The Bluestocking and the Rake (The Regency Gentlemen Series)

by Darcy, Norma

  “Mr. Peabody, I must insist that you let me go,” said Miss Blakelow firmly, turning her face away as her hand found her embroidery on the bench between them.

  “I must have you,” he declared, covering her faces with kisses, “we must be married immediately. I must make you my own in every way.” His hand slid to her breast and squeezed it.

  Miss Blakelow’s hand found the needle, prised it loose of the material and plunged the end sharply in to his thigh. The result was immediate and effective. He yelped and sprang up from the bench, clutching his leg. The siblings paused in their game of cricket and turned around and stared at the sight of Mr. Peabody practically hopping on one leg.

  “My dear Miss Blakelow,” he asked reproachfully, “what have I done to deserve such treatment from you?”

  “I would have thought that was obvious,” remarked a dry voice from behind them.

  Miss Blakelow and her suitor whirled around to find Lord Marcham leaning nonchalantly against the trunk of the tree, his arms folded across his chest, a hint of a smile upon his lips.

  “You!” exploded Mr. Peabody, his already red face turning purple.

  “Your servant, Peapod,” replied his lordship, bowing slightly. “Your servant, Miss Blakelow. What a glorious afternoon, is it not? I don’t blame you for leaving the house in favour of the countryside in such unseasonably warm weather. But as your neighbour and friend, ma’am, I must counsel you against sitting entirely alone with a strange gentleman. It is really not the done thing, you know.”

  “Strange gentleman?” repeated Mr. Peabody, outraged. “I have been coming to this house for years!”

  “Then you should know that it is highly improper for a gentleman to be alone with such a delicate female as Miss Blakelow.”

  Her bosom heaved. “Indeed? No doubt you would not object half so strongly if the gentleman in question were you?”

  “Oh, no, not then, Miss Blakelow, but I am an entirely different case,” agreed the earl. “And as your prospective bridegroom, you will allow me to have a vested interest in…er…keeping your charms entirely for myself.”

  Miss Blakelow, still holding her embroidery needle was seriously tempted to attack a fleshy part of his lordship’s anatomy with it. She glared up into his dancing eyes. “You are not my prospective bridegroom and who I choose to see or be alone with is entirely my own affair.”

  He raised an amused brow at that. “Is that so, Miss Blakelow? Would you like me to leave you alone with Mr. Peaham?”

  She stared at him and the message in her eyes was clear: don’t you dare.

  He smiled affably. “I see that you understand the situation tolerably well. We will say no more about it.”

  “What are you doing here, my lord?” demanded Peabody, still rubbing his thigh.

  “Attending my property,” replied the earl softly.

  “Thorncote is yours then?”

  His lordship smiled. “Thorncote and everything in it,” he said but with a glint in his eye.

  Mr. Peabody flushed purple. “I see that I am wasting my time here.”

  “Good. I’m glad you begin to understand,” murmured the earl.

  Mr. Peabody bowed stiffly to Miss Blakelow. “It is clear to me, ma’am, that you prefer the company of this…this scoundrel to a man of decency. You must allow me to say that I am disappointed in you. A dalliance with a man of his sort can only lead you into the sort of situation which would be detrimental to your reputation and your character. I warn you against it most strongly. Marriage to this man would make you miserable.”

  “Not as miserable as if she married you,” put in the earl, leisurely taking a pinch of snuff and putting it to one nostril.

  Miss Blakelow shot a smouldering look at the earl before turning to her wounded suitor. “Indeed you mistake me, sir. I have no intention of marrying Lord Marcham. I assure you that he is only saying those things to provoke me. It seems to amuse him to pretend that there is an engagement between us. Why not come in with us and have some tea? Aunt Blakelow will have returned by now.”

  “Capital idea,” said the earl, “then you, Peahead, can talk to the aunt and I may have Miss Blakelow all to myself.”

  Mr. Peabody ignored this interruption, raising himself onto the balls of his feet as he invariably did when he was giving a sermon. “And this is the man whom you prefer?” he demanded. “You choose this rake over a man of decency, of principle…in short, a gentleman?”

  “Rake I may be,” murmured the earl, putting away his snuff box, “but I have never yet forced my attentions on a gently bred woman. And by the very familiar embrace that I have just witnessed, it seems that you, Peabrain, cannot say the same.”

  Mr. Peabody’s eyes bulged as if they would pop from his head. “You, sir, are a disgrace!”

  Lord Marcham yawned and examined his fingernails. “Has he gone yet, my love?”

  “Any woman of high moral principle, as I had thought you to be, would recoil at such a union.”

  “Oh, Lord, he’s still speaking. How do you put up with him?” marvelled the earl.

  Mr. Peabody puffed out his chest. “You have been charmed by a pretty face. I had not thought it possible. I had thought, Miss Blakelow, that you were a woman of superior sense but I see now that I was wrong. I count myself fortunate to have escaped from such an unhappy union. I therefore announce that I have withdrawn my offer. I will now take my leave of you.” He bowed stiffly, straightened his cravat and strode away.

  “Hurry back, won’t you?” murmured the earl.

  Miss Blakelow whirled on her lordly neighbour. “Are you satisfied?”

  A wicked glint stole into his eyes. “I could be…if you were to give me such an embrace as you just gave him.”

  She glared at him with a heightened colour but was too angry to speak.

  “What?” he asked, laughingly as he spread his hands.

  “You have upset Mr. Peabody.”

  “No you did that. Something to do with a needle, I believe.”

  “How long have you been standing there?” Miss Blakelow demanded, glowering at him.

  “Long enough,” he replied coolly, admiring her figure as she bent to fold up the blanket that Lizzy had been sitting on.

  “And you didn’t think to make your presence known?”

  “That would have been rude in the extreme. Mr. Peabody was making his declaration. It probably took the poor man a month to work up the courage.”

  “You feel sorry for him?” she gasped.

  He shrugged. “I feel sympathy for any man attempting to make you an offer―I know from experience that it is not for the faint hearted.”

  “You…oh how I loathe you! You stood there while he was…while he was…”

  “Pressing his attentions?” he suggested sweetly.

  “Yes…and you did nothing. You did not lift a finger to intervene when you must have known that his suit is not welcome to me.”

  “How was I to know that it was unwelcome? You have hardly made me your confidante, have you?”

  “You stood there and listened, knowing all the while that his kiss was of all things the most repugnant to me. What if he had gone further? Would you have stood there and watched?”

  “Oh, I would have stepped in then but you did not look as if you needed my help. You repelled him most efficiently. In fact, I consider myself fortunate to have learned a valuable lesson; when kissing Miss Blakelow, please ensure that any sharp objects, needles, pins, nails and such like are out of arms’ reach.”

  She folded up her embroidery and threw it into the basket.

  “Dearest, most beloved creature,” he said softly, laughter quivering in his voice.

  She glared at him. “Don’t.”

  He clutched his hands to his breast in perfect imitation of Mr. Peabody. “My angel.”

  She wrestled with the urge to laugh and conquered it. “Lord Marcham, you are the most detestable, odious man alive.”

  “Adorable creature, say that you w
ill be mine,” he begged.

  She threw a cushion at him and he dodged it neatly, grinning broadly. “I must say, he did talk a lot for a man passionately in love. He should have kissed you,” recommended his lordship. “You can’t berate a man when your mouth is otherwise occupied.”

  “No, he should not have kissed me,” she flashed, blushing hotly. “I cannot think of anything more repulsive. Except of course, kissing you.”

  He smiled, unperturbed. “Naturally.”

  She glanced up at him over the top of her spectacles as she bent to pick up another blanket. “Why are you here, my lord? Shouldn’t you be fleecing some poor man at the card table or something equally noble?”

  “That was yesterday, ma’am,” he replied glibly. “I always fleece men of their property on a Wednesday. Thursdays are for flirting outrageously with one’s neighbours.”

  “And Fridays?” she asked, shaking off the other blanket.

  “Oh, drinking oneself into a stupor,” he said, smiling, “but not all day―one does need to eat, you know.”

  “And Saturday you spend all day in bed,” she put in before she had given herself permission to speak the words aloud. She had meant that he would spend all day in bed to recover from a day’s drinking but suddenly realising how it could be misconstrued, she stopped and flushed to the roots of her hair. Judging by the look of unholy amusement that came into the earl’s eyes, he had definitely misconstrued it. She cursed her unruly tongue. Why did she always manage to put her foot in her mouth when he was near?

  “My dear Miss Blakelow, I’m shocked,” he murmured.

  “You know very well what I meant,” she said in a stifled voice.

  “Do I?” he replied, his eyes dancing, “I hardly dare hope that you were making me an offer.”

  “You,” she choked, “are deliberately trying to make me blush.”

  “True,” he agreed smoothly, watching the delicious pink tinge that coloured her cheeks, “but I assure you it is utterly irresistible.”

  “My lord Marcham, you must allow me to tell you: aware though I am of your…your lifestyle and your…how shall I say? Misdemeanours, it is highly improper of you to speak to me of such things as―” She broke off, realising in what dangerous waters her tongue was leading her.

  “Yes, ma’am?” he prompted gently.

  “Highly improper to speak to me of…of such things.”

  “What things?” he asked, his face the picture of innocence.

  “That I would…that we would…oh, you know very well what things!”

  “That you would beg me to go to bed with you?” he asked, his voice quivering with laughter.

  Miss Blakelow closed her eyes in pained silence. “Did you have to say that quite so loudly?”

  “You would not need to beg me, however, I’d happily spend all day in bed with you.”

  She turned away to hide her face, acutely embarrassed. “You―oh, go away!”

  He laughed and folded his arms. “Come here.”

  She eyed him suspiciously. “No.”

  His lips twitched. “Miss Blakelow, you really should try and improve your manners, you know. They really are not at all the thing. I regret that I find it necessary to hint but you should be aware when going about in company it is not at all the done thing to be quite so blunt. A few words in the manner of beating around the bush would, I am persuaded, serve you better. An approved response might have been, ‘No, thank you, my lord.’ Now why don’t you try it? These manners may seem strange to you at first but it will get easier in time.”

  She listened to this in long suffering silence. “My lord, if you do not wish me to deal you the same treatment I gave to Mr. Peabody, then I suggest you desist baiting me.”

  “A truly terrifying prospect to be sure, but as you have now put away your stitchery, I feel tolerably safe. Well, if you won’t come to me, then I will have to come to you.”

  She baulked a little as he drew near but she stood her ground, her heart pounding a little strangely as he came to stand directly before her, his body no more than a foot away from hers. She glanced up at him warily as he reached out his hands and before she knew what he was about, gently pulled the spectacles from her nose. So convinced was she that he had been going to kiss her that this outcome took her completely by surprise and she felt excessively foolish, like a green young girl, and wondered if her thoughts had played out across her face.

  He watched her with a funny little smile as he took his handkerchief from his pocket and began to clean her spectacles. “Mr. Peabottom’s attentions have smudged your glasses,” he said.

  “Oh,” she said, turning her face away in her confusion. She felt naked without her spectacles and hardly knew where to look as she felt his eyes on her.

  “Why do you hide your face from me?” he asked gently.

  She forced a laugh. “I…I don’t.”

  “You always turn away. Do you feel so vulnerable without your glasses?”

  “Please may I have them back?”

  “What did that fellow mean: ‘our little secret’?” enquired the earl.

  She blinked at him, giving her best impression of an innocent wide eyed look.

  Lord Marcham frowned. “He said that ‘our little secret’ would prevent you from finding happiness with another man. What did he mean?”

  She coloured and looked away. “Nothing. Mr. Peabody pretends an intimacy with this family which is entirely false. He was a confidant of my father and as such he makes it his business to know all our business, whether we wish him to or not.”

  “I see…but you did not answer the question, Miss Blakelow,” he murmured.

  “May I have my glasses back now?” she asked, disturbed by the watchful expression in his eyes.

  “Where do I know you from?” he mused.

  “I…I beg your pardon, my lord?”

  “The first time you came to Holme I was left with the distinct impression that we had met before.”

  Miss Blakelow’s heart began to pound sickeningly. “Certainly we have,” she managed as coolly as she was able. “We are neighbours, after all, my lord.”

  He shook his head. “I remember you from somewhere else…and I cannot quite place it.”

  “Perhaps I look like another lady of your acquaintance?” she suggested.

  “Perhaps,” he agreed.

  “I am sure you have been acquainted with so many bookish females over the years that we all look the same to you; it must be all that time you spend in church praying for forgiveness.”

  “Perhaps you are right,” he agreed, a smile in his eyes. “Because my behaviour is such that I need a lot of forgiving, isn’t that right?”

  “Quite so.”

  “Here, Miss Blakelow, are your glasses.”

  “Thank you,” she replied, lifting her hands to take the spectacles from him. Her fingers brushed against his for the briefest of moments and she felt a tug of attraction so strong that it robbed her of the ability to think or to even breathe.

  “How old are you?” he demanded suddenly, frowning, his mind still evidently puzzling over where they had met before.

  She looked up at him. “That is an impertinent question, sir.”

  “You cannot be more than five and thirty, surely. To be sure you are not in the first bloom, but you are not yet in your dotage.”

  “Thank you,” she murmured. Miss Blakelow who was in fact nine and twenty took this comment in bad part. Then, sensing his amusement, she looked at him and saw the mischievous gleam in his eyes and knew that he said it deliberately for revenge.

  “Yes, Miss Blakelow, I am that outrageous and if you come to know me any better you will realise that trying to shame me does not work because I don’t have any scruples. Now, you may leave your shawl here. You cannot play cricket with that thing around your shoulders.”

  Chapter 14

  The Earl of Marcham, dressed in a rich brocade dressing gown at nine the following morning, looked up from his newspaper as
the sound of an almighty crash came from the hallway beyond the breakfast parlour where he was seated. He winced and looked at his butler who was clearing the table of the breakfast things. “Davenham, what was that racket?” he asked in pained accents.

  “I believe it is your lordship’s sisters, sir. They have come to stay,” said that faithful servant in a quaking voice.

  “Both of them?” he demanded.

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “The devil they have,” the earl muttered, pushing back his chair by its armrests and striding across the room. He yanked open the door and stepped out into the Great Hall.

  A succession of trunks and valises and band boxes littered the stone floor in every direction. Servants―his servants―were running to do the bidding of the tall imperious woman standing at the foot of the staircase. “You, Brook, is it? Please see to it that my trunk is taken up straight away, I wish to change out of this travelling dress immediately. Davenham? Davenham? Where are you―? Ah, there you are! Please ask cook to prepare us something to eat immediately. I’m famished and I’m sure Harriet is too. Where is my brother?”

  Lord Marcham immediately shrank back into the shadows cast by the staircase. He heard his butler clear his throat. “He went out riding, my lady. He is not expected back for some time.”

  His lordship, who had in fact already been for his early morning ride, smiled. Good old Davenham. The old man always did cover for him in times of need.

  “Gone out riding before nine?” repeated Lady St Michael. “Robbie? What, were there worms in his bed?”

  “I believe his lordship rises much earlier these days than when you lived with us, my lady.”

  “I see. No doubt the influence of his fiancée. Perhaps she is not so bad after all.”

  Footsteps ran lightly up the front steps and then a girl, no older than eighteen, burst into the hall. “Is Robbie here?” Lady Harriet asked breathlessly, the voluminous plume on her bonnet wafting in the breeze. “I have so much to tell him!”

  “Riding,” said her ladyship bluntly. “Can we get this band box out of the way? Someone is going to trip over it in a minute.”