The Bluestocking and the Rake

by Norma Darcy

  John had driven Miss Blakelow back home some hours before. He wondered what she was doing. He wondered what she was thinking. He hoped she had kept her promise to stay. He didn’t want to contemplate the idea that she had run from him again.

  His horse was tired, and he was obliged to stop at a coaching inn where he was able to hire a fresh horse and gig to take him the rest of the way. The new horse was slow, however, and it was late in the day when he arrived at Holme Park. There he bathed and changed out of his bloodstained clothes before setting out again for Thorncote. As he rode up to the house, the sky was darkening rapidly with the approach of evening, and heavy rain clouds were moving in. He handed his reins to the stable lad and ran lightly up the front steps to the door, pulling off his gloves as he did so. He took a deep breath and knocked.

  Miss Blakelow picked up the looking glass from her dressing table. She examined the welt on her forehead and the ugly cut on her lip with a wry smile. She touched her fingers gingerly to it. Her skin was pale, and she pinched her cheeks to bring some color back into them. She was dressed in a dark-blue morning gown with a lace tucker made up to the throat. Her mahogany hair was uncovered and twisted into a simple chignon at the back of her head, one unruly curl dropping to her shoulder. Her green eyes were clear and unhindered by the presence of her ugly spectacles. From the outside she looked confident, elegant, and assured. Inside, she was quaking with nerves.

  There was a knock at the door behind her and she bid them enter.

  It was John. He stood sheepishly upon the threshold.

  “Is he here, John?” she asked.

  “Yes, miss. He’s in the parlor.”

  She nodded, set down the looking glass, and rose to her feet, smoothing out the folds in her dress with her hands. “And Julius?” she said, hardly daring to ask the question.

  “He’s still breathing, more’s the pity.”

  Miss Blakelow closed her eyes with relief. “I didn’t kill him.”

  “No, miss.”

  She walked over to the door and put a hand on his arm. “I plan to tell his lordship everything, John. There is a chance . . . a fair chance that he won’t be able to forgive me. If that is the case, then—then life here will be intolerable for me. I could not live on his doorstep and watch him marry someone else. I had rather leave than endure that.”

  “I understand, miss. You and his lordship need to talk. After that, if you still want to leave, then you can. But not beforehand.”

  “But you won’t be coming with me?”

  “No, miss. My Janet is with child. I reckon I’m done with running.”

  Miss Blakelow nodded and walked out of the room, feeling more alone than ever before. She moved along the hall to the top of the stairs, letting her hand graze the banister rail. The scene of her meeting in her bedchamber with Lord Marcham haunted her. And what of his love for her? Had she killed it the previous night when she had pretended that she felt nothing for him? Had his love withered and died under her mockery? Even if it hadn’t, would he be able to forgive her for the truth she knew she must tell him now? The knowledge that she would hurt him tormented her. She longed for his arms to hold her close and for his reassuring smile.

  Miss Blakelow stood for a moment on the threshold of the parlor, one hand upon the doorknob, before she opened the door. Lord Marcham was standing by the fireplace and turned around at the sound of her entry. Their eyes met.

  He bowed. “Miss Blakelow.”

  “You wished to see me, my lord?” she asked and curtsied.

  How different he was from earlier! How serious. And how she missed his warm smile. She looked at him and knew that he was still worried she would leave him. He was waiting patiently for her to tell him everything. She saw the determined look in his eyes and the rigid set of his jaw. He was not going to be fobbed off with half-truths this time. She knew she had to tell him, to risk that he possibly would not be able to forgive her, and that knowledge broke what was left of her heart.

  “John said that Sir Julius is . . . alive?” she asked, hardly daring to raise her eyes to his face.

  He nodded. “Recovering. He’ll have a scar to match the one on his face, but the doctor thinks he’ll live.”

  She nodded and fell silent as tears of relief slid down her cheeks. It was over at last. She sank onto the sofa and struggled to find her handkerchief.

  Lord Marcham came away from the fireplace and took a seat on the sofa next to her. He yearned to pull her into his arms and comfort her but was afraid to frighten her away. So he sat there, fist clenched against his thigh. “Are you quite well, Miss Blakelow?”

  She nodded, trying to smile as tears overcame her. “Quite well, I thank you,” she managed through a voice choked with emotion.

  “Can I fetch you a glass of wine perhaps?”

  She shook her head as the tears welled up in her eyes. “No, thank you,” she whispered.

  “Shall I fetch your sisters? Or your aunt?”

  Again she shook her head, angrily wiping at her eyes with her fingers.

  “You’re tired and the stress of the situation has made you emotional.”

  She nodded. “That’s it, yes.”

  “Julius is on the mend now and won’t be bothering you anymore. There is no need to cry.”

  The gentleness in his voice just made it worse. She nodded through her tears, and through her watery haze saw him take her hand.

  “Please, Georgie, don’t cry. You must know that your tears are a worse punishment to me than anything in the world.”

  She dropped her gaze to their hands clasped together. “I think we both said things that we ought not have.”

  “Yes,” he agreed.

  “I’m sorry, my lord,” she whispered.

  “So am I.”

  “Can you ever forgive me?” she asked, turning watery eyes up to him.

  He reached out a hand and cupped her face, his thumb brushing away her tears. “Hush now.”

  She smiled tremulously. “I said such horrible things to you last night.”

  “And I, you,” he said softly.

  “Julius was in the room listening. He promised that he would not hurt you if I drove you away. I put on an act to make you leave.”

  “An act?”

  “Julius made me say the things I did. He had a gun pointed at your head. He told me that if I drove you away, he would not harm you. So I played a part,” she said, smiling sadly. “And I played it very well. I let you think that I was a . . . a grasping female. I know you must think me sunk beneath contempt. You must think that I only ever courted your acquaintance for your money, because I told you that it was so. You came to me last night to beg me to stay and I threw it back in your face.”

  He squeezed her hand reassuringly. “Hush now. I knew the woman you pretended to be last night was not the girl I have come to adore. I just didn’t know why you seemed to have changed so completely.”

  “Oh,” she replied quietly, the warmth and kindness in his voice unsettling her. His anger she knew how to deal with, but this sympathy toward her made her heart lurch with longing. “You told Julius the truth?” she stammered.

  “Yes. I thought it was for the best,” said his lordship.

  “And how did he react?”

  “He wishes to see Jack. He has given me his word that he will do nothing to remove the lad from his home. And I think he means it. You needn’t run anymore, Georgie. It’s over.”

  She nodded, trying to regain her composure. She took her hand from his and rose to stand before the fireplace, turning her back upon him so that she might dash her sleeve against her wet cheeks unseen. “It is late and you must be wishing for your dinner. I can offer you stew. It’s not as fine as your French chef would make but—”

  He moved suddenly behind her, bracing his hand against the mantelpiece so that his arm halted her retreat. “Georgie, wait,” he said hoarsely, as if the words were torn from him.

  She blinked, staring up at him in surprise, fearf
ul of what he might say. She couldn’t bear to argue with him again, to feel his condemnation; it just hurt too much. “My lord?”

  He closed his eyes for the briefest of moments as if finding strength from somewhere and then said, “Oh, damn it all—Georgie, is there no hope for me?” He took a step toward her and then seemed to check himself, as if the leash that restrained him had jerked taut. “Is there no hope?” he asked again more softly. “Tell me that you feel something for me. Tell me that I didn’t imagine it all.”

  She hung her head. “You didn’t,” she replied in a small voice.

  “Then won’t you tell me what it is that still torments you?”

  “I find it hard to speak of.”

  “I know you do,” he replied, “but you can trust me, I promise you. I need to know, Georgie. My happiness, nay, my sanity, requires it. If you think I’m going to let you walk out of my life again, you are very much mistaken.”

  Miss Blakelow sent her eyes heavenward, fighting the urge to cry still more. “I can’t do it. I can’t. You’ll hate me.”

  “I won’t.”

  “You say that now, but that is because you do not know,” she replied with an angry sweeping gesture.

  “Georgie . . .”

  “I can’t!” she sobbed. “Oh, why can’t you just let me go? Why do you put us both through this . . . this torture?”

  “Because I’m in love with you.”

  “Will you stop?” she cried, as a tear slid down her cheek. Miss Blakelow’s hand shook as she rummaged without success in her pocket for her handkerchief.

  Lord Marcham pulled out his own handkerchief and gave it to her. “Yes. Yes, I tell you. And when a man loves a woman, he wishes to do things to her that requires them to be married first—well, in polite circles anyway.”

  She shook her head. “It’s too late,” she whispered.

  “Dammit woman, when will you ever stop running away from me?” he demanded. “Marry me. I swear to you my love, my fidelity, and my devotion until the day I die. Marry me, Georgie . . . I beg you. Put me out of my misery.”

  “I eloped with your brother,” she cried.

  “I know.”

  She wrung the handkerchief in her hands. “I let him convince me to run away with him. I thought we were to be married.”

  He nodded. “I know.”

  “Don’t you despise me?”

  “Despise you? No. How could I?” he replied.

  “I make no excuses for myself. I wanted to do it,” she said, her eyes searching his face. “It was only later that I began to regret my decision. When I found someone I wanted for my husband . . . oh, not you my lord, at least not then. No, this was years before I met you . . . a military man who told me that he loved me. So I confided my secret to him. And I saw the condemnation in his face and the disgust. He said some very unpleasant things to me. And I never saw him again. You asked me once who broke my heart. It wasn’t only your brother. It was the man who followed him, who could not live with what I had done. He hurt me more deeply than ever Hal did.”

  “Then more fool him.”

  “Can you live with it, my lord?”

  “Willingly. That and a good deal more.”

  “But everyone knows what I did. Everyone would know that your wife dishonored herself with your brother. I could not bear for you to hear everyone gossiping behind our backs for the rest of our lives.”

  “I don’t care. Georgie, darling, I swear I don’t.”

  “You will, when your every acquaintance remembers who I am.”

  “They wouldn’t dare challenge the wife of the Earl of Marcham.”

  “And are you going to fight everyone who takes my name in vain for the rest of our lives?”

  “If I have to.”

  “And what of your family? Lady St. Michael and your mother loathe me.”

  “They will learn to treat you with the respect owing to the Countess of Marcham, or I will cut them out of my life.”

  She shook her head. “You cannot. I won’t let you shun your family and friends for me.”

  “I have a feeling I won’t need to once they realize what a darling you are.”

  She dashed away another big fat tear. “I was ruined, don’t you understand? I spent three days and nights away with your brother. We were intimate.”

  “I know,” he said and half smiled. “Well, I guessed. A long time ago, actually.”

  “Let me be perfectly clear so that there is no misunderstanding. I am not a virtuous female. You will not be my first.”

  He took her face between his hands once more. “And you will not be mine.”

  She gaped at him. “And you do not hate me?”

  “My darling, beautiful, stubborn idiot. It will be our first time together. And it will be perfect. Isn’t that enough?”

  Her eyes searched his face. “Truly?”

  He kissed the tip of her nose. “Truly. All I care is that you love me. Do you love me, Georgie?”

  She stared up at him in wonder as if waiting for the import of his words to penetrate his own brain and for him to change his mind. She searched his eyes and saw that they were full of tenderness and longing, and she knew finally that he meant it.

  Shyly, she reached up a hand and touched his face; he caught her hand in his, turned his head, and dropped a kiss into her palm. She blushed and tears of joy sprang into her eyes.

  “Do you love me, Georgie?” he repeated.

  She threw her arms around his neck and buried her face against his chest. “Oh, Robbie! I have been so unhappy because I thought you had stopped loving me when I had just started loving you!”

  His arms pulled her to him. “My love,” he whispered, burying his face against her hair, inhaling the scent of her as if she were his oxygen and he could finally breathe again.

  In the semidarkness of the hallway outside the parlor, her hand found his, and of one accord they moved along the carpeted corridor and up the stairs, quietly so that they would not be discovered.

  He followed her in silence, unquestioning, his eyes dark in the dim half-light, his hand cradling hers. The house echoed with the distant movements of family and servants, and they both understood the need for quiet and discretion. She pushed at the door to her bedchamber and pulled him inside. The dark wood door closed softly and she slipped the bolt across. She turned toward him, smiling, no words needed, knowing beyond doubt that she would not, could not, send him away. Not now. Not ever.

  The room was barely lit by the remnants of the fire burning in the grate, and in the soft orange light he stepped toward her and reached out a hand. She came to him and he touched her hair, unpinning and unraveling the dark mass of it until it lay upon her shoulders, soft and gleaming in the firelight. He took a curl and entwined it through his fingers, letting the silky skein caress his skin like molten copper.

  They stared at each other for an age, two halves of the same being reunited at last, happy and complete now that they had found each other. She looked up at him, complete trust shining in her eyes.

  And in a trice he closed the short distance between them until they were breast to breast and his lips were on hers. He kissed her softly, tenderly, as if afraid to frighten her with too much passion. She slipped her arms around his neck, opening her mouth under his, desperate for him to hold her, desperate for him to make her his. As rain from an evening storm beat against the leaden windows, he pulled her tighter against him, deepening the kiss as he sensed her need for more. He reached for the fastenings of her gown as she reached for the buttons of his coat, and by the dying embers of the fire they freed each other from the confines of their clothing.

  She met his eyes unflinchingly as her shift fell to her feet, and she was revealed to him as naked as the day she was born. Somehow she was not shy to show herself to him. She knew that he loved her and would love her still, whatever the physical imperfections of her naked form might be.

  “You’re beautiful,” he whispered.

  She laid a fing
er over his lips. “Don’t.”

  She didn’t want the words that he had said to others. She did not want to be reminded of the fact that he’d had many women before her. She didn’t want to hear the seduction routine of a rake. This was her night, and she wanted nothing but truth.

  “You are,” he insisted, slipping a hand around her waist and drawing her against him once more. “You’re perfect.”

  She reached up on tiptoe to press her lips against his, to silence him, unconsciously pressing her soft womanly curves against the hard planes of his body. He groaned as she came against him; he couldn’t help it. She felt so good. He had dreamed of this moment for what seemed like an eternity.

  She pulled away slightly and took his hand again.

  “Are you sure?” he whispered as she tugged his hand, pulling him toward the bed.

  She nodded, smiling.

  “We can wait. I can go to London for a special license tomorrow morning. We can be married—”

  She silenced him with her mouth, kissing him long and hard. “Love me,” she whispered against his lips.

  “Georgie. I want to, God knows I do, but not if you’re unsure.”

  She took his hand and brought it to cup her breast. “I’m sure. Love me. Please, Robbie.”

  He kissed her then, passionately, his tongue claiming every inch of her mouth. He lifted her high in his arms and carried her to the bed, laid her down upon the counterpane, and covered her body with his own.

  And as the rain lashed against the windows, they began to touch, entwining arms and legs and warm skin against warm skin in a desperate bid to get closer. The world receded, the past and previous loves and heartaches were all forgotten, and all that mattered were two new lovers reveling in the joy of a love refound. And as they explored the contours of each other’s bodies, as he sank himself deep inside her in the way of lovers time immemorial, as they rode to ecstasy in each other’s arms, she cried out his name, and he felt his heart burst with joy as his own climax claimed him with shuddering, uncontrollable pleasure. This was it. Love at last.

  It was early. Very early.

  The room was still dark save for the tiniest sliver of gray light threading its way into Miss Blakelow’s room.