The Bluestocking and the Rake (The Regency Gentlemen Series)

by Darcy, Norma

  The earl stood up and bowed stiffly. “Very well. Then I bid you all good day. I am not an unreasonable man and I give you three months to resolve your affairs. But I trust you will be ready to move out of Thorncote at the end of that time.”

  He tossed down his napkin upon the table, sketched the merest outline of a bow and was gone.

  * * *

  A despondent gloom settled over the room after his lordship’s departure.

  “Does he mean it?” breathed Elizabeth.

  “Of course he means it,” snapped Ned. “A man of his sort does not make idle threats.”

  “But why Georgie?” asked Marianne, naively. “Why when he could have his pick of any society beauty would he pick Georgie?”

  Miss Blakelow, her vanity somewhat wounded by this artless speech, tried to smile. “You heard the man. He wanted to be spared the trouble of choosing another wife. I just happen to be convenient.”

  “You are the poor relation and he believes that you are friendless,” said Ned fiercely. “But he is wrong if he thinks that your family won’t protect you. You may not be related to us strictly speaking, but to us you are our sister, Georgie.”

  Miss Blakelow smiled wanly at this kindly meant speech, although her smile went sadly awry and she felt more alone than ever. Her mother had married their father. There were no blood ties. She was their sister by marriage and nothing more.

  “Dear Georgie, could you not think of marrying him?” asked Kitty.

  Miss Blakelow shook her head.

  “Do you not think him handsome?”

  “Whether I think him handsome or not has nothing to do with it. I cannot marry him.”

  “Then what are we to do?”

  “I don’t know.”

  * * *

  Miss Blakelow was utterly confounded by the earl’s motives. That he should propose to her so casually, not two days after he was due to marry Lady Emily Holt, surprised her exceedingly. What had she to offer a man like him? She possessed neither youth nor beauty, wealth nor position; she could not imagine what had prompted him to make such an unexpected offer.

  And that he should have looked so put out at her refusal. That he should have looked so disappointed that she had turned him down. She suspected that he had never been turned down before. She smiled to herself. She was persuaded that the experience would do him good.

  But he had proposed. And it had been a very long time since she had received half such attention from an attractive man. He hardly knew her. How could he possibly have known whether she was the kind of woman whom he wished to marry?

  For one ridiculous moment she had flattered herself that he found her attractive. She wondered if he had offered for her because he had seen past the spectacles and the mourning garb to the warm passionate creature that was wilfully repressed underneath. But as she sat before her looking glass in her nightgown, staring at her reflection in the mirror, brushing her long wavy hair around her shoulders, she knew that it was impossible. She wondered what he would think if he could see her now; would he find her desirable? Why would her plain brown hair hold any attraction for him? Her freckled nose? The hard chafed skin on her fingertips? He had his pick of the beauties in London. He could have had any one of them for the asking…

  No. He had asked her to marry him merely to throw her out of countenance. He knew that she would refuse him and so was safe in the knowledge that he could propose without risk of her accepting him. It was all part of the game they seemed to be playing. A chess game, pitting their wits against each other.

  She smiled faintly, dipped her fingers into the pot of salve on her dressing table and worked the waxy balm into her tired skin, relishing the smooth luxuriant feel of her hands.

  Well, my lord Marcham, two can play at that game.

  Chapter 10

  It did not take his lordship long to discover that news of his encounter with highwaymen on the main road to Holme Park had spread far and wide. That he had been waylaid by five adolescents hell-bent on revenge was a fact he was not about to divulge when he was widely considered as a formidable marksman. He was a man with a certain reputation to keep up, after all, and he was considerably embarrassed to have been caught napping.

  Not a man to prevaricate, he went immediately to Lord Holt and disabused him of the notion that he was to gain the Earl of Marcham for a son-in-law. Any hopes that Lady Holt cherished that the marriage would still take place were dashed in an instant when Lord Marcham informed them that their daughter had married Mr. Thomas Edridge several days before. The reaction to this news was all that his lordship had hoped for and the memory of the sour look upon her ladyship’s face was one that would give him pleasure for some time to come.

  He told them that he had made a mistake and that he should never have raised expectations of matrimony in their daughter’s breast. He was looking for a wife and he had believed himself to be utterly indifferent to whom he chose to fill that role. It proved to be the opposite. He was in fact very particular whom he wanted.

  To make sure, he paid them off.

  His lordship reimbursed them every last penny of their expenditure, going even as far as to pay for the satin shoes his bride wore while she married Mr. Edridge. He put a large wad of notes into Lord Holt’s clammy fist and watched the chubby fingers close around it with indecent haste.

  He rode home, feeling much relieved as if the weight of the world had been lifted from his shoulders. He wondered how Miss Blakelow had slept after his proposal. He smiled as he imagined her lying awake, wondering at his sanity and his reason. Did she think that he was mad? Did she think that he was toying with her? The image of her silhouetted body in her threadbare nightgown flashed into his mind. He smiled again—a warm sensuous smile—and he took the road to Thorncote before he knew what he was about.

  He found the family entertaining two male visitors. When he was announced, young Jack Blakelow was being lectured very sternly by a ponderous looking man in his early thirties with a ruddy countenance, auburn whiskers and fleshy lips. He seemed determined that the whole county should hear his strictures and spoke in so loud a voice as to drown out the pronouncement of the butler that they had a visitor. No-one was aware of his lordship’s arrival for several minutes and he was able to observe the scene in silence and unobserved. The butler and the earl exchanged a wry smile and then the man went away and his lordship melted into an alcove, the better to enjoy the scene.

  The fleshy man looked down his fleshy nose at the young lad, rolling back and forth upon the balls of his feet. “I’m sure it was very amusing to you but I can assure you that I don’t find it so.”

  “I said I was sorry, Mr. Peabody,” said Jack petulantly, scuffing his toe against the carpet.

  “I hope you are, young man. In my view, a boy of your age should have been packed off to school long ago. And young Ned here. The best thing for young boys is hard discipline.”

  Ned Blakelow, inwardly fuming that a man who was not even related to them should seek to undertake the chastisement of his youngest brother, snapped, “Jack already knows he was in the wrong and he does not need you to tell him twice.”

  “Enough, Peabody. The boy has said he is sorry,” said the other visitor, a quiet, elegant man seated on the other side of the fireplace.

  “It’s alright for you, Bateman. It was not your carriage that was assaulted,” said Mr. Peabody, his cheeks red with anger.

  “Hardly that. It was a boyish prank, nothing more,” replied Mr. Bateman calmly.

  “A boyish prank? Have you any idea how much that carriage cost? The paintwork alone cost well over―”

  “Mr. Peabody,” put in Miss Blakelow hastily. “Come and sit by the fire and have some tea.”

  “Yes do,” exclaimed Marianne, giving him her most winning smile.

  “And have a cake,” chimed in Kitty, brandishing the plate at him.

  “Or a biscuit,” said Lizzy, thrusting another plate under his nose.

  Not immune to being the
focus of female attention, the gentleman was persuaded to sit down, and partake of some tea.

  “As much as I admire you, Miss Blakelow,” continued Mr. Peabody, “and respect your opinion, I do not think that you fully understand how to handle young boys. They are a rowdy bunch and much inclined to get up to mischief as soon as your back is turned. It is my belief that they should be packed off to school without delay and from there sent to Oxford. Nothing like an education to sort the men from the boys. Don’t you agree Bateman? And another thing…I saw you wandering alone in the field above the house the other morning. You must know that it is highly improper for a delicate female to be abroad entirely unescorted.”

  “Oh, pooh,” said Miss Blakelow, mildly irritated. “I am long past the age where I give a fig for that.”

  “But you are an innocent, impressionable female. And we all know whose estate borders Thorncote,” he paused to give her a significant look. “The Earl of Marcham, ma’am. You cannot pretend to be ignorant of his lifestyle. His reputation is scandalous. I won’t go into detail but suffice it to say that there are stories…orgies, parties and drunken assaults on the women of the village.”

  “Hardly,” said Miss Blakelow, suppressing a peculiar desire to laugh at the outrage on Mr. Peabody’s face.

  “You do not take me seriously. I can tell by your face that you do not.”

  “What business of ours if the earl wishes to throw a party?” she demanded reasonably.

  “Quite right,” murmured a voice from the doorway.

  “Lord Marcham!” cried Marianne. “However did you get in here?”

  “Your butler showed me in some moments before,” he said in his deep voice, “but you were…ah…otherwise engaged. You were saying, Peabody?”

  Miss Blakelow spun around so quickly that she knocked her cup of tea flying and it landed unerringly on Mr. Peabody’s pale biscuit pantaloons. He shrieked, stood up and dabbed at the offending wet patch with a napkin. He looked so much as if he had wet himself that it was all the younger Blakelows could do to keep from laughing.

  “Oh, sir, I do beg your pardon!” cried the lady, seemingly genuinely mortified.

  “No matter, Miss Blakelow,” replied the man stiffly. “I know you would not do such a thing deliberately. Really, it is no fuss at all. To be sure these are a new acquisition and of the finest material but it is of little matter, my dear, little matter. I went to London for them especially and I fancy that they look very fine, very fine indeed. But rest assured, my dear, I know that you would not have done such a thing deliberately. Such good friends as you and I are. I am certain that no such thought would enter your head.”

  Lord Marcham, raising a silent brow of enquiry at Miss Blakelow as she came forward to shake his hand, saw the look of pure exasperation on her face, and an imp took to dancing in his eyes.

  “It appears,” remarked he, “that you must try harder to be rid of him.”

  She looked up at him, a guilty flush stealing into her cheeks. “I beg your pardon?”

  “I meant only that he appears to be more persistent than you may have thought. What a penchant you have for attacking a gentleman in the unmentionables!” he marvelled in a low voice. “First you render Harry Larwood unable to perform the most basic of natural functions and now Mr. Pearbody gets the old spilled tea routine. Remind me to keep my unmentionables well away from you.”

  “Then don’t tempt me into assaulting them,” she murmured, looking up at him. “And it’s Peabody. Not Pearbody.”

  His eyes met hers. “Shall I kiss you here and now in full view of everybody? I begin to think that only drastic measures will see him off.”

  She choked on a laugh. “No, you wretched man, don’t you dare!”

  He grinned as he made her his bow. “Then shall we begin again in the proper manner? Miss Blakelow, how do you do?” he asked, the very picture of politeness, as their eyes met again, and he squeezed her fingers for the briefest moment and released them.

  “Don’t ask.”

  “I see. And may I ask what has young Jack done now?”

  She lowered her voice although they were already speaking in an undertone. “He scrawled the word ‘Peabrain’ into the muddy paintwork of Mr. Peabody’s carriage.”

  “Ah,” said his lordship.

  “And it is not funny.”

  “No.”

  “Then stop laughing.”

  He spread his hands. “I’m not.”

  “Yes, you are. I can see it in your eyes. Why are you here?” she demanded. “What do you want?”

  “Well, that is not very polite, is it?” he asked, amused.

  “Can you not see that I have my hands full?”

  “Yes, but you always have your hands full. I am here to see you.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Why?”

  “Why, for the pleasure of your company, ma’am.”

  “Tosh,” she said and then in a louder voice, “Won’t you allow me to introduce you to our guests?”

  The earl smiled affably as she drew him forward and the introductions were made. Mr. Joshua Peabody was the eldest son of a friend of her father’s. He owned a large estate on the Worcestershire border and had for some time considered himself a father figure to the younger Blakelows and a future husband of Georgiana. Mr. Samuel Bateman, as quiet in appearance as he was in character, came from a wealthy family and lived in Loughton. That both of these gentlemen were in pursuit of Marianne, his lordship soon dismissed when he saw the way they looked at the eldest Miss Blakelow. He knew a moment of surprise. Given that she was a virtual recluse, he had not considered that he would have competition for her hand.

  “Are you related to my Blakelow friends, Mr. Peabody?” asked Lord Marcham as he accepted a cup of tea from Georgiana’s hand.

  “I consider myself some sort of cousin, I suppose,” he answered, dabbing at the stain on his trousers. “Their dear father and mine were good friends. William Blakelow was such a fine man. He would have done anything for his children…anything at all.”

  “I’m sure he would,” replied the earl politely, looking around at the sadly dilapidated state of the furnishings and the stained bare patch on the wall where a painting had once been. A father so fine, that he gambled away their home out from under their feet. “I am sure that you would agree that such a kind father would have left his children’s future well cared for?”

  “Yes, of course. Sir William was nothing if not thorough in all matters of business.”

  “Indeed? And so if he thought that his youngest sons would benefit from a school education he would have no doubt arranged it?”

  “Er, yes…”

  “Or if he thought that Miss Blakelow needed the assistance of a guardian, in making her arrangements for the family, he would have arranged that too, himself?”

  Miss Blakelow blushed at his lordship’s inference. “I do not believe such an arrangement exists, my lord.”

  “Quite so,” agreed his lordship, smoothly.

  Mr. Peabody bristled. “I only mean to counsel Miss Blakelow in areas where I think she needs it. Our families have always been close and as William is often away, I look after them in his absence.”

  “Very commendable, Mr. Peabody, but that will no longer be necessary,” said the earl. “As the hopeful future brother-in-law of Sir William Blakelow of Thorncote, if such decisions are needed, then I will take them―in conjunction with my wife, of course.”

  “Your wife?” echoed Mr. Bateman, staring from Marianne, to Catherine to Elizabeth and then back at the earl.

  “Yes.”

  “And do you imagine that Marianne, Kitty or Lizzy would have a man like you?” demanded Mr. Peabody.

  “Not for one moment,” replied his lordship. “And as I have not asked them to marry me, then such a conclusion is, dare I say it, impossible?”

  Mr. Peabody scratched his head. “Then…who?”

  “Miss Georgiana Blakelow.”

  The lady in question closed her eyes in si
lent pain as the room seemed to explode around them.

  “What?” shrieked Mr. Peabody.

  “Impossible,” said Mr. Bateman, his face pale with anger. “She would not have you. I would rather marry her myself than see her shackled to you.”

  “I’m sure Miss Blakelow is overcome by your kindness,” murmured his lordship dryly.

  Miss Blakelow was in fact looking around her for something to hurl at their noble visitor. Everyone in the room stared at him, mouths agape.

  “You?” demanded Mr. Peabody. “But you…I mean…you are a…”

  “Yes?” enquired the earl softly.

  The portly gentleman gulped, remembering suddenly the stories of the duel his lordship had fought as a young man. “But you hardly know her,” he said, settling on the safest complaint that popped into his brain.

  “I know her well enough to know that I wish to wed her.”

  “Do you?” breathed Marianne, imagining some long standing secret romance between the gentleman and her sister.

  “Yes,” replied the earl promptly. “And so if any chastisement needs doing, I will do it…Jack?”

  “Yes, my lord?”

  “Consider yourself duly chastised.”

  “Right…oh…is that it?”

  “That’s it. And you are barred from fishing for a week.”

  “Er…right.”

  “But you don’t even like fishing―” said Kitty. “Ow! I don’t see why you should kick me Jack Blakelow!”

  “You seem to forget, sir,” said Ned, ignoring all this with a cold smile, “that our sister refused you. All of us heard her turn you down.”

  The earl smiled. “When you come to know me better, you will realise that when I want something, I invariably get it.”

  “Well I am glad that the earl is to be our brother,” said Jack promptly. “He is not half so stuffy as―” he was just about to say Peabrain but at a glare from his eldest sister, caught himself in time, “as some…others.”

  “Thank you,” murmured his lordship.