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man,” she muttered.
    “It is not his fault,” Bianca said, though she knew her defense was weak. She wilted inside to think of how all of this would reflect on Mathew. “This was my idea. I asked for his help, and he was kind enough to give it.”
    “You are both disgraceful then,” Mama said. “And I am thoroughly disgusted.”
    Bianca did not argue. She pictured Mathew’s body flying backward. Him on his hands and knees, his coat flipped up. The bloodied shirt. She closed her eyes and let the tears fall. She should never have asked him to help her, and he should never have agreed to her foolish plan. He should not have kissed her, and she should certainly not have kissed him back.
    The door opened again. “Your carriage is ready, madam. I took the liberty of keeping it through the side exit.”
    Mama nodded and began toward the door. Bianca followed, but then stopped. “I must speak with him, Mama,” she said, wiping at her nose.
    Mama turned back to her. “Speak with whom?”
    “Mathew.”
    Mama raised her eyebrows, and Bianca hurried to speak again.
    “I mean Mr. Hensley. I need to make sure he is all right.”
    “We are going home.”
    Bianca hurried after her and took her arm. “Please, Mama. Let me see him before we leave.”
    “It is out of the question,” Mama said, still walking though Bianca pulled at her.
    “But I must. Don’t you see this is all my fault? I have to explain. I have to make things right.”
    Mama stopped. “It is time you learned that not all things can be made right, Bianca. We are going home. We shall discuss what to do about Mr. Hensley tomorrow.”

NINE
     
    Mathew paced back and forth in his study Saturday morning, reviewing the night before with fits of temper and anger and pure hatred for Lord Strapshire. Embarrassment and worry for Bianca scratched and fought for the uppermost level of his concerns. He could focus on one aspect for only so long before another clawed its way to the top.
    Why had he kissed her so publicly? Such an act was against his nature, her reputation, and all manner of propriety. Why had he let himself feel competitive? What had he hoped to prove? And what had happened to Bianca after he’d been thrown to the floor by that ridiculous buffoon?
    The punch had left Mathew’s head spinning, and blood poured from his nose, saturating his shirt and sending half a dozen women into hysterics. He’d been helped to his feet and shuffled off to a room where a kindly man attended to him while he coughed and choked on his own blood. The town physician was summoned and cracked his broken nose back into place, at which point Mathew lost consciousness. Someone collected him, helped him to his carriage, gave him something for the pain, and put him to bed. He’d awoken to a fog of dissipating memory and the lingering rush of emotion. It was now nearly noon, he’d been pacing for hours, and he did not know what to do. Should he go to the Davidsons? Send an apology to the hosts of last night’s event? Flee to London?
    Bianca.
    Another rush of emotion, this one mingled with regret, washed through him. He had to see her. Had to speak with her. After the attack he’d been too befuddled to seek her out, and he felt as though he had abandoned her completely. What she must think of me? What was I thinking to kiss her like that?
    “Gunderson!” he yelled, turning to the door and throwing it open. “Gunderson!”
    “Yes, sir,” the butler said as he hurried to Mathew’s call. Behind him came Ambrose; he’d not been far since Mathew’s return last night.
    “Please have my carriage readied.”
    The butler’s bushy gray eyebrows lifted, and he shared a look with Ambrose, who then stepped forward. “You are going out, sir?” Ambrose asked as calmly as ever.
    “I must speak with Miss Davidson and her mother. Explain myself.”
    “Um, certainly, sir, only . . . Are you sure you are fit for such a call?”
    Mathew raised a hand to his swollen nose and winced