The Bluestocking and the Rake

by Norma Darcy

  “I don’t have any beaux,” she said.

  “No, and I don’t wonder at it. You probably frightened them all away with that bonnet.”

  Miss Blakelow took a firm grip on her temper. “Are we going for a drive, my lord, or not?”

  “Yes, if my horses have not expired through boredom in the last hour. I was beginning to wonder if you had become stuck in your own chamber pot.”

  Aunt Blakelow had a coughing fit, which sounded suspiciously like laughter.

  “I have not kept you waiting above forty-five minutes,” Miss Blakelow said, with a defiant toss of her head.

  “Only because you did not have the nerve to keep me waiting a full hour. But I’ll wager you were tempted to try it to teach me a lesson, weren’t you?”

  Miss Blakelow lowered her eyes as a guilty flush stole into her cheeks. “I was undecided as to whether I needed a shawl or a spencer or a pelisse.”

  “So instead you chose that great thick redingote, which I’m sure is just the thing for a freezing winter day . . . but in the warm sunshine outside, you will be wishing it at Jericho within the space of five minutes.”

  “Have you finished?” she demanded.

  “And when we are married, such a hideous bonnet as that will be forbidden. As will be those spectacles,” he remarked, moving to the door and holding it open for her. “In fact, I may cheerfully burn half your wardrobe and not repine. Good day, Aunt Blakelow. I shall return your niece forthwith.”

  It was on the tip of Miss Blakelow’s tongue to retort in kind, to lash out that he was dressed like a court card, but he looked so immaculate, so elegant, and so handsome that the words died upon her lips. He led her out to his waiting curricle, and before she had time to set one booted foot upon the step, he had placed his hands on her waist and lifted her high up onto the seat as if she were nothing but a featherweight. Her stomach performed a perfect backflip as her feet left the ground, or maybe it was because his hands held her so firmly that she felt funny inside. She opened her mouth in surprise and to protest, but before she could form the words, he had set her down and removed his hands. He looked up at her, a devil lurking in his eyes, daring her to protest.

  “Yes, Miss Blakelow?” he asked softly.

  “Nothing, my lord.”

  A smile curved the corners of his mouth as he walked away to the rear of the equipage, said something to his groom, and then swung up onto the seat beside her. He took the reins in his gloved hands while the groom jumped onto the seat behind them, and in a moment they were bowling down the drive.

  “And so, Miss Blakelow, show me it all.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I do not wish to see the beauty spots that your aunt was pleased to show me the other day. I wish to see the warts.”

  She stared at him as if she could hardly believe her ears. “Do you have a hankering to see an estate in decline, my lord? Do you have a desire to see a property ravaged of all its wealth by a man trying to pay off a gambling debt?”

  “Certainly I do.”

  “I can show you tumbledown barns in bad state of repair, farmers’ cottages with leaking roofs, and rotting crops in the fields because there is no one left to harvest them.”

  “Then by all means do so.”

  There was a silence.

  “I wish that I could believe you to be in earnest,” she said seriously.

  “I am very much in earnest. How am I to know what is to be done at Thorncote if no one will show me where the problems are?”

  She flashed him a smile. “Then turn left at the end of the drive.”

  “Well, what do you think?” Miss Blakelow asked him a good while later as they sat on the grass in the warm October sunshine by the lake, eating from the picnic basket that his lordship had brought. She reached into the basket and took out a pastry, pulling it apart with her nimble fingers.

  They had driven the length and breadth of the estate, inspecting rickety bridges, crumbling walls, and broken fences, talking to the tenants and discussing plans for improvement. Miss Blakelow was cautiously optimistic that she had persuaded him to help at last and stole a furtive glance across at his profile.

  Lord Marcham shrugged and gazed over at his horses, which were grazing nearby, the groom in attendance. “I think that Thorncote is in a very bad way,” he answered.

  “Yes,” she agreed thoughtfully, nibbling a piece of her pastry.

  “I also think that it would take a very large sum of money and an army of men to bring it back into good order. And I am asking myself why I should put myself to the trouble.”

  Miss Blakelow stared at him, her temper bubbling under the surface. Put yourself to the trouble, she thought angrily. Yes, it’s much easier to turn your back, isn’t it, my lord? She gave herself a mental shake and took herself firmly in hand; getting angry with him was not likely to get her what she wanted. “Because you will make a tidy profit when the estate comes to the good again,” she pointed out calmly.

  “And what if it does not come to the good?”

  “It will.”

  “What if you disappear to get married and leave the running of the estate to your brother? Who by all I hear is just as hopeless with money as your esteemed father. Who will care about my money then?”

  “I won’t get married,” she said, staring at her lap.

  “How do you know you won’t? You are still young. There are still . . . opportunities for you.”

  She pulled a face at the thought of being in any way physically intimate with Mr. Peabody. “Thorncote is my home. I will live here for as long as I am able.”

  “And what if you fall in love, Georgie?” he asked quietly, watching her.

  She ripped apart another piece of her pastry with a scornful laugh. “I have done with love long ago.”

  “And what if love has not done with you?”

  “It has, I can assure you. If this is your indirect way of asking me if I mean to marry Mr. Peabody . . . ?”

  He shrugged. “It might be.”

  “I could not accept Mr. Peabody. As I have told him on numerous occasions.”

  His lordship raised a brow. “Is Mr. Peachybody an overly ardent suitor, Miss Blakelow?” he guessed. “Would you like me to have a word with him?”

  “There is no need.”

  “Has he touched you?”

  She looked uncomfortable and did not entirely answer his question. “I believe William has warned him off.”

  “Your brother is good for something then,” Lord Marcham muttered, picking up a plum and biting into one end of it.

  “And what do you mean by that remark?”

  “Did Peabody insult you, ma’am?” he asked again.

  “He . . . he tried to kiss me . . . that’s all.”

  “Where is your brother? Why is he not here to defend you from such men, and I may add, help you to rescue Thorncote?”

  “William lives in London.”

  “And shows no concern that his estate is about to be taken from him,” said his lordship scornfully. “I have been criticized for many things in my time, but never apathy where Holme Park is concerned. Have you written to him?”

  “Yes.”

  “And?”

  “And he has fallen in love.”

  “I’ll bet,” said his lordship caustically. “No doubt he has been fortunate enough to fall in love with a lady of means. How very timely.”

  “If you already knew, my lord, I wonder why you took the trouble of asking me.”

  “To see if you’d tell me the truth. I had the dubious pleasure of seeing your brother while in town last week. He wanted to call me out.”

  “Call you out?” she repeated incredulously.

  “Yes. The wretched boy seems to think me responsible for the death of your father. He threw a glass of wine in my face and demanded that I meet him.”

  “Did you meet him? Pray tell me! Oh, sir, tell me that you did not.”

  She clutched at his arm and found to her disma
y that she had grasped his hand instead. He looked down at her hand on his as if her touch surprised him, and she hastily withdrew it.

  “Of course I didn’t,” he replied, somewhat distractedly. “You do have a good opinion of me, don’t you? Well, whatever you may think of me, I have not yet resorted to the murder of children.”

  She blushed, aware that by touching him so casually and familiarly, she had overstepped the unspoken boundary of her own making. His eyes finally rose to hers, and she gulped at the message she read there.

  “But he threw wine in your face . . .” she said, pressing on with the conversation in an attempt to divert his attention away from her embarrassment.

  “Yes, and I took great pleasure in kicking him down the stairs for his trouble.”

  “Oh, you brute! You hurt him.”

  “I sincerely hope so. And allow me to warn you that should your revolting brother come sniffing around my youngest sister, I will hurt him and take great pleasure in doing so. A fortune hunter,” said the earl. “What truly repulsive relatives you have, Miss Blakelow. Tell me why I should sink my blunt to rescue such a selfish object as your brother?”

  “Because it is his inheritance, my lord, and I would have thought that you of all people would understand that.”

  “I do understand it. But what I fail to understand is why you care more for that than your brother does.”

  There was a silence as a flock of geese flew overhead. Miss Blakelow looked down at her hands.

  “If I were to consider helping you . . .” continued the earl, “I would not wish to have Mr. Bateman living here at my expense.”

  Her head snapped up and she stared at him. “What do you mean?”

  “You know very well what I mean.”

  “Mr. Bateman has not yet asked me to marry him,” she said, in a small voice. “And I do not believe that he has any such thought in his head. I think him in love with Marianne but too afraid to broach the subject with her.”

  “He seems very concerned with your business. What would you say if he asked you?”

  “That, my lord, is none of your business.”

  “I think that if I am to invest my money in this place, then it is very much my business. If I were to give you the money, it would be as much an investment in you as Thorncote. You love this place. You are the driving force. As soon as you leave, the estate will fall back into disrepair.”

  “And I say again, that I will not leave. I have nowhere else to go.”

  “Have you not, Miss Blakelow?” he asked softly. He picked up a plum and pushed the smooth skin gently against her lips until they parted under the pressure. She was so surprised by the sudden intimacy of the move that she stared up at him in confusion, her eyes searching his, her heart pounding hard in her breast. His hand was warm. The touch of his fingers against her cheek had set off a quivering in her belly that was alien yet achingly familiar. She had forgotten this. She had forgotten the thrill of a man’s touch. It unfurled inside her, like a seedling growing toward the light. Desire. She had not felt it in a very long time. She wondered if he felt it too. Women were two-a-penny to a man like him. Did he feel this umbilical cord of connection between them, or was he merely toying with her, showing her the power he had over her? For all her grown-up good sense, part of her wanted nothing more than to throw caution to the wind, feel his arms around her, his lips on hers—propriety be damned. So much for keeping a safe distance, she thought. So much for that protective wall she had built around her heart. It had been breached easily, by nothing more than the casual brush of his hand.

  “Bite, Miss Blakelow,” he coaxed, his eyes on hers, and for once he was not teasing. The strange, intense heat in his gaze was unfamiliar to her and she questioned it. Could it truly be her who inspired such a look?

  The moment was too much. It was too suggestive, too intimate. The longing in her heart had been too long ignored to be allowed free rein now. She pushed his hand away and stood up hurriedly.

  “It’s getting late,” she said, dusting her skirts. “I should go.”

  “Well?” asked Aunt Blakelow on Miss Blakelow’s return.

  “He is considering investing in Thorncote,” she replied, tugging the ribbons of her bonnet undone. “But he does not like William.”

  “Not like him? I cannot imagine why he would. William has hardly endeared himself to his lordship by blaming him for your father’s death. Besides, his lordship moves in very different circles, you know.”

  “Yes . . . I’m sure he does.”

  Aunt Blakelow saw the consternation on her niece’s face and said, “Georgie? What is it?”

  Miss Blakelow sighed and flung down her bonnet on the table. “William tried to call Marcham out.”

  “What?” shrieked her aunt.

  “I know, I know . . . the wretched boy is determined to ruin all of us.”

  “Call him out? But why?”

  Miss Blakelow told her aunt all that Lord Marcham had told her.

  “Has William been gambling again?” asked Aunt Blakelow, aghast.

  “Yes, I think so. He aspires to Marcham’s set but does not have anything like enough money to survive in that company. There is a very good chance that we will have another spendthrift in the family, every bit as irresponsible as Papa was.”

  “Have you heard from William?” asked her aunt.

  Miss Blakelow took off the spectacles. “Yes, a short note only to say that he has fallen in love with the most ravishing creature, who also just happens to have a fortune of thirty thousand pounds.”

  “Oh,” said Aunt Blakelow dejectedly.

  “Was there ever anything so vexing? Just when it seems that Marcham is beginning to become interested . . .”

  “What can we do?”

  “I will write to William once again and request him to come home. Thank heavens that some of the money was put into trust for him when his mother was alive. She at least did not want for sense.”

  “No indeed,” agreed Aunt Blakelow. “Dear Jane was an excellent woman. And . . . and you and his lordship . . . ?”

  Miss Blakelow’s eyes flew to her aunt’s, and a guilty color stole into her cheeks. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Are you . . . I mean . . . you seem to be—”

  “No.”

  “I thought perhaps . . .”

  “Well don’t. Don’t think anything.”

  Miss Blakelow remembered their picnic and her embarrassment as he had fed her the fruit. She shouldered the memory away, uncomfortable with that moment of tension between them, as if a thread had been drawn out to snapping point. She had been aware of his eyes, the close proximity of his body, the warmth of his hand, the soft pressure of the fruit between her lips. She reddened painfully.

  “Did he kiss you?” asked Aunt Blakelow, watching her closely.

  Miss Blakelow stood up. “Aunt! How could you ask such a thing? Of course he didn’t!”

  “Do you wish that he had?”

  Miss Blakelow was momentarily robbed of speech. She put her hands on her hips and stared in disbelief at her aunt. “No, ma’am, I do not!” she managed.

  “Be careful, Georgie,” warned the older woman. “He is not a boy.”

  “Do you think that I don’t know that?” demanded her niece hotly.

  “He knows exactly what he’s doing. He’s as adept at playing a woman as he is at playing cards.”

  “Dear Aunt, do you think that I am foolish enough to let him seduce me?”

  “I do not know what may happen when you are alone with a man like him.”

  “We were not alone. His groom was there,” said Miss Blakelow, glaring at her. “And nothing happened.”

  “No? Then why are you so angry?”

  “Nothing happened,” she repeated. “Do you think me so weak as to be in danger now, after all these years?”

  “I think you sensible enough to keep him at arm’s length,” said Aunt Blakelow, “but I also think you are lonely enough to fall for his charm
. And let us not beat about the bush; he has plenty of charm.”

  “I am a grown woman, Aunt. I am no longer a silly young girl whose head is turned by a handsome man.”

  “Possibly not. But he is every inch the rake that the world knows him to be. And if he has decided that he wants you, then he will not give up until he has achieved his goal.”

  Miss Blakelow shook her head in disbelief. “I am going upstairs.”

  “By all means. But think on what I have said. He knows it has been a long time since your heart has been touched. And he knows your pride is vulnerable to a little male attention.”

  Miss Blakelow stormed out of the room, too incensed to speak. She ran up to her bedchamber, threw herself on her bed, and buried her face into her pillows. The scene at the picnic came back to haunt her. His eyes on hers, the air crackling with animal attraction that she could no more deny than the need to breathe.

  That he was out merely to seduce her was a thought that had already occurred to Miss Blakelow. The thought that he was pretending to show an interest in her merely as part of some game was so lowering that she wanted to cry. She might be an old maid, but she was still a woman with feelings, and she was not stupid. She knew that he was toying with her. She buried her face deeper amongst the pillows, wishing that the bed would swallow her whole.

  Lord Marcham had come too close. It was time to retreat to the keep, draw up the bridge, and wait it out until the siege was over. With any luck he would get bored and go away.

  CHAPTER 13

  “OH, LORD, HERE HE comes again!” groaned Jack, watching the ponderous Mr. Peabody as he made his way toward them across the front lawn. The buttons of his coat seemed to sigh under the strain. “He’s always showing up here unannounced and uninvited. George, you are not seriously going to marry the fellow, are you?”

  Miss Blakelow, seated on the bench under the willow tree, laughed as she set another stitch in her embroidery. “No, you ridiculous boy, I am not.”

  “Thank the Lord for that. I could not bear to come and visit you if you did. All that prosing and lecturing and sermonizing is enough to send a fellow mad.”