The Bluestocking and the Rake

by Norma Darcy

  “I do not need his help.”

  “Begging your pardon, miss, but I think you do.”

  “I’d rather marry Mr. Peabody than marry a man who has less idea of marital fidelity than . . . than the Prince of Wales!” she flashed.

  “I know you and he have fallen out . . .”

  She glared at him. “Do you?” she asked dangerously.

  “My Janet is friendly with the housekeeper up at the big house, miss. The word was that you sent him to the roundabout, and that he was not best pleased about it.”

  Miss Blakelow fumed. So now her private conversation with his lordship was all over Loughton? “Indeed?”

  John swallowed. “Janet told me that he—um, well, perhaps I’d best not say.”

  “She told you that he what, John?” she pursued with narrowed eyes.

  He shuffled his feet. “I’m not sure as I should say, miss.”

  “John, you had better tell me.”

  Her servant colored and looked at the floor. “Janet told me that he fell asleep in the bed where you stayed when you were knocked off your horse, miss.”

  Miss Blakelow opened her mouth to say something, thought better of it, and closed it again.

  “He’s taken your refusal awful bad, miss.”

  “Good,” she said, swiping a miniature portrait of her mother from her bedside table and throwing it in the bag.

  “They say he’s hardly eaten a thing all week.”

  “I don’t care,” she declared.

  John reached into the bag, took out the tiny painting, and set it back upon the table again.

  She glared at him. “What are you doing?”

  “I could have a word with Janet, who could drop a word to her friend up at the house that you were of a mind to have him.”

  “And have all the servants knowing my business?”

  “Begging your pardon, miss, but they know it anyway.”

  She put her hands on her hips. “I will not marry Robert Holkham. Can I be any plainer?”

  “It would solve a good many problems.”

  “And create a good many more,” she muttered, pulling a bundle of letters from a drawer and flinging them into the bag. Marrying Lord Marcham would mean telling him the truth about her past—all of it. The thought of looking into his eyes as she told him, knowing he would in all probability despise her, was simply unthinkable.

  He bit his lip. “Lord Marcham is . . . is a man of the world. Chances are that he’ll understand your predicament better than most.”

  She shook her head. “He won’t.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “I do know it. Men—present company excepted—are hypocrites. He once told me that men of his sort did not fall in love with women like me.”

  John, recognizing the signs of a stubborn female digging in her heels, said no more. But once his mistress had calmed down enough to stop trembling, he managed to elicit from her a promise that she would not run away that night and went even so far as to encourage her to put the bag back on top of the armoire.

  The next morning brought a brief letter addressed to Miss Blakelow from her brother William who was still in London. She opened it with some impatience and was little satisfied with its contents.

  On the subject of her Aunt Thorpe’s demands that he cease his dalliance with her daughter, Charlotte, he merely wrote that Mrs. Thorpe had a mouth that put him in mind of a horse he once had sight of at Tattersall’s. He was hoping to come to Thorncote for the earl’s ball but could not be certain, as he had been invited to stay with a friend, Mr. Boyd, who was a capital fellow.

  Miss Blakelow screwed up his note and hurled it into the fire. Foolish, silly boy! Did he not know what he endangered by playing with the affections of Charlotte Thorpe? Did he not know how close to ruin they all were?

  She hastily seized a pen and paper and wrote to him again, demanding that he come home immediately. So distracted by her thoughts was Miss Blakelow that she had forgotten to pick up her glasses and cap before she left the room, and thus, when Hal Holkham entered the drawing room in the middle of the afternoon in pursuit of Marianne, he was rather shocked to find a familiar face looking back at him.

  So entirely was Miss Blakelow thrown by the encounter that she knocked her sewing basket over, and silks of every color tumbled onto the floor. It gave her an excuse to avert her gaze, however, and for several minutes she was employed in retrieving her belongings while keeping up a stream of utterly pointless conversation about the weather as if nothing in the world were wrong.

  Oh, where was her aunt? Where was Marianne? She was desperate for rescue, for this man was staring at her as if she were a ghost. She swallowed, blushed, and stammered something about needing to go upstairs.

  “Sophie?” he whispered.

  “Who?” she asked, in a valiant attempt to continue with her ruse.

  He stared at her, his mind clearly trying to make sense of what he saw before him. “Who the devil . . . ? Who are you?”

  “We met the other day, I believe,” she said brightly, in an attempt to bluff her way through the situation. “I am Georgiana Blakelow.”

  His boots gleamed in the sunlight as he walked toward her, and he bowed. His eyes were dark and held hers, and she felt as if she could swim in their depths.

  “Sophie? Is it you?” he asked softly.

  She moved away. “I think you are mistaken, sir. I know of no one by that name—”

  He turned toward the fireplace, took a stride toward it, and then spun around to face her once again. “I—I don’t believe it. I thought you were dead.”

  She swallowed hard. “I say again, my name is Georgiana—”

  He narrowed his eyes in triumph. “I thought I recognized you the other day! I was racking my brains all the way home, but I couldn’t quite place you . . .”

  Miss Blakelow felt a rising sense of panic as the situation seemed to be slipping beyond her control. “If you will excuse me, sir, I have an appointment. If you are looking for Marianne, she has walked into Loughton. She will be back within the hour, I daresay. Good day to you.”

  He laid a hand on her arm to detain her. “No, don’t run away . . . Sophie. It is you, isn’t it?”

  Miss Blakelow’s eyes slid from his. What was the point of continuing to deny it? He had recognized her.

  He laughed and shook his head. “Oh, this is famous! To think of how we all looked for you but you vanished into thin air! And this is where you have been hiding all this time?”

  She did not answer him.

  “Oh, what a good joke it is! Two miles from Marcham’s door! Just wait until I tell Caroline! How she will roar with laughter!”

  Her eyes shot to his face, and she grasped his arm imploringly. “Oh, no, you must not. Please promise me that you won’t tell anyone who I am.”

  He looked slightly taken aback. “Not tell anyone? Not tell Caro, your dearest friend?”

  Miss Blakelow shook her head. “I cannot risk it. If he should find me . . .”

  “He?” Mr. Holkham grew quiet. “Is he still after you then?”

  She gave a laugh that was utterly bereft of humor. “Oh, yes. He’ll never give up.”

  “I did not know that it was you the other day . . .” he said. “I mean . . . when I knocked you from your horse.”

  “I took care that you should not know me. I took great care that no one should know me.”

  He nodded slowly. “Georgiana Blakelow. The perfect ruse.”

  She shrugged. “She has served me well enough.”

  “Does my brother know about us?”

  She shook her head and dropped her eyes to the floor. “No. And it must stay that way. No one can know who I am, Hal. No one. You must promise me.”

  “But why?”

  She looked up at him. “Because I am still in hiding. Because I cannot allow my reputation to catch up with me. Because I would not inflict my past upon my brothers and sisters, that’s why.”

  “Who kno
ws what happened but you and I?” he asked.

  His voice was deep and intoxicating, and listening to him, she was transported back to when he had persuaded her to run away with him ten years ago. He was handsome. His voice was like silk. She had known men like him before and they were dangerous.

  “Do you forget that I was ruined in the eyes of the world?” she asked in a low, calm voice.

  “The world is a great deal too ready to listen to gossip.”

  “I think that we gave the world enough to gossip about, Mr. Holkham,” she said acidly. “We were away for three days.”

  “And who knew?” he asked again. “Your Aunt Thorpe. Julius. You and me.”

  “Yes, and your mother and your sister and all the servants. Not to mention your wife, who you conveniently forgot to mention, then as now,” she added scathingly.

  He colored faintly beneath his tan. “It was not intended to be that way.”

  “No?” she asked. “How was it intended then? You left me alone in the middle of nowhere without a penny to my name. Was that an indication of how much you cared for me, Hal?”

  “I was young and foolish,” he said. “I know that you hate me. God knows you have good reason.”

  “I don’t hate you.”

  “I hope that’s true. I truly regret what happened,” he said. “You must believe me. I know what I did was wrong. But my feelings for you were real—I swear it. I loved you.”

  “Don’t.” The word rang out in the room, and she immediately held out her hand as if to ward him off. It was too much. It was too painful. The memories still cut deep.

  “My little Sophie,” he said softly. “I used to call you that . . . remember?”

  “Don’t, Hal . . . please.”

  “It is so good to see you again after all these years,” he whispered, coming toward her. “And you are still so beautiful. You have hardly changed in ten years.”

  Miss Blakelow laughed unsteadily. “You’re such a poor liar, Hal. You always were, you know.”

  He smiled, relieved that he had broken down some tiny corner of her defenses. “We were inseparable for a time, weren’t we?” he asked, his voice warm with nostalgia. “I always remember that summer with such fondness. We used to talk about everything. So free and easy in each other’s company. So different from Mary and me . . . But you were a secret and no one could know, not even our families, so we had to pretend in public that we were nothing to each other. And we danced at balls as if we were strangers, when we had just been out on the terrace kissing only moments before . . . and we stole glances across the dining room at each other when no one else was looking. And there were all those meetings after dark, when your aunt had gone to bed. Those kisses in the moonlight. I remember those kisses, Sophie. They kept me warm on all those lonely nights in Brussels. Mary and I—we were never intimate and I was so desperately lonely. Then along came my little Sophie, a beautiful slip of a girl, who stole my heart and told me that she’d keep it safe for me forever. Do you still have it, Sophie? Do you still have my heart?”

  She closed her eyes, finding some inner resolve from somewhere. For years she had fantasized about this meeting, about seeing him again and what she would say to him. She had practiced speeches that were meant to tell him how little he had meant to her, how utterly forgettable his kisses were, how she had long ago forgotten his touch . . .

  But all these well-rehearsed monologues were forgotten in his presence. His voice was seductive, as smooth as chocolate, slowly pulling her under, sucking at her resolve until it melted away. “I don’t know,” she answered.

  “Am I nothing to you then?” he demanded in a low voice. “Have you forgotten me so easily?”

  “Easily?” she repeated. “Hardly that.”

  “I have not forgotten you. I still have the lock of your hair that you gave me. Do you remember?”

  “Oh, stop! Can’t you see?” she asked passionately. “It is over. It was over before it ever began.”

  “I tried to find you. You ran away and I searched everywhere, but you vanished into thin air.”

  “I don’t believe you,” she whispered.

  He seized her shoulders. “It’s true. Look at me.”

  She slowly raised her eyes to his.

  “Had I known that you were hiding from me in plain sight for all these years . . . not three miles from Holme Park . . .” He gave a rueful laugh. “What I wouldn’t have done to make you mine. How long I have waited to see you again,” he said. “I have dreamed of this moment.”

  And so have I, she thought. You will never know how much.

  “It feels like coming home to have you near me.”

  The door opened and Miss Blakelow sprang away from him, but not before Marianne had seen her almost in Mr. Holkham’s arms. She stood on the threshold and stared at them, wide-eyed with shock.

  Miss Blakelow knocked upon her sister’s door. “Marianne? Can I come in?”

  “No!”

  “I must speak with you.”

  “Go away!”

  “It was not what you think.”

  “Go away!”

  Miss Blakelow ignored this imperative instruction, pushed open the door, and then closed it softly behind her.

  “Do none of the locks work in this wretched house?” complained Marianne, burying her face into her pillow.

  “I know. Most inconvenient when one wishes to be on one’s high ropes, is it not?” returned Miss Blakelow.

  “I am not on my high ropes.”

  “No, dear,” soothed her sister, sitting down upon the bed beside her.

  “You have stolen him from me,” Marianne sobbed.

  “Nothing of the sort. He was not yours to steal and he certainly is not mine.”

  “You are the meanest creature. You wish to keep me here as an old maid, don’t you? You wish me to remain as your companion so that you may not live out the rest of your days alone!”

  Miss Blakelow, a little hurt by this speech, laid a gentle hand on her sister’s shoulder. “I wish to see you married to a man who loves you, Marianne.”

  “You frighten off every gentleman who has ever shown any interest in me,” cried Marianne into her pillow.

  “Not a decent man.”

  “Mr. Holkham is a decent man.”

  Miss Blakelow shook her head. “I am trying to protect you.”

  “I don’t need protecting.”

  Miss Blakelow sighed and looked at her hands for a moment. “I made a mistake when I was your age, younger than you even, and all I want is that you should not make the same mistake and end up like me.”

  “But they are my mistakes to make. How am I to find out if a gentleman really loves me if you frighten them away?” cried Marianne, surfacing from under her pillow.

  “Mr. Henry Holkham is a man known to me by . . . by reputation. Take it from an old hand that he is not marriage material.”

  “He’s not?”

  “No, love.”

  “Who is then?”

  “That nice young man who worships you.”

  “Which young man?”

  “Samuel.”

  “Mr. Bateman?” repeated Marianne, wrinkling her nose. “But I have known him for an age.”

  “He is a good man.”

  “But he is hanging out after you, Georgie.”

  “Yes, and spends a good deal of time staring at you,” said Miss Blakelow warmly.

  “But he is more like a brother to me.”

  Miss Blakelow smiled and smoothed the golden curls on her sister’s head. “He does not think of you as a sister. Trust me, I know that look.”

  Marianne blushed. “But he ignores me most of the time. He thinks that I am immature.”

  “He is hiding his feelings because he doesn’t believe that you return his affections.”

  “Oh, Georgie, I want so much to be in love!” Marianne cried wistfully.

  Miss Blakelow smiled. “Be patient and it will happen in its own good time. Sometimes it creeps up
behind you when you are least expecting it. You are young. Your time will come.”

  “And has yours?”

  Miss Blakelow smoothed the counterpane on the bed with her hand. “Love is for the young. I am far too old and too cynical and too practical in nature to fall prey to such an emotion. I had rather be content than in love.”

  Marianne wrinkled her nose. “But that sounds so dull.”

  “It is safe. Your heart cannot be broken if you choose not to give it away.” Miss Blakelow stood and kissed her sister’s forehead. “Give yours wisely, Marianne; that is the best advice I can give you.”

  CHAPTER 21

  AS IT WERE, MISS Blakelow did not receive an invitation to attend Lady Harriet’s ball.

  Her sisters and her aunt received their beautifully finished white cards, and they exclaimed over Georgiana being omitted, wondering if her invitation had become lost, and she endured it all with a stoicism that she did not feel. She forced a smile and shrugged and said it was of little matter to her.

  She was hardly surprised; Lady St. Michael had been less than warm in her dealings with her, after all. But the knowledge that her society was not valued by anyone at Holme, not even Lady Harriet, was mortifying indeed. She would not have gone to the ball anyway; she dared not, given that half the guests may have recognized her, and especially given her recent argument with the earl. But the fact that he had made no move to see that she received an invitation, even for the sake of appearances, so utterly depressed her that she could not bear the sight of the ball gown he’d arranged to have made for her, and she buried it deep at the back of the armoire.

  It was little more than a fortnight to the event, and Miss Blakelow had still not heard from William as to when he would return to Thorncote. That he was deliberately ignoring her request to avoid having to pay his debts in Worcestershire seemed likely. It also occurred to Miss Blakelow that he might be so far in debt as to make a return journey home by post chaise a prohibitively expensive undertaking, and the only alternative was to travel by stage, which he probably found unpalatable. She thought him a little cowardly as a consequence and was disappointed that he had not the courage to face up to his responsibilities.

  Miss Blakelow attempted to put the events of the past fortnight behind her. She had heard that Lord Marcham had gone to stay with friends and was expected to be away for some days. Why this depressed her when she had resolved to break all acquaintance with the man was a question she could not answer.