Always the Bluestocking

by Murdoch, Emily E K

  There was a flutter of joy that he had remembered her, but it was immediately overwhelmed with shame. Of course, he had not recalled her face, her air, her beauty. No, it was her shrewish argument with that idiot Worcester which had stuck in his memory.

  “Adoptive brother,” she corrected. Why was it she spent her life doing that?

  She had expected Lord Donal to ask questions. Everyone did, and she had grown accustomed to answering them.

  But he was far more interested in her. “Yes, you are a full-blown bluestocking, are you not, Miss Wynn?”

  Mariah smiled and took another step back, as though that could protect her from his curious charm. “I am indeed. Is that a problem?”

  “Problem?” spluttered Lord Donal, his mouth falling into a sardonic smile. “I mean, ’tis only the canker festering in the hearts of so many of our young ladies. Dear Lord, girl, why do books interest you so much?”

  Mariah glared. “Why should they not? Why should a university education be barred from those who wish to learn?”

  “You are fighting a losing battle, and I hope you know that. Few universities even permit sisters to attend graduations, and here you are,” and with those words, Lord Donal took a careful look up and down Mariah’s form, “expecting to be handed the keys?”

  “I do not require keys,” Mariah said hotly, trying to ignore the sensation that he had run his hands across her body, so intense was his look. “All I expect is the same courtesy as any gentleman!”

  Her words made Lord Donal laugh, throwing his head back with the hilarity of it. He made Mariah want to scream.

  “You would do better to stay out of it,” he said, shaking his head. “You are not a bad looking girl, and you come from a good family. Why do you not just marry a library that comes with a boring chap attached?”

  Mariah hesitated. The thought had, in the darkness of the night, occurred to her. If she was so desperate for learning, why not find a moderately wealthy, titled gentleman?

  But she spoke the truth when she replied, “My morals would not allow it.”

  Lord Donal rolled his eyes. “Morals! Morals different from sneaking into a lecture hall one is not invited to and fighting a porter when removed!”

  “That—that is completely different!” Mariah was not entirely sure how, but it did not matter. Lord Donal did not give her a chance to respond. If she thought she was angry before, she was incensed now. “Who are you to tell me what I should or should not do?” she hurled. “I am going to get a university education, no matter what you say!”

  “My dear girl, women belong in the home!”

  “I am not your dear girl,” snapped Mariah. Her hands had balled into fists, and she could feel her blood pounding in her ears. “And plenty of ladies have had active roles in the sciences, medicine, and that is because they were given a good education!”

  Lord Donal did not respond immediately, but his laughter stopped, and he stared with surprise. Mariah took advantage of the moment to try and get her breath back.

  She had never felt like this before. Yes, she had argued with gentlemen before about the state of women’s education, and with some ladies, too. But this was different. This was fire in her belly and fury in her soul, and yet something about Lord Donal made her desperate to convince him.

  He was still silent, and he was still looking at her—but differently now. His eyes were raking over her face, and then her neck, and then slowly lower down her body.

  There was no animosity in his gaze. If anything, it was…appreciative.

  “Stop it,” Mariah said uncomfortably.

  Lord Donal’s gaze met hers once more. “I do not know what you mean, Miss Wynn.”

  “You know precisely what I mean.” Mariah hoped her words sounded calm.

  Lord Donal tilted his head, and when he spoke, it was with an Irish lilt. “Ach, y’mean to say ye dinnae like to be alooked at?”

  Mariah had never been a woman to be easily taken in by a gentleman. Her academic pursuits had driven away most potential suitors, and her demeanor hardly encouraged any signs of affection.

  She had never minded before. Gentlemen were a distraction, and no man had never made her feel more than a good book ever had.

  But Lord Donal, standing there in the quad, below the spires, with that accent…

  Mariah swallowed. She would be mistress of herself. She would not allow this interloper to affect her.

  “I do not mind being looked at,” she said in the calmest voice she could muster. “But you know exactly what I mean. Looking at me like…like I am a piece of meat. Like so many of your kind look at ladies.”

  Lord Donal raised an eyebrow. “My kind? Miss Wynn, you do not know a thing about me.”

  “And you know nothing about me,” she shot back.

  This was intolerable. She would have to leave. She could not sustain another minute of conversation with Patrick O’Leary, Viscount Donal.

  “I have eyes, haven’t I?” Lord Donal grinned carelessly. “You may be pretty, Miss Wynn, but—”

  “You think I am pretty?” Mariah flushed. She had not intended to speak the thought aloud, but personal praise was rare.

  There was something strange between them. There was no rational reason for it, no cause from what she could see. This was not something she could understand, and she did not like it.

  Lord Donal coughed. “No matter your looks, Miss Wynn, you are inescapably a woman, and therefore you do not belong in any university. Porter?”

  A porter appeared, when he halted. “My lord?”

  Mariah glanced at Lord Donal, and for a moment, it looked like he was going to hesitate.

  But then he spoke. “Porter, please see this woman out. She does not belong here.”

  Chapter Four

  It was all Patrick could do not to yawn, but he managed to contain it by stretching slowly and allowing all the breath to escape his lungs.

  “Well, I am defeated,” he said languidly, leaning back in his chair and grinning. “I simply cannot eat another bite, and I defy the rest of you to do so.”

  Chester grinned. “You said that last time, Donal, and I saw the size of that pudding you managed to put away. I was surprised we were not rolling you out of Wessex!”

  The table roared with laughter, and disapproving glances were thrown their way as the entire club was forced to listen to their raucous merrymaking. That sort of disruption was simply not acceptable at Bullingdon, especially as the soft afternoon light fell through the stained-glass windows.

  But Patrick did not care. This was what he had hoped for, the only reason he had dragged himself to Oxford for this ridiculous charade of a ten-year reunion.

  His friends. His smile only grew as he looked around the three gentlemen who had made his time at university not only bearable but worthwhile.

  It was a relief, after yesterday’s lecture and the wildness of his encounter with Miss Wynn, to return to some sort of normality in this city. Oxford had always been about the people for him, the education almost incidental.

  When he had been a young man—or at least, younger than he was now—he could not have imagined losing touch with these friends. And yet he had. Perhaps these few weeks of commemorating a decade since their graduation was not so much an opportunity to relive his youth, but a chance to regain these friendships.

  It had not taken him long to formulate his plan once he had realized Josiah Stanhope, Earl of Chester, Charles Audley, Duke of Orrinshire, and Colin Vaugh, Duke of Larnwick, were all in town for the same ridiculous celebrations.

  An invitation to lunch at their old club had been gratefully accepted by all, even though it had taken a little strong-arming to persuade Chester away from the arms of his wife to bring the four of them together. Four gentlemen of the highest class.

  Orrinshire belched loudly and chuckled at his own bad manners. “Christ alive, and I know of no higher praise for a meal, so you may take that!”

  The last part of his remark was directed
at the scandalized footman making his way to their table with another pitcher of porter.

  Larnwick wrinkled his nose. “And here I was, thinking that the last ten years or so may have taught you better manners!”

  “Better manners? Do you suggest, sir, that I was ill-mannered as a youth?” Orrinshire’s eyes twinkled.

  “As a youth?” Larnwick frowned in mock horror. “Dare I say it, sir, you are more ill-mannered now!”

  Chester and Patrick laughed at the outrage on Orrinshire’s face.

  Patrick sat up straighter, as though that would prevent his memory from returning to the argument in the quad just the day before with that young woman Mariah. By God, she was wild, nothing like the bluestockings he had imagined.

  Tame, quiet, nervous, and sickly looking. That was the picture of a bluestocking which he had always encountered. Not that he knew very many.

  But Mariah Wynn was cut from a different cloth. More confident than half the gentlemen in Parliament if he was any judge. No, there was no bluestocking like Mariah.

  No other woman he had ever met was quite like her.

  The way she glared at him as though he was worthless; it almost made him laugh. He was no rake, but he had never received such a negative response from a lady in all his life.

  Mariah was different. The way she stood haughtily, more like Boudica than a bluestocking.

  The fight in her eyes had been nothing short of majestic, and yet she was so utterly wrong. Women receiving an education! An education from Oxford!

  She must be out of her wits.

  Someone coughed loudly.

  “We lost you there for a moment,” said Orrinshire, a lopsided grin across his lips. “Tell us then.”

  Patrick swallowed. There was no possibility they could know what his mind was dwelling on—or more importantly, who it was dwelling on. Was there?

  “Which young lady has caught your eye?” Orrinshire persisted, looking out the window by which Patrick was seated. “Though what sort of view you would gain from such a height, I could not possibly suppose…”

  Larnwick guffawed, and Patrick felt the tension leave his shoulders. Yes, it was easy for them to laugh about young ladies, for they always had done so.

  But never before had a woman been so consistently in his thoughts as Mariah Wynn. She had caught his eye at the wedding, and again yesterday at the college, and she had overtaken his thoughts.

  Patrick grinned, forcing his voice to stay level. “No such young thing from the window, I assure you. No, it was,” and though he hesitated for a fraction of a second, he knew he could be honest, “it was the young lady forced out of the Herschel lecture yesterday. Did you hear about it?”

  Orrinshire shook his head while Larnwick chuckled. “I could hardly believe it, though I saw the whole encounter! No, I tell a lie, not the whole encounter. You went out to speak with her, did you not?”

  Everyone around the table turned to Patrick, whose natural defenses rose, and along with it, his mother tongue. “Agus cén fáth nach bhfuil?”

  Chester’s eyes widened, and Orrinshire’s mouth fell open.

  It was Larnwick who laughed. “You know, your heathen tongue is not too similar from the wilderness where I was grown. I almost understood that.”

  Patrick grinned awkwardly and felt the heat of discomfort grow from his toes. God, he could not remember the last time he had slipped into old Irish.

  “I meant,” he said slightly awkwardly, “and why not? She evidently had much to say, and I admit, I was curious.”

  More than curious, a small voice said inside his heart. Far more curious than I would like to admit here.

  Orrinshire shook his head as he poured himself another glass. “I don’t know why you bothered, old boy. These bluestockings simply cannot see reason—my friend Norfolk has a cousin who is a self-styled bluestocking, and there is absolutely no sense in her.”

  But Chester was frowning. “I am not so sure, Orrinshire. You would have to be a fool not to see that there are intelligent women out there. I have a few women in my acquaintance with whom I would not wish to challenge in a game of chess, say.”

  “No one is casting aspersions on your wife, you dotard,” Orrinshire sighed, rolling his eyes. “But even you must admit there is a difference between intelligence and education.”

  Here Patrick nodded. This conversation had finally moved over to his comfort level. Enough about this return to Oxford had been frustrating and boring.

  “I agree with you there,” he said calmly. “And that is what I told her…in a manner of speaking.”

  Damn, they had returned to Mariah again. When his thoughts ran to her, it was apparently impossible to dissuade his tongue from the same.

  “I was meaning to ask you about that conversation,” said Larnwick. “I mean, you missed the second half of the lecture. I was able to get in a good nap.”

  Patrick said, “Larnwick, is there any opportunity for a nap that you do not take?”

  Larnwick stretched ostentatiously and shook his head. “When one lives such a wild life as I do, gentlemen, one has to take the chances while they come.”

  Chester rolled his eyes. “You and your glamourous life! Tell it to someone who cares, Larnwick—or even better, allow me to tell spurious stories to Mrs. Bryant. I hear she is still looking for some gossip fodder for that rag she calls a paper.”

  “I want to hear about this bluestocking,” Orrinshire interrupted. “Come on, Donal, give us all the details. Did she whack you about the head with a book?”

  The table descended into laughter, with Patrick reaching for his glass. “Nothing so dramatic, I am afraid, Orrinshire, and I will admit there is not much to tell. I watched her for a few minutes arguing with the porter, poor soul—”

  “The bluestocking?” interrupted Chester.

  “The porter,” said Patrick. “Eventually, I decided to get involved, put the poor man out of his misery, and she…”

  It took a few moments for Patrick to realize it was his own voice which had trailed away. Now he came to tell the story even his particular brand of sarcastic jollity, always popular when recounting a tale, was not able to make his conversation with Miss Wynn funny.

  No, it was something different. She had not actually demanded anything particularly wild, now that he came to think about it.

  Really, the strange part was that she had not been permitted to sit in a room. Sit in a room. Was that really the metric of ridicule nowadays? How did Miss Wynn sitting in a room, listening to a boring old gentleman talk about the mathematics of the heavens hurt anyone?

  “She was that pretty, was she?”

  Orrinshire’s words cut through Patrick’s thoughts, and when he blinked to bring himself back to reality, he could see Chester, Orrinshire, and Larnwick all looking knowingly.

  Patrick laughed and dropped his gaze to his glass. “Well, yes, actually. Not the beauty you would pick out from a crowd, mind you, but there was something about the eyes, something that made one stop and take notice. I…I find it most difficult to describe.”

  An intelligence, he wanted to say, but Patrick knew that would undermine all his words from before. A bluestocking, attractive due to her intelligent eyes?

  Chester was laughing, and Patrick took a large swig of his drink.

  “I say no amount of good looks is enough,” Orrinshire said. “Not sufficient to tempt me to make an offer to a bluestocking.”

  “No amount?” Larnwick’s eyes widened. “Truthfully, there would be nothing to tempt you?”

  “Well, when I say nothing…” Orrinshire quipped.

  Their conversation continued, but Patrick could not bring himself to contribute. His mind was utterly possessed by Mariah.

  She was certainly not what he had expected when it came to bluestockings, but then he had encountered so few, now he thought about it.

  “Your bill, sir.”

  Patrick jumped. A porter from the club had appeared at his side, as if by magic. He was proffer
ing what looked like an uncomfortably large wad of paper, and from the little Patrick could see of it, there was a rather large number written at the bottom.

  “Not for me, thank you,” Patrick said smoothly, pushing the porter’s hand toward Chester. “You may put it on my friend’s tab.”

  Orrinshire snorted with mirth as Chester opened his mouth in outrage. “Jesus wept, Donal, this is the third lunch in a row you have stuck me with the bill of the thing! This is the last time I ever eat with you again!”

  Patrick grinned. “Now that’s as may be, but three lunches over four years is not much of a struggle, is it? Thank you, Chester, very generous of you.”

  He rose from the table before Chester could say a word, and Orrinshire and Larnwick followed him, laughing as they pulled on their coats.

  “It was good to see you rascals, I must say,” Larnwick said with a grin as they stepped outside the club in the cooling afternoon air. “Now, I am to Queen’s. Anyone else going my direction?”

  “I am,” Orrinshire shot back, “though I have no desire to walk with you if you are going to be as uncouth as you always—”

  He was prevented from completing his sentence by a huge belch from Larnwick. Patrick laughed heartily as he shook his head. That was what he enjoyed about his friends’ company. They could not set eyes on each other for months, years sometimes, and yet when they were together, it was as though no time had elapsed. As though it had been mere hours since Larnwick had offended their master so spectacularly at their first dinner at Wessex College.

  “Come on then, you drunkard,” Orrinshire said with a begrudging smile. “Chester, where are you headed?”

  “The opposite direction, I am afraid,” Chester said with a mocking sigh. “And to think, I will be deprived of your sweet company! But home, for now, is this way. Donal?”

  Patrick pointed the same way as the earl. “I am with you. Until the next dinner, Orrinshire and Larnwick, and I promise that I will ensure Chester pays for all again. Good morrow!”