by Darcy, Norma
His lordship looked so much taken aback by this very direct question that Miss Blakelow, softly closing the door, was hard pressed not to laugh.
“Er, no ma’am. I am fortunate enough to be in the possession of excellent health,” he replied.
“Hmm. Well I wonder at it,” continued Aunt Blakelow. “From all I hear, it is a wonder to me that you are not riddled with it. Drink and idleness are the enemies of a gentleman, you know. A man should be busy. And if he cannot keep himself busy then he should find other things to occupy his mind and his time.”
His lordship, wrestling with the urge to give this impertinent woman a much deserved set down, happened to glance at Miss Blakelow and saw that she was extremely close to laughter. She was so in danger of losing control that she resolutely refused to meet his gaze and a devil lurked in his own eyes at the thought that he would overset her gravity if it took him the rest of his visit to do it.
“Oh, I have no difficulty occupying my time,” said the Earl and darted a swift look at Miss Blakelow to see how she bore it.
She did not mistake his meaning; women, drinking and all night orgies. A gleam stole into her eyes. “I think my aunt meant philanthropy,” said Miss Blakelow.
“I am sure she did,” he murmured. “But I am very philanthropic. I provide a good living and plenty of work for those under my roof.”
“Plenty of work, sir?” she asked, meeting his eyes through the thick glass of her spectacles.
“I have needs, ma’am.”
“Indeed?” she choked.
“I have a large estate and there is much to be done. My dear Miss Blakelow, whom else did you suppose me to be speaking of?” he asked innocently.
“An idle man may very easily give into corpulence,” said Aunt Blakelow at this moment, unconsciously rescuing her niece at that moment as she adjusted the arrangement of her considerable bulk upon the sofa.
“So may an idle woman,” murmured his lordship softly and had the satisfaction of hearing a choke of laughter emanate from the other side of the room.
“Remember that,” said Aunt Blakelow, waving a finger at him. “But I hear that these days they can do much with corsets, although they are prone to creak just when one wishes that they would not. Mr. Grantham wears one and you can hear him enter a house before ever he has been announced. You might consider corsets when you have a need of them, Marcham.”
“I’ll bear them in mind,” said his lordship.
Miss Blakelow, much amused by the thought of his lordship in a corset, was moved to take a firm hold on her bottom lip with her teeth and went to sit by the fireplace, narrowly missing upsetting the tea tray on the small table.
“How does your mother do?” her aunt asked without hearing his answer. “Dear Lady Marcham, such a fine woman and such excellent taste. I have often remarked upon it that one rarely finds a person with a better eye for colour than the Countess. I haven’t seen her in an age. Pray, does she not live up at the Dower House?”
“No, ma’am,” he replied. “She likes to divide her time between Longfield Park and town.”
“London is very well for entertainment, but I dare swear one grows tired of it after awhile. Come and sit by me, young man,” invited Aunt Blakelow, patting the sofa beside her.
Lord Marcham, who had not been called young man since he was in short coats, resisted the urge to let fly the retort that sprang to his lips. This imperious, forthright woman was fast making him lose his temper and Miss Blakelow was laughing at him for it. The words of his friend Sir Julius Fawcett came back to him and he decided that the biggest punishment to an uptight bluestocking who had little experience of men was to be the object of the attentions of a notorious rake. He smiled inwardly, took the offered seat by the spinster aunt and sipped his tea.
“You are a well looking man…although no longer in your youth,” remarked the elderly Miss Blakelow. “How old are you?”
“Nine and thirty, ma’am.”
“Well, you don’t look it. Oh, yes, I might be in my dotage but I can still appreciate a pretty face.”
“Thank you,” replied his lordship, meekly.
“Although you are rather too tall to be considered handsome. Your fiancée is a tall woman, I take it?”
Lord Marcham took the remark with a tight smile. “I have no fiancée.”
“Lady Emily Holt.”
“Lady Emily Holt is no more than an inch or two above five feet and she is not my fiancée.”
“Oh, dear…well, it cannot be helped, I suppose. And is she pretty? No, you need not answer that. I cannot believe a man like you would marry a woman who was not. Her father was a handsome man in his day, you know. Blonde, isn’t she? Voluptuous too. But she won’t age well, Marcham, you can be sure of that. She’ll be fat by the time she is thirty, but I suppose you won’t mind that once she has given you a house full of little Hockinghams and then you can take a mistress.”
His lordship choked on his tea. He opened his mouth to reply and then thought better of it and closed it again.
“My dear Aunt,” interjected Miss Blakelow, torn between mortification for her aunt’s manners and amusement at the resulting effect on their esteemed visitor. “Lord Marcham is here to discuss business.”
“No he isn’t,” replied his lordship, bluntly.
Miss Blakelow coloured faintly and looked at him through the thick lenses of her glasses. “No?”
“No.”
“Then perhaps you are here to see the estate?”
“I have no interest in your estate, pretty though it may be.”
“Oh. Then why are you here? Mr. Healey has gone to Harrogate on family business.”
“I am not here to see Mr. Healey. I am here to see you.”
“Me?”
“Yes,” he replied smoothly, setting down his cup. “I so enjoyed your visit the other day that I became determined to repay the compliment.”
Miss Blakelow, remembering the manner of their last meeting, lowered her gaze. “I think that a little unlikely, my lord.”
“Do you? Why should you indeed?”
“Because you never make social calls,” she said.
“I make social calls when I wish to make social calls,” he retorted.
“Would you like some more tea, my lord?” asked Aunt Blakelow.
“If your niece will consent to pour it for me,” the earl replied smiling.
Miss Blakelow kept her eyes lowered as she shifted forward on the edge of her chair and took the cup from his hand. Her fingers trembled slightly as she sensed his eyes upon her and she picked up the teapot and began to pour.
“Thank you,” he murmured. “I think at least some of the tea has made it into the cup.”
Her eyes flew to his and she struggled to keep her countenance. “I beg your pardon?”
His eyes twinkled. “You will allow me to tell you, ma’am, that your spectacles do you no favours.”
She raised a brow. “Indeed?”
“You must own that they neither improve your looks nor your eyesight.”
“I will own nothing of the kind. My spectacles suit me well enough, my lord, and I will ask you to keep your observations to yourself―”
“I rather suspect that you would see a good deal better without them,” he added, leaning back into his chair. “And your appearance would be vastly improved.”
Miss Blakelow stared calmly back at him. “I was not aware that I had asked for your opinion on the matter.”
“You would look less bookish and I venture to think, much prettier.”
“And I should take the advice of such a worldly connoisseur, is that so?”
He shrugged. “You might listen to worse.”
“For your information, my lord, I have no interest in looking pretty―”
He gave her a sceptical look.
“You disagree, my lord?”
“In my experience,” he replied, “every woman wants to look pretty, be they five or ninety-five.”
&nb
sp; “Did you come here for a reason, Lord Marcham,” she asked? “Or merely to make me lose my temper?”
He smiled unperturbed. “Tempting, though that is, I did in fact come to find out what the morally improving Miss Blakelow is doing tomorrow morning and whether she would consent to drive out with me.”
Aunt Blakelow beamed. “Well, I should be honoured, my lord. Such an honour to be taken up by you.”
The earl, who had in fact meant the younger Miss Blakelow, was momentarily lost for words. From somewhere he found his manners. “I would be honoured, ma’am.”
“And so you mean to look over the estate, I suppose?” asked Aunt Blakelow. “Well I’ll be happy to show it to you, of course. Might we prevail upon my niece to join us?”
“If you wish it,” murmured his lordship dryly.
Miss Blakelow coloured faintly. “Me?”
“Yes, why not, my love? His lordship would like to see the estate and who better to show him than you?”
She offered him a plate of very rustic-looking cakes and his lordship, used to the fine skills of his French chef, examined them with a fascinated eye but refused them.
“I don’t think you would find that at all enjoyable, my lord,” she said.
“On the contrary,” he murmured. “Anyone who can do what you did to Harry Larwood is likely to prove very entertaining.”
Her eyes flew to his and found that they were dancing.
“Yes, ma’am. He is worried that his son and heir may be an only child as a result of your…er…ministrations.”
Miss Blakelow blushed and was forced into a reluctant laugh. “He deserved it.”
“He did indeed.”
“But if you do not like him then why did you invite him to your house?”
“I didn’t. He invited himself and organised his party at my expense. His nickname is Leech. He spends most of his time bleeding the pockets of the people he calls his friends.”
“My niece and I would be delighted to drive out with you, my lord. She will show you the orchard and the home wood and the water mill. It was once so very fine and so very prosperous and with your help I hope it will be so again. You will find the estate enchanting, I believe. It has the reputation as one of the finest houses in the county. So well proportioned and handsome. I don’t doubt that you will agree that there is none as fine as Thorncote. Not that I mean to say that it is finer than Holme Park, you understand, for everyone knows that your father added much to the house and it has a deer park and a lake and―”
“Aunt,” interrupted Miss Blakelow hastily. “I think his lordship is well acquainted with the virtues of his own home.”
“Yes, my dear, of course he is. I was merely pointing out that Thorncote need not be the poor relation. It can be the equal of Holme Park given the will of those wishing to make amends.”
A silence greeted this speech and Miss Blakelow hardly dared look at their visitor. She did not know the Earl of Marcham but felt sure that nothing was less likely to succeed with him than forcing his hand. She sneaked a peek at his face and saw the hard shuttered look and knew that her aunt had done their cause no favours.
His lordship was distinctly annoyed. He decided at that moment that nothing would prevail upon him to further the cause of this impertinent woman and her staid niece. He did not know what had possessed him to visit in the first place. He had been on the way back from Loughton and had been on the road to Thorncote before he had even formed the thought in his head. The estate was exactly as he had remembered it; a modest house set in the middle of good but unremarkable farmland. He had no interest in seeing it returned to its former glory or in assisting two women who had done nothing but lecture him since he had been unfortunate enough to make their acquaintance. But to have this woman try and force him to part with his money had set his back up and had decided him at that moment to take his leave as swiftly as possible.
He put his cup down. “Well, I regret to say that I must be going.”
“So soon?” cooed Aunt Blakelow.
“Yes, forgive me, but I have business to attend to,” he said curtly.
Miss Blakelow also rose to her feet. “Of course,” she replied quietly, thinking that his business probably involved half naked women. “I will see you out.”
“There is no need. I know my way.”
She clasped her hands before her. “Very well, my lord.”
They walked towards the door together and Miss Blakelow took the opportunity that was afforded her now that she was out of her aunt’s earshot.
“I must apologise for my aunt, Lord Marcham,” she said in a low voice.
He raised a brow at her but said nothing.
“She means well but she can be a little forthright.”
“Why should you apologise? She is old enough to make her own apologies, after all.”
“I think that she angered you,” she said quietly.
“What could possibly bring you to that conclusion, ma’am?” he asked, his tone caustically sarcastic.
She bit her lip. “She is old, my lord, and has been a spinster all her life. She has been used to her own way.”
“She has been used to no one telling her that her manners are appalling.”
“Even by your standards, my lord?” she asked sweetly.
The sting was taken out of his temper by the teasing tone in her voice. He glanced at her and a reluctant laugh was drawn from him. “You will allow me to tell you that I find you impertinent, ma’am.”
She dimpled. “And you are a great deal too ready to fly up into the boughs. You have an appalling temper, sir.”
“I know it,” he replied ruefully.
“Are we still adhering to our truce?”
“Just. Although it has been stitched and mended on three occasions already.”
She flicked a quick look at her aunt who had fallen asleep. “Are we forgiven then?”
“Yes, Miss Blakelow with the very kissable lips, you are forgiven,” he said softly.
“I wish that you would not keep saying that.”
“What, that you are kissable?”
She blushed painfully. “You know very well―it is a good deal too bad of you to mock me.”
“Mock you?” he asked innocently. “Am I mocking you?”
“You no more wish to kiss me than I wish to be the centre piece at your next dinner party,” she hissed tartly. “I wish that you may stop trying to pretend that you have any interest in me.”
“Have I shown any interest in you?” he asked, much surprised. “I thought I had only asked to drive you out to see your father’s estate. Forgive me if you misconstrued my meaning. It seems that all I have to do is shake hands with a woman and she is already planning our wedding.”
She took the implication in his tone. Is it likely that a man like me should show an interest in a woman like you? Why should a handsome man of property like me fall for a drab squab of a girl with no more to recommend her than a pretty mouth and a head for farm machinery? You have flattered yourself that I find you attractive because I meant that you should do so, but now I am punishing you for your folly. She had laughed at him and now he was punishing her and in her mortification, she walked into a small table and knocked an ormolu clock flying. She caught it again before any damage was done and set it back upon its base and reddened with embarrassment.
He took out his pocket book, took several notes from it and handed them to her. “I will not assist you in restoring Thorncote to its former glory but I will do this; please, go and have yourself fitted for a new pair of spectacles without delay before you do serious harm to your person.”
She gaped at him as he took her hand and slapped the money into her open palm. And with that he was gone.
Chapter 5
The following Sunday, Lord Marcham attended church.
To say that his presence was unusual was an understatement. Miss Blakelow looked over the heads of the congregation to the Hockingham family pew at the front of the church wh
ere their esteemed neighbour was sitting, seemingly ignorant of the stir he was creating by his presence. She could only see the back of him from where she was seated and was trying to detect from staring at the back of his noble dark head, whether he had in fact fallen asleep.
Lord Marcham was not a religious man. He was to be seen in church at Christmas and Easter Sunday and very infrequently beyond that. His lifestyle was such that merely setting his big toe over the threshold of Loughton Church was enough to have the neighbourhood in an uproar, so why he was sitting, cool as you please in the front row, surely aware of the interest he was generating, and yet apparently uninterested in anything but those words of wisdom which passed his clergyman’s lips, was anyone’s guess. The rector seemed particularly flustered by the presence of his lord and frequently darted a worried glance at his patron lest he find fault in any of the utterances that were put forth for the moral improvement of his parishioners.
“His lordship has never shown any interest in coming to church before,” whispered her aunt. “Indeed it is rumoured that he does not leave his bedchamber before midday.”
“Perhaps our rake has sinned to an alarming degree this week and must seek forgiveness,” murmured Miss Blakelow. “Or perhaps the ceiling fell in on his bedchamber and he was obliged to get up.”
Her aunt laughed softly. “You are too cruel.”
Miss Blakelow stole another look at the earl from under her lashes. He had raised his eyes to the ceiling and appeared to be examining the dark beams that supported the roof. He wore a bottle green coat of impeccable cut and she knew that he also wore pale biscuit pantaloons and Hessian boots, for she had caught a glimpse of him as he was coming up the path before the service began and she had ducked behind a yew tree to avoid having to speak with him.
She saw the heads of other parishioners bob and roll and she knew that Lord Marcham’s presence was being discussed by others too. She wondered if poor Mr. Norman’s sermon had been heard by anyone. The service ended, the congregation stood and waited for his lordship to leave the church before filing in behind him like water down a pipe. Miss Blakelow kept her eyes downcast, sensing his eyes on her but refusing to meet his gaze. She saw him chatting to the rector outside the church as people milled around and she saw him glance at her and take in her appearance from her scuffed half boots to the large black bonnet upon her head.