The Bluestocking and the Rake (The Regency Gentlemen Series) (25 page)

“And has yours?”

Miss Blakelow smoothed the counterpane on the bed with her hand. “Love is for the young. I am far too old and too cynical and too practical in nature to fall prey to such an emotion. I had rather be content than in love.”

Marianne wrinkled her nose. “But that sounds so dull.”

“It is safe. Your heart cannot be broken if you choose not to give it away.” Miss Blakelow stood and kissed her sister’s forehead. “Give yours wisely, Marianne; that is the best advice I can give you.”

As it was, Miss Blakelow did not receive an invitation to attend Lady Harriet’s ball.

Her sisters and her aunt received their beautifully finished white cards and they exclaimed over Georgiana being omitted, wondering if it had become lost and she endured it all with a stoicism that she did not feel. She forced a smile and shrugged and said it was of little matter to her.

She was hardly surprised; Lady St. Michael had been less than warm in her dealings with her, after all. But the knowledge that her society was not valued by anyone at Holme, not even Lady Harriet, was lowering indeed. She would not have gone to the ball anyway; she dared not, given that half the guests may have recognised her, and especially given her recent argument with the earl. But the fact that he had made no move to see that she received an invite, even for the sake of appearances, so utterly depressed her that she could not bear the sight of the ball gown he’d arranged to have made for her and she buried it deep at the back of the armoire.

It was over a week to the event and Miss Blakelow had still not heard from William. That he was deliberately igno
ring her request seemed likely. It also occurred to Miss Blakelow that he might be so far in debt as to make a return journey home an expensive undertaking and therefore, unpalatable. She thought him a little cowardly as a consequence and was disappointed that he had not the courage to face up to his responsibilities.

Miss Blakelow attempted to put the events of the past fortnight behind her. She had heard that Lord Marcham had gone to stay with friends and was expected to be away for some days. Why this depressed her when she had resolved to break all acquaintance with the man was a question she could not answer.

Outwardly, she threw herself into bringing Thorncote about. She spent most of her time in the garden, particularly the kitchen garden, attempting to restore some vestige of order. But privately she was planning to leave Worcestershire, the surrogate family that she had adopted and the man whose smile had started to haunt her dreams.

She was starting to form a plan for a new life. She needed to leave Thorncote and soon. If Mrs. Thorpe had found her, after all these years, then very likely the man who was hunting her would too. He was not stupid and although she had managed to evade him for many years now, he was nothing if not persistent. He promised he would find her, wherever she went and that he would never let her go. Another new identity was forming in her head. A widow, perhaps…

Her three sisters wished to attend the dance at the assembly rooms in Loughton to practice their dance steps before the ball at Holme Park. Aunt Blakelow was concerned that Miss Blakelow was a little depressed and persuaded her to go with the promise that it would cheer her up. In a moment of weakness, she reluctantly agreed.

Once at the event, she regretted her decision as she spent a rather miserable evening sitting with her back against the wall amongst some of the older ladies, watching the dancers with hunted eyes. Her misery was compounded when half way through the evening, Lord Marcham unexpectedly arrived with another gentleman whom she did not recognise, Lady St. Michael and Lady Harriet. And Miss Blakelow wanted to sink through the floor.

His arrival caused much speculation; he had rarely attended such gatherings before and within moments every matchmaking mama present had him firmly in her sights. That he was on the hunt for a wife became the chief topic of conversation amongst the ladies surrounding Miss Blakelow, and she could hardly keep her countenance as they teased her that her sister Marianne was by far the prettiest girl in the neighbourhood and had no doubt caught his lordship’s eye.

Miss Blakelow hardly dared raise her eyes from the floor as he moved in front of where she was sitting, the memory of their argument still fresh in her mind. He asked a lady in a dark red gown to dance and Miss Blakelow could not help stealing a glance at him as he swept the woman onto the floor. He was exquisitely dressed in a black coat that hugged his shoulders and satin evening breeches. He danced well, his smile was as devastating to Miss Blakelow’s senses as ever it had been before, and he looked so handsome that she found herself jealous of every woman, beautiful or not, who came within a five yard radius of him.

It was when the dance had finished and he was returning the lady to her chaperone that he caught sight of Miss Blakelow who had at that moment gone to fetch refreshments for herself and her aunt. She froze in the doorway, nearly causing an elderly gentleman to smash into the back of her and she slopped a little of the lemonade from one of the glasses onto the floor.

Their eyes met. In a fleeting glance, she saw his eyes flick downwards to take in her ugly headdress, the glasses, the shawl and the drab dove grey gown and then moved back to her face. He looked vaguely amused, as if he had expected her to be dressed in such a fashion and was not at all surprised at the less than stunning result. He opened his mouth to say something but then seemed to recollect their last meeting and the smile vanished from his eyes. He bowed with cold civility and immediately moved away.

Miss Blakelow was thrown into such a state of turmoil by this encounter that she did not listen to Aunt Blakelow’s flow of conversation for a full five minutes afterwards. The look in his eyes when he took in her appearance, the smirk on his lips as if he had known her to deliberately choose the most hideous of dress in her meagre collection rubbed her pride on the raw―especially when compared to the exquisite garnet coloured gown of the blonde girl who was currently on his arm. She began to feel sick. The room was hot and airless and she was wearing a shawl that she did not need. She put a hand to her head as the room spun around her, the lights dazzling like a kaleidoscope.

“Georgie? Are you alright? You don’t look at all the thing,” said Aunt Blakelow, her voice coming to her as if down a long tunnel.

“Excuse me, Aunt. I need some fresh air.”

She moved swiftly towards the stairs, barging between two gentlemen and murmuring words of apology as she fled. The staircase was swarming with people, mostly moving upward towards the dancing, like a tsunami of feathers, satins and jewels. Over the headdress of a middle aged woman in a purple turban, she gasped as she spied a very familiar looking face at the foot of the stairs. Recognition came thick and fast, like a tidal surge pushing the events of the last ten years aside like driftwood and she was momentarily paralysed with shock.

He was here!

He’d found her. Oh, God, he’d found her at last. She felt fear prickle down her spine.

She had to get out of there, now.

The first step swam before her eyes and the carpet loomed up to meet her. At the last moment, when she was sure she must fall, a strong arm grasped her waist and she was clamped to the chest of an unseen gentleman following her down the stairs.

* * *

Miss Blakelow came to and found herself lying full stretch upon a sofa. She opened her eyes and memory flooded back. She focused on her aunt’s face, looking down at her with a concerned expression in her eyes as she chafed her hand.

“He’s here,” croaked Miss Blakelow.

“Yes, my love, don’t get up. You rest there for a moment.”

Miss Blakelow seized her arm. “No, Aunt, you don’t understand. The man who…
He’s
here.”

“Here?”

“Yes. I must get up. I must leave here. Tonight.” She swung her feet to the floor and gingerly sat up.

“My dear, you cannot leave in the middle of the night. Where would you go?”

“I don’t know,” whispered Miss Blakelow.

“He’s not here, Georgie. It’s your imagination.”

“He’s here, I tell you.”

“What would he be doing at Loughton on a Thursday evening? Since when did he ever leave
London?”

Miss Blakelow winced, remembering the one time she had known he had left
London because she had been with him. She thrust the memory aside.

Aunt Blakelow picked up a glass of wine and put it to her niece’s lips. “Drink this. You have had a fright, that’s all. It’s just brought on one of your nightmares.”

“It was
not
a nightmare. I saw him.”

“Georgie, calm yourself. He is not here. My dearest girl, you have nothing to fear.”

“But, he was there…on the stairs,” said Miss Blakelow, confused. “He was coming up the stairs as I was going down. Someone caught me as I fell.”

“Lord Marcham caught you,” said Aunt Blakelow soothingly.

Miss Blakelow gaped at her. “Lord Marcham? How? I mean…really? Are you sure?”

“He carried you in here and laid you on that sofa himself.”

“Oh,” breathed Miss Blakelow.

“He really is a most gentlemanly like man, for all I worry about his motivation in his attentions to you. I must say that I like him excessively, even though I know I should not…is that very shocking? And he looked very concerned for your welfare and said everything that was proper and fetched you that glass of wine himself. But I advise you onc
e again to be on your guard, Georgie. I know he is very handsome and charming but his attentions to you are attracting some attention―”

“Are you sure it was Lord Marcham?” asked Miss Blakelow, unconsciously looking at the glass in her hand.

“I may be an old fool but I am not in my dotage yet. Now, you drink that wine like a good girl and I will arrange for the carriage to take us home.”

* * *

Miss Blakelow had determined that she and John would leave Thorncote whilst the rest of the family were attending the ball at Holme Park. They had slowly been packing away their things and moving them one trunk at a time to a disused outbuilding, where they were stacked neatly against the wall awaiting the time when they would be loaded onto a carriage and disappear.

Over the ten years living at Thorncote, she had accumulated many things, some of which she would take with her, many of which she would leave behind. She would take her mother’s portrait, her father’s fob watch and her meagre collection of jewellery, but the wooden trunk that contained Miss Blakelow’s fine clothes that she had worn at her come out, she would leave behind. Those very dresses which her sisters had coveted, she bequeathed to them, giving them permission to alter them how they chose.

She had written several letters—to her Aunt Blakelow, to her brothers and sisters at Thorncote and to William, but one letter in particular she found impossible to write. To Lord Marcham, she wrote that she was sorry, that she had to go away and that she would always consider him to be―she screwed it up and hurled it into the fire.

To add to her misery, Mr. Peabody arrived midway through the afternoon, resplendent in a strawberry and white striped waistcoat that assaulted the eye in such a manner as to test the limits of even Miss Blake
low’s self control. Aunt Blakelow made an excuse to leave the room leaving her niece in high temper that she would abandon her to this man’s relentless ardour. That Aunt Blakelow thought that she should marry him was becoming increasingly clear. Thorncote’s future was by no means certain and if she became Mrs. Joshua Peabody, both of the elder Blakelow spinsters would have a roof over their heads.

“My dear Miss Blakelow,” he said, coming into the room with hands outstretched. “Your aunt is feeling indisposed and has gone for a lie down. I hope that nothing serious is amiss?”

She reluctantly gave her hands to him and consented to having them kissed but pulled them away again as soon as she was able. “Nothing at all,” she replied blandly, her eye kindling with irritation as she remembered the way her aunt had hastily vacated the room. “Won’t you sit down, sir?”

“Thank you,” he said, taking the chair she had indicated, that was half the room’s length away from hers.

“Are you alone this afternoon?”

“Yes, the girls have walked into Loughton to purchase some ribbon and the boys are gone fishing. Since his lordship bought Ned and Jack fishing rods, they seem to have found a love for it. And they go to escape from talk of the ball,” she added, smiling.

“Ah yes, the Holme Park ball. Well, I have received my invite. Do you go, ma’am?”

She shook her head. “No. I do not go to parties.”

“I am sorry that you shall not be there but knowing your peculiar circumstances as I do, I cannot wonder at it.”

Miss Blakelow felt her temper rising. “Indeed? Do my circumstances mean that it is unseemly for me to dance?”

“Oh, no, no. I merely meant that you would not want to draw attention to yourself, giving rise to the sort of gossip that one must deplore. For although I condemn the nature of ‘our little secret’ and its having come about, I would wish to protect you from the harsh lash of public opinion. And it is on this subject that I come to you today…no, no, my dear, do not look so vexed…your aunt wrote to me and asked me to come.”

“My aunt?” repeated Miss Blakelow blankly.

“Yes. She is worried for you. Apparently you had a mishap at the assembly rooms last week.”

“I was a little hot and felt faint, that is all,” she replied, becoming a little annoyed at her aunt’s interference.

“She said you were hallucinating…and, might I say, fantasising about the man who―”