The Bluestocking and the Rake (The Regency Gentlemen Series) (20 page)

“Well, well,” he said, clumsily patting her back. “I said I should be here for your ball, didn’t I?”

“Oh, I am so happy to see you. When did you get here? Where is your luggage? You are staying this time, aren’t you? Pray say that you are!” she perched on tip-toe and kissed his cheek. “Now my ball will be perfect for everyone that I love is here―well, except Caroline, but she’d never come anyway.”

“Now let go of my sleeve, Harry, do. Twenty shillings a yard this material cost me,” he said.

“Then more fool you,” said the cool voice of Lady St. Michael, as she came down the main stairway. “Hal…is it you indeed?”

“Sarah, how do you do?” he replied, setting aside his youngest sister and going to greet her ladyship. “When you put on that sour face, you put me in mind of a bulldog.”

“Thank you,” she replied. “Are you here alone? Yes, I feel sure that you are. The handsome widower comes to try his luck with the hay chewing populace of Loughton.”

The Honourable Henry Hockingham smiled but the expression did not reach his eyes. “You really are the most frightful snob Sarah; I don’t know how Edward puts up with you. Congratulations, by the way. I hear you are expecting a happy event.”

Lady St. Michael smiled. “Shall we go in to Mama? She will be wondering what all the noise is about.”

“By all means. Where’s Rob anyway?” he asked as Harriet looped her arm through his and led him through to the drawing room.

“I have absolutely no idea. Out courting his lady love, belike,” Lady St. Michael said over her shoulder. “Have you dined?”

“Yes, thank you…his lady love, you say? Never tell me he’s fallen
in love at last?” he said incredulously.

“She is nice,” said Lady Harriet impulsively. “Well
I
like her. But Sarah doesn’t.”

“And I can probably guess why,” murmured Hal.

“Have you brought a change of clothes with you or are you going to smell of the stables all night long?” asked Lady St Michael.

“My valet follows with my luggage so you will have to wait. Hello Mama. Lord, isn’t it hot in here?”

He bent down to kiss his mother where she was reclining on a sofa. She swathed him in an embrace of sickly scent.

“Hal! Is it you indeed? I knew that you would come, for your sister’s sake. Sarah thought you would not but I knew you’d do anything for Harriet. How are you, dear boy? You have lost weight, haven’t you? And you look pale.”

“Yes, yes. I’m fine. What’s this I hear about Robbie falling for the ball and chain?”

The countess began to fan herself vigorously. “Pray do not mention it. I do not wish to discuss it. The boy has taken leave of his senses. She’s lured him. With arts and witchcraft. She’s lured my poor Robert.” She plied the tissue to her eyes. “My poor boy is taken in. Taken in by a…a harpy!”

“Oh, hardly that, Mama,” said Lady Harriet, rolling her eyes.

“Good for him!” grinned Hal, accepting a glass of sherry from the butler. “Is she a prime article?”

“No, that’s the thing. She’s perfectly ordinary and none of us can understand his fascination with the woman,” said Lady St. Michael.

“Sticking your nose in my affairs again
, Sarah?” asked a cool voice from the door.

The company jumped collectively and Lady St. Michael reddened slightly. She turned serenely in her chair towards him. “I have said nothing that I would not say to your face.”

“Hello Rob,” said Hal, setting down his glass. “Have you stolen the best looking girl in the neighbourhood for yourself?”

His lordship, who had not up until that moment noticed his brother, halted at the sound of his voice. “Hal, what the devil are you doing here?” he asked in pleasant surprise, coming forward to shake his hand.

His brother grinned and stood up to clasp his hand and clap him on the back. “I heard some ball or other was taking place.”

“Oh, not you as well. I have heard enough about the wretched ball from the women of this house to last me a lifetime. When did you arrive?”

“Less than fifteen minutes ago. How do you do? I swear this place gets further and further away from the main road every time I come here. Nearly got run over.”

“Run over?”

“Yes, you know where that sharp bend is by the drooping tree? A woman flew around the other side and it was all I could do not to run her down.”

“How exciting!” said Lady Harriet.

“My horse reared and her horse reared and Brisket (my new puppy, you know) was yapping for all he was worth and I rather think the poor girl hit her head.”

“And no doubt you offered her your manly breast to lean upon,” remarked Lady St Michael dryly.

“She passed out in my arms and I brought her here. Come to think of it, where is she? A footman took her from me. But I suppose someone ought to check she’s alright.”

“I’ll go,” said Lady St. Michael, standing and snapping shut her fan.

“And I think I owe the poor girl a new pair of spectacles because Firestar trampled all over them with his great hooves.”

Lord Marcham had been staring down into the fire but at that his head shot up. “Spectacles, did you say?”

“Yes, great, thick ugly ones…what did I say?” complained Hal as his brother strode from the room.

Lady St. Michael gave a grim smile. “It seems Hal, that you have run over his paramour.”

“Oh, Lord.”

Lord Marcham took the stairs two at a time. He found his housekeeper coming out of one of the spare bedrooms.

“Mrs. Haskell, the lady that was brought here, where is she?” he demanded.

“She’s in the end bedchamber, my lord, and resting now. She took quite a tumble and there’s a nasty gash on her head.”

“Has the doctor been sent for?”

“He’s on his way, my lord…but you cannot go in there, she’s in bed and it’s not decent―”

“Decency be dammed,” he muttered, flinging open the door.

In the centre of the room in the large canopied bed, Miss Blakelow lay supported by white pillows, her s
kin almost as pale as the bandage around her head and her hair for once free of the white lace cap. Her dark locks fanned out across the pillow like liquid mahogany. Her eyes were closed, her eyelashes a perfect delicate fan against her cheeks, her right eye bruised and blackened, as good a disguise as ever her spectacles had been.

The earl approached the bed and sat on the edge of it, taking her hand in his. Her eyelids fluttered open and she looked at him for a moment, uncomprehending, her green eyes unen
cumbered by her spectacles, were clear and beautiful. She blinked and recognition came.

She smiled. “Oh, it’s you.”

He squeezed her hand. “My―” he broke off and cleared his throat. He looked down ruefully at her black eye. “You did take a tumble, didn’t you? How do you feel?”

“I have a headache,” she said.

He gave her a slow smile. “Well, if you will go gallivanting around in the dark…”

“I was looking for you,” she said softly.

“Were you? Ought I to be flattered?”

“I don’t think so. I was going to tell you that we were very touched by your gift but we couldn’t accept it,” she replied, wondering vaguely when he was going to let go of her hand.

“I might have guessed, I suppose. And does this decree come from all the Blakelow women or just my little bluestocking?” he asked softly.

She gave a wry smile. “Well, I must confess that if I were to force my sisters to give up their chance of a new dress, I’d have a riot on my hands.”

“So then. Accept my gift with a good grace.”

“It was very kind in you, but I could not wear such a dress.”

“You don’t like the colour? I thought it would suit…”

“I think the colour is beautiful, and I’m sure your last mistress did too,” she murmured.

His lips twitched appreciatively. “My last mistress did
not
have a dress that colour and if she had I would have liked it exceedingly.”

“I’m sure you would. It is a colour that commands attention.”

“Which is why I would very much like to see you in it.”

“If you would not be offended, my lord, I would like to exchange it for something more…”

“Dull?” he suggested.

She pretended to glare severely at him. “Yes.”

“Well I
would
be offended. Mortally offended. I have seen you in enough grey and black and purple to last me for a lifetime.”

“My lord, please, you do not understand. If you wish to pay for a dress for me then let me change it to one that I may wear. I will not wear a ball gown. I don’t go to parties. I may choose a fabric half the price of the red silk and probably make myself two day dresses for less money than it costs to make one ball gown.”

“And what will you wear to Harriet’s ball?” he demanded.

“I am not going to Lady Harriet’s ball,” she said, trying gently to disengage her hand from his grasp.

“You damned well are,” he replied, holding her hand rather tighter.

“I am not. I cannot,” she said in a quiet voice.

“
I
want you there. If I am forced to attend the wretched event then I will at least have someone there I choose to talk to. And, I may add, someone to dance with who does not bore me rigid.”

“Please, my lord,” she said, trying not to smile. “Don’t be angry with me.”

“You are going; even if I have to ride over to Thorncote myself and dress you with my own hands…which, now I come to think of it, does have a certain appeal…”

A footstep sounded outside the door and Lady St. Michael took in the scene. Miss Blakelow tore her hand from the earl’s but not quickly enough.

“Robbie, get out of here before you ruin this girl’s reputation for good,” complained his sister wearily, coming towards the bed.

His lordship stood up hastily. “I was checking that Miss Blakelow was comfortable.”

“I will see to her. Ask Mrs. Haskell to bring one of my nightgowns, would you? It is not at all the done thing for her to be wearing one of your nightshirts.”

“Well…I’ll…I’ll bid you goodnight then, Miss Blakelow.”

She turned her head on the pillow. “Goodnight, my lord.”

“Out, Robbie! Out!” Lady St. Michael said, pushing him through the door and closing it behind him. “Men are impossible, are they not, Miss Blakelow? Always under one’s feet. You will forgive my brother’s intrusion I am sure. It was kindly meant.”

“Lord Marcham was not intruding,” Miss Blakelow replied softly.

“Well, and are you comfortable? Mrs. Haskell seems to have done a reasonable job bandaging you up, at least. Can I do anything for you?”

Miss Blakelow licked her dry lips. “If your ladyship could arrange to send word to Thorncote. I fear they may be worried. I should have been home hours ago.”

“Of course, my dear. I will ask my brother to send the carriage for your aunt. I am sure you would wish to have her staying with you.”

Miss Blakelow tried to raise herself up on her elbows. “There is no need. I shall be well again tomorrow and hope to return home in the morning.”

“That’s as may be,” said Lady St. Michael, pushing the patient back down onto the pillows, “but my brother won’t let you leave until you are quite well again, Miss Blakelow. I shall send up some soup for you. Try to get some sleep.”

“And how is the patient today?” asked his lordship the following morning, hovering outside the guest bedroom where Miss Blakelow was sleeping.

“A little groggy, my lord,” replied Aunt Blakelow, as she closed the door, “but on the mend.”

“Can I see her?”

“She’s sleeping at the moment. Best to leave her.”

He nodded stiffly and smiled. “Very well. Perhaps later.”

He turned to go and Aunt Blakelow bit her lip. “Oh, go on then! But don’t tire her out.”

The earl flashed a boyish grin and placed his hand upon the door knob. “I won’t ma’am, thank you.”

Miss Blakelow was sitting up in bed when he entered the room, staring out of the window, apparently deep in thought. She turned her head when the door opened and self-consciously pulled the covers up to her chin.

“Someone’s feeling better,” he observed as he closed the door.

“Good morning, my lord.”

He took a few steps further into the room. “Did you sleep well?”

“Yes, thank you. You have been very kind.”

He pulled up a chair beside the bed and sat down.

“Sir, I have been thinking,” she began.

“Oh, Lord,” he murmured.

She glared at him but the look was spoiled by the smile tugging at her mouth. “You needn’t look like that.”

“I always look afraid when women get that look in their eye,” he commented, bracing one booted foot across the opposite knee. “It means I am either just about to be put to a great deal of expense or a great deal of trouble. Come on then, out with it.”

“Thorncote.”

“Ah…I was wondering when we would get to that.”

“…the debts. I cannot let you write them off. Indeed it is most kind of you but―”

“Nonsense.”

“But you must let me at least
try
and pay them back. It may take me some time, but I will do it. I swear I will.”

“Please put them out of your mind. I did it for purely selfish reasons. You can have no notion how enjoyable it was to tear them up.”

Miss Blakelow looked down at her hands. “I want to do something for you in return.”

Several rather powerful images flashed across his lordship’s brain at that moment and he was hard pressed not to smile. But he had no desire to be in her black books again so he quashed the suggestion that sprang to his lips in favour of something less contentious.

“There is no need, Miss Blakelow. To see you restored to full health is all the thanks I need.”

She reached for the glass of water on the table by the bed and sipped from it delicately. “I would like to return home this morning,” she said, “if I might impose upon you to borrow your carriage?”

“My carriage is at your disposal, ma’am but I believe the doctor advised that you stay here for a couple of days.”

“There is no need. I am very much better already.”

“Are you going to argue with me about everything?” he asked, amused.

“No, my lord.”

“Well,” he said, standing and pushing the chair back against the wall. “I promised your aunt that I would not stay too long. Please let me know if there is anything you need.”

“A book?” she replied, her eyes flicking over him as he walked to the door.

“Something instructional and morally improving? Fordyce’s Sermons perhaps?” he asked with a smile.

“I do not believe such a work exists amongst your collection, my lord.”

“Then you’d be wrong,” he replied with a hand on the door knob. “And no, it is
not
used as a paper weight; I have actually read it.”

“And enjoyed it?”

“I’m a rake, Miss Blakelow. I’m afraid there you are pushing the realms of possibility too far.”

She smiled and snuggled down under the covers. “Choose me a novel, if you please.”

He bowed. “Something frivolous coming up.”

Miss Blakelow watched him until he had closed the door.

* * *

Miss Blakelow was persuaded to stay at Holme for two days. She read two extremely frivolous books, one of which was a gothic romance that was so preposterous that she pronounced herself surprised that he would countenance its presence upon his hallowed bookshelves. They fell into a routine of sorts; he came to see her once briefly in the morning and once for a longer visit in the afternoon when they played chess while Aunt Blakelow changed the dressing on her head. The only blot on her landscape was Lady St. Michael, who seemed to delight bursting into the room uninvited at any hour, once catching Miss Blakelow about to use the chamber pot.

Miss Blakelow was angry at the woman’s intrusion and was at a loss to explain it. Nothing would have pleased her more than to have told the woman to get out. But it was not her room and not her house. She was a guest. And a guest deeply beholden to the Hockingham family, at that.

It was during his lordship’s afternoon visit on the second day that things came to a head.

Aunt Blakelow had gone for her afternoon nap leaving her niece alone with their host. He was seated on the edge of the bed, as he usually did, and the chess board sat on Miss Blakelow’s lap. She was pondering her move when she slanted a deeply wicked look at him from under her brows and asked, “Is it true that you fought a duel when you were only sixteen?”

He looked up from contemplation of the pieces. “Where on earth did you hear that?”

“My brother. He said you nearly killed your man, cool as you please, and went out drinking afterwards.”

Lord Marcham shifted uncomfortably. “There are lots of stories about me. Not all of them are true.”

“Is that one?” she asked.

He sighed. “It is true that I fought a duel when I was sixteen. But I was
not
‘cool as you please,’ I was little more than a boy and frankly terrified.”

“Oh.”

“Yes. Now concentrate, Miss Blakelow, I am about to take your queen.”

“But is it true that you gambled
Holme Park away on the turn of a card and lost? And then won it back the very next moment?”

He leaned back, frowning. “What’s brought all this on?”

“Nothing…I’m just trying to gauge exactly how debauched you are.”

“I see,” he said stiffly.

She gave a gurgle of laughter. “Dear sir, please don’t be angry. I’m just curious. One hears so many stories…”

“I am glad that you find my past so entertaining.”

“I have upset you.”

“My dear girl, it would take more than that to upset me. But I am not altogether proud of all my…er…youthful achievements.”

“So is it true?” she asked softly.

He folded his arms. “It’s partly true. It was not Holme that I nearly lost but my house in
London. It was the height of folly and I’m not proud of it, but it’s true. And that particular experience taught me to never gamble away that which you are unwilling to part with.”

“Very true,” she said wisely.

“An adage your father would have done well to have lived by.”

There was a silence but she did not seem to be much inclined to focus on the game and his lordship rolled his eyes. “What
else
do you want to know?”

“Lady Burford,” said Miss Blakelow with a wicked smile.

He stared at her. “How did
you
find out about Lady Burford? You are supposed to be a fine upstanding paragon of Christian virtue.”

Miss Blakelow winced slightly at his choice of words. “I have ears. I hear the stories the same as anyone else.”

“Yes, I had an affair with Lady Burford. Happy?”

“Oh, I
know
that! Everyone knows it. What I am curious about is whether you managed to make love to her at the supper table at a masquerade in a room full of people. That’s what William says you did.”

He stared at her as if he could hardly believe his ears. “Remind me to have stern words with your brother for filling your head with stories which are not fit for the ears of a well bred young woman. Miss Blakelow, I am
not
going to answer that question.”

“But if she was sitting at the table and there with her husband and everyone was watching…”

“They were
not
watching, or at least not me,” he said uncomfortably. “And this is a highly improper subject for a young lady.”

“But I don’t understand.”

“No,” he muttered, “and I’d be worried if you did.”

She grew thoughtful again and he put his head in his hand. “If she was
at
the table, and her husband was sitting
next
to her, where were you?”

“Miss Blakelow, we are
supposed
to be playing chess.”

“He was under the table,” said Lady St. Michael suddenly from behind them.

Miss Blakelow jumped and overset the chess board and all the pieces rolled and fell onto the counterpane and the carpet.

His lordship turned and glared at his sister. “Thank you, Sarah, thank you very much indeed.”

She smiled her bittersweet smile. “Anything to help, dear Robbie. You seemed to be unable to tell dear Miss Blakelow that which she most wanted to know. You are wanted downstairs, by the way. You may leave Miss Blakelow in my care.”

“Your care, Sarah? Why does that thought send a shiver down my spine?” he murmured.

She smiled. “You needn’t look so worried. Your secrets are safe with me.”

He hesitated, a chess piece in his hand, reluctant to leave his sister alone with Miss Blakelow given the recent topic of conversation. How many more stories would Sarah tell her? How much further would he sink in the eyes of Miss Georgiana Blakelow?

“Go, Robbie,” commanded his sister. “Miss Blakelow is to have a wash and you will be very much in the way.”

Lady St. Michael closed the door on her brother and looked on with wry amusement as the poor woman in the bed tried to work it out.

Under the table
, thought Miss Blakelow,
under the table
. Her eyes flew open. “Oh.”

“Yes, Miss Blakelow, ‘oh’ indeed,” said Lady St. Michael dryly. “There was quite a lot of ‘oh’…”

Miss Blakelow blushed a vivid shade of red and turned her face away. “I…I thought he’d say that it wasn’t true,” she said, unable to meet the woman’s mocking eyes, “merely a tall story. I never imagined…”

“No,” said Lady St. Michael setting down a pitcher of water. “One never does. My brother is nothing if not entertaining, is he not? Are you very shocked, Miss Blakelow? I would be if I were you. But you should know precisely the sort of man he is if you intend to marry him, you know. He is rather a selfish creature who takes little interest in anything but the pursuit of pleasure. Did you think that he had reformed his character just for you? Do you think you will be able to convince him to give up his mistress after you are wed? You poor, little innocent. You’d best not let your heart become involved, my dear. It is much the best thing to look upon it as a business deal, for ten to one he will return to his old ways within a year. You said you wanted to know how debauched he is? Be under no illusions, he is not called a rake for nothing.”

“He is not debauched,” said Miss Blakelow firmly, “merely bored.”

Lady St. Michael raised a brow politely. “Indeed? You know him so well on only a month’s acquaintance?”

“I know that he has been a good and kind friend to me.”

“Friend,” scoffed Lady St. Michael. “Is that what you call it? Trust me, when a man’s primary motive is to bed you, it is not friendship that he’s offering.”

Miss Blakelow threw back the bed covers and swung her legs over the side. “I’m not listening to this.”

“How long do you think he is going to be happy living here in the middle of the country with you and nothing for entertainment but sheep and fresh air? He is an inveterate gambler, my dear. He spends days of his life in one gaming hell or another. He drinks to excess. He frequents the homes of opera dancers. Rural Worcestershire will not hold him for long and neither, to be blunt, will you. Be warned, this is no green boy you trifle with.”

“Why are you doing this?” Miss Blakelow demanded, as she disappeared behind a screen and whipped the nightdress over her head.

“Because I don’t want to see my brother unhappy…or you, for that matter. Whatever I may think of you, I would not wish to see you trapped in an unhappy marriage for the rest of your life.”

“I’m touched by your concern,” said Miss Blakelow coldly as she pulled on her shift, “but you are suffering under a delusion; I have no intention of marrying your brother or anyone else.”

“I am relieved to hear it, Miss Blakelow.”

“I have not given Lord Marcham any reason to believe that we are anything other than friends,” she said, throwing on her gown.

“Then you had better reassert that intention. My brother is looking for a wife and he seems to have chosen you.”