The Bluestocking and the Rake

by Norma Darcy

  “But he does seem particularly keen on you, Georgie,” said Marianne, “which is flattering, to be sure.”

  “Is it?” asked Catherine doubtfully. “I’d rather have Lord Marcham.”

  “Kitty!” gasped Marianne. “Of all the improper things to say!”

  “I meant given the available choices,” she qualified quickly and then colored. “He has a much better figure than Peabrain.”

  “And he doesn’t have wind like a cannon going off either,” put in Ned.

  This comment naturally produced a fit of the giggles, which even Miss Blakelow found hard to resist. She turned her head away to hide a smile as she was momentarily diverted by the thought of Lord Marcham doing anything so inelegant.

  “How do you know he doesn’t?” demanded Lizzy, her face alight with laughter.

  Miss Blakelow put aside her embroidery. “If you cannot speak in a way befitting a young gentleman, Ned Blakelow, then I suggest that you do not speak at all,” she said severely.

  “But he thinks we’re all deaf!” complained the young man.

  “What did I just say?” asked Miss Blakelow.

  Ned colored and looked away moodily.

  “Mr. Peabody has been very kind to us, and we must show him the respect due to a friend of Father’s,” said Miss Blakelow, “however trying that may be at times.”

  “He tried to kiss you, George, have you forgotten that?” demanded Jack, throwing a ball up in the air and catching it again one-handed.

  Miss Blakelow silently cursed her youngest brother as the rest of her family assimilated this new fact with horror. William and Jack had caught Mr. Peabody in the act six months ago, and Miss Blakelow had sworn them both to secrecy.

  “He did what?” demanded Ned, sitting bolt upright on the grass.

  “Thank you, Jack,” murmured Miss Blakelow wryly.

  Her young brother flushed and looked guilty. “Sorry, I forgot.”

  “Mr. Peabody?” breathed Marianne, staring at her eldest sister in wonder. “Oh, George, how horrible.”

  “I never thought he had it in him,” said Lizzy, plucking a blade of grass beside the blanket on which she was sitting.

  “He probably had to lie down for half an hour afterward,” put in Kitty, giggling.

  “He certainly did, because William landed him a facer,” Jack confided.

  “Oh, I wish that I had seen that!” said Ned, his eyes gleaming.

  “It was a beautiful jab. An uppercut to the jaw, which shook the old fellow’s bone box, I can tell you.”

  “Can we talk about something else?” asked Miss Blakelow in pained accents. “He is nearly upon us and will hear you.”

  “Not him. Deaf as a post. Did his whiskers tickle, Georgie?” asked Ned, grinning.

  Miss Blakelow picked up a conker and threw it at him.

  She stood up as Mr. Peabody approached and forced a smile. “How do you do, sir? It is such a lovely day that we thought we would come and make the best of the sunshine.”

  “Good day, Miss Blakelow. What a pretty picture you make to be sure. Quite enchanting, my dear,” he said, taking her hand and petting it. “Of course, I should have guessed that you would be outside on such a day as this. You do love to be outdoors, do you not? I went to the house, and your servant told me that you were not at home. And then I chanced to see young Jack there sneaking out of the door, and I wondered if you had all come out to take the air.”

  “Yes,” agreed Miss Blakelow with a smile, “we always come out here when we can.”

  “What my sister actually means is that we saw you coming down the drive in your gig, and we ran out here as quickly as we could to avoid you,” said Ned in such a low voice that only his siblings heard him. He caught Georgiana’s eye and, chastened, stood up with his cricket bat. “Come on, Jack, let’s hit a few balls.”

  Miss Blakelow watched enviously as all her brothers and sisters hastily departed, leaving her entirely alone with Mr. Peabody. She begged him to be seated and took the other end of the bench, placing her embroidery between them.

  “How is your mother, Mr. Peabody?” she asked, desperate for a topic of conversation.

  “She is well, thank you, ma’am. And your aunt? I do not see her with you today?”

  “No, she is visiting friends in Loughton.”

  There was an awkward silence, both of them watching as Jack and Ned stripped off their jackets, folded them, and cast them on the ground to use as wickets. Ned took the ball and ran in to bowl to his brother, who was poised catlike at the makeshift stumps, the bat in the air.

  “Miss Blakelow,” he began.

  “Oh, do you see that bird? How pretty it is! I think it is a crested hornbill . . . thing.”

  Mr. Peabody looked dubiously at the stubby brown bird. “I think it’s a thrush, ma’am.”

  “Oh . . . but such a pretty thrush . . . Oh, Mr. Peabody, please don’t,” she begged as he took her hand.

  “Dearest, most beloved creature. I must be allowed to speak. You are always surrounded by your relatives—this is my only opportunity to speak to you alone. It is not such a place where I would wish to make such a declaration, but if it must be, then I am not one to cavil. You must be aware of my intentions; indeed I believe the whole of Loughton may know what they are. I have admired you from the very first moment I saw you—well, almost the first moment . . . It was the day you came to Goldings to meet Mother, and you were so kind and dutiful that I knew then that I had to have you for my wife. Adorable creature, say that you will be mine. Indeed you must, for anyone may know that Thorncote is by no means certain to stay in your family. And where will you go then? You need a home, Miss Blakelow—Georgiana, if I may?—and you and I both know that ‘our little secret’ makes it unlikely that you will find happiness with another man.”

  Miss Blakelow tried to withdraw her hand. Her father, bless his rotting soul, had seen fit to divulge some of her past to Mr. Peabody during an evening when they had played cards together, as they frequently did, and Sir William had grown more inebriated as the night drew on. That Mr. Peabody should be privy to the most intimate details of her personal life felt like a violation to Miss Blakelow, and every time he referred to “our little secret,” she cringed and grew angry and wished to tell him to go to a very warm place. She wondered how Mr. Peabody would like his dirty linen washed in public and examined by the entire world.

  “And I will be a most attentive husband.” He took her hand to his lips and covered it in moist kisses. Miss Blakelow shuddered with revulsion.

  “Please, Mr. Peabody, you are already aware of my feelings on the subject,” she said, trying to pull her hand away.

  Jack took a swipe with the bat, and there was a sharp cracking noise as the ball was hit down the hill toward the house. A flurry of Blakelows chased after it, and Jack ran happily between the makeshift wickets, leaving their eldest sister entirely alone with her suitor.

  She tried to remove her hand. “Mr. Peabody . . . I told you on the last occasion that I—”

  “My angel,” he said, clasping her to his breast. His breath was warm on her cheek, and he smelled vaguely of camphor.

  “Mr. Peabody, I must insist that you let me go,” said Miss Blakelow firmly, turning her face away as her hand found her embroidery on the bench between them.

  “I must have you,” he declared, covering her faces with kisses. “We must be married immediately. I must make you my own in every way.” His hand slid to her breast and squeezed it.

  Miss Blakelow’s hand found the needle, prized it loose of the material, and plunged the end sharply into his thigh. The result was immediate and effective. He yelped and sprang up from the bench, clutching his leg. The siblings paused in their game of cricket and turned around and stared at the sight of Mr. Peabody practically hopping on one leg.

  “My dear Miss Blakelow, what have I done to deserve such treatment from you?” he asked reproachfully.

  “I would have thought that was obvious,” remarked
a wry voice from behind them.

  Miss Blakelow and her suitor whirled around to find Lord Marcham leaning nonchalantly against the trunk of the tree, his arms folded across his chest, a hint of a smile upon his lips.

  “You!” exploded Mr. Peabody, his already red face turning purple.

  “Your servant, Peapod,” replied his lordship, bowing slightly. “Your servant, Miss Blakelow. What a glorious afternoon, is it not? I don’t blame you for leaving the house in favor of the countryside in such unseasonably warm weather. But as your neighbor and friend, ma’am, I must counsel you against sitting entirely alone with a strange gentleman. It is really not the done thing, you know.”

  “Strange gentleman?” repeated Mr. Peabody, outraged. “I have been coming to this house for years!”

  “Then you should know that it is highly improper for a gentleman to be alone with such a delicate female as Miss Blakelow.”

  She glared at him. “Indeed? No doubt you would not object half so strongly if the gentleman in question were you?”

  “Oh, no, not then, Miss Blakelow, but I am an entirely different case,” agreed the earl. “And as your prospective bridegroom, you will allow me to have a vested interest in . . . er . . . keeping your charms entirely for myself.”

  Miss Blakelow, still holding her embroidery needle, was seriously tempted to attack a fleshy part of his lordship’s anatomy with it. She continued to glare up into his dancing eyes. “You are not my prospective bridegroom, and who I choose to see or be alone with is entirely my own affair.”

  He raised an amused brow at that. “Is that so, Miss Blakelow? Would you like me to leave you alone with Mr. Peaham?”

  She stared at him and the message in her eyes was clear: don’t you dare.

  He smiled affably. “I see that you understand the situation tolerably well. We will say no more about it.”

  “What are you doing here, my lord?” demanded Peabody, still rubbing his thigh.

  “Attending to my property,” replied the earl.

  “Thorncote is yours then?”

  His lordship smiled. “Thorncote and everything in it,” he said with a glint in his eye.

  Mr. Peabody flushed purple. “I see that I am wasting my time here.”

  “Good. I’m glad you begin to understand,” said the earl.

  Mr. Peabody bowed stiffly to Miss Blakelow. “It is clear to me, ma’am, that you prefer the company of this . . . this scoundrel to a man of decency. You must allow me to say that I am disappointed in you. A dalliance with a man of his sort can only lead you into the sort of situation that would be detrimental to your reputation and your character. I warn you against it most strongly. Marriage to this man would make you miserable.”

  “Not as miserable as if she married you,” put in the earl, leisurely taking a pinch of snuff and putting it to one nostril.

  Miss Blakelow shot a smoldering look at the earl before turning to her wounded suitor. “Indeed you mistake me, sir. I have no intention of marrying Lord Marcham. I assure you that he is only saying those things to provoke me. It seems to amuse him to pretend that there is an engagement between us. Why not come in with us and have some tea? Aunt Blakelow will have returned by now.”

  “Capital idea,” said the earl, “then you, Peahead, can talk to the aunt and I may have Miss Blakelow all to myself.”

  Mr. Peabody ignored this interruption, raising himself onto the balls of his feet as he invariably did when he was giving a sermon. “And this is the man whom you prefer?” he demanded. “You choose this rake over a man of decency, of principle . . . in short, a gentleman?”

  “Rake I may be,” said the earl, putting away his snuffbox, “but I have never yet forced my attentions on a gently bred woman. And by the very familiar embrace that I have just witnessed, it seems that you, Peabrain, cannot say the same.”

  Mr. Peabody’s eyes bulged as if they would pop from his head. “You, sir, are a disgrace!”

  Lord Marcham yawned and examined his fingernails. “Has he gone yet, my love?”

  “Any woman of high moral principle, as I had thought you to be, would recoil at such a union.”

  “Mr. Peabody, I can assure you, I have no intention of marrying anyone,” said Miss Blakelow roundly. “Please believe me when I tell you that marriage to Lord Marcham is of little interest to me.”

  Mr. Peabody puffed out his chest as if she had not spoken. “You have been charmed by a pretty face. I had not thought it possible. I had thought, Miss Blakelow, that you were a woman of superior sense, but I see now that I was wrong. I count myself fortunate to have escaped from such an unhappy union. I therefore announce that I have withdrawn my offer. I will now take my leave of you.” He bowed stiffly, straightened his cravat, and strode away.

  “Hurry back, won’t you?” said the earl.

  Miss Blakelow whirled on her lordly neighbor. “Are you satisfied?”

  A wicked glint stole into his eyes. “I could be . . . if you were to give me such an embrace as you just gave him.”

  She glowered at him and felt her cheeks color but was too angry to speak.

  “What?” he asked, laughing as he spread his hands.

  “You have upset Mr. Peabody.”

  “No, you did that. Something to do with a needle, I believe.”

  “How long have you been standing there?” Miss Blakelow demanded.

  “Long enough,” he replied coolly, admiring her figure as she bent to fold up the blanket that Lizzy had been sitting on.

  “And you didn’t think to make your presence known?”

  “That would have been rude in the extreme. Mr. Peabody was making his declaration. It probably took the poor man a month to work up the courage.”

  “You feel sorry for him?” she asked incredulously.

  He shrugged. “I feel sympathy for any man attempting to make you an offer—I know from experience that it is not for the fainthearted.”

  “You . . . oh, how I loathe you! You stood there while he was . . . while he was . . .”

  “Pressing his attentions?” he suggested sweetly.

  “Yes . . . and you did nothing. You did not lift a finger to intervene when you must have known that his suit is not welcome to me.”

  “How was I to know that it was unwelcome? You have hardly made me your confidant, have you?”

  “You stood there and listened, knowing all the while that his kiss was of all things the most repugnant to me. What if he had gone further? Would you have stood there and watched?”

  “Oh, I would have stepped in then, but you did not look as if you needed my help. You repelled him most efficiently. In fact, I consider myself fortunate to have learned a valuable lesson. When kissing Miss Blakelow, ensure that any sharp objects—needles, pins, nails, and such like—are out of arm’s reach.”

  She folded up her embroidery and threw it into the basket.

  “Dearest, most beloved creature,” he said softly, laughter quivering in his voice.

  She glared at him. “Don’t.”

  He clutched his hands to his breast in perfect imitation of Mr. Peabody. “My angel.”

  She wrestled with the urge to laugh and conquered it. “Lord Marcham, you are the most detestable, odious man alive.”

  “Adorable creature, say that you will be mine,” he begged.

  She threw a cushion at him, and he dodged it neatly, grinning broadly. “I must say, he did talk a lot for a man passionately in love. He should have kissed you,” recommended his lordship. “You can’t berate a man when your mouth is otherwise occupied.”

  “No, he should not have kissed me,” she flashed, blushing hotly. “I cannot think of anything more repulsive. Except, of course, kissing you.”

  He smiled, unperturbed. “Naturally.”

  She glanced up at him over the top of her spectacles as she bent to pick up another blanket. “Why are you here, my lord? Shouldn’t you be fleecing some poor man at the card table or something equally noble?”

  “That was
yesterday, ma’am,” he replied glibly. “I always fleece men of their property on a Wednesday. Thursdays are for flirting outrageously with one’s neighbors.”

  “And Fridays?” she asked, shaking off the other blanket.

  “Oh, drinking oneself into a stupor,” he said, smiling, “but not all day—one does need to eat, you know.”

  “And Saturday you spend all day in bed,” she put in before she had given herself permission to speak the words aloud. She had meant that he would spend all day in bed to recover from a day’s drinking, but suddenly realizing how it could be misconstrued, she stopped and flushed to the roots of her hair. Judging by the look of unholy amusement that came into the earl’s eyes, he had definitely misconstrued it. She cursed her unruly tongue. Why did she always manage to put her foot in her mouth when he was near?

  “My dear Miss Blakelow, I’m shocked,” he murmured.

  “You know very well what I meant,” she said in a stifled voice.

  “Do I?” he replied, his eyes dancing. “I hardly dare hope that you were making me an offer.”

  “You,” she choked, “are deliberately trying to make me blush.”

  “True,” he agreed smoothly, watching the delicious pink tinge that colored her cheeks, “but I assure you it is utterly irresistible.”

  “My lord Marcham, you must allow me to tell you: aware though I am of your . . . your lifestyle and your . . . how shall I say . . . misdemeanors, it is highly improper of you to speak to me of such things as—” She broke off, realizing into what dangerous waters her tongue was leading her.

  “What things?” he asked, his face the picture of innocence.

  “That I would . . . that we would . . . oh, you know very well what things!”

  “That you would beg me to go to bed with you?” he asked, his voice quivering with laughter.

  Miss Blakelow closed her eyes in pained silence. “Did you have to say that quite so loudly?”

  “Given that you were a key witness at one of my infamous parties, I would doubt you are as offended by our conversation as you pretend to be. But let me reassure you on one thing: you would not need to beg me—I’d happily spend all day in bed with you.”