Love At The House Party (Women 0f Worth Book 3) Read online

  Nodding, I glanced at Emma. She sat quietly on the seat beside me, the fear on her face gone. It was likely replaced with the thrill of rescue by two handsome strangers. I could not help but feel like I would have enjoyed the adventure in my youngers years, as well. But of course, I’d had enough adventure in my young life to satisfy me. I did not need any more now than I was able to glean from my novels.

  No, what I needed was a nice, steady man who could lend me his name, protection, and financial security. A staid man like Mr. Bancroft.

  The Mr. Bancroft who I had once nearly rejected because of the very qualities that drew me toward him now. Though we had been separated before any rejection occurred; he was never given the opportunity to offer for me then.

  Shivering, I wrapped my arms around my waist, but I could not keep my teeth from chattering.

  “Take this,” Lord Stallsbury said, handing me a folded blanket. He gave another to Emma and then wrapped a third around his own legs. He was visibly shivering as well, and guilt pierced me for arguing with him in the rain. If this powerful lord was to become ill due to my recklessness and broken carriage, then Mrs. Bancroft would surely not be pleased. If I remembered correctly, to make Mr. Bancroft happy, the happiness of his mother was paramount.

  Chapter 2

  The carriage plodded along, bringing us to Bancroft Hill within the hour. The house’s large, square shape was like an empty fire grate, and it looked just as cold.

  Lord Stallsbury eyed me with his shrewd gaze. “We must see about getting you inside quickly.”

  I glanced back at the house, cool and uninviting; not at all what I had imagined. “And yourself, sir. You stood in the rain longer than I.” Though I could not fault his chivalry, it was certainly unexpected once I discovered who he was. Nevertheless, it had been so long since another man thought of my needs before his own. I had almost forgotten how sweet it felt to be taken care of.

  I allowed a dripping footman to assist me from the carriage, his umbrella doing little to shield me from the bitter rain. Wincing as my stockinged feet picked their way across the gravel drive, I hurried up the steps to the front door before Lord Stallsbury could do his part to assist me once again. Inside, water dripped from my person and pooled on the marble foyer. The house was large, dark, and warm. Instantly I rebuked my unkind thoughts on its lofty appearance, for I was sure to dry quickly and thoroughly in its warmth.

  “Miss Clarke, it has been ages!” a voice squealed from the other side of the hallway. I turned at the sound of my maiden name. A young woman stepped forward and I recognized Miss Bancroft at once—or I supposed she was Mrs. Haley now.

  “I am so glad to finally be here,” I said. “The storm was worse than we expected when we first set out.”

  She halted just before reaching to embrace me, her hands paused midair. She did not resemble her brother at all with her dark brown hair and round cheeks. “Yes, I can see that. I shall have a bath prepared at once.” She peeked around me. “And the rest of your party?”

  I glanced over my shoulder. Another footman had procured an umbrella and a man was leading Emma away, doing his best to protect her from the rain.

  “My carriage had trouble,” I explained. “Yet we were fortunate to encounter Lord Stallsbury and Mr. Peterson on the road. They conveyed my maid and me here, but I am afraid my coachman remained behind to be with the horses.” I had a sudden thought and I spun toward the approaching gentleman, ignoring the gleam in Mrs. Haley’s eye. “Did my coachman happen to send my trunk?”

  Lord Stallsbury had the grace to look bashful. “I am afraid we did not think of it.”

  Terrific. No shoes, no night clothes, no dry dress for tomorrow. Now I stood dripping water in the entranceway with nothing to change into.

  “I have nothing, then,” I said quietly.

  “I am sure we can find you something,” Mrs. Haley said cheerfully, and I did my best not to eye her short stature too closely. She turned, speaking to the man behind me. “Grant, send for a bath for Miss Clarke and see that Hannah is sent to my room.”

  He was off at once and she added, “Come, we will get this sorted.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Haley. Though I should remind you that I am no longer Miss Clarke.” And perhaps it would be incumbent of me to add that I was a good deal taller than herself.

  “Oh?” she asked, beginning up the stairs.

  “Yes. I am now Mrs. Wheeler.” As I had been for nearly four years.

  She paused, glancing at me over her shoulder. “I had forgotten. Forgive me, Mrs. Wheeler. I will do better in the future.”

  “It is no matter.” If I had my way, I would only claim the name a few months longer anyway. We passed a large portrait hall with numerous large paintings of Bancroft men. All of them shared similar sandy-colored, curly hair and square jaws. I paused and looked up at one painting, the gentleman’s expression particularly engaging. Was that what my future held? Curly-haired, square-jawed children?

  A blush warmed my cheeks at the presumptuous thought. Do not get ahead of yourself. I still had yet to see the man. It had been years, after all, since our last encounter during the London Season.

  And quite a lot could change in a person in any small amount of time. Of this, I knew firsthand.

  * * *

  The morning light greeted me early and I arose, dressing in a borrowed gown of coral and green that did nothing for my pale complexion and was a good three inches too short. Emma did her best to pin a length of fabric to the hem, though it was of a dismal cream and did not match in the least, forcing it to stand out excessively. It covered the snug borrowed slippers well enough, however, and was far better than showing too much ankle at my first meeting with my potential mother-in-law. I could only hope to be understandingly received when the party learned of my misfortune.

  Washed out and tired from the eventful journey, in a gown that was not my own and hardly fit was not how I wished to greet my future husband, but it mattered little. There was nothing for it; I had to go down to breakfast.

  Laughter trailed down the hall, traveling down my spine like an uncomfortable finger. I used to be entertaining in crowds, easily making conversation and procuring my own stream of ready laughter. Now, it seemed my life had become too deliberate for such frivolity. It was not so easy to lie about in relative carelessness when so much rested on my ability to be successful.

  The closer my steps took me to the breakfast room, the higher my anxiety rose. Mr. Bancroft was not expecting a time-worn widow to step through the door, not when he had known the fanciful lady from before. Would he be disgusted by my alteration?

  I stood at the door, listening to the pleasant conversation taking place on the other side.

  “Are you going in?” a deep voice asked behind me.

  Jumping, I clutched my heart. I caught Lord Stallsbury’s gaze over my shoulder. “Eventually, I suppose.”

  He waited a moment, sighing. “You’ve obtained a gown.”

  “Yes.” I turned to face him, poking my foot out from beneath the makeshift hem. “And slippers so tight I very well might lose the feeling in my feet. Though I suppose there are plenty of gentlemen nearby should I fall.” Laughing, I sought his gaze for the shared joke. Surely if we saw amusement in the carriage ordeal it would not be uncomfortable between us. The man had carried me; I could still feel the warmth from where his hands had been.

  He glanced at me curiously. Perhaps he did not follow my joke. “You are lingering intentionally, Mrs. Wheeler. Have you just cause for such an action?”

  I said nothing. I’d been caught out. And Lord Stallsbury, it seemed, did not find humor easily in the mornings.

  He brushed past me, opening the door and waiting for me to walk through it, impatience clear in the set of his mouth.

  He’d forced my hand. I had no other recourse but to walk into the room. Whether I appreciated this or was repelled by it, I could not tell. What I did know was I had no choice, and I quickly stepped through the door and
into a room of utter silence.

  If only the occupants were still laughing, then at least I would have avoided the unwelcome stares found on every face in the room.

  I swallowed. That was untrue and I knew it. I was not unwelcome. I had come to Bancroft Hill by express invitation to court a man. It was only natural that everyone at the house party would be aware of the situation. Gossip did not sit still for very long. They likely only stared because they were curious.

  “Good morning,” I said to the room at large, delivering a curtsy on shaky legs.

  Chair legs scraped against the floor as Mr. Bancroft stood with haste, setting his napkin carefully on the table. Our eyes locked across the room as though we were the only two occupants.

  He looked very much the same. Curly, sandy blonde hair, tousled in a state of perfected disarray, brown eyes, and a steady brow. He was as constant and stable as a trusty hound dog, and equally as gentle. The intensity of his gaze said he was perhaps not disappointed by the changes he saw in me—for surely there were many.

  “Mrs. Wheeler,” he said, bowing before me. “I heard of your unfortunate experience yesterday. I apologize for the horrid condition in which you found the roads.”

  I laughed with gentle ease, much to my own surprise. “You can hardly be faulted for the state of the roads, Mr. Bancroft. Though I appreciate the sentiment all the same.”

  “Come, Mrs. Wheeler,” Mrs. Haley said from her seat at the table, snapping me to awareness of the other eyes watching us. “You must be ravenous.”

  I sat in the empty chair beside Mr. Bancroft and waited as he filled a plate for me at the sideboard.

  Mrs. Bancroft watched me from her seat across the table, her gaze crawling over my skin like tiny bugs.

  I met my potential mother-in-law’s eyes, determined to say something that would paint me in a flattering light. Her shrewd gaze pierced me, silencing my thoughts at once.

  “Mrs. Wheeler,” she said, “how nice it is that you chose to join us this week.”

  Did she truly feel so? I could not tell. Finding my voice, I replied, “I am glad to be here. It has been ages since I enjoyed a house party.”

  “Yes, I’d imagine so.”

  I leaned back to allow room for the plate Mr. Bancroft filled for me. He must have taken his sister’s exclamation literally. Food mounded the plate near to overflowing.

  I thanked him, using my fork to push aside sausages, kippers and pastries. With the eyes of so many strangers watching, I could not take a single bite.

  A woman glided into the room, taking her seat beside an older man I didn’t recognize at the other end of the table. Her gown was a delicate confection and her nose trained closer to the ceiling than the floor.

  “Miss Pollard, you are looking lovely this morning,” Mrs. Bancroft said, her tone dripping honey. “A night of rest has done much to restore you.”

  “It has, thank you.”

  The older gentleman beside her rose and filled a plate for her as she waited. Her gaze appraised me, a delicate line marring her brow. “William,” she purred, “do introduce us. I have anticipated this moment for an age.”

  I took a quick bite to cover my shock. Clearly they were on close terms to use Christian names at the breakfast table, and before other guests, too. I would assume there was an understanding between them had I not been invited to Bancroft Hill for that very purpose.

  I could not tell whether the swirl of unease in my stomach was due to Miss Pollard and her perfectly coiffed head or the kipper I unwittingly shoved into my mouth.

  “Please allow me the honor, Miss Pollard,” Mr. Bancroft said, eyeing her with deliberation. Clearly uncomfortable with the use of his Christian name, he held her gaze a moment longer before introducing us, then continuing about the room, introducing me to Mr. Pollard, the woman’s stout father, who was busy retrieving her breakfast, and Mr. Peterson, who had entered the room at that moment.

  “I absolutely cannot wait to get to know you, Mrs. Wheeler,” Miss Pollard said, eyeing me with a small grin. She did not allow Mr. Bancroft’s subtle chastisement to derail her, and for that I had to admire her. “I shall fill your head with stories of Mr. Bancroft’s misdeeds and we can laugh together over his silly childhood antics.”

  “I should think you would assist me, Miss Pollard,” Mr. Bancroft replied, “and only share those anecdotes which might be complimentary.”

  Miss Pollard’s laugh rang clear through the room. “As though you need any help creating a good name for yourself.”

  Her disbelief was relatable. Mr. Bancroft was the very image of chivalrous civility. He was refined preciseness, from the clothing he wore to the perfect haphazard placement of his curls. It was a blessed miracle the man remained yet unwed.

  “We have planned a great many things to occupy our time,” Mrs. Bancroft said, stealing the attention from every member of the room. My gaze traveled the length of the table, resting upon Lord Stallsbury and Mr. Peterson where they sat at the far end in quiet conversation. They were rather reserved this morning. Perhaps that was typical behavior for them, but it did not fall in line with the stories I’d heard of the man about town.

  “And we thought,” Mr. Bancroft added, turning his slightly anxious gaze on me, “to begin with an archery tournament. Should you find that to your liking, Mrs. Wheeler?”

  I pressed the toes of my borrowed slippers into the floor. Could he mean today? I was poorly outfitted and lacked proper footwear, but I would not let that get in the way of what little time we had to reacquaint ourselves. I had very little time and a large order to fill. I needed to get my hands on a pair of sturdier shoes forthwith. “That would be lovely.”

  He beamed at me, his cheeks tingeing pink in a most becoming way. I laughed to cover my nerves and trained my gaze back on my plate, but not before catching Lord Stallsbury’s inquisitive stare just over Mr. Bancroft’s shoulder.

  The butterflies in my midsection beat a rapid measure. I felt the heat of Mr. Bancroft’s gaze warm my neck. It appeared his affection was as unchanged as his appearance. I only hoped I would not disappoint him.

  Chapter 3

  Removing to my room to gather my bonnet and shawl, I came upon a brown paper package nestled in the doorway of my bedchamber.

  “Emma,” I called, bringing the parcel inside and closing the door. “What is this?”

  She glanced up from the bedclothes she’d been fixing. “I don’t know, miss.”

  Peeling back the thick paper to reveal brown leather, I gasped. “Emma, someone has gotten me shoes! I can hardly credit it. However would they have done so with such speed?”

  She shrugged, clearly not as enthralled with the mystery as I. I would have thought the idea of a mystery would entice her. It was certainly captivating to me.

  “But who could have done so?” Fingering the supple leather, I sat on the edge of my bed and removed the slippers from my feet. Mrs. Haley was shorter than me and in possession of smaller feet, and I was at once relieved to stretch my toes. Pulling on the well-made half-boots, I sighed. They were a touch too large, but otherwise a perfectly comfortable fit.

  Mr. Bancroft had mentioned just that morning at breakfast how he was sorry to hear about my ordeal, so he must have been informed about my missing shoes as well and sent a servant directly to obtain me a new pair. There was no other reasonable explanation. Lord Stallsbury and Mr. Peterson both were present and aware of the mud stealing my shoes, but surely neither of them would gift me such a large and costly item.

  My heart swelled as Emma knelt down and laced the boots. I jumped up, took a few turns about the room and halted near the window. It overlooked the estate and duck pond, as well as a grove of trees on the far side. Bancroft Hill was grander than any home I’d lived in, and Mr. Bancroft was a kind and chivalrous gentleman. True, nothing was certain, but for a moment I allowed myself to give into the hope swelling in my heart. I could be happy at Bancroft Hill. I was sure of it.

  There was a fine stable
on the opposite side of the house, and it contained, I was sure, an array of suitable mares for Charlotte to ride. She was positively horse mad and I could easily picture her galloping about the estate after I wed Mr. Bancroft and brought her to live with me. She would be happy here, too.

  The sun, peeking through soft clouds, lit the rolling lawn and filtered through my window, warming me. I had made the correct decision in coming to Bancroft Hill. I would not let this opportunity pass.

  * * *

  “Have you participated in archery before?” Miss Pollard asked, strolling beside me across the immaculately cut lawn. Her soft pink gown and matching ribbon sewn through her hair were lovely, frilly confections that seemed more suited to a drawing room than a damp lawn. The storm from yesterday had receded, much like Mr. Peterson predicted, yet the chill and cloudy sky remained a steady reminder that the weather could turn around quickly if it pleased.

  “Not in quite a few years,” I answered. My marriage had not been privileged enough to claim an estate with its own lawn. It had been years since I’d lived in a house with enough space for the sport. I had not participated in lawn games since my youth.

  “That will probably run in your favor,” she said, coming closer and lowering her voice. “The men appreciate a win. Do not endeavor to put yourself out.”

  “Is that a universal fact?” I asked.

  She nodded, sure of herself. “Of course.”

  The only man currently in my life was my brother, Noah, and he was not usually alert enough to play any games, let alone care who won or lost. And my marriage was too much of a sham to really give me any true credence on what men did or did not appreciate.

  “Thank you for the insight.”

  She smiled, lifting her chin. “Of course. We women ought to stick together.”