The Bluestocking and the Rake

by Norma Darcy

  He was as immoral as he was dissipated. He had been warming Lady Burford’s bed at the age of eighteen, when Georgiana was still taking lessons from her governess. It would have been laughable if it wasn’t so tragic. How could he change a lifetime of bad behavior? How could he let her marry a man who had never had any kind of meaningful relationship with a woman in his life? A man who had never had an interest in a woman beyond her seduction? How did he know that it wasn’t merely lust that he felt for Miss Blakelow? And once he’d had her, how soon would the novelty of married life wear thin? And how long before he would look to other quarters for excitement? The chances were that he would be unfaithful within a year.

  And yet . . .

  “Robbie, you’re not dancing,” Hal said, coming to a halt before him.

  Lord Marcham gathered his gloomy thoughts together and threw them from his mind. “I’m ready for my bed.”

  “Already? What kind of rake goes to bed before midnight?”

  “The bored kind,” responded his lordship.

  His brother chuckled. “Oh, dear, that bad, is it? Not enough scantily clad females here to hold your interest? Or is the play at the card table a little tame for such a hardened gamester such as you?”

  “Exactly so.”

  “Well, it can’t be that bad. Find yourself a pretty girl and make yourself agreeable.”

  “I’m not in the mood.”

  “You? Not in the mood to chase pretty girls? Impossible.”

  Lord Marcham forced a smile. Given the thoughts that had so recently been revolving in his head, this wasn’t exactly what he wanted to hear. “Even a rake needs a night off now and again. My age, you know.”

  “Hardly. You’d probably drink me under the table without any trouble at all. Us married men, you know, dull dogs I’m afraid.”

  “How was the happy reunion? Am I to wish you joy?” asked Lord Marcham in a desperate bid to change the subject. He sipped his champagne, keeping his eyes on the dancers on the floor before them as they interwove in a country dance, their flushed and happy faces in stark contrast to the wretchedness he felt inside.

  He’d sworn he would not ask. He’d told himself that he was uninterested in whatever arrangement his brother and Georgiana had come to. But he had seen that kiss. He had witnessed her slipping her arms around his brother’s neck, and the sense of gnawing jealousy made him want to place his fist with some force into the center of Hal’s handsome face.

  Hal turned and saw his brother’s look and smiled faintly. “So you are interested after all,” he commented.

  His lordship raised a brow. “Of course I’m interested. You’re my brother.”

  Hal gave him a knowing smile. “Doing it much too brown, big brother, much too brown indeed.”

  “If she is to become my sister-in-law, then I wish to know,” said Lord Marcham coldly.

  Hal looked amused. “Why?”

  “Why? Because I was planning to give Thorncote to you, that’s why,” he said stiffly. He paused and cleared his throat. “I was thinking of it as a wedding gift.”

  “Keep little brother busy so that he cannot get into more trouble?” murmured Hal.

  “Something like that.”

  “And are you going to come over and check my progress with the farm thirty times a day, just so that you may have the excuse to ogle my wife?”

  The earl clenched his fist. His wife. Christ. His wife. He felt as if he might be sick. Never had two words made him so blazingly angry. “Not at all,” he replied with all the appearance of calm. “I have no intention of interfering. I will move back to London. I find Holme a little dull, I must confess.”

  His brother gave him another knowing look. “And would you find it half so dull if Georgiana were living here with you as your wife?”

  Their eyes met.

  “Are you deliberately trying to goad me into losing my temper?” demanded his lordship.

  “It appears as if I don’t have to try very hard to achieve that effect.”

  “Hal, I swear, by all that is holy—just watch your damned tongue.”

  “I am grateful for your offer—to buy Thorncote for us, I mean—but that won’t be necessary.”

  His lordship’s eyes fixed upon his brother’s face. “Why not?”

  “Because I intend to return to Brussels.”

  “Brussels?” the earl repeated. He felt the blood drain from his face. He was taking her to Brussels. He would never see her again . . .

  Good, he told himself. Then she would not flaunt her newfound happiness in his face. She was going to Brussels, and that would spare him the pain of seeing her happy with another man, of watching her belly swell with his babe. It would never stop him imagining. It would never stop him dreaming. But at least she would be out of sight if not out of mind.

  “Yes. I rather like it there. I have made friends, and Mary’s family has been very good to me. You should come and visit us there now that the war is over.”

  Lord Marcham could take no more. He nodded lamely. “We’ll see.”

  “No, I mean it. It will be a pleasure to have you visit. I’m sure Georgiana would like to see you.”

  His lordship made no answer.

  “She thinks of you as a very good friend,” Hal said, watching the tortured look on his brother’s face with some amusement. “I will have the bedchamber next to ours redecorated for when you come.”

  The room next to yours? So I can hear you making love to her? No and no and dammit—no!

  His lordship drained his champagne glass. “I need some air,” he said, putting down the glass on the mantelpiece with such force that he nearly broke it.

  “Good idea. I’ll come with you.”

  Marcham held up his hand. “No. I want to be alone.”

  “Yes, that’s the ticket. Go and mope on your own in that gloomy library of yours. That will help.”

  His lordship stared at him. “You are goading me? Do you know how close I am to rearranging your damnably handsome face?”

  His brother laughed quietly. “You have it all wrong, you know.”

  His lordship thought that he might well explode. He clenched his fists, his belly sour with pain and anger and jealousy. “Hal . . . don’t . . . just don’t.”

  “Rob, you fool, stop glaring at me. You’re not going to hit me.”

  “I wouldn’t count on it.”

  “It’s over, can’t you see that? There is no attachment between Georgiana and me anymore.”

  The earl’s eyes shot to his face. “What do you mean?”

  “We are different people now. Sophie has long gone and Georgie has taken her place. And I have other interests . . .” His eyes flicked toward the ballroom, where Marianne Blakelow was talking with a friend.

  “I don’t understand. I thought that you and Georgie . . .” His voice trailed off. He couldn’t put it into words.

  Hal shrugged. “It was so long ago. I will always be fond of her, of course.”

  His lordship stared at his brother, hope soaring in his breast. “Hal, don’t tease me on this subject—are you certain?”

  “As certain of anything in my life! Why don’t you go to her?”

  “Because it’s useless. She won’t have me.”

  “And why won’t she have you?”

  “I don’t know.” Lord Marcham ran a hand through his hair. “Well, that’s not strictly true. I think she doesn’t believe that I wish to marry her. She thinks that I’m shopping for a wife and any available woman will do.”

  “I see. And who gave her that impression?”

  The earl swallowed. “I did.”

  “You did,” Hal repeated.

  “Yes. I asked her the first time because she was convenient and, oh, it’s a long story, but she seemed to be the answer to my prayers. But as time went on, I began to think that we might suit, more than suit.” He paused, scuffing one beautifully shod foot against the floor. “Sadly I was the only one of us who thought so. She thinks that I will be unfaithf
ul to her.”

  “And will you?”

  “No.”

  The word surprised him. Or not the word but the way he said it. He said it without hesitation, without having to think it through. He knew that if he was given the chance of love after all these years, he’d be damned if he’d throw it away.

  “And have you asked her to marry you since?” Hal asked.

  “Of course I have.”

  “And what does she say? What precisely does she say?”

  “That she cannot marry me.”

  “Ah,” said Hal, as if everything had suddenly become clear.

  “Ah, what?” demanded the earl.

  “Not that she doesn’t want to marry you, but that she can’t. She’s scared to tell you what happened. She’s frightened that you will despise her for it.”

  “Despise her for what? Do you know what happened?”

  Hal smiled faintly. “Yes. But I think that she should be the one to tell you.”

  “She won’t tell me,” replied his lordship bitterly. “She’d tell everyone else but me.”

  “You idiot, Robbie. That’s because she’s head over heels in love with you, can’t you see that? Your opinion of her matters to her a great deal. She doesn’t want you to think badly of her.”

  Lord Marcham stared at him. “Are you sure?”

  “As sure of anything in my life. Go to her. Ask her what happened at the White Swan. And do it now Rob; she’s planning to leave.”

  “Leave?” his lordship barked.

  Hal smiled. “If I know my little Sophie, she is right now packing her trunk.”

  Lord Marcham looked at him for a moment and then started toward the stairs to change out of his evening attire.

  “Oh, and Robbie?”

  His lordship turned, one hand upon the banister. “Yes?”

  “Do not think too badly of her—or me, for that matter. If it counts for anything with you, I know what I did was wrong.”

  Their eyes met for a long moment.

  “Will you be here when I get back?” the earl asked.

  “I don’t think so.”

  His lordship nodded and was gone.

  CHAPTER 26

  LORD MARCHAM ARRIVED AT Thorncote to find the house utterly deserted.

  The front door had been left open, and it bounced against its hinges in the breeze—a fact he observed with a sense of deep foreboding. No groom or stable hand came to see to his horse; no butler came to take his hat and riding whip. He dismounted and led his horse to a stone balustrade and looped the reins around it. He ran lightly up the front steps and entered the house. It was as quiet as a tomb.

  Out of the corner of his eye he saw a slip of white paper on the floor. He stooped to pick it up and turned it over in his hands. It was a letter, and he tilted it to the moonlight and swiftly read the contents. The note was short and to the point. It was from Mrs. Susan Thorpe. William Blakelow had eloped with her daughter, Charlotte, a week ago. Mrs. Thorpe blamed Sophie for putting thoughts of love into her daughter’s head. The aunt was writing to inform her niece that Miss Ashton’s whereabouts had been known to Mr. Boyd and his master for several days, and she hoped that justice would be served.

  Lord Marcham swore under his breath and strode from room to room, the sounds of his footsteps echoing on the stone floor as he called out Miss Blakelow’s name. Every room was silent and dark. There was no one: no John, no servants, and no Georgiana.

  He took the stairs two at a time and hurried along the hallway to her bedchamber. The door stood ajar. He pushed it open and was relieved to find it occupied by its owner. A single candle burned on the dressing table in front of Miss Blakelow, who stood with her back to him. She started and whirled around, her eyes wide with alarm.

  “Oh, it’s you . . . You startled me.”

  “I apologize, Miss Blakelow,” he said stiffly as he came into the room. “I didn’t mean to alarm you. Is everything alright?”

  “Of course,” she answered with a nervous laugh. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

  “Then why is the front door wide open? And this letter? Who is Mr. Boyd’s master?”

  She looked at him for a moment and then picked up a small painting from the table by her bed and dropped it into a bag.

  “Where is John?” he asked when she made no answer.

  “I—I gave all the servants the evening off.”

  “Then it is a good thing that I have come. A deserted house with no one to attend you and this man hell-bent on revenge—”

  “Oh, what tosh,” she replied with some impatience. “I am big enough and old enough to look after myself. Why are you here? Shouldn’t you be attending to your guests?”

  The earl shrugged and quietly closed the door. “No one will miss me.”

  “No one will miss the great Earl of Marcham?” she repeated, casting him a skeptical look over her shoulder. “I find that hard to believe. What do you want?”

  He turned toward the fireplace and kicked the smoldering log to life. Orange flames erupted around it.

  “I wanted to see you,” he said. He leaned his fist against the mantelpiece, his eyes taking in the cloak bag on the bed. “You’re leaving?”

  “You know I am,” she replied, as she lifted her hands and unpinned the tiny flowers that adorned her hair.

  “Where are you going?” he asked.

  She shrugged. “Who knows? Everywhere. Nowhere. No one cares at any rate.”

  “I care,” he said.

  “Do you?” She smirked and sent him a pitying look. She pulled another pin from her hair and cast it into a china bowl on the dressing table.

  “I spoke to Hal,” he said conversationally, the toe of his boot scuffing against the edge of the threadbare rug. “He told me to ask you what happened at the White Swan.”

  Her eyes flew to his. She was silent for a moment but then shrugged and said, “Nothing. Everything.”

  “My brother told me that you were there together.”

  “Yes. We eloped—did you know that?” she replied with a brittle smile. “And your mother sent Sir Julius Fawcett after us to bring us back. She was not best pleased at the thought of her precious son being corrupted by a harpy, so Julius found me there . . . but I ran away.”

  “Hal broke your heart.”

  “Yes.” She paused and rallied her spirits. “And now I must go. My brother William has eloped with Charlotte Thorpe and my past is about to catch up with me. I can no longer remain in this neighborhood. I cannot risk Marianne and the girls being ruined by association with me.”

  “You can’t leave. I won’t let you.”

  She raised a brow at him. “And how do you plan to stop me? Tie me to the chair?”

  “If I have to.”

  “You won’t do that. Because you know that you’d have to keep me prisoner all the days of my life. One day I would run from you.”

  He stood watching as she pulled her hair free of the pins and teased each glossy skein so that it fell around her shoulders. He stared at her, his head full of her voice, her perfume, her intoxicating nearness, and he longed to touch her. She filled his senses like a drug, and all he could think about was the proximity of the bed.

  “Don’t go.”

  She looked at him and smiled. “You’ll have forgotten me within a week.”

  He silently shook his head.

  “I tried to warn you away, did I not?” she said as she sat down on the stool before the dressing table and began to brush her hair. “But you were stubborn and you would not listen. In typical male fashion, you had to have that which you were told you could not have. And the more I told you that I was not interested in matrimony, the more you wanted me. The great challenge was to seduce the bluestocking, was it not, my lord? But little did you think that you were the one being duped.”

  She pulled the sapphire drops from her ears and unfastened the necklace at her throat. Then she placed the jewels carefully in a blue velvet roll and tied the ribbon. They were all she had
left of her mother’s jewelry—the rest had been sold by her stepfather.

  “Duped? What do you mean duped?”

  She smiled into the mirror and briefly met his eyes. “You once called me a heartbreaker. You meant it flippantly, but little did you know how accurate you were.” She paused and kicked off her satin slippers. “Poor Robbie. Never been in love before, have you? And the first time you fall, you fall for a woman with no heart.”

  “What’s happened? Why are you being like this?”

  “Like this, my lord? I am being like this because this is who I am.”

  “No,” he said. “This is not my Georgie.”

  “This is me,” she insisted, twisting around on the seat so that she faced him. “I am not Georgiana Blakelow. I’m nobody—can’t you see that? After I was ruined, I had to run. I was shunned by the world for my affair with your brother and fearful of being found by the man I had traveled across an ocean to escape. I changed my name repeatedly. I have been a widow, a governess, and a paid companion. I have lived amongst thieves as well as the most respectable people in society. I have been every woman and no one. I have acted so many parts that I do not know who I am anymore.” She broke off, a sob catching in her throat. “And I have left a trail of broken hearts behind me. And now I add the best to my portfolio—the Earl of Marcham, no less,” she cried, flinging up her hands. “How many women would love to claim that?”

  He came toward her and seized her shoulders and pulled her off the stool. “Stop it.”

  “I set out to break you from the moment I saw you. I have avenged myself on men up and down the country, didn’t you know?” she jeered, staring up into his eyes, her own moist with unshed tears. “I warned you to stay away from me. I am broken.”

  He shook his head. “You are pushing me away again. I don’t know why but—what is this all about? What game is this now?” he demanded, his fingers biting into her shoulders. He jerked her roughly into his arms, her hands trapped against his chest. His hand came up to cup her chin, turning her face up to meet his. “Tell me, is this a lie?” he demanded hoarsely a moment before his lips came down on hers.