The Bluestocking and the Rake (The Regency Gentlemen Series) (4 page)

“Might I remind you that you came here of your own free will? And I might add, uninvited.”

“I have an appointment with you, sir! And if
you had been obliging enough as to
keep
the previous two appointments with Mr. Healey, my father’s estate manager, rather than go out hunting, or lying abed, or whatever a rake does when he is not
carousing
, I would not have
needed
to come here today.”

The man’s lips twitched. “Uninvited,” he reiterated firmly. “You forced your way in here, when my butler undoubtedly told you that I was not at home to visitors. Whom I choose to entertain in my own house is my business and my business alone. If you feel you have been insulted then I apologise but do not ask me for anything more, for I am a selfish creature and will not give it. Now, you may come and sit in my library where we may be private and discuss this business that you speak of.”

“So that you might accost me too?” she demanded hotly.

The earl raised one eyebrow in mild surprise. Then with deliberate slowness, he examined every inch of her from her old scuffed riding boots to the rain-sodden feather on her bonnet. She felt her cheeks sting with colour at his less than complimentary perusal.

“I think that is a little unlikely, don’t you?” he said, very, very softly.

The woman wanted the rich carpet at her feet to swallow her whole. She would have liked to have looked him straight in the eye with all the defiance she felt but that was a trifle difficult when, because of her aunt’s wretched glasses, she wasn’t precisely sure where his eyes were.

“Now give me the gun, if you please.”

“I don’t trust you,” she said, setting her chin stubbornly.

“No one points a gun at me in my own house,” he replied softly. He held out his hand imperatively. “The gun if you please. You will have no need of it while you are here and it will be returned to you when you leave. You have my word on it.”

“Is that a word of a louche and a scoundrel and a…a…
debaucher
?” she demanded.

“It is,” he said smoothly, ignoring her insult as he took the gun from her hand. “But it is my word nonetheless.”

She looked up at him. “Are you Lord Marcham?”

He bowed slightly. “Robert Hockingam, Earl of Marcham. Your servant, ma’am.”

“Why did you let your friend insult me? Is this how you treat every gentlewoman who comes into your house?” she demanded.

“Gentlewomen don’t make a habit of coming to my house,” he replied. “Something to do with their reputations and er…mine.”

“You are living up to yours, I see,” she flashed.

He gave her a brief smile as he held open the door for her to pass through. “I’m so glad that I don’t disappoint you. Shall we?”

* * *

Nothing would persuade the young woman to remove her cloak, even though she was quite certain that she would catch a chill by keeping it on. She sat perched on the edge of her chair as if she were ready to fly at any moment, regarding her host with a wary eye.

They were in the library, a large room, clad from floor to ceiling with extremely dark wooden shelves filled with the spines of countless books. There was a large desk, also made of the same dark wood, and the chairs and tables were equally as sombre. The young lady thought it a most oppressive room and yearned to pull back the curtains yet further to let in the daylight.

His lordship saw the direction of her gaze. “I keep the curtains drawn to protect the books. Can I offer you a glass of wine?” he asked, closing the door behind them.

“No, thank you.”

He shrugged. “Suit yourself. I will have one however…I fear I may need it.”

“Why, haven’t you had enough already?” she asked before she could stop herself.

He paused in the act of pouring himself a glass of wine and glanced at her speculatively, a hint of
a smile on his lips. “Do you disapprove, ma’am?”

“I think
anyone
must disapprove. The young gentlemen in our neighbourhood look to men like you as role models―”

He frowned at her. “Excuse me, madam, but why are exactly are you here? To discuss business or
to lecture me?”

She simmered at his rude interruption. “Business.”

“Then let us get to it. I do not need you moralising at me. Now, tell me what it is that you want of me.”

She unfolded the leather case she had under her arm. “I have here papers―”

“I’m not remotely interested in your papers. Tell me what you
want
.”

She bristled and struggled to hold her temper. She took a deep breath and began again. “You recently won a vast sum of money from the owner of the Thorncote estate at the gaming table,” she said.

“Yes, what of it?”

“It belonged
to my father, Sir William Blakelow―Thorncote, that is―and now belongs to his son who is every bit as profligate as Papa―but never mind that. It is a large estate, not as large as yours, of course, but it could be made to be very profitable if some money could be spent on it and the right management put in place―”

The earl looked perplexed and rubbed his hand against his forehead. “Do you mean to tell me that you haven’t come here to tell me that I am the father of your child?”

She felt as if she had walked into a lunatic asylum. She stared at him with her mouth agape. “
What?
”

“You don’t have a brat that I am expected to recognise?”

“No! I don’t have a brat―I mean child. I have hardly spoken two words to you in the entire course of my life!”

“Thank God for th
at,” he breathed.

“You cannot thank God more than I do,” she retorted, bosom heaving.

“Then you and I have not…er…”

“No!”

He brightened visibly. “Oh…well that’s good. In my youth, you know…”

“No,” she replied indignantly. “I do
not
know!”

He looked amused and then directed a sudden penetrating glance across at her. “Forgive me, but who are you?” he asked.

She stared at him, waiting for him to recognise her, dreading that he would. “Miss Blakelow. Daughter of Sir William Blakelow.”

“Blakelow…” he mused, frowning and then suddenly his brow cleared as it came to him. “Could it be that I am in the company of Miss
Georgiana
Blakelow?”

She flushed and lifted her chin. “Yes, sir.”

“The spinster par-excellence who has besmirched my reputation?” he murmured, a gleam of unholy glee in his eye. “Dear me, what am I to do with you?”

“Your reputation was
already
besmirched, my lord,” she retorted with spirit.

“Indeed it was. But I was
hoping
, Miss Blakelow, to leave my past far behind me. You are the bluestocking recluse who saw fit to drag it all up again, are you not?”

“Just because I do not approve of your ways, my lord, does not make me a bluestocking.”

“You wrote a pamphlet condemning my morals, didn’t you? Caused a hell of a stir. It was in all the papers.”

“I did not mention you, I believe,” said Miss Blakelow stiffly. “I did not mention anyone. You assume too much, my lord.”

“You didn’t have to name me. Everyone knew whom you meant. No…don’t lie to me. I can tell by the way you look down your pert little nose at me that you disapprove of me.”

“My aunt was hurt very badly as a young woman by just such a man as you. I was sending a warning to all young women to be on their guard.”

Lord Marcham half sat, half leaned on the edge of his desk, with his arms folded. “I see. And do you imagine that many young women will heed your warning?” he asked doubtfully.

“They should, if they wish to preserve their delicacy.”

“Their delicacy,” he repeated with a harsh laugh. “And how many young women would give up their delicacy and a good deal more to live in a house like this?” he asked waving a hand to indicate the grandeur around them. “How many women would gladly warm a man’s bed for wealth, position and title and then put a ring on their finger to legitimise their actions?”

“And do you include your fiancée in that flattering description my Lord?” she asked, visibly annoyed.

“My fiancée?” he repeated.

“Lady Emily Holt.”

He smiled but no warmth reached his eyes. “You have been listening to idle gossip, ma’am. Lady Emily Holt is not my fiancée.”

“No? Then why is news of your engagement spread half way across the country?”

He stared at her for a long moment of weighted silence. “It isn’t.”

“I can assure you, my lord,that it is. The talk in Loughton is of nothing else.”

He swore under his breath. The Holts had been busy, had they? Well, they would find that Lord Marcham was not a man to be forced.

“There must be some mistake,” he replied. “I have not made that young woman an offer.”

“Well she seems to think differently. And you cannot deny that you have been very marked in your attentions,” she said coldly, “or that your behaviour has given rise to the speculation of the whole neighbourhood as to when the wedding will be. If you did not make her an offer then you will earn the lady nothing but public derision by so singling her out.”

“And once again I am chided by my little bluestocking,” he murmured. He gave a rather scornful laugh. “Dear ma’am, a walk in the orchard and two drives in the park hardly constitute a love affair, even to
your
pure and delicate sensibilities.”

She lifted her chin. “For a woman associating with a man of
your
reputation, sir, one handshake in a room filled with a hundred people is enough to be remarked upon.”

He looked amused at that. “Is that so?” he asked, his eyes twinkling. “Are you not then afraid to be alone with me? Am I so debauched that one glance from me is enough to get you with child?”

She met his look unflinchingly. “It would take more than that.”

“So it would,” he agreed watching her. “Lady Emily Holt is no different from any other woman who marries for social advancement, security and money. She is prepared to wed me despite my shocking reputation because I am rich. She wants fine jewels and clothes and a house such as this. She is just as pretty and mercenary as any other eligible female I know and if I have to marry someone, I suppose it may as well be her as anyone else. It is a bargain, Miss Blakelow; her virtue in payment for my money. And in my book, that makes her no better than Molly there in the dining room, shivering in her chemise. At least Molly is honest about it.”

“And does the future Lady Marcham know you hold her in such high esteem?”

He smiled. “She bears no more love for me than I for her. I need an heir, she likes the size of my…ahem…purse.”

Miss Blakelow felt her temper rising like steam in a boiling kettle. “Are you comparing the poor wretches, the fallen women with whom you associate, to any respectable woman who marries a respectable man for her financial security and that of her children?”

“If she does not do it for love, then yes.”

“And yet Lady Emily Holt will agree to be your wife,” she breathed. “Wonders will never cease.”

He surprised her then by suddenly laughing, and she saw what a devastatingly attractive man he was. She steeled herself against him, and formed a little crisp protective shell around her heart. She did not want to fall for this rake, no matter how engaging he was.

“We are not getting very far with business, are we, Miss Blakelow?”

“You are insufferable,” she bit out.

He laughed again. “How true. And so prim Miss Blakelow with the very kissable lips, what can a dissolute man like me do for you? You do realise that a paragon of womanhood like you should not enter a house like this alone? Do you not fear to be tainted by the very walls?”

“Don’t mock me.”

“Poor Miss Blakestocking.”

She stood up and started to pull on her gloves. “I am clearly wasting my time. You are drunk and determined to make me lose my temper.”

“Do you know that your eyes flash when you’re angry?” he murmured, watching her. “Or at least I
think
they do; I cannot see them properly through those hideous spectacles of yours.”

“Good day, my lord,” she muttered, scooping up her papers and shoving them back into the leather case.

“Oh, dear, I have upset you. Do remember to say goodbye to Harry Larwood on your way out; he seemed quite taken with you.”

Miss Blakelow thought that she might explode with rage. She strode across the room and seized the door handle and wrenched it open but was halted by his soft voice saying, “That is the door to the servant’s quarters, Miss Blakelow. If you wish to make a dramatic exit from the room, might I suggest that the door onto the hallway might serve you better?”

She almost groaned aloud in frustration and cursing her stupid spectacles, retreated back the way she had come, narrowly missing tripping over the low table where his lordship’s wineglass was perched.