The Bluestocking and the Rake
Page 30
“She was the same age as you?” asked the earl.
Caroline shook her head. “She was younger than me, and I had already become a widow by then, but we became good friends,” she said, looking wistfully at the wall. “She had great success. She was a hit.”
“Describe her to me.”
Caroline shrugged and puffed out her cheeks. “Lord, I don’t know . . . beautiful, I suppose, in a rather unconventional way. She had an unusual way of arranging her hair that became her signature and all the crack . . . tall, elegant figure, but she had a vivaciousness about her that men could not resist. They were attracted to her like bees to a honey pot. It was quite a thing to behold. She’d have had you wrapped around her little finger, Robbie, no doubt of it. She was the daughter of a navy man, a ship’s captain I believe, but he died in the West Indies some years before.”
Lord Marcham moved to the fireplace. “And her mother?”
“She was dead too. Poor Sophie had nobody by the time I knew her.”
“She must have lived with someone in London. A chaperone of some sort?”
“Her aunt—Mrs. Thorpe. Frightful woman. She made it abundantly clear that Sophie was a burden to her. The aunt’s sole aim was to marry her off to the first rich man who came along. A candidate was chosen, the only trouble being that he was considerably older than her—old enough to be her father, in fact. But Sophie was rebellious and refused to do her aunt’s bidding. Then there was the scandal, of course.”
“My esteemed brother strikes again,” he commented with a sneer to his lips.
“While you were busy chasing Boney, Sophie was busy falling in love . . .”
The earl laid his arm along the mantelpiece and clenched his fist. “And?”
“And she eloped with him.”
“But he was already married,” his lordship pointed out.
“Yes. But Sophie didn’t know that. She went with him willingly, thinking they would be married at Gretna Green. Hal had only enough money to get them as far as Stevenage, and I think that was all he ever intended. She was ruined.”
CHAPTER 24
MISS BLAKELOW WAS LEAVING that evening.
She had hidden from John her intentions to leave without him. She would take nothing but the money she had earned from her writing and the bag she kept packed with a few precious belongings. She had sewn her money into the hem of her petticoat and mused wryly that it would be as safe under the skirts of an aging spinster as if it were in a locked vault. The ball was that evening, and she planned to take Goodspeed from the stables and head out onto the back roads while her sisters were all dancing the night away. Ned and Jack had gone to a cockfight that evening, and however much she disapproved of such sports, it was the way of the gentlemanly set to which they aspired. By the time they all returned she would be long gone.
So occupied was Miss Blakelow by her preparations to leave Thorncote that she did not notice a parcel to her from Holme until late in the day. When she opened it, a very fine knitted stole in a beautiful silver gray shone in the candlelight as it spilled out into her hands. Frowning, she unfolded the accompanying letter.
My dear Miss Blakelow,
You must forgive me, but I have only today realized that your name has been omitted from the guest list for my sister’s ball. I therefore enclose an invitation along with the fondest hope that you will come this evening. I have my brother’s assurance that he will not bother you throughout the course of the evening, and so you may be comfortable on that score.
I enclose a stole that was given to me as a present. I find that it is a little old in style for me, and I think will suit you better. I hope you like it, and it is my wish that you will keep it and think of it as a peace offering. I trust you may make use of it this evening, as I think it will perfectly compliment your dress.
Yours, etc.,
Lady St. Michael
Miss Blakelow’s mouth fell open. Too old for her? Too old? How dare she? She screwed up her ladyship’s note and hurled it at the floor, pacing back and forth across the carpet.
“Why, Georgie,” cried Marianne, who was being dressed in her new blue ball gown and watched her in the mirror, “whatever is the matter?”
Too old? How old did she imagine she was, for heaven’s sake? Ninety? Why the sanctimonious, scheming—! Oh!
“Nothing!” declared Miss Blakelow vehemently.
“Nothing? But you look as if you might explode.”
“And so I might! That hateful, odious . . . !”
Too old? Too old? Miss Blakelow paced back and forth in front of the fireplace. Of all the insulting, ill-mannered, devious women!
“What has he done now?” asked Marianne wearily as she screwed one earring into her earlobe.
Arrested by this unexpected question, Miss Blakelow halted her prowling across the carpet. “Who?”
“Lord Marcham.”
“Lord Marcham? What has he to say to it, pray?” demanded Miss Blakelow irritably.
“I don’t know, but you look terribly put out, and it is usually he who is the cause of it.”
Miss Blakelow stopped dead in her tracks and stared at her sister. Lord Marcham. She hadn’t allowed herself to think about him all day. If her plan to leave that night was successful, she wouldn’t ever see him again. She would sneak away while he was at the ball, and he wouldn’t know that she’d gone until it was too late. This was what she wanted, what she’d planned for, but now the thought sent a stab of misery through her. Could she find a way to get one more glimpse of him before she left? She imagined herself dressed in a dark cape and sturdy boots, her horse grazing behind her as she gazed longingly through the windows at the party in full swing. He would not know she was there. He would have little idea that she was hiding in the bushes for a glimpse of him while he was playing host to his guests. She would gaze upon her sisters, knowing that in all probability it would be the last time she would see them.
But part of her wanted to dance alongside her sisters as their equal, to be noticed instead of being confined to the shadows. She wanted to feel Lord Marcham’s arms around her, to know that he had seen her as she really was—once, without the spectacles and her widow’s weeds. Her secret was almost out anyway. What had she to lose? She would leave by midnight. What harm could an hour or two in a pretty dress do?
Her desire to have one night as herself before she disappeared sustained her long enough to see her ensconced in the carriage with her sisters and her aunt, the steps taken up, and the vehicle in motion. But when she saw the lights of Holme Park house glinting at her through the trees, her nerves returned to such an alarming degree that she asked for the carriage to be halted so that she might walk home.
“Walk home? In all this dirt?” cried Aunt Blakelow. “You will not.”
“But, Aunt, I have made a dreadful mistake. I cannot go. I was foolish to even think of it. I allowed my vanity to get the better of me. Please let me go home.”
“Nonsense. Enjoy yourself for once.”
“Oh, yes, do come, George,” breathed Marianne, radiant with excitement. “You do look so beautiful.”
“I feel a fool.”
“Georgie. Calm yourself,” said her aunt, patting her hand.
Miss Blakelow said no more. She would try to steal away once the carriage had pulled up before the house. The girls would be too distracted to notice her slipping away into the darkness.
But the carriage halted before the house, and Miss Blakelow stood before a thousand windows ablaze with light. Every chandelier appeared to be glowing, the light refracting and bouncing off a million crystal teardrops. As she followed her sisters and the crush of guests up the front stairs and into the hallway, she saw flowers in yellow and gold and white on every available surface. Champagne flowed, the guests milled around in their finery, and she could hear the orchestra striking up for the dancing.
She turned to flee, but the press of people was too thick, like an incoming tide, sweeping all before it. She was borne
inexorably toward the receiving line where Lady Harriet, Lady St. Michael, and their mother stood waiting to greet their guests. Miss Blakelow noticed with relief that Lord Marcham was absent. Perhaps he was still in London with his sister. Perhaps he had not been behind that note from his sister after all. She saw Lady St. Michael look over her appearance with a cold smile and itched to slap that lady’s rouged cheek. The countess was no less warm in her greeting, and it was with relief that Miss Blakelow felt her hand warmly clasped by Lady Harriet, who expressed herself very happy to see her.
Miss Blakelow was at first amused at the reaction to her appearance. People plainly did not know who she was. She found herself being stared at openly and surreptitiously, from behind fans and through quizzing glasses. Hal Holkham, after his initial shock, openly ogled and grinned at her from across the room with gleeful appreciation. Some of the ladies from the parish who had recognized her and had only ever seen her in dull gray or black stared at her with strong disapproval, giving her the cold shoulder as she approached them. But she did not care. In a few hours’ time, she would be gone.
Lord Marcham saw her across the room just as he was reaching for a glass of champagne. He froze, hand poised midair, suddenly unable to perform even this most simple of tasks. The footman had to place the glass in his lordship’s gloved hand himself because the man was transfixed by the sight of the woman who had just entered the room.
She was dressed in a gown of midnight-blue silk, which fell over the top of an azure-blue satin underskirt. The puffed sleeves were also made of midnight silk and were trimmed with blue silk rosebuds. The neckline slashed low across her bosom and a single sapphire on a gold chain nestled against the perfect swell of her breasts. Her beautiful mahogany tresses were arranged in a style so markedly different from the other women—who wore bunches of tight curls clustered together like grapes on either side of their temples—that several stares were directed at the simple twist of hair elegantly pinned to her head, allowing her natural waves to curl onto her shoulder. Her womanly curves were very much on show, and the spark of smiling defiance in her eyes dared anyone to object. The glasses, the shawl, the hated cap were all gone, and Lord Marcham thought he’d never seen anything quite so beautiful or so downright alluring.
“Do close your mouth, Robbie,” drawled Lady St. Michael as she passed by him on the arm of her husband.
His lordship flushed, dragged his eyes away from Miss Blakelow, and sipped his champagne, trying to gather his disordered wits.
“Is that her?” asked a soft voice at his side.
He turned to look at his sister Caroline. “I don’t know what you said to get her here, but you must be a genius.”
“Don’t thank me. Thank Sarah. She sent her a note and whatever she said, it worked.”
“I’ll say it did,” he murmured, his eyes unconsciously straying to Miss Blakelow once again.
Caroline smiled and looped her arm through his. “Are you going to introduce me then? Or are you going to stand here all night working up the courage to go and ask her to dance?”
“I don’t want to ask her to dance.”
“So don’t then. And when Mr. Peabody calls her wife, you may complain to someone else about it,” she replied sweetly.
Miss Blakelow saw him coming and willed herself to keep the smile pinned to her face despite the memory of the last time she had seen him being still painfully fresh in her mind. He came to stand before her with his sister on his arm. He was exquisitely dressed, as always, his black coat hugging his powerful shoulders, with satin evening breeches and a simple yet elegant cravat at his throat. He looked pensive and there was a frown on his brow, and she wondered if he too were thinking of the last time they had met and that kiss . . .
He bowed stiffly. “Miss Blakelow, may I present my sister to you, Mrs. Caroline Weir?”
Caroline smiled and squeezed her brother’s arm, a prearranged signal that the woman she was looking at was one Sophie Ashton. “How do you do, Miss Blakelow? Georgiana, is it not?”
Miss Blakelow could barely meet her eyes. She knew that she had been recognized. “Mrs. Weir, I—”
“Call me Caroline, if you please. We are to be friends, are we not? Well, what a sad crush it is. I knew it would be, of course, because Mama and Sarah would invite everybody. Robbie, is that Mrs. Grant over there? Lord, what a gown! She looks like a joint of ham. And that woman in the frightful turban who I have never before seen in my life. Who are all these people?”
Her brother shrugged. “Ask Sarah. I do not know one in ten of them.”
“No, and depend upon it, Miss Blakelow, my brother here only wanted one person to attend anyway, and that person is you. He’s desperate to ask you to dance, by the way.”
Miss Blakelow blushed and looked down at her gloved hands.
“I am quite capable of asking Miss Blakelow myself, if I wish to ask her,” said his lordship acidly, looking somewhat annoyed.
“Well, get on with it then,” recommended his sister. “The evening will be halfway over by the time you take to the floor.”
Miss Blakelow, receiving the message loud and clear that he did not want to dance with her, looked away. “I should find my aunt—” she began.
“Miss Blakelow,” interrupted the earl in his deep voice. “May I have the honor of the next set?”
“I—I don’t wish to force you into dancing with me if you do not wish to,” she stammered, heartily wishing herself back at Thorncote and him at Jericho.
He bowed with cold civility and was about to move away, but his sister was having none of it and grabbed his arm to halt his escape.
“My dear Georgiana,” she said with her most winning smile, “you must dance with him. Indeed, he will be insufferable if you do not. He has been like a bear with a sore head all week as it is. For the sake of the future of his line and any progeny, you must dance and put him out of his misery, because if you do not, then I may well murder him, and what then for the earldom?”
Miss Blakelow could not help smiling faintly at that.
Mrs. Weir placed a hand on her old friend’s arm. “Besides, he is by far the best-looking man here, wouldn’t you agree? You will make all the other women envious.” She ignored the derisive snort from her brother and added, “And if you do not, Mr. Peabody is bearing down upon you and will claim your hand for this dance instead.”
Lord Marcham pulled a face filled with disgust. “I do not think it is very flattering to a gentleman to be told that the only reason a girl wishes to dance with him is because his company is slightly preferable to that of Mr. Peapod.”
“Very well, my lord,” replied Miss Blakelow. She spoke to his cravat, unable to meet his eyes. “But I am a wretched dancer, woefully out of practice, and will step on your toes.”
“My toes are at your disposal,” he said, bowing again, and unsmilingly held out his arm as the set was forming, stopping only to say into his sister’s ear, “Caroline, you go too far.”
“So I do, but I get results, do I not?” she retorted with a smile up at him.
They took their positions on the floor, and Miss Blakelow hardly dared look at him as the music began and he clasped her hand. They performed the moves of the dance in silence, each too preoccupied to think of anything to say. It was a full five minutes in this manner before his lordship could stand it no more and said, as lightly as he could, “Miss Blakelow, you are here without your spectacles. Do you not fear to trip over a chair leg and land headfirst in the rum punch?”
His tone was light, teasing. But there was a reserve in his voice, which made her suspect that his mind was elsewhere. That kiss. That wretched kiss. She should have pushed him away. She should have done anything but submit to him. And she definitely should not have leaned into him or curled her arms around his neck or answered the insistent pressure of his lips with her own. Was he thinking of it too? Did the memory give him pleasure? Or did he regret their entire acquaintance and her ever coming to Holme Park at all?
“Mr. Peabody’s tongue for one,” he muttered, staring down the ballroom at the portly gentleman in a bad coat. “He’s been staring at you all evening.”
“As have you, my lord,” she murmured, taking his hand as was required by the dance.
He stared at her for a moment. “It is a great deal too immodest of you to boast of your own beauty, ma’am.”
“Oh, I did not mean that,” she replied airily, “only that you are so astounded at my appearance that you cannot believe your eyes.”
“I will not pander to your vanity by answering that.”
It was fortunate that the dance required them to separate because Miss Blakelow was flustered by the look in his eyes. She moved through the dance, aware that he still watched her, and as they came together again, their hands clasped firmly together and she looked up into his face.
“Did you have a pleasant trip to London, my lord?” she asked.
“Subtle change of subject,” he observed wryly. “Yes, thank you, I did. I went to reacquaint myself with your brother.”
“How—how tiresome for you,” she replied, her poise slipping a notch.
“I found his company most instructive.”
“Indeed?”
“He informed me that he has no sister called Georgiana. In fact, he does not have an elder sister at all.”
“He is a brother by marriage only,” she said uncomfortably.
“He denies knowing you. Why is that?” he asked, looking down at her.
She shrugged as lightly as she was able. “He and I do not see eye to eye.”
“Perhaps. Or perhaps he just wants to protect you from prying questions. And why would that be, Miss Blakelow?” he asked.
“I have no idea.”
“You have no idea,” he repeated. “Then why do I have the distinct impression that you are hiding something from me?”