The Bluestocking and the Rake (The Regency Gentlemen Series)

by Darcy, Norma

  “And what if love has not done with you?”

  “It has, I can assure you. If this is your indirect way of asking me if I mean to marry Mr. Peabody…?”

  He shrugged. “It might be.”

  “I could not accept Mr. Peabody. As I have told him on numerous occasions.”

  His lordship raised a brow. “Is Mr. Peachybody is an overly ardent suitor, Miss Blakelow?” he guessed. “Would you like me to have a word with him?”

  “There is no need.”

  “Has he touched you?”

  She looked uncomfortable and did not entirely answer his question. “I believe William has warned him off.”

  “Your brother is good for something then,” Lord Marcham muttered, picking up a plum and biting into one end of it.

  “And what do you mean by that remark?”

  “Did Peabody insult you ma’am?” he asked again.

  “He…he tried to kiss me…that’s all.”

  “Where is your brother? Why is he not here to defend you from such men, and I may add, helping you to rescue Thorncote?”

  “William lives in London.”

  “And shows no concern that his estate is about to be taken from him,” said his lordship scornfully. “I have been criticised for many things in my time, but never apathy where Holme Park is concerned. Have you written to him?”

  “Yes.”

  “And?”

  “And he has fallen in love.”

  “I’ll bet,” said his lordship caustically. “No doubt he has been fortunate enough to fall in love with a lady of means. How very timely.”

  “If you already knew, my lord, I wonder why you took the trouble of asking me.”

  “To see if you’d tell me the truth.”

  “Have you met my brother?” she demanded, her bosom heaving with indignation.

  “I have had that dubious pleasure. He wanted to call me out.”

  “Call you out?” she repeated incredulously.

  “Yes. The wretched boy seems to think me responsible for the death of your father. He threw a glass of wine in my face and demanded that I meet him.”

  “Did you meet him? Pray tell me! Oh, sir, tell me that you did not.”

  She clutched at his arm and found to her disconcertment that she had grasped his hand instead. He looked down at her hand on his as if her touch surprised him and she hastily withdrew it.

  “Of course I didn’t,” he replied, somewhat distractedly and then said, “You do have a good opinion of me, don’t you? Well whatever you may think of me, I have not yet resorted to the murder of children.”

  She blushed, aware that by touching him so casually and familiarly, she had overstepped the unspoken boundary of her own making. His eyes finally rose to hers and she gulped at the message she read there.

  “But he threw wine in your face…” she said, pressing on with the conversation in an attempt to divert his attention away from her embarrassment.

  “Yes, and I took great pleasure in kicking him down the stairs for his trouble.”

  “Oh, you brute! You hurt him.”

  “I sincerely hope so. And allow me to warn you that should your revolting brother come sniffing around my youngest sister; I will hurt him and take great pleasure in doing so. A fortune hunter,” said the earl. “What truly repulsive relatives you have, Miss Blakelow. Tell me why I should sink my blunt to rescue such a selfish object as your brother?”

  “Because it is his inheritance, my lord, and I would have thought that you of all people would understand that.”

  “I do understand it. But what I fail to understand is why you care more for that than your brother does.”

  There was a silence as a flock of geese flew overhead. Miss Blakelow looked down at her hands.

  “And if I were to consider helping you…” continued the earl. “I would not wish to have Mr. Bateman living here at my expense.”

  Her head snapped up and she stared at him. “What do you mean?”

  “You know very well what I mean.”

  She coloured faintly. “Mr. Bateman has not yet asked me to marry him,” she said, in a small voice. “And I do not believe that he has any such thought in his head.”

  “What would you say if he did?”

  “That, my lord, is none of your business.”

  “I think that if I am to invest my money in this place, then it is very much my business. If I were to give you the money, it would be as much an investment in you as Thorncote. You love this place. You are the driving force. As soon as you leave, the estate will fall back into disrepair.”

  “And I say again, that I will not leave. I have no-where else to go.”

  “Have you not, Miss Blakelow?” he asked softly. He picked up a plum and pushed the smooth skin gently against her lips until they parted under the pressure. She stared up at him in confusion, her eyes searching his, her heart pounding hard in her breast.

  “Bite, Miss Blakelow,” he coaxed, his eyes on hers.

  It was too much. It was too suggestive, too intimate. She pushed his hand away and stood up hurriedly.

  “It’s getting late,” she said, dusting her skirts. “I should go.”

  * * *

  “Well?” asked Aunt Blakelow on Miss Blakelow’s return.

  “He is considering,” she replied, tugging the ribbons of her bonnet undone. “But he does not like William.”

  “Not like him? I cannot imagine that he would have come across William for years. His lordship moves in very different circles, you know.”

  “Yes…I’m sure he does.”

  “Georgie?”

  She sighed and flung down her bonnet on the table. “William tried to call Marcham out.”

  “What?” shrieked Aunt Blakelow.

  “I know, I know…the wretched boy is determined to ruin it for all of us.”

  “Call him out? But why?”

  Miss Blakelow told her aunt all that Lord Marcham had told her.

  “Has William been gambling again?” asked Aunt Blakelow, aghast.

  “Yes, I think so. He aspires to Marcham’s set, but does not have anything like enough money to survive in that company. There is a very good chance that we will have another spendthrift in the family, every bit as irresponsible as Papa was.”

  “Have you heard from him?” asked her aunt.

  Miss Blakelow took off the spectacles. “Yes, a short note only to say that he has fallen in love with the most ravishing creature who also just happens to have a fortune of thirty thousand pounds.”

  “Oh,” said Aunt Blakelow dejectedly.

  “Was there ever anything so vexing? Just when it seems that Marcham is beginning to become interested…”

  “What can we do?”

  “I will write to William once again and request him to come home. Thank God that some of the money was put into trust for him when his mother was alive. She at least did not want for sense.”

  “No indeed,” agreed Aunt Blakelow. “Dear Jane was an excellent woman. And…and you and his lordship…?”

  Miss Blakelow’s eyes flew to her aunt’s and a guilty colour stole into her cheeks. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Are you…I mean…you seem to be―”

  “No.”

  “I thought perhaps…”

  “Well don’t. Don’t think anything.”

  Miss Blakelow remembered their picnic and her embarrassment as he had hand fed her the fruit. She shouldered the memory away, uncomfortable with that moment of tension between them, as if a thread had been drawn out to snapping point. She had been aware of his eyes, the close proximity of his body, the warmth of his hand, the soft pressure of the fruit between her lips. She reddened painfully.

  “Did he kiss you?” asked Aunt Blakelow watching her closely.

  Miss Blakelow stood up. “Aunt! How could you ask such a thing? Of course he didn’t!”

  “Do you wish that he had?”

  Miss Blakelow was momentarily robbed of speech. She put her hands
on her hips and stared in disbelief at her aunt. “No, ma’am, I do not!” she managed.

  “Be careful, Georgie,” warned the older woman. “He is not a boy.”

  “Do you think that I don’t know that?” demanded her niece hotly.

  “He knows exactly what he’s doing. He’s as adept at playing a woman as he is at playing cards.”

  “Dear Aunt, do you think that I am foolish enough to let him seduce me?”

  “I do not know what may happen when you are alone with a man like him.”

  “We were not alone. His groom was there,” said Miss Blakelow, glaring at her. “And nothing happened.”

  “No? Then why are you so angry?”

  “Nothing happened,” she repeated. “Do you think me so weak as to be in danger now, after all these years?”

  “I think you sensible enough to keep him at arm’s length,” said Aunt Blakelow, “but I also think you are lonely enough to fall for his charm. And let us not beat about the bush; he has plenty of charm.”

  “I am a grown woman, Aunt. I am no longer a silly young girl whose head is turned by the face of a handsome man.”

  “Possibly not. But he is every inch the rake that the world knows him to be. And if he has decided that he wants you, then he will not give up until he has achieved his goal.”

  Miss Blakelow shook her head in disbelief. “I am going upstairs.”

  “By all means. But think on what I have said. He knows it has been a long time since your heart has been touched. And he knows your pride is vulnerable to a little male attention.”

  Miss Blakelow stormed out of the room, too incensed to speak. She ran up to her bedchamber, threw herself on her bed and buried her face into her pillows. The scene at the picnic came back to haunt her. His eyes on hers, the air crackling with animal attraction that she could no more deny than the need to breathe.

  That he was out merely to seduce her was a thought that had already occurred to Miss Blakelow. The thought that he was pretending to show an interest in her merely as part of some game was so lowering that she wanted to cry. She might be an old maid, but she was still a woman with feelings, and she was not stupid; she knew that he was toying with her. She buried her face further amongst the pillows, wishing that the bed would swallow her whole.

  Lord Marcham had come too close. It was time to retreat to the keep, draw up the bridge and wait it out until the siege was over. With any luck he would get bored and go away.

  Chapter 13

  “Oh, Lord, here he comes again!” groaned Jack, watching the ponderous Mr. Peabody as he made his way towards them across the front lawn. The buttons of his coat seemed to sigh under the strain. “He’s always showing up here unannounced and uninvited. George, you are not seriously going to marry the fellow are you?”

  Miss Blakelow, seated on the bench under the willow tree, laughed as she set another stitch in her embroidery. “No, you ridiculous boy, I am not.”

  “Thank the Lord for that. I could not bear to come and visit you if you did. All that prosing and lecturing and sermonising is enough to send a fellow mad.”

  “But he does seem particularly keen on you, Georgie,” murmured Marianne, “which is flattering, to be sure.”

  “Is it?” asked Kitty, doubtfully, “I’d rather have Lord Marcham.”

  “Kitty!” gasped Marianne, “of all the improper things to say!”

  “I meant given the available choice,” she qualified quickly and then coloured. “I mean he has a much better figure than Peabrain.”

  “And he doesn’t have wind like a cannon going off either,” put in Ned.

  This comment naturally produced a fit of the giggles, which even Miss Blakelow found hard to resist. She turned her head away to hide a smile as she was momentarily diverted by the thought of Lord Marcham doing anything so inelegant.

  “How do you know he doesn’t?” demanded Lizzy, her face alight with laughter.

  Miss Blakelow put aside her embroidery. “If you cannot speak in a way befitting a young gentleman, Edward Blakelow, then I suggest that you do not speak at all,” she said severely.

  “But he thinks we’re all deaf!” complained the young man.

  “What did I just say?” asked Miss Blakelow softly.

  Ned coloured and looked away moodily.

  “Mr. Peabody has been very kind to us and we must show him the respect due to a friend of Father’s,” said Miss Blakelow, “however trying that may be at times.”

  “He tried to kiss you, George, have you forgotten that?” demanded Jack, throwing a ball up in the air and catching it again one handed.

  Miss Blakelow silently cursed her youngest brother as the rest of her family assimilated this new fact with horror. William and Jack had caught Mr. Peabody in the act six months ago and Miss Blakelow had sworn them both to secrecy.

  “He did what?” demanded Ned, sitting bolt upright on the grass.

  “Thank you, Jack,” murmured Miss Blakelow wryly.

  Her young brother flushed and looked guilty. “Sorry, I forgot.”

  “Mr. Peabody? He never did,” breathed Marianne staring at her eldest sister in wonder. “Oh, George, how horrible.”

  “I never thought he had it in him,” said Lizzy, plucking a blade of grass beside the blanket on which she was sitting.

  “He probably had to lie down for half an hour afterwards,” put in Kitty, giggling.

  “He certainly did because William landed him a facer,” Jack confided.

  “Oh, I wish that I had seen that!” said Ned, his eyes gleaming.

  “It was a beautiful jab. An uppercut to the jaw which shook the old fellow’s bone box, I can tell you.”

  “Can we talk about something else?” asked Miss Blakelow in pained accents. “He is nearly upon us and will hear you.”

  “Not him. Deaf as a post. Did his whiskers tickle, Georgie?” asked Ned, grinning.

  Miss Blakelow picked up a conker and threw it at him.

  She stood up as Mr. Peabody approached and forced a smile. “How do you do, sir? It was such a lovely day that we thought we would come and make the best of the sunshine.”

  “Good day, Miss Blakelow. What a pretty picture you make to be sure. Quite enchanting, my dear,” he said, taking her hand and petting it. “Of course, I should have guessed that you would be outside on such a day as this. You do love to be outdoors, do you not? I went to the house and your servant told me that you were not at home. And then I chanced to see young Jack there sneaking out of the door and I wondered if you had all come out to take the air.”

  “Yes,” agreed Miss Blakelow with a hasty smile, “we always come out here when we can.”

  “What my sister actually means is that we saw you coming down the drive in your gig and we ran out here as quickly as we could to avoid you,” said Ned in such a low voice that only his siblings heard him. He caught Miss Blakelow’s eye and chastened, stood up with his cricket bat. “Come on Jack, let’s hit a few balls.”

  Miss Blakelow watched enviously as all her brothers and sisters hastily departed, leaving her entirely alone with Mr. Peabody. She begged him to be seated and took the other end of the bench, placing her embroidery between them.

  “How is your mother, Mr. Peabody?” she asked, desperate for a topic of conversation.

  “She is well, thank you, ma’am. And your aunt? I do not see her with you today?”

  “No, she is visiting friends in Loughton.”

  There was an awkward silence, both of them watching as Jack and Ned stripped off their jackets, folded them and cast them on the ground to use as wickets. Ned took the ball and ran in to bowl to his brother who was poised catlike at the makeshift stumps, the bat in the air.

  “Miss Blakelow,” he began.

  “Oh, did you see that bird? How pretty it was! I think it was a crested hornbill…thing.”

  Mr. Peabody looked dubiously at the stubby brown bird. “I think it’s a thrush, ma’am.”

  “Oh…but such a pretty thrush
…oh, Mr. Peabody, please don’t,” she begged as he took her hand.

  “Dearest, most beloved creature. I must be allowed to speak. You are always surrounded by your relatives―this is my only opportunity to speak to you alone. It is not such a place where I would wish to make such a declaration, but if it must be then I am not one to cavil. You must be aware of my intentions, indeed I believe the whole of Loughton may know what they are. I have admired you from the very first moment I saw you―well, almost the first moment…it was the day you came to Goldings to meet Mother, and you were so kind and dutiful that I knew then that I had to have you for my wife. Adorable creature, say that you will be mine. Indeed you must, for anyone may know that Thorncote is by no means certain to stay in your family. And where will you go then? You need a home, Miss Blakelow—if I may? Georgiana—and you and I both know that ‘our little secret’ makes it unlikely that you will find happiness with another man.”

  Miss Blakelow tried to withdraw her hand. Her father, bless his rotting soul, had seen fit to divulge some of her past to Mr. Peabody during an evening when they had played cards together as they frequently did, and Sir William grew more inebriated as the night drew on. That Mr. Peabody should be privy to the most intimate details of her personal life felt like a violation to Miss Blakelow, and every time he referred to ‘our little secret’ she cringed and grew angry and wished to tell him to go to a very warm place. She wondered how Mr. Peabody would like his dirty linen washed in public and examined by the entire world.

  “And I will be a most attentive husband.” He took her hand to his lips and covered it in moist kisses. Miss Blakelow shuddered with revulsion.

  “Please Mr. Peabody, you are already aware of my feelings on the subject―” she said, trying to pull her hand away.

  Jack took a swipe with the bat and there was a sharp cracking noise as the ball was hit down the hill towards the house. A flurry of Blakelows chased after it, and Jack was happily running between the makeshift wickets leaving their eldest sister, entirely alone with her suitor.

  She tried to remove her hand. “Mr. Peabody…I told you on the last occasion that I―”

  “My angel,” he said, clasping her to his breast. His breath was warm on her cheek and he smelled vaguely of camphor.