repeating it.

  “I’ll just . . . go for that ride now.” She stepped backward a few paces and then gave a small smile before turning and walking away.

  Hudson didn’t move until her figure disappeared from view.

  Eleven

  Never again would Bianca think those Minerva Press novels that she openly teased Marianne about reading but sneaked into her own room in the evenings were nothing but silly nonsense. At this moment, flopped across her bed in her riding habit, she was as floaty and nonsensical as any heroine jumping at shadows.

  She even felt that edge of fear along with her hesitant happiness. Lord Stildon was everything in a man that Bianca hadn’t even admitted she was looking for.

  Well, except for the fact that he was looking for Lady Rebecca.

  Bianca was pretty enough, especially if she sat still while Dorothy properly attended to her hair and clothing, and she would be welcome in nearly every fine drawing room in Newmarket, assuming she could stomach making visits with her stepmother. But there were two things she didn’t have and never would.

  A title and a champion horse.

  She pushed up into a sitting position with a sigh and set about removing her hat and her habit before she ruined both by wallowing on the bed.

  Was she wishing Lady Rebecca ill to hope the woman chose a different man? Just because Bianca had never met anyone more appealing didn’t mean Lord Stildon was perfect for everyone. Lady Rebecca would have every suitor imaginable making visits to Newmarket. She would have her choice of titled men. Why would she choose Lord Stildon?

  “Why indeed?” Bianca muttered as she took the pins from her hair. If one meeting with the man had her feeling giddy, what would happen to Lady Rebecca when she encountered him while he was actually trying to be charming?

  A knock at her door provided a welcome distraction from the mind-numbing swirl her thoughts were descending into. “Enter.”

  The last person Bianca expected to open the door was her stepmother, but there she was, fading blond hair piled up into fashionable curls and a curve to her lips that should have been a smile but somehow looked sour.

  Bianca was fairly certain that Mrs. Snowley hadn’t visited her in her rooms since she moved down from the nursery six years ago. She blinked at the woman but wasn’t at all sure what to say.

  Mrs. Snowley didn’t have that problem. Her farce of a smile turned into a sneer as she took in the disheveled riding clothes. “You haven’t changed yet?”

  “I only just returned home.”

  “And you’re going out again. Dorothy will be in as soon as she has finished with Marianne. I expect you downstairs in half an hour.” Mrs. Snowley sniffed and turned back toward the door.

  Bianca took several paces across the room, ready to snatch her stepmother by the arm if the woman tried to leave without explaining herself. “Where am I to be going?”

  Mrs. Snowley heaved a sigh so strong that it caused her curls to tremble. “Marianne and I make calls on Mondays.”

  “Yes, I know. What has that to do with me?” Bianca didn’t want to participate in those calls any more than Mrs. Snowley wanted to take her, so why the sudden insistence?

  “Your father thinks I’m not giving you the same social advantages as Marianne. Half an hour.” The older woman left before Bianca could decide on the appropriate additional question.

  Dorothy appeared, a dress draped over her arm. Bianca’s confusion and suspicion kept her still enough for Dorothy to make the necessary alterations to her appearance in the allotted time.

  For as long as Bianca could remember, Mrs. Snowley had been the mother figure in her life, and she’d seen enough to guess what awaited her over the next few hours. She braced for censure, prepared for snide remarks, and shored up the defenses on her confidence against any and all attacks on her appearance.

  Mrs. Snowley and Marianne were waiting in the front hall when Bianca came down the stairs, and soon they were bundled into the carriage and on their way. Bianca tucked the latest goss
ip sheet into her reticule so she could surreptitiously study it and be able to identify any sly remarks or comparisons made at her expense.

  Receiving compliments from her stepmother was never even a consideration, so the visits that followed had Bianca wishing she carried a vial of hartshorn, because surely someone was going to faint in shock.

  Possibly even her.

  “She’s so accomplished,” Mrs. Snowley told Mrs. Fernstone at their first stop. “You’ve seen her at the assemblies. Everyone likes her, and she’s as light and graceful as a feather.”

  Bianca narrowed her gaze at her stepmother. The nicest thing Mrs. Snowley had ever said about Bianca was that she evened up the numbers at a dinner party well. What was she doing listing Bianca’s abilities? How did she even know Bianca’s abilities?

  Know them she did, because everywhere they went, she extolled Bianca’s slightest virtues.

  “Her pianoforte is exemplary when one considers how little she gets to practice because of the time she spends riding. That might not be an asset everywhere, but this is Newmarket,” she said to another matron whose name Bianca couldn’t remember. The woman had a horrific dog that huddled underneath a chair and stared at Bianca throughout the visit.

  By the third visit, Bianca was positive something nefarious was underfoot. It sounded as if Mrs. Snowley thought Bianca was a horse going off to auction. Was this what the woman normally did on her Monday visits? Did she go about telling everyone how amazing Marianne was? Surely not. They’d never be invited anywhere.

  Speaking of Marianne, the girl had been oddly silent all day.

  Bianca turned in her sister’s direction. Did she know what was going on? Her eyes met Bianca’s before quickly looking away, but that was not enough to declare the younger girl’s guilt. If she were truly hiding anything she’d shift her hips and—there! Bianca barely resisted the urge to point at her sister and cry out “Aha!” as Marianne pushed against the edge of her chair to turn her hips slightly away from Bianca.

  A sisterly chat was obviously in order when they returned home. It might involve pinning the younger girl down and threatening to pummel her with a pillow, but Bianca would learn what she needed to know.