The Bluestocking and the Rake (The Regency Gentlemen Series) (22 page)

“He was nearly fifty,” put in Miss Blakelow hotly, “and I was barely
nineteen.”

“And you migh
t now have had a home of your own instead of living upon someone else’s charity,” flashed Mrs. Thorpe. “Do your so-called brothers and sisters know what you are? Does Lord Marcham?”

“Your carriage is nearly ready, Aunt. And I must beg you to leave.”

“Does he know? Do you think he will want you after that? And what do you think your friends in Worcestershire will think of you once I tell them who you are?”

“I care not for your threats. You may have fired me off very creditably but the thing that I wanted from you most, you were unwilling to give; affection. The only person in your house who gave tuppence about me was my uncle. But he was ill and dying. And once he had gone, you and Charlotte and my other cousins treated me like the village leper. One of the reasons I did what I did was to escape from you, ma’am.”

The butler appeared and fixedly stared at the floor, awaiting further instruction.

Mrs. Thorpe drew on her gloves. “You see to it that your brother stays away from my daughter or I will make it impossible for you to live in this county or any other.”

The woman stalked from the room, leaving a wake of sickly perfume behind her.

Miss Blakelow sat down heavily in a chair and put her forehead into her hand.

“Here miss,” said a gentle voice. She looked up to find John offering her a glass of wine. She smiled her thanks and took it.

“John?”

“Yes, miss?”

“I think it’s time that we moved on again.”

“Yes, miss. Begging your pardon, miss, but where will we go?”

The young woman sighed. “I don’t know, John. I honestly don’t know.”

“And so, Miss Blakelow, have you missed me?” Lord Marcham asked, casting a swift smiling look at her profile. He had stayed away purposely, hoping that his absence might make her heart grow fonder.

“Given that I only saw your lordship a couple of days ago, I rather think that unlikely, don’t you?” she replied, looking away from him and out across the park. Her spectacles impeded her sight and she peered over the top of them when she thought that her companion was enough distracted with his driving not to notice.

“Oh, too cruel. It has been at least a week. And when I think how I have lain awake thinking of you.”

“Pooh. What nonsense.”

“Lain awake, I tell you. In an agony to know if I have featured in your dreams.”

“In my nightmares, quite possibly,” she murmured.

His lips twitched appreciatively. “Now that is not very charitable of you, Miss Blakelow, is it? When I have dreamed of holding you close in my arms
―”

“And my knee in your unmentionables?” she put in sweetly.

“I see that I will have to purchase a pair of iron breeches.”

She turned her head aside to hide a smile. “They would be in very great danger of rusting from disuse, my lord. I’m quite sure you spend a considerable portion of your life―” She broke off hastily, suddenly realising that she was once again engaging in a highly improper conversation with this man.

“You were saying, ma’am?” he prompted gently.

“Nothing.”

“You were about to say that I spend a considerable portion of my life without any clothes at all?”

She stared at the distant trees, a swathe of red mounting up her neck. “No, my lord, I was not.”

“Well, I should hope not, indeed. To hear a woman of your unimpeachable character talk in such a shocking manner―”

“Don’t,” she said quickly, a little more harshly than she had intended, her recent encounter with her Aunt Thorpe still very much on her mind.

“And to think
you
wrote a pamphlet condemning
my
morals,” he added, a gleam of unholy amusement in his eyes.

“
I said
don’t
!” she cried.

He frowned at the very real distress in her voice. The teasing light in his eyes vanished as he brought the horses to a sudden halt and turned around on the seat so that he could see her face. “Now what’s amiss?” he asked, a frown between his brows.

“Nothing, my lord,” she replied, averting her profile and trying valiantly to compose herself once again. “Please drive on.”

“Not until you tell me what’s wrong. You must know that I was teasing you?” he demanded.

“I wish that you wouldn’t,” she replied in a small voice.

He tried to look into her face but it was cast into shadow by the deep brim of her bonnet. “Miss Blakelow,” he said softly. “You must know that I would not willingly give you pain for all the world.”

She swallowed hard on a curious lump which seemed to have formed in her throat. “Please drive on,” she said again. “We are blocking the road.”

He watched her for a long moment, looked as if he might say something further and then appeared to let it go. He flicked the reins and the horses moved forward. “Well, we shall confine our discourse to safer waters then. What say you to crop rotation?”

She was relieved and grateful to him for changing the subject. “Must we?” she asked, dutifully looking mortified at the proposed topic of conversation.

His face took on a look of mock horror. “Crop rotation and the espalier training of soft fruit trees.”

“Oh, Lord.”

“I am relieved to hear you say so, Miss Blakelow. You may tell me instead the history of your life.”

She pulled a face. “I do not consider that subject any improvement on crop rotation.”

“How is it that you have lived at Thorncote all these years and yet I have never before met you there?” he asked, guiding the horses with an expert hand over a narrow hump backed bridge.

“There is no mystery, my lord. You were not often at Holme Park before this summer and I am not often away from Thorncote. We did meet once, in Loughton I believe, at an assembly room dance a number of years ago.”

“Did we? I do not remember. Did we dance together?”

“I believe you only danced with the prettiest girls, my lord,” she murmured.

“Then I feel sure we must have danced together.”

She smiled but the expression did not reach her eyes. She was all too familiar with the cheap flattery of men and had become immune to it. “Do you think so indeed? For everyone knows me to be a great beauty, do they not?” she mocked gently.

He looked at her sharply. “
Now
what have I said? I gave you a compliment, ma’am.”

“A compliment which fell glibly from your lips. A compliment which you have said to a thousand women and meant it perhaps only twice in the whole course of your existence.”

“And do you know me so well that you think that I am the sort of man who throws compliments away to massage the pride of inconsequential women?”

“I think you
precisely
that sort of man.”

“Then you do not know me at all,” he replied. “I gave you a compliment because I meant it.”

“Oh, I’m sure you meant to say it, even if you did not entirely mean
what
it was that you said. After all, as long as it gets you what you want, it makes no odds to you.”

“My word,” he said grimly, “you have a very pretty opinion of men, don’t you?”

“Experience has taught me well, my lord,” she said and then bit her lip, instantly regretting saying so much to him.

“Indeed? And is that why it is so hard for you to believe that a man finds you attractive?” he asked.

She clasped her hands in her lap. “I think you should stop the carriage, Lord Marcham.”

“And why would I do that?”

“Because we are about to have an argument and I do not wish to upset you.”

“Too late for that,” he replied, his mouth set hard. “You have already accused me of being the sort of man who bandies false flattery about to suit my own ends. I will take leave to inform
you
ma’am, that I may be a man of a certain reputation, but I am not a sycophant.”

“I apologise if I offended you, my lord.”

“And what would be the point of an apology that you do not mean?” he demanded. “You think me vain and idle and selfish, do you not?”

“No, my lord,” she said softly.

“You think that I spend all my time drinking and gambling or seducing women. You don’t think me capable of a sensible thought on books or politics or art, do you?”

“That is not true.”

“You think my sole aim in life is fleecing men like your father of their property, for the amusement it affords me. It has not occurred to you that the reason that your father was so determined to sit down at the faro table with me was to fleece me of
my
property. I had already told the man to go home twice but he would not listen. He was on a winning streak and was convinced he would add a great deal of my fortune to his winnings. Well, my naïve Miss Blakelow, he was wrong. I have lost a great deal of money to men a lot cleverer than your father.”

“Put me down. I wish to walk home,” she said coldly.

“Does it upset you to confront what he was? I told you before and I will tell you again, Sir William Blakelow was a fool. He was a moderately well off man who lived life as if he were as rich as a king and you and your family have paid for his folly.”

“Please stop the carriage,” she insisted, her voice dripping with icy disdain.

“But
you,
ma’am,” he said turning to look at her, “
you
baffle me exceedingly. Why do you never wish to talk about your past?”

“Stop this carriage at once, my lord!”

“For reasons I have yet to fathom, you are hiding behind those spectacles and hideous clothes of yours to stop anyone getting too close. Heaven forbid that a man should be able to see beyond the mask and admire the woman underneath. Heaven forbid that a man should desire you. What now, Miss Blakelow? I have seen past your disguise. What else will you throw at me to push me away?”

She made no answer to this and looked stonily at the road ahead.

“Do you suppose that thick spectacles will stop me from kissing you if I want to?” he demanded.

She spun around to face him. “If
you
want to?” she repeated incredulously. “What about me and what
I
want? For your information, I don’t want to be kissed by you or anyone else.”

“No?” he asked softly, “would you like to put that theory to the test?”

“Let me down at once.”

He brought his horses to standstill under the shade of an apple tree and looped the reins over his knee. “You do not answer me because you know it is not true. Look at me, Georgiana…”

She kept her face averted, her hands clinging to the side of the curricle. “Please, my lord,” she whispered. “Don’t.”

He pulled off his driving glove and reached a hand across to gently cup her chin. “Look at me.”

She turned reluctantly to look into his face.

“What have I ev
er done to make you fear me?” he whispered.

“N―nothing, my lord,” she stammered.

“Have I ever given you cause to mistrust me?”

She shook her head.

“Then what is the matter? Why do you pick an argument with me?”

“Because I cannot do this,” she said softly.

“You cannot do what?” he asked.

“Please, my lord. This…
acquaintance
of ours… must be at an end.”

“Why? I don’t understand.”

“People are talking. They are saying things about me. Things that I cannot defend for as long as we are friends.”

“What things?”

That I have set my cap at you. That you are going to make me your mistress. That you will cast me aside when you grow tired of me. And my Aunt Thorpe is threatening to tell you everything about me and I could not bear it. I could not bear to see the condemnation and disgust in your eyes.

“You know what things,” she whispered.

There was another silence.

“And so you would cast me aside to save a little gossip?”

“Hardly anything so paltry, my lord. A little gossip, as you call it, can ruin a woman’s life.”

“And you care for that more than you do for my friendship?”

She choked as her sadness lodged like a ball in her throat. “No…yes…I have to.”

“I see.”

“I’m sorry, my lord.”

His fingers traced the outline of her cheek, his thumb tracing the sensitive curve of her lower lip. “To hell with the gossips,” he said softly, “to hell with them all. You are a passionate creature. You were made for love. And I was made for you. Let me love you, Georgie.”

So he had said it. Her Aunt Thorpe had said he would but Miss Blakelow had refused to believe he was just like all the other men of her acquaintance. He wanted her to be his mistress. Well at least now it was out in the open. No more games; they had cut to the chase at last. She felt the bitter sting of disappointment in the back of her throat. She was going to cry. And soon, but she’d be dammed if she would cry in front of him.

“Oh…you―you
cad
!” she cried.

He blinked at her. “I beg your pardon?” he replied.

“You would like that, wouldn’t you?” she continued, her voice shaking with anger. “I believe that’s all you have ever wanted from me.”

“What are you talking about―?”

Miss Blakelow stared at him, heavy tears brimming in her eyes, slowly shaking her head in disbelief. “Would you like to do it right here on the seat of your curricle, my lord? Or would all that heaving and groaning frighten the horses? But I’m sure for a man of your considerable talent and expertise that would present no trouble at all; you are, after all, a master of seduction. Shall I hitch up my skirts right here, my lord or shall we find a barn?”

His lordship had the distinct sensation that he had just stepped into horse manure up to his neck. He saw the blaze of anger and hurt in her eyes and held out his hand in a placating gesture. “I think that you have m
isunderstood me.”

“Oh, I understood you perfectly, my lord. I can readily believe that a woman whom you haven’t bedded must be a serious fascination to you.”

“Georgiana―”

“I must be a rare specimen indeed who must be studied. There must clearly be somethin
g wrong with me if I have not succumbed to your charm, is that not right?”

“That is not what I meant.”

“How is it that you have not already had me?” she mocked. “That is what you are asking yourself. You have walked with me, ridden with me, taken me for picnics, flirted with and flattered me. You even paid for that ridiculous ball gown. And women have fallen into your bed for less, have they not?”