The Bluestocking and the Rake (The Regency Gentlemen Series) (34 page)

“Is she here or not?” he snapped.

She rose to her feet. “If you are going to be odious and rude she will not see you. She ran away from you, you know.”

“I am well aware of it, thank you,” he returned acidly.

“You are a fool, Robbie.”

“And you disappoint me. I thought you cared for me. Were you ever going to tell me?” he demanded. “Do you know how many sleepless nights I’ve had worrying about her?”

“No, I don’t, for you have never told me,” she retorted. “As I said, you made your feelings on the subject perfectly clear. Besides, it was not my secret to tell and once Georgiana knew that you were not disposed to forgive her, I was forbidden to tell you where she was. I invited Miss Ash
―Blakelow, to reside with me until she could find somewhere more permanent. She has earned a little money through her writing and pays me a small rent. We enjoy each other’s company. It works out very well.”

“How nice for you,” he replied acidly, thinking
how readily Miss Blakelow agreed to the life of companion to everyone but him. “Then call her here, if you please. Time is of the essence.”

She regarded him with an odd, knowing smile. “I’m sure it is, Robbie.”

He glared at her as she rose to ring for the butler. She desired that young man to ask that Miss Wakeham join her in the drawing room, and then she turned her watchful eyes upon her brother.

“And still you have not forgiven her,” she observed softly.

A muscle tensed in his cheek but he made no answer.

“She cries herself to sleep every night, although she thinks that I cannot hear her,” said Mrs. Weir. “I would lay money as to the cause of her unhappiness.”

“I am here to take a sister to her brother, that is all.”

Caroline turned away to hide a smile as footsteps were heard in the hall. They paused outside the door and then the handle turned.

Miss Blakelow stood for a moment on the threshold, looking enquiringly at her friend, one elegant hand upon the door knob before she closed the door. 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. The eyes were clear, green and unhindered by the presence of her ugly spectacles. She was confidant, elegant and assured. But the serene smile on her lips fled rapidly when her eyes alighted upon their visitor and the look of dismay that swept across her features was plain for all to see. She started, her eyes flew to his and she coloured.

Lord Marcham, correctly reading her feelings, was furious and not a little hurt. He stiffened, forced himself to meet her gaze as coolly as he was able even his heart lurched when he saw the hunted look that passed over her features. What was he hoping for? A joyful reunion? That she would cast herself into his arms and beg him to forgive her?

He bowed. “Miss Blakelow,” he muttered coldly.

She curtseyed, dropping her eyes to the floor and mustering what composure she could find, even though the tendons stood out on her slender neck with the tension of the moment. “My lord,” she all but whispered.

Why are you here?
she wanted to ask.
Why have you come? How did you find me? Did Caroline betray me? Or Marianne? Have you forgiven me for our last meeting when I told you that everything between us was a lie? Have you yet forgiven me for mocking your love for me?

How different he was! How stern and cool and aloof. He had lost weight too, she thought, and he looked tired and pale. But oh, how hard his eyes were! And how she missed his warm smile. She looked at him and knew that she had not been forgiven. She saw the bitter anger in his eyes and the rigid set of his jaw. He loathed her more now than he had the last time she had seen him and that knowledge broke what was left of her heart.

“My brother has come to fetch you,” put in Mrs. Weir softly as she seated herself by the fire.

Lord Marcham glared at his sister. He transferred his eyes to Miss Blakelow noting the look of rigid o
bstinacy that passed over her face as her resolve set hard and he knew that persuading her was going to be difficult. “I have come to escort you back to Thorncote,” he corrected.

“If you think I would go with you, after all that you said to me―!” she cried
and turned as if to flee, but he was quicker and was across the room in a trice, slamming his hand against the door to prevent her from opening it.

“After what
I
said to you?” he demanded. “By God, that’s rich!”

His arm was an iron bar across the space between them, barring her flight from the room, the sleeve of his greatcoat brushed against her breast. He stared down at her lovely profile, averted away from him so that he might not read her face. Her perfume, like sweet jasmine, teased him, bringing to mind the small hours of the morning when he left his room and sought the bed she had slept in at
Holme Park. God what a fool he was! He would climb under the covers and bring the scented pillow to him as if it were her body and he could somehow magic her real form into his arms. Poor stupid fool!

He saw her stiffen now, bracing herself against him. The tendons in her throat were as taut as rigging. She loathed his touch. She had used him. She was vicious and heartless. She had hurt him, had all but destroyed him and the anger in him would not be suppressed. Whatever he had felt for her was dead. She had wilfully, savagely, killed it.

Let them go to Thorncote together and let it be the last time. Please God, let it be the last time. Let it cure him at last of this madness and let him never see her again.

“Do not think me here on my own account,” he said savagely somewhere above her ear. “I am well aware that my presence here is unwelcome to you.”

“You are correct in that assumption, my lord. After the things you said to me that night, I had hoped never to see you again.”

A muscle pulsed angrily in his cheek. “Don’t I know it? I seem to be the only person in the world who was not privy to your current living arrangements.”

“You are mistaken. Only Marianne and Caroline knew.”

“Oh, that’s alright then,” he responded caustically. “Do not spare a thought, I beg of you, for poor John who has been driven out of his mind with worrying about you.”

“I could not tell him! He would have come after me,” she said, whirling around to glare up at him. “And he has a family now.”

“Aye, that he has. And he would have left his wife and baby daughter to look after you and this is how you repay him?” he taunted.

Tears sparkled on the end of her lashes. “I don’t expect you to understand.”

“Oh, I understand alright. You are so used to doing exactly as you please that you don’t give a damn for anyone else. Did you know that your aunt was ill last summer?”

“Don’t!” she cried, turning around to grasp the doorknob.

“You don’t want to hear it, do you?” he said cruelly in her ear. “She was so worried about you that she stopped eating and made herself ill.”

“Robbie,” said Caroline softly from the other side of the room, “don’t.”

“Stay out of this!” snapped the earl over his shoulder before turning back to Miss Blakelow. He was so angry that he could not stop himself, the sight of her, the smell of her perfume goaded him and all that he had felt in the last two years seemed to well up in his throat demanding that he let her know what she had done to him, to all of them.

“Did you spare a thought for your brothers and sisters while you were enjoying yourself in Bath?” he demanded.

“Why have you come here?” she cried. “Was our last meeting not torment enough? Did you want to gloat some more, my lord?”

“You cannot answer me, can you?” he said triumphantly. “You were so intent on finding yourself a rich man to fleece that you had no time to spare for your family―who, I might add, have been driven to distraction worrying about you.”

“Have you finished?”

“What? No gentleman willing to take you on?” he mocked.

She glared up at him but said nothing.

“I’m sure there must be someone a heartless shrew like you can hook your claws into. You clearly have not been trying hard enough. Show a little bosom, my dear, it worked for me.”

Miss Blakelow’s eyes flashed with anger and she drew back her hand and slapped his face.

He smiled nastily, rubbing his cheek with one hand. “Oh, that temper of yours,” he mocked softly. “And I had plans to put your passion to better use.”

Her bosom heaved. “Have you come here merely to insult me? Because you have already made up your mind about me, haven’t you? You have already condemned me without giving me a chance to explain.”

“Explain? I would like to hear you try. How did I ever believe myself in love with you?” he asked with a bitter laugh. “My God, what a fool I have been.”

“Robbie,” said his sister, “calm down.”

“The devil fly away with you Caro, mind your own damned business!”

“And you my lord?” demanded Miss Blakelow before she could stop herself. “What of you?”

“What about me?”

“Did you miss me?”

He flung himself away from her. “A man cannot miss what he never had, Miss Blakelow, and I don’t believe you were ever truly mine. You were always one step away, always just out of my reach. If I ever cherished a foolish passion for you, it was very soon quashed by the knowledge that you care nothing for anyone but yourself.”

She stiffened as though he had slapped her. “You have said everything you wished to say to me and now I must beg yo
u to leave―immediately.”

“As I have already told you, I am not here for myself. I am here for no other reason than to escort you to Thorncote at Marianne’s behest.”

“For what purpose?”

“Jack is very ill with fever and has been asking for you.”

She turned around, her eyes lifting to his face. “Jack? How so?” she breathed.

“Will you come?”

Her eyes slid from his to his sister’s, a begging entreaty in the green depths.

His lordship saw the message in the woman’s eyes. She does not wish to be alone with me, thought Lord Marcham, moving away to the window, turning his broad back upon the ladies. She is frightened that I will press my attentions upon her.
But the lady is much mistaken, I would rather make up to my housekeeper.

“Caroline?” begged Miss Blakelow.

Mrs. Weir smiled brightly. “Of course. Why did you not say so at once? Allow me half an hour to see to James and pack a trunk.”

“We leave in fifteen minutes,” said her brother, still with his back to the room as he pulled his snuff box from his pocket.

They left within half an hour, Lord Marcham impatient to see his task completed so that he might be free of Miss Blakelow’s company. On the journey to
Bath, he could not wait to see her; on the journey home, having seen the look of loathing upon her countenance, he wanted nothing more than to escape to the bottom of the nearest bottle.

Although the night was dark, the dusting of snow provided a strange curious light which lit the road for the coachman.

It was cold. Mrs. Weir had taken one seat completely to herself and so Miss Blakelow was forced to share the other with the earl. His leg swayed easily with the movement of the carriage, touching hers as he tucked in the fur throw around her legs, his eyes carefully avoiding hers as if they were explosive. She thanked him and settled down to sleep in the corner of the carriage, grateful to her friend for taking up the conversation when she and Lord Marcham were rather inclined to spend the whole of the journey in silence. But before long, even Mrs. Weir’s conversation ran dry and she too sought her slumber.

Lord Marcham was unsure whether to press on through the night or stop and rest at one of the inns near
Gloucester. It was cold and dark and Miss Blakelow looked tired. But that lady, on being applied to by the other female in the carriage, voted that they press on as long as there were horses and ostlers and moonlight enough to see them to Thorncote.

Thus it was four in the morning when the carriage finally gained the lodge gates of that most beloved of houses, and Lord Marcham, gently shaking her awake from where she slumbered against his shoulder, told her that they had arrived. She sat up slowly, blinking at him and their eyes met for a long moment in the semi-darkness before memory returned. She blushed and lowered her eyes, her cheek rumpled and cold and feeling the loss of his shoulder beneath it.

The door was opened and Miss Blakelow was down and onto the ground before the earl had a chance to offer her his hand.

Lord Marcham, turning instead to his sister and handing her down from the carriage, watched jealously as Miss Blakelow cast herself into John Maynard’s arms.

* * *

“Georgie?” said the boy, licking his parched lips.

“I am here, darling,” replied Miss Blakelow in her calm way, dipping the cloth once again into the bowl of cold water and bathing his face with it.

“Hot,” he murmured, turning his head upon the pillow and pushing back the sheet that covered him.

“Hush now. Lie still.”

“How is he?” asked John from behind her.

Miss Blakelow turned and smiled but the worried expression in her eyes did not abate. “Marianne said that Dr. Judd was hopeful of a recovery.”

“Hopeful…but not certain.”

Miss Blakelow nodded and busied herself with wringing out the cloth once more.

John approached the bed and sat down in the chair the other side of the patient. “Miss…what do you call yourself now?”

Miss Blakelow smiled. “It does not matter. At Thorncote, I will always be Georgie.”

“How did his lordship find you?”

“Marianne. I had been in correspondence with her.”

“Where were you?” he asked.

She briefly met his eyes before looking away. “Bath.”

“
Bath? Why Bath?”

“Mrs. Weir was kind enough to offer me a place in her home.”

“You went to her, then, that night?”

“Not immediately…but eventually, when my luck ran out.”

“You didn’t send me word where you had gone. I was worried. We all were.”

Miss Blakelow looked down at her brother as she bathed his burning skin. She said nothing, feeling wretched.

“Why did you not tell me where you were?” he asked quietly. “Don’t you trust old John anymore?”

She turned to him, her heart breaking at the hurt in his voice. “If I had told you, you would have come after me.”

“Aye, I would.”

“And what of Janet and the little one?” she demanded in a hushed voice. “Do you think I would allow you to abandon them?”

“My first duty is to you miss.”

“No, John. Your first duty is to Janet. More now than ever since you married.”

“You know?”

She nodded. “Marianne wrote and told me all about it and how his lordship gave you a position in his household.”

“He has been a good master to me,” he agreed.

“He is a good man,” she whispered.

“He was torn apart when you left. I don’t know all of what happened between you or of what you said to him, but it cut him deep, that much I do know.”

Miss Blakelow smoothed the red-gold curls away from Jack’s forehead. “Don’t, John.”

“He knows that you don’t trust him, he told me that you didn’t. He told me one night when we were alone and we shared a tankard or two. He was foxed, you might say, and possibly said more than he ought or intended. He loved you, miss.”

“Past tense,” she agreed and then stood abruptly.

“Can you not speak to him, miss?”

“No John.”

“But if you were to explain―”

“He does not want to hear an explanation from me. He doesn’t want anything from me. He has already decided against me. And who can blame him?”

“If he could but understand what made you say the things you did…”

“Julius made me
say the things I did. He had a gun pointed at Lord Marcham’s head. He told me that if I drove the earl away, he would not harm him. So I played a part,” she said smiling sadly. “And I played it very well. I let him think that I was a…a grasping female. His lordship thinks me sunk beneath contempt. He thinks me a doxy. He thinks that I only ever courted his acquaintance for his money because I told him that it was so. He came to me that night to beg me to stay and I threw it back in his face. No John, it is too late. He does not want me anymore and I cannot say that I blame him. I would be grateful if we could consider the subject now closed. I find it too painful to speak of. Will you watch Jack for a moment? I need to be alone for a while.”

“Of course.”

* * *

Miss Blakelow slept a little in the afternoon, finally persuaded by John that he would have the watching of the boy while she took some rest.

Marianne and the two girls were relieved that their eldest sister was back to take charge and quite happily relinquished their brother into her care. Mrs. Weir went away with Lord Marcham, saying that she did not wish to be a further burden to her friend when she had enough on her plate, and Miss Blakelow watched from the window of Jack’s bedroom as the carriage drove them away, wondering what he thought of her now.

She arose at six in the evening, washed and changed her dress, pinching her cheeks to bring some colour back into them. She examined herself in the mirror. She was finally free of her bluestocking image, she was finally at peace with Sir Julius but she was desperately unhappy. The scene of her meeting in
Bath with Lord Marcham haunted her. He still had not forgiven her. He thought her cold, scheming and mercenary. He thought her heartless.

And what of his love for her? Had she killed it that night when she had pretended that she felt nothing for him? Had his love withered and died under her mockery? Could she ever regret anything more?

She remembered the way he had looked at her in the carriage, cold and aloof as if she disgusted him. The knowledge of his ill opinion burned her like the fires of hell. The knowledge that she had hurt him tormented her deep into the night. She longed for his arms to hold her close and for his smile, as warm and as seductive as chocolate.

She hardly ate a thing at dinner. Lizzy and Kitty and Marianne kept up a flow of conversation, filling her in on all that had happened since she had been away, but even the story of Mr. Peabody falling over in the mud was barely enough to bring a smile to her lips, for with it came the memory of Lord Marcham and how he would laugh at such a spectacle. And then Lizzy turned to her and asked if she was home to stay, and Miss Blakelow could hardly answer. She excused herself and went back to the sick room.

Jack was better; he was propped up in bed against the pillows, a fan of cards in his hand. Miss Blakelow’s eyes shifted to his companion and she was surprised to see Lord Marcham seated by the bed.

“Oh, I did not realise you were here, my lord.”

He rose from his chair in obvious confusion at unexpectedly being thrown into her company. “Forgive my intrusion, Miss Blakelow,” he said. “John’s leg was troubling him so I sent him home.”

“We are playing faro, George,” announced Jack.

Miss Blakelow’s brow rose. “Indeed?” she asked politely and then turned her gaze on their lordly neighbour. “Corrupting the next generation, my lord?”

Guilt was evident in his look. “He was bored,” said Lord Marcham. “We tried reading but it did not enthuse our young friend here.”

“So you thought you would teach him to gamble instead.”

He flushed. “Do you wish me to go?” he asked quietly.

“No! Robbie, you can’t go
now
,” complained Jack. “I am just about to fleece you of your last marble.”

“Jack,” chided Miss Blakelow softly. “You should not call his lordship by his first name.”

“But he said I might,” protested the young man. “Didn’t you?”

“I did,” conceded Lord Marcham sheepishly.

“Robbie?” repeated Miss Blakelow, turning her amused gaze upon the earl. “Since when did he start calling you by that name?”

“We have been fishing together on a few occasions,” he replied with an apologetic smile. “Did you sleep well?”

“Yes, thank you.”

“You look tired.”

“I am tired, I must confess,” she admitted.

“Then why don’t you go back to bed?” he said. “I can watch over Jack.”

“I don’t need watching over,” put in Jack. “
Concentrate
, sir.”

Miss Blakelow felt the boy’s temple. “I think you should rest now.”

“But I’m winning. She can’t do that! Robbie, tell her she can’t.”

Lord Marcham, with his eyes on Miss Blakelow, laid down his cards. “I think we have had enough excitement for one evening.”

“But
sir
!”

“Yes I know; you wish to beat me soundly, do you not? But I need some sleep, young man, and I’m pretty sure that your sister does too.”

“Oh, Georgie is always right as a trooper and so am I,” announced Jack as the cards were taken gently from his hand.

“I’m sure she is,” replied his lordship, “but I have been awake for more hours than I care to think about. Get some rest, young man; you may beat me in the morning.”

Reluctantly he did as he was told and the cards were packed away by Miss Blakelow.

“Goodnight, imp,” said his lordship, ruffling the boy’s hair affectionately.

“Goodnight, my lord.”

Miss Blakelow kissed her brother and tucked him in, ignoring the protestations that he was not a baby and smiling, softly closed the door.

* * *

“He looks better,” offered Lord Marcham as they walked down the hall together.

“Yes,” she replied softly, the warmth and kindness in his voice unsettling her. His anger she knew how to deal with, but this unexpected sympathy and warmth towards her made her heart lurch with longing. “Jack is his son―Julius’s that is,” she stammered.

“I know…John told me,” said his lordship.

“Does Julius know?”

“Sir Julius is…ah…curre
ntly entertaining the belief that Caro’s son is your nephew,” said his lordship.

“I see,” she replied. “And is he Julius’s son at all?”

“Of course, what do you take me for?” he asked, pretending to look severely at her. “Caro and Julius were…intimate, shall we say, after George was killed.”

“But he isn’t―I mean…”

“Oh, I know he’s not your
sister’s
boy,” agreed the earl. “I told a little white lie based loosely on the truth. Julius will never know. Unless you tell him, of course.”

“Do you think I should?” she asked, turning to look at him.

He shrugged. “Every boy needs a father. But I understand your reservations.”

“He has been good to Caro’s boy. I must admit that I have been surprised.”

“Julius has his faults, heaven knows, but he loves the boy―” he broke off as Miss Blakelow seemed to be struggling with her emotions. “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,” she whispered.

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

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