Woo'd in Haste (2 page)

I hope Brighton is its usual effervescent self. It will be such a relief to enjoy the sea air after all those months in London. London is wonderful and diverting, but a change of scene is very welcome.

Not that Bianca had ever experienced a change of scene, which Kate knew very well.

And without the eternal presence of our neighbor, as His Grace usually chooses to return home this time of year.

Peter Colburn, the Duke of Orland. Whom Kate disliked for some unknown reason. She never failed to post some snippety snippet about him in her letters.

I look forward to Christmastide and seeing you again. It has, as usual, been too long.

Bianca had a very faint memory from early childhood of toddling behind her sister, looking up at her in the hazy sunshine. Loving her.

Sometimes she longed for that falsely idyllic image. Longed for an older sister the same way she missed her mother.

Sometimes she longed for a mother.

Which Henrietta, her stepmother, would never be. No, Kate, in her usual way, had demanded all of the attention. Even before her sister had actively been antagonistic toward Bianca. And thus there was only Thomas. And Lottie.

Thank goodness for Lottie.

There were other homes, she knew, where there was a more conscious separation between master and servant. Indeed, between the regular staff, the parlor maids and footmen and so forth, yes, there was. But as her governess, Lottie was simply part of the family. And in many ways, the
entirety
of Bianca’s family.

P.S. If Mr. Buncombe comes calling, you should decline his suit by reminding him you may not marry before me!

Bianca read that last with a mixture of disgust and anger. Disgust because she would never consider marrying the much older, newly widowed Mr. Buncombe. Yes, his was one of the first families of the area, but his daughters were older than she and all already married. She didn’t need that ridiculous proclamation to keep her safe. All the reference did was make her burn with resentment. Just as she had burned for two years, despite her efforts to not worry about the things she could not control.

It had been the end of Kate’s first London season. Those four months had been the most pleasant of Bianca’s life in years. But then, in usual Kate fashion, her sister had come home for one week and turned Bianca’s world upside down. Kate had been in a rage from the first moment she walked into the house and no one had been safe. Bianca’s clothes were ugly, her posture slouched, she smelled of fish (yes, she had just returned with her angling rod). And when Bianca, excited for her own incipient season, dared to ask how Kate’s season had been, for details that were not in her sister’s letters, the infamous proclamation was made.

“You’ll have to wait for your season, Bianca. You shan’t marry before me!”

Terrified that her sister actually meant the flippant words, Bianca had said nothing more on the matter. After all, Kate was stubborn and would likely dig her heels in out of spite if pushed. But at the dressmaker several days later, the proclamation was reiterated. Then, after much ado, supported by their step-mother, upheld by their father, Bianca’s fate sealed. Choices about her life made by everyone but she.

In a world where she could not control much of anything. Where she couldn’t stop her mother from dying . . .

She shook the thoughts away, invoked the peace of the stream, of focusing on the perfection of the cast. Found a sense of calm determination and looked up at Lottie.

“It is much the same. A pretense at sisterly affection while teasing me with the life she will not share. I do not see why you insist I read these.” And as she said those words, she realized that was one thing she didn’t
have
to do. She crumpled the letter up decisively. “In fact, I won’t anymore. That is the very last one.”

There was something freeing about that decision. A bittersweet freedom.

But she was nineteen, and she refused to live her life any longer according to her sister’s whims.

A
nticipation was causing havoc with Luc’s palms. They were damp. Thank goodness for gloves. Ostensibly, he and Reggie were riding to Hopford Manor to invite the family to dinner, but it was entirely possible that he would meet Miss Mansfield.
Bianca
.

A groom took their horses, and once dismounted, Luc wondered if he smelled too much of horse, if the breeze had disheveled his hair in the least artful way possible.

He had never overly cared for his appearance, after all, when one was as large as he was, one was never
in
fashion. Unless for war, and Luc had the pleasure of coming of age in a time of nascent peace. At least between England and France.

But now, perhaps it mattered.

He almost hoped that they did
not
see her today. That the first official meeting was two days hence at the Orland estate.

From the drive of Hopford Manor, Luc could see where the relatively new neoclassical mansion had been connected to an older medieval manor house. He had visited more than his fair share of country estates over the years, though admittedly the majority were on the Continent and in a more European style, and had come to appreciate the details of architecture. Hopford was an unexceptional example of the revival of all things
ancient
and
Greek
.

As the front door opened, the interior appeared similarly unexceptional yet pleasing to the eye. No ornate Rococo frivolity here.

“Good afternoon, Lord Reginald,” the butler greeted Reggie and ushered them into the hall.

“Miss Smith, it seems a strange request.” Luc could hear the booming voice clearly from beyond an open door to their left. He refrained from peering in, even though he longed for a preview of the man he needed to impress.

“To you, as well, Edwards. Is Sir Richard at home?” Reggie asked with a bit of his usual smirk, which confirmed for Luc that the male voice they had heard was indeed Sir Richard Mansfield.

“Sir Richard,” a female was saying, presumably Miss Smith, “he needs a tutor. A male tutor. One who can provide him with an education in the classics.”

“I shall see,” the butler said with full awareness of the ridiculousness of his words, when it was obvious to everyone Sir Richard was in the house merely footsteps away.

They watched Edwards enter the adjoining room. Luc took a deep breath, straightened his body, tried to suggest confidence from his stance. To seem the sort of man any father would wish for his daughter.

“You taught Kate and Bianca Latin, mathematics, French, natural sciences—”

“Yes. It is not that I
cannot
teach Thomas, but that he would benefit from a male. He feels very keenly what he is missing by staying at home, and resents learning from a female.”

“Lord Reginald Colburn is here to see you, sir. With a friend.”

A friend. He hadn’t given his name. A faux pas before he even met Mr. Mansfield. But then, he calmed himself, the butler had not asked, either.

When Reggie turned to him with sparkling eyes, a frisson of tension curled in Luc’s gut. He’d seen that look dozens of times before and always just before his friend dragged them both into some scheme likely to get them in trouble, whether with the headmaster at Harrow, the faculty at Cambridge, their parents, or any other authorities.

“Whatever you are thinking—” The entrance of the butler stopped his warning, but did not dim Reggie’s grin.

“Don’t worry, Luc,” he said in a whisper as they followed the butler toward the distant voices. “I’ve a brilliant idea. Guaranteed to let you get to know your lady. Follow my lead.”

As they reached the door to what would presumably be Mansfield’s study, an older woman in a severe blue gown exited. She gave them the most cursory of glances before continuing on her way. From her outfit and the overheard conversation, Luc presumed this Miss Smith was the woman who had raised Bianca and Catherine, and now Thomas. If he were a more strategically minded man, he would befriend the governess and gain insight into Bianca’s innermost desires, into the best way to woo her.

In fact, Luc was quite good at strategy. Where he failed was in putting that strategy into action. The very idea of speaking to Bianca was terrifying. What if he said something stupid or banal? What if she thought him a hulking clod? What if with one utterance he ruined any chance he had?

The thoughts were crippling to action. Better to love and admire from afar. And yet . . . here he was, in her home, about to be introduced to her father.

He had thought himself cured of his reticence, but apparently when the stakes were high, he was still beset by that failing.

Luc had enjoyed the grand scale of Paris, the palazzos and warrens of Venice, the more humble beauty of Prague, and yet, there was something absolutely comforting about Mansfield’s study. It was a bastion of the country gentleman, with classic hunting green the primary color, wood-paneled walls and deer’s heads masquerading as trophies.

Mansfield himself was very like the room. Portly and tall, though not quite as tall as Luc, his thinning blond hair clumped in tufts about his head, his eyes a pale shadow of the vibrant blue of his daughter’s.

“Colburn, good to see you,” Mansfield said, rising from his chair behind the large wooden desk that took center stage in the room. Reggie strode forward and shook the man’s hand. “How are your brother and Lady Orland?”

“Peter is in London dealing with business. He should be back any day now. Mum is doing very well. In fact, I came by to invite the family to dinner, but I couldn’t help overhear that you are in need of a tutor for Thomas.”

“Offering up yourself?” Mansfield ribbed with a chuckle. “Your mum despaired of all your scrapes when you were away at school.”

Luc listened attentively, trying to determine Reggie’s newest scheme.

“Hah, no. My Greek is barbaric at best. But I happen to be accompanied today by Mr. Dore, who recently returned from acting as companion and tutor to my good friend, Earnest Bunbury. He’d be a perfect candidate for the position. Excelled at Cambridge.”

Mr. Dore?

“Really?” Mansfield peered at Luc, who struggled to keep calm at the fiction. This was a drastic mistake. He should never have let Colburn act on any of his ideas. As Mansfield had said, Reggie’s years at Harrow had been spotted by any number of pranks. In fact, their friendship had always been one of complete opposites than of kindred spirits.

And what manner of man would inflict such a masquerade upon an unwitting family?

An awkward silence gathered, and Luc realized they were both awaiting some response from him. He glanced at Reggie, who gave the slightest jut of his chin in encouragement.

“I did, indeed, recently return from a Grand Tour of the old fashion.” Luc was appalled even as he voiced the words. “I assure you I am fluent in Italian, French, German, and Modern Greek, as well as well versed in the classics—”

“Enough, Mr. Dore. Lord Reginald’s word is good enough for me.”

Relief warred with unease. After all, Luc was as learned as he had said, but there was a vast difference between that and imparting said knowledge. Moreover, he wanted only to be a suitor, not a tutor.

Despite all of that, he found himself agreeing to the employment, effective as soon as morning. It was a terrible idea, but there was something insidiously thrilling about the knowledge that within twenty-four hours he would be sharing a roof with the love of his life.

T
he morning proved overcast and chilly, threatening to rain. Appropriate for Luc’s emotions. His pulse raced as he returned to Hopford Manor. He was anxious about everything, from his wardrobe to his horse. Whereas the day before he had worried because the few clothes he had brought with him were a product of a misunderstanding with the new London tailor that had been recommended to him. Now, rather than being embarrassed about the places where they gaped and clung, he worried that the fine cloth was not appropriate to his supposedly lowly status. Surely, under closer inspection, everyone would know him for a fraud. Despite some abominable accommodations on the Continent, and a rather democratic philosophy of mingling with the locals, he was no servant. Certainly no tutor, though he had studied with a half-dozen over the last three years. Become fluent in a handful of languages, learned something of an appreciation for art and music, for architecture and the interplay of history and geography. The travels had done for him what no amount of classical education in the prison of Harrow could do. But a boy of eight such as his young charge would need to learn mathematics, Latin and Greek, natural science and geography. Perhaps draftsmanship, as well. Those were the disciplines that would hold him in good stead when he joined his peers at school.

Regardless of Luc’s knowledge, imparting it to someone else was another matter entirely. One far more suited to his companion during his travels, Jasper Delacroix. They had parted ways in London.

He rode up to the front door and then, as he handed his horse to a groom, wondered if he were not supposed to present himself to the servants’ entrance. In the end, he lifted his satchel (luckily he had sent his trunks on to his estate from London) and greeted the butler, who did not seem to think anything amiss. Good. It would likely be harder to fool the staff than the family. He winced at his thoughts. The word
fool
was dishonorable.

“Mr. Mansfield wishes you to attend him.”

The butler ushered him into a room brightly lit by the morning sun.

And there she was, that honey-gold hair bright like the halo of an angel. It took a moment for him to force his gaze away and notice the other occupants of the table: her father, a young boy who was presumably Thomas Mansfield, and Miss Smith, whom he recognized from the day before.

“Have you eaten already, Mr. Dore? Come join us?” The invitation took him aback for a moment even though Reggie had suggested that Mr. Mansfield was notoriously informal, especially when his wife was away from home, which was most of the year. “Meet my family.”