The Bluestocking and the Rake (The Regency Gentlemen Series) (15 page)

“I think that if I am to invest my money in this place, then it is very much my business. If I were to give you the money, it would be as much an investment in
you
as Thorncote. You love this place. You are the driving force. As soon as you leave, the estate will fall back into disrepair.”

“And I say again, that I will not leave. I have no-where else to go.”

“Have you not, Miss Blakelow?” he asked softly. He picked up a plum and pushed the smooth skin gently against her lips until they parted under the pressure. She stared up at him in confusion, her eyes searching his, her heart pounding hard in her breast.

“Bite, Miss Blakelow,” he coaxed, his eyes on hers.

It was too much. It was too suggestive, too intimate. She pushed his hand away and stood up hurriedly.

“It’s getting late,” she said, dusting her skirts. “I should go.”

* * *

“Well?” asked Aunt Blakelow on Miss Blakelow’s return.

“He is considering,” she replied, tugging the ribbons of her bonnet undone. “But he does not like William.”

“Not like him? I cannot imagine that he would have come across William for years. His lordship moves in very different circles, you know.”

“Yes…I’m sure he does.”

“Georgie?”

She sighed and flung down her bonnet on the table. “William tried to call Marcham out.”

“
What
?” shrieked Aunt Blakelow.

“I know, I know…the wretched boy is determined to ruin it for all of us.”

“Call him out? But why?”

Miss Blakelow told her aunt all that Lord Marcham had told her.

“Has William been gambling again?” asked Aunt Blakelow, aghast.

“Yes, I think so. He aspires to Marcham’s set, but does not have anything like enough money to survive in that company. There is a very good chance that we will have another spendthrift in the family, every bit as irresponsible as Papa was.”

“Have you heard from him?” asked her aunt.

Miss Blakelow took off the spectacles. “Yes, a short note only to say that he has fallen in love with the most ravishing creature who also just happens to have a fortune of thirty thousand pounds.”

“Oh,” said Aunt Blakelow dejectedly.

“Was there ever anything so vexing? Just when it seems that Marcham is beginning to become interested…”

“What can we do?”

“I will write to William once again and request him to come home. Thank God that some of the money was put into trust for him when his mother was alive. She at least did not want for sense.”

“No indeed,” agreed Aunt Blakelow. “Dear Jane was an excellent woman. And…and you and his lordship…?”

Miss Blakelow’s eyes flew to her aunt’s and a guilty colour stole into her cheeks. “I beg your pardon?”

“Are you…I mean…you seem to be―”

“No.”

“I thought perhaps…”

“Well don’t. Don’t think anything.”

Miss Blakelow remembered their picnic and her embarrassment as he had hand fed her the fruit. She shouldered the memory away, uncomfortable with that moment of tension between them, as if a thread had been drawn out to snapping point. She had been aware of his eyes, the close proximity of his body, the warmth of his hand, the soft pressure of the fruit between her lips. She reddened painfully.

“Did he kiss you?” asked Aunt Blakelow watching her closely.

Miss Blakelow stood up. “Aunt! How could you ask such a thing? Of course he didn’t!”

“Do you wish that he had?”

Miss Blakelow was momentarily robbed of speech. She put her hands on her hips and stared in disbelief at her aunt. “No, ma’am, I do not!” she managed.

“Be careful, Georgie,” warned the older woman. “He is not a boy.”

“Do you think that I don’t know that?” demanded her niece hotly.

“He knows exactly what he’s doing. He’s as adept at playing a woman as he is at playing cards.”

“Dear Aunt, do you think that I am foolish enough to let him seduce me?”

“I do not know what may happen when you are alone with a man like him.”

“We were not alone. His groom was there,” said Miss Blakelow, glaring at her. “And nothing happened.”

“No? Then why are you so angry?”

“Nothing happened,” she repeated. “Do you think me so weak as to be in danger now, after all these years?”

“I think you sensible enough to keep him at arm’s length,” said Aunt Blakelow, “but I also think you are lonely enough to fall for his charm. And let us not beat about the bush; he has plenty of charm.”

“I am a grown woman, Aunt. I am no longer a silly young girl whose head is turned by the face of a handsome man.”

“Possibly not. But he is every inch the rake that the world knows him to be. And if he has decided that he wants you, then he will not give up until he has achieved his goal.”

Miss Blakelow shook her head in disbelief. “I am going upstairs.”

“By all means. But think on what I have said. He knows it has been a long time since your heart has been touched. And he knows your pride is vulnerable to a little male attention.”

Miss Blakelow stormed out of the room, too incensed to speak. She ran up to her bedchamber, threw herself on her bed and buried her face into her pillows. The scene at the picnic came back to haunt her. His eyes on hers, the air crackling with animal attraction that she could no more deny than the need to breathe.

That he was out merely to seduce her was a thought that had already occurred to Miss Blakelow. The thought that he was pretending to show an interest in her merely as part of some game was so lowering that she wanted to cry. She might be an old maid, but she was still a woman with feelings, and she was not stupid; she knew that he was toying with her. She buried her face further amongst the pillows, wishing that the bed would swallow her whole.

Lord Marcham had come too close. It was time to retreat to the keep, draw up the bridge and wait it out until the siege was over. With any luck he would get bored and go away.

“Oh, Lord, here he comes again!” groaned Jack, watching the ponderous Mr. Peabody as he made his way towards them across the front lawn. The buttons of his coat seemed to sigh under the strain. “He’s always showing up here unannounced and uninvited. George, you are not seriously going to marry the fellow are you?”

Miss Blakelow, seated on the bench under the willow tree, laughed as she set another stitch in her embroidery. “No, you ridiculous boy, I am not.”

“Thank the Lord for that. I could not bear to come and visit you if you did. All that prosing and lecturing and sermonising is enough to send a fellow mad.”

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

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

“Kitty!” gasped Marianne, “of all the improper things to say!”

“I meant given the available choice,” she qualified quickly and then coloured. “I mean 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, Edward 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 softly.

Ned coloured 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? He never did,” 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 afterwards,” 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 was 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 hasty 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 Miss Blakelow’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, did you see that bird? How pretty it was! I think it was 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—if I may? Georgiana—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 grew 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 towards the house. A flurry of Blakelows chased after it, and Jack was happily running 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, prised it loose of the material and plunged the end sharply in to 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,” he asked reproachfully, “what have I done to deserve such treatment from you?”

“I would have thought
that
was obvious,” remarked a dry 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 favour of the countryside in such unseasonably warm weather. But as your neighbour 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.”

Her bosom heaved. “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 glared 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 my property,” replied the earl softly.

“Thorncote is yours then?”

His lordship smiled. “Thorncote and everything in it,” he said but 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,” murmured 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 which 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 smouldering 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,” murmured the earl, putting away his snuff box, “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.”

“Oh, Lord, he’s still speaking. How
do
you put up with him?” marvelled the earl.

Mr. Peabody puffed out his chest. “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.