A Lady's Favor Read online

  The announcement for supper was made, and they both looked toward the ballroom doors, where guests were beginning to make their way toward the supper room. Lord Strapshire appeared in the doorway, glaring at them.

  “The time has gone too quickly,” Bianca said as they both stood. She faced him and reached for his hand. “Thank you, again, for doing all of this. I hope it will be over soon, for your sake.”

  “Do not worry about me,” he said, hoping she could feel the meaning behind his words. “I am enjoying myself immensely.”

  She cocked her head to the side. “Are you really?”

  He nodded slowly, holding her eyes throughout the motion.

  She smiled again, wide and with a slight dimple in her cheek. “Well, thank you, again.”

  He inclined his head and put out his arm so that he might escort her to the looming Strapshire. “You are welcome. Again.”

  FIVE

  Lord Strapshire was no less insufferable during supper than he had ever been on past occasions, but Bianca found him less tedious, surely due to the balm Mathew gave her with his attention. His kindness, though the result of returning the favor he owed her, gave her hope that one day a man more like him, and less like the silly baron, would have interest in her without her having to request it. She would like a man who listened to her the way Mathew did, who explained his goals and ambition and didn’t put so much stock in appearances that he had little else to offer. She would like that very much. Already, Mathew knew more about her than Lord Strapshire did simply because he’d asked.

  After supper, Mathew asked her for a second dance and she agreed, wishing they had been able to enjoy the waltz. He was a fine dancer, never mind his jesting, and she would not mind the feel of his hand at her waist nor the chance to talk with him throughout the dance. But it was not to be and instead they shared a quadrille, which was enjoyable but murder on her feet. When they finished, he led her to a chair and apologized immediately.

  “I am sorry my discomfort is so obvious,” she said, cringing as she curled her toes. She wished she could remove the shoes completely and soak her feet in a warm tub of water. She looked at him. “I enjoyed the dance very much.”

  “May I sit with you through this set?” Mathew raised his eyebrows in what she thought was a hopeful manner.

  “I have already taken far more of your time than I deserve.”

  “I have been happy to share the time with you.”

  She found it impossible to look away from his eyes. Did he mean it? She did not know him well enough to gauge his sincerity. He could be a flirt and a rake for all she knew, though such gossip usually found its way through parlors quickly enough should that be the case. But still, he was here because she had offered him relief from his debt to her. To consider any other reason was foolish . . . and dangerous. The Incident would always be between them. She looked at her feet, pushing away those pesky memories for the second time in one night.

  “There you are!”

  She and Mathew looked up to see Lord Strapshire standing before them, a brilliant smile on his fine face.

  “Miss Davidson is sitting this set out,” Mathew explained in an even tone, though Bianca could feel the way he cut off each word at the end.

  “Very good,” Lord Strapshire said, taking the empty seat to Bianca’s right. He tried to take her hand, but she pretended not to notice as she smoothed her skirts. Instead, she asked Mathew when his parents would return from London.

  “My mother is in London,” Lord Strapshire interrupted before Mathew could answer. He then went on to explain in great detail what his mother did in London—shopping, tea with her many distinguished friends of rank and consequence, promenades, and dinner parties.

  Bianca clenched her teeth and avoided Mathew’s eye for fear it would be her undoing. She knew he wanted to help her out of this stupid conversation; she could feel it in the tension of his body next to her. But they could not excuse themselves to dance a third dance—it would be too much too soon—and they had already taken time in the garden. Bianca saw little chance for rescue, but it was unfair that they both had to suffer through this tedious monologue. When Lord Strapshire paused for a breath, she turned to Mathew and spoke quickly.

  “Did you not want to play a round of whist, Mr. Hensley? I hope you will not let us keep you.”

  Mathew furrowed his brow slightly, then seemed to understand her attempt at rescue. He leaned forward and addressed the baron. “Would you care to join me, Strapshire? I believe I overheard some men saying they were bereft at your spending all your time on the dance floor. I know they are eager to hear your tales of London and admire your fine skill at cards.”

  “Oh, well, I try to reserve my skill at the table for card parties, rather than side entertainments at fine events such as this, but seeing as how I am unable to dance any more with this fine lady . . .” He grabbed Bianca’s hand, raised it to his lips, and planted a lingering kiss.

  She withdrew her hand as quickly as she could. “Oh, do entertain yourself with a hand of cards, Lord Strapshire,” she said. “I have some friends I am eager to talk with.”

  He lifted one eyebrow. “No doubt they are eager to talk with you as well, seeing as how you have been so well attended by a certain man this night.”

  She pasted a false smile on her face. “Indeed, I’m sure they will want to know all about Mr. Hensley’s return.”

  His expression fell immediately. “Oh, well, yes, but I meant—” He leaned in slightly, prodding her with his eyes to interpret his meaning.

  “You mean, yourself?” she asked, her eyebrows lifting as though surprised by the idea. “But Mr. Hensley is so recently returned. One of our own, you know, with the refinement of Oxford and travel to renew our interest.”

  She smiled at Mathew, who was not hiding his surprise at her boldness as well as she would have liked him too. She widened her eyes expectantly, trying to signal that it was his turn to speak. He interpreted the look correctly, repaired his expression, and rose to his feet.

  “It seems Miss Davidson has all manner of gossip to share. Let us not keep her from it, Strapshire, and instead see if you can best me at cards.”

  Lord Strapshire stood to accept the challenge. He lifted his chin as though to give the appearance of looking down on the shorter Mathew. “I can most certainly best you at cards, Hensley.”

  “Do you think so?” Mathew said and turned toward the room. “Then let’s get on with it.” He paused and looked back at Bianca. “A pleasant evening to you, Miss Davidson.”

  “Yes,” Lord Strapshire echoed before Bianca could answer. He stepped toward her and put his hand out, but she clasped hers tightly in her lap and gave him an innocent look. He had already kissed her hand once after all; he did not need, nor did he deserve, a second round. “A most pleasant evening to you, Miss Davidson. I shall be lost without you until we again have the chance to gaze into one another’s eyes.” She made no move to take his outstretched hand, nor did she respond to his silly compliment.

  After a few more seconds, he awkwardly lowered his hand to his side, gave her a slight bow, and turned to follow Mathew. Just before they disappeared, Mathew looked toward her and caught her eye.

  “Thank you,” she mouthed to him.

  He smiled, nodded once, and disappeared into the card room.

  The next morning, Bianca descended the stairs to find a dozen large bouquets of flowers in the foyer. Two servants were discussing what to do with them as Bianca approached.

  “What is this?” she asked, looking at the blooms. They were glorious—all shades of pinks and reds and purples. Some flowers she did not think were even available in this part of the country. Where had they come from?

  “Flowers for you, miss,” said one of the maids.

  Sherman, the butler, nodded. “Came just a bit ago. Your mother is out, and it’s Mrs. Gilmore’s morning off. We are unsure where to put them.”

  “For me?” Bianca said, walking toward them. The frag
rance was lovely and heady at the same time. “Who are they from?” She’d no sooner said it than she knew exactly who they were from and her initial thrill was snuffed out.

  “Lord Strapshire,” the maid said just as Bianca had known she would. “His man brung ’em up.” She turned to look at the various pots and vases and clasped her hands beneath her chin. “Are they not ever so lovely?”

  “Yes,” Bianca said, though her jaw felt tight. She thought of the simple posy she’d received from Mathew the day before. She had not thought Lord Strapshire had noticed, but it seemed he had. Or Mama had told him of Mathew’s gesture. This was his attempt to best Mathew and impress her, but it had the exact opposite effect and showed how little he knew her. It was not extravagance and gluttony that impressed Bianca, but rather sincerity, kindness, and poise.

  “Please put one bouquet in each room, where appropriate,” she said, though she was half a mind to have them thrown to the pigs. She was not wasteful, however, and they were lovely if she did not think too hard on who had sent them.

  She continued toward the breakfast room, her chest tight with concerns about how Mama would interpret this gesture—to say nothing of how Lord Strapshire would preen about his generosity.

  “Miss?”

  Bianca turned back toward the maid who held a beautiful vase filled with daisies. “Which would you like in your chamber?”

  “None for my chamber,” she said, then caught the look of surprise on the maid’s face. “I spend so little time there that I would prefer the blooms are kept where the entire family, as well as the staff, might enjoy them. Please take some below stairs as well.”

  “Very good, miss,” the maid said, but she was obviously perplexed.

  Bianca ate a quick breakfast, her ire growing with every bite—especially after a flamboyant arrangement of lilies and gardenia was put on the sideboard—and then returned to the very room she had said she spent little time in. She trimmed her quill, removed a sheet of writing paper and began a note to Mathew—the only person to whom she could vent her frustrations.

  Dear Mathew,

  I had intended to write to you today and thank you for your kind consideration at last night’s ball. However, I now have a secondary reason for this note. Lord Strapshire is the most arrogant, cotton-headed, nitwit I have ever encountered in my life! I awoke this morning to find . . .

  SIX

  Mathew read Bianca’s letter with one hand over his mouth to keep from laughing out loud. He could picture her narrowing her eyes at the preponderance of flowers and thinking of all the things she would like to do to destroy them. Certainly, she did none of that, but that she would tell him how she wanted to react increased his confidence in their growing connection all the more.

  Oh, she was delightful! Smart and refined, yet confident enough to be insulted by Lord Strapshire’s ridiculous attention and determined to have her way. Did her letter mean that she was perhaps seeing Mathew as more than a temporary solution to her problem?

  He pulled out a sheet of his own paper and began his response.

  Dear Bianca,

  I hope you will forgive me for laughing over your difficulties, but you write with such fantastic humor that I am most diverted. It does seem obvious to me that Strapshire is attempting to improve himself upon you, yet I am not the least bit dissuaded from our course. I am inclined to invite you for a ride tomorrow afternoon and hope that you will be able to attend me. We could ride through the village and stop for tea, perhaps, at the Heart and Spoon. Surely any number of our neighbors will see us, if not Strapshire himself. On a selfish note, I enjoyed our conversation last night at least as well as I enjoyed the dancing, and I look forward to talking with you once again.

  Unfortunately, the next morning I am due in Middleborough for a few days on some matters of business. I return on Friday, however, in time for the Macleans’ ball and would appreciate your saving me the first dance. I have not known Strapshire to ever be too interested in any one thing for very long, and although you are far more interesting than horseflesh or a course of study, I am hopeful he will soon throw up his hands and move on to some other matter of fascination.

  I wish you a pleasant day amid your lovely blooms,

  Your friend,

  Mathew

  The next day, Mathew collected Bianca in his curricle as promised, and they rode through the village, also as promised. She ranted about Lord Strapshire, who had come to dinner the evening before, and been so overbearingly attentive that she nearly screamed out loud. “He could not sit by me without touching me somehow. His hand on my shoulder or at my back. I wanted to throttle him!” She finally resorted to claiming a headache so that she might withdraw from his company.

  Mathew hated the idea of that man touching her, but he laughed at her recitation of the events and her spark. It wasn’t that he disliked hearing her complaints against Strapshire—he enjoyed them immensely—but he liked to hear about her life even more.

  He asked after how she spent a typical day. Eventually conversation turned to family, and he told her of his older sisters—he was the youngest child and only son. Bianca told him that her brothers would be coming home for summer holiday in another month, and she was excited by the prospect. The timing of their return would coordinate with the plan for Mathew’s affections to wane, but he did not bring that up.

  He purchased ices for them both and then stopped to speak with some friends of their parents before beginning the return journey to her family’s home on the west end of town. Mathew’s family estate, Renshaw Place, was along the southern edge, leaving perhaps two miles of woods, cut through with riding trails and walking paths, between their homes.

  They had enjoyed nearly an hour in one another’s company, but Mathew wanted more. He had spent time with many young women over the last few years, as his eligibility improved, but none had captured his interest the way Bianca had these last few days. He had begun to think of ways he might suggest they not do so much pretending of their feelings when she shifted uncomfortably in her seat. He glanced at her and then, belatedly, realized the reason for her discomfort.

  They were passing Tampton’s Road, a rather overgrown path, really, that led to the place of the Incident. He had purposely taken another way around when they were heading toward the village, but his thoughts had distracted him to the point where he had not been as considerate for the journey back.

  He cleared his throat. “My apologies,” he said. “I had not meant to go this way.”

  “It is all right,” she said, but her voice was tight. She glanced down the lane, and he wondered if she were reliving the events the same as he was. “I try not to think about it.”

  “As do I,” he said quickly, very much wanting her to know of his regret. “Such avoidance is easier when I am not in Brookborrow.”

  “I am always in Brookborrow.” She shook her head, as though dislodging thoughts about the situation.

  They rode in silence the rest of the way to her home. He wondered if they would ever recover from the embarrassment. Was it truly so bad? But then he pictured what she must have seen and felt his face turn beet red in response—a teenage boy with his hands lashed above his head and tied to the beam of that forsaken shed. It would have been bad enough if he’d been clothed, but he’d had only his drawers on, and she was so young.

  What would have happened if she had not been willing to rescue him? Had she run off at first glance or told any other person the whole village would have known of his humiliation—which was certainly his cousins’ expectation.

  But Bianca had been remarkably steady for a girl of thirteen. She had found him a box to stand on so he could manage to create enough slack in the rope to untie himself. She had found a musty blanket in the corner for him. Even then she’d played lookout as they made their way back to his family estate where he hid in the barn while she alerted Ambrose—a footman back then.

  By the time Mathew’s cousins returned from their “ride,” he was dressed and
sitting in the drawing room as though nothing had happened.

  If Bianca had ever wondered why he had been in such a state, he did not know. She had never asked and he’d been too embarrassed to explain; they had never talked about it since.

  “I have relived that day a thousand times,” he began. “And I have—”

  “Do not think of it,” she said, glancing his way. He had only just turned into the lane leading to her house. Their time together was nearly spent. “That is the only solution I’ve found.”

  “I shall try not to.”

  He brought the carriage to a stop a few moments later and stepped down so that he might help her from her seat. His hands lingered on her waist, and he smiled down at her once her feet were on the ground. She held him in a look, an expression, a smile.

  “Thank you for a wonderful afternoon,” she said in a soft voice that raised goose bumps on his skin.

  “Thank you for the wonderful company.” He did not release her and she did not pull away. “I wish I were not leaving town for these next few days,” he said. “Will you be all right?”

  She nodded, then she raised her hand and brushed a lock of hair from his forehead, her fingers brushing at the side of his face. “Until Friday, then,” she said.

  “Until Friday.”

  SEVEN

  Mathew eagerly entered the Macleans’ ballroom Friday night and scanned the room until his eyes found Bianca. She wore a lovely gold and green gown—just as she said she would—and was talking with some other young women. In her hand was the posy he had sent that morning, violets, again, but with a gold ribbon to match her dress.

  He’d had the forethought to request the first dance in the attached note this time, in case she showed it to her mother again, and was surprised by his eagerness to take her to the floor. She looked his direction, saw him, and then smiled in a way that tempted him to believe they were not playing a game at all.