The Bluestocking and the Rake

by Norma Darcy

  By anyone’s standards, he was a handsome man, but she was unable to see him clearly through her wretched glasses. In contrast to the one who had accosted her, he was unexpectedly well kempt. Considering he had spent all night carousing with his friends, his coat and cravat were remarkably well preserved. The only sign that he had been drinking was a gleam in his eyes, which held a slightly wild look, and they rested upon her with an intensity that she found disquieting. He was taller than most of the men of her acquaintance and a good deal broader across the shoulders too. She knew that he would be impossible to fight off should he choose to force his attentions upon her. He smiled disarmingly at her, as if he knew the power this singular expression had upon women. “No one will harm you, I promise.”

  “Too late for that,” she said angrily, wiping her mouth on the back of her hand as if she could wipe away the memory of the kiss.

  “You have not been hurt, I hope?” he asked soothingly. “No, I venture to think not. Merely your pride has been wounded.”

  “I have been insulted in the worst possible manner!”

  “I hate to contradict you, my dear, but not the worst possible manner. I think there has been some mistake. Mr. Larwood was evidently expecting someone else. Mr. Larwood apologizes, don’t you, Harry?”

  “No, I damn well—”

  “Mr. Larwood apologizes most profusely. He is in his cups, ma’am, and not very good at holding his drink. I hope that you might find it in your heart to forgive him. I might also remind you that you came here of your own free will. And uninvited. Let us go to the library where we may talk—”

  “I have an appointment with you, sir! And if you had been obliging enough as to keep the previous two appointments with Mr. Healey, my father’s man of business, rather than go out hunting, or lying abed, or whatever a rake does when he is not carousing, I would not have needed to come here today.”

  The man’s lips twitched. “Uninvited,” he reiterated firmly. “You forced your way in here, when my butler undoubtedly told you that I was not at home to visitors. Whom I choose to entertain in my own house is my business and my business alone. If you feel you have been insulted, then I apologize, but do not ask me for anything more, for I am a selfish creature and will not give it. Now, you may come and sit in my library, where we may be private and discuss this business that you speak of.”

  “So that you might accost me too?” she demanded.

  The earl raised one eyebrow in mild surprise. Then with deliberate slowness, he examined every inch of her, from her old scuffed riding boots to the rain-sodden feather on her bonnet. She felt her cheeks sting with color at his less than complimentary perusal.

  “I think that is a little unlikely, don’t you?” he said, very, very softly.

  She wanted the rich carpet at her feet to swallow her whole.

  “Now give me the gun, if you please.”

  “I don’t trust you,” she said, setting her chin stubbornly.

  “No one points a gun at me in my own house,” he replied. He held out his hand imperatively. “The gun, if you please. You will have no need of it while you are here, and it will be returned to you when you leave. You have my word on it.”

  “Is that the word of a scoundrel and a . . . a . . . debaucher?” she demanded.

  “It is,” he said smoothly, ignoring her insult as he took the gun from her hand. “But it is my word nonetheless.”

  She looked up at him. “Are you Lord Marcham?”

  He bowed slightly. “Robert Holkham, Earl of Marcham. Your servant, ma’am.”

  “Why did you let your friend insult me? Is this how you treat every gentlewoman who comes into your house?” she demanded.

  “Gentlewomen don’t make a habit of coming to my house,” he replied. “Something to do with their reputations and . . . er . . . mine.”

  “You are living up to yours, I see,” she said.

  He gave her a brief smile as he held open the door for her to pass through. “I’m so glad that I don’t disappoint you. Shall we?”

  Nothing would persuade her to remove her wet cloak, even though she was quite certain that she would catch a chill by keeping it on. She sat perched on the edge of her chair, ready to fly at any moment, and regarded her host with a wary eye.

  They were in the library, a large room, clad from floor to ceiling with dark wooden shelves filled with the spines of countless books. There was a large desk, also made of the same dark wood, and the chairs and tables were equally as somber. She thought it a most oppressive room and yearned to pull back the curtains farther to let in the daylight.

  His lordship saw the direction of her gaze. “I keep the curtains drawn to protect the books. Can I offer you a glass of wine?” he asked, closing the door behind them.

  “No, thank you.”

  He shrugged. “Suit yourself. I will have one, however . . . I fear I may need it.”

  “Why, haven’t you had enough already?” she asked before she could stop herself.

  He paused in the act of pouring himself a glass of wine and glanced at her speculatively, a hint of a smile on his lips. “Do you disapprove, ma’am?”

  “I think anyone must disapprove. The young gentlemen in our neighborhood look to men like you as role models—”

  He frowned at her. “Excuse me, madam, but why exactly are you here? To discuss business or to lecture me?”

  She simmered at his interruption. “Business.”

  “Then let us get to it. I do not need you moralizing at me. Now, tell me what it is that you want of me.”

  She unfolded the leather case she had under her arm. “I have here papers—”

  “I’m not remotely interested in your papers. Tell me what you want.”

  She bristled and struggled to hold her temper. She took a deep breath and began again. “You recently won a vast sum of money from the owner of the Thorncote estate at the gaming table,” she said.

  “Yes, what of it?”

  “It belonged to my father, Sir William Blakelow—Thorncote, that is—and now belongs to his son, who is every bit as profligate as Papa, but never mind that. It is a large estate, not as large as yours, of course, but it could be made to be very profitable if some money could be spent on it and the right management put in place.”

  The earl looked perplexed and rubbed his hand against his forehead. “Do you mean to tell me that you haven’t come here to tell me that I am the father of your child?”

  She stared at him with her mouth agape. “What?”

  “You don’t have a brat that I am expected to recognize?”

  “No! I don’t have a brat—I mean child. I have hardly spoken two words to you in the entire course of my life!”

  “Thank God for that,” he breathed.

  “You cannot thank God more than I do,” she retorted.

  “Then you and I have not . . . er . . .”

  “No!”

  He brightened visibly. “Oh . . . well, that’s good. In my youth, you know . . .”

  “No,” she replied indignantly. “I do not know!”

  He looked amused and then directed a sudden penetrating glance across at her. “Forgive me, but who are you?” he asked.

  She stared at him, waiting for him to recognize her, dreading that he would. “Miss Blakelow. Daughter of Sir William Blakelow.”

  “Blakelow . . .” he mused, frowning, and then suddenly his brow cleared as it came to him. “Could it be that I am in the company of Miss Georgiana Blakelow?”

  She flushed and lifted her chin. “Yes, sir.”

  “The spinster par excellence who has besmirched my reputation?” he said, a gleam of unholy glee in his eye. “Dear me, what am I to do with you?”

  “Your reputation was already besmirched, my lord,” she retorted with spirit.

  “Indeed it was. But I was hoping, Miss Blakelow, to leave my past far behind me. You are the bluestocking recluse who saw fit to drag it all up again, are you not?”

  “Just because I do no
t approve of your ways, my lord, does not make me a bluestocking.”

  “You wrote a pamphlet condemning my morals, didn’t you? Caused a hell of a stir. It was in all the papers.”

  “I did not mention you, I believe,” said Miss Blakelow stiffly. “I did not mention anyone. You assume too much, my lord.”

  “You didn’t have to name me. Everyone knew whom you meant.”

  “My aunt was hurt very badly as a young woman by just such a man as you. I was sending a warning to all young women to be on their guard.”

  Lord Marcham half sat, half leaned on the edge of his desk, arms folded. “I see. And do you imagine that many young women will heed your warning?” he asked doubtfully.

  “They should, if they wish to preserve their delicacy.”

  “Their delicacy,” he repeated with a harsh laugh. “And how many young women would give up their delicacy and a good deal more to live in a house like this?” he asked, waving a hand to indicate the grandeur around them. “How many women would gladly warm a man’s bed for wealth, position, and title and then put a ring on their finger to legitimize their actions?”

  “And do you include your fiancée in that flattering description, my lord?” she asked, visibly annoyed.

  “My fiancée?” he repeated.

  “Lady Emily Holt.”

  He smiled but no warmth reached his eyes. “You have been listening to idle gossip, ma’am. Lady Emily Holt is not my fiancée.”

  “No? Then why is news of your engagement spread halfway across the country?”

  He stared at her for a long moment of weighted silence. “It isn’t.”

  “I can assure you, my lord, that it is. The talk in Loughton is of nothing else.”

  He swore under his breath. The Holts had been busy, had they? Well, they would find that Lord Marcham was not a man to be forced.

  “There must be some mistake,” he replied. “I have not made that young woman an offer.”

  “She seems to think differently. And you cannot deny that you have been very marked in your attentions,” she said coldly, “or that your behavior has given rise to the speculation of the whole neighborhood as to when the wedding will be. If you did not make her an offer, then you will earn the lady nothing but public derision by so singling her out.”

  He gave a rather scornful laugh. “Dear ma’am, a walk in the rose garden and two drives in the park hardly constitute a love affair, even to your pure and delicate sensibilities.”

  She lifted her chin. “For a woman associating with a man of your reputation, sir, one glance in a room filled with a hundred people is enough to be remarked upon.”

  He looked amused at that. “Is that so?” he asked, his eyes twinkling. “Are you not then afraid to be alone with me? Am I so debauched that one glance from me is enough to get you with child?”

  She met his look unflinchingly. “It would take more than that.”

  “So it would,” he agreed, watching her. “Lady Emily Holt is no different from any other woman who marries for social advancement, security, and money. She is prepared to wed me despite my shocking reputation because I am rich. She wants fine jewels and clothes and a house such as this. She is just as pretty and mercenary as any other eligible female I know, and if I have to marry someone, I suppose it may as well be her as anyone else. It is a bargain, Miss Blakelow: her virtue in payment for my money. And in my book, that makes her no better than Molly there in the dining room, shivering in her chemise. At least Molly is honest about it.”

  “And does the future Lady Marcham know you hold her in such high esteem?”

  He smiled. “She bears no more love for me than I for her. I need an heir; she likes the size of my . . . ahem . . . purse.”

  Miss Blakelow felt her temper rising like steam in a boiling kettle. “Are you comparing the poor wretches, the fallen women with whom you associate, to any respectable woman who marries a respectable man for her financial security and that of her children?”

  “If she does not do it for love, then yes.”

  “And yet Lady Emily Holt will agree to be your wife. Wonders will never cease.”

  He surprised her then by suddenly laughing, and she saw what a devastatingly attractive man he was. When he spoke to her in that way, as if certain of breaking down her defenses with his glib responses and disarming smile, she felt something inside her awaken and respond. It had been a long time since any man had looked at her the way the earl was looking at her now. She felt vulnerable. She steeled herself against him and formed a protective shell around her heart. She did not want to fall for this rake, no matter how engaging he was.

  “We are not getting very far with business, are we, Miss Blakelow?”

  “You are insufferable,” she bit out.

  He laughed again. “How true. And so, prim Miss Blakelow with the very kissable lips, what can a dissolute man like me do for you? You do realize that a paragon of womanhood like you should not enter a house like this alone? Do you not fear to be tainted by the very walls?”

  “Don’t mock me.” She stood up and started to pull on her gloves. “I am clearly wasting my time. You are drunk and determined to make me lose my temper.”

  “Do you know that your eyes flash when you’re angry?” he said, watching her. “Or at least I think they do. I cannot see them properly through those hideous spectacles of yours.”

  “Good day, my lord,” she said, scooping up her papers and shoving them back into the leather case.

  “Oh, dear, I have upset you. Do remember to say good-bye to Harry Larwood on your way out; he seemed quite taken with you.”

  Miss Blakelow thought that she might explode with rage. She strode across the room, seized the door handle, and wrenched it open but was halted by his soft voice saying, “That is the door to the servants’ quarters, Miss Blakelow. If you wish to make a dramatic exit from the room, might I suggest that the door onto the hallway would serve you better?”

  She almost groaned aloud in frustration. Cursing her stupid spectacles, she retreated back the way she had come, narrowly missing tripping over the low table where his lordship’s wineglass was perched.

  She swept from the room and was halfway across the hallway to the front door when she realized that by deliberately goading her to lose her temper, he had avoided completely the subject that she had gone there to discuss. Determined not to let him off the hook so easily, she spun on her heel and walked back to the library.

  Lord Marcham was still where she had left him when she returned to the room. He looked up as she entered and a ghost of a smile flickered on his lips. “Miss Blakestocking . . . not one easily put off your purpose, I see. What a pleasure it is to see you again . . . and so soon.”

  She tapped her foot impatiently against the floor. “You will allow me to tell you that I find you—” She broke off, suddenly realizing that giving full rein to her temper was hardly likely to get her what she wanted.

  “Yes?” he goaded softly. “Do go on.”

  “No.”

  “You were about to say despicable, shallow, and dissolute.”

  “No I was not,” she said through gritted teeth.

  His eyes twinkled. “My manners are deplorable, are they not?”

  “My lord Marcham, will you stop?”

  He gave a low laugh. “As it seems that you are determined to say what you have come here to say, despite my best efforts to put you off, won’t you please be seated Miss Blakestock—Miss Blakelow? I will call a truce, and then we may try and be friends.”

  Miss Blakelow chose to stand. “You have made a lifetime career from fleecing men of their property, have you not?” she demanded.

  “I thought we had agreed to call a truce?”

  “Do you have any notion what impact your actions have on the families of those men?” she asked.

  He shrugged. “I might, I suppose, if I were to put myself to the trouble. But I know that those gentlemen were just as keen to fleece me of my property,” he replied calmly.
“I doubt they would have given me a moment’s thought as they took up residence at my table. The difference, my dear Miss Blakelow, is that I have rarely been foolish enough to gamble away anything that I wanted to keep.”

  “So you feel no guilt?”

  “Why should I? If they are stupid enough to gamble away the future of their wives and children, then that is their affair.”

  “My father lost a great deal of money to you eighteen months ago.”

  “I believe he did.”

  “And my brother lost yet more money to you trying to win back Father’s losses.”

  “He was foolish enough to attempt it, yes.”

  “I am here to tell you that we have no more money left to pay you. Thorncote is all we have left, and if you take that, we have nowhere to go.”

  There was a silence.

  “I am truly sorry to hear it, Miss Blakelow. Allow me to offer you my sympathies.”

  “Thank you but what do you imagine I am to do with those?” she asked. “Do you think your sympathies will provide a home for my brothers and sisters? Do you imagine your sympathies will console my brother at the loss of his inheritance?”

  “I am truly sorry for your loss,” he repeated. “But I say again, your father gambled away what he had no right to. You should be venting your anger at him, not me.”

  “Oh, I do, I can assure you,” she retorted. “Not a day goes by when I don’t wish he were alive so that I could tell him exactly what I think of him.”

  “My dear Miss Blakelow—”

  “But there is something you can do as reparation.”

  He gave her a tight smile. “Forgive me, ma’am, but I do not feel the need to make reparation.”

  There was a pause. Miss Blakelow moved toward the nearest chair and sank down into it, arranging her hands primly in her lap. She took a deep breath and stared at the floor. “I didn’t know that my brother had lost so much money to you until after I had written that stupid pamphlet. I would not blame you if you did not believe me, but I am very sorry now that I wrote it. I know that you are exceedingly generous with your tenants, and none of your servants have a bad word to say about you. I had hoped you might see fit to help a neighbor who has fallen on hard times, a family who will presently be made homeless. I had hoped that even you, my lord, with all your faults, would be willing to help the family of a man who was an acquaintance of your own father’s.”