The Bluestocking and the Rake (The Regency Gentlemen Series)

by Darcy, Norma

  Lady Harriet looked around her in wonder. “What a lot of baggage we have! I knew we should not have gone shopping in Oxford. Oh, Robbie, there you are! Why are you hiding in the dark? Come here where I can see you.”

  Lady St. Michael spun around and narrowed her eyes on her brother’s rather irritated looking face. She gave him a knowing look. “Hiding from me, Robert?” she asked sweetly.

  He came forward, smiling. “Always, dear sister. I find it preserves my sanity.”

  She pecked him upon the cheek. “Coward,” she said softly.

  “Termagant,” he retorted in kind.

  “Oh, Robbie,” cried Harriet, hurling herself at his chest. “I’m so glad to see you.”

  He kissed the top of her bonnet, the only part of her available to him and nearly had his eye taken out by her feather in the process. “Hello minx,” he said affectionately.

  “Is it true that you are to be married?” she demanded, her big grey eyes searching his face.

  He looked a little taken aback. How the devil did she find out about Georgie so quickly? His mother had been busy, he thought grimly. “I hope to be,” he replied.

  “What is she like? Is she pretty? Is she as tall as me? Does she sing and play? Does she dance?”

  “If you would ask one question at a time, I might stand a chance of answering you. Yes she is pretty. Yes she is as tall as you…rather taller in fact. And I have absolutely no idea as to her accomplishments.”

  Lady Harriet looked perplexed. “You have no idea of her accomplishments?” she repeated. “How can you fall in love with someone and not know their interests?”

  He carelessly flicked a forefinger against her cheek. “You do it all the time, love.”

  “Be serious, Robbie. I heard that her family were horrid fortune hunters. Are you certain that she feels for you just as she ought?”

  “I think there is every chance that she feels precisely nothing at all for me,” he said, guiding her into the library.

  “Then why are you wishing to marry her?” asked Lady Harriet as her sister came in and closed the door.

  His lordship looked from one sister to the other and sighed. “Don’t you wish to change your clothes after such a long journey?”

  “In a minute,” replied Sarah, Lady St. Michael, folding her arms. “Answer the question.”

  He looked down at his hands. “Because she intrigues me…and I haven’t felt like that in a long time.”

  “Then Robbie, what I have to say will shock you exceedingly. I was at the Grant’s ball last week and I wore my celestial blue crepe with the rosebud trim and you needn’t roll your eyes at me, it is of all your habits the most annoying. And Anne Ellis said that Sir William Blakelow’s pockets are to let. She said that he does not have a penny to pay his London debts let alone save Thorncote. He was planning to throw one of his sisters under your nose so that you might marry one of them. Miss Marianne Blakelow is a trap set for you. I had it from my friend who had it from her brother who is a friend of William’s.”

  “Er…and why are you telling me this?” asked Lord Marcham, utterly uninterested in anything William Blakelow did or said.

  “Why are we…? Because you are going to marry Marianne Blakelow. Don’t you see? He is on the hunt for a fortune for his sister.”

  He stood up and moved behind his desk. “Oh, I am well aware of that. But you seem to be misinformed―which given that you have just spent several hours in a carriage with Sarah, is surprising. Miss Marianne Blakelow and I are not now, nor have ever been, engaged.”

  His youngest sister looked from him to Lady St. Michael and back at her brother again. “Not engaged? But you just said that you were!” cried Lady Harriet, much confused.

  “I said that I hoped to be…but the lady I spoke of was not Miss Marianne.”

  His youngest sister clapped her hands together with glee. “Didn’t I tell you, Sarah? Didn’t I tell you that Robbie wouldn’t marry such a horrid scheming creature as Marianne Blakelow? Oh, why did you not tell me, Sarah? How infamous of you to keep me in the dark all this time! Who does Robbie wish to marry? Who is she?”

  “Keep your voice down; the servants will hear you. She is a worse match for him than ever Lady Emily Holt was,” said Lady St. Michael coolly, “which is why I was not going to give credence to the rumour in the carriage with our maids listening in on everything.”

  “Thank you Sarah,” murmured the Earl, “but I will marry whom I choose, I believe.”

  “Refreshments are served in the breakfast parlour, my lord,” announced Davenham with exquisite timing.

  “John?”

  “Yes, my lord?”

  “Remind me to increase your wage,” said a very grateful Lord Marcham.

  * * *

  The Earl’s discomfort was markedly increased when an hour later his mother arrived, complaining about the damp and immediately set about stoking up the temperature in the drawing room to such a degree that he could not bear to be inside it with a coat on for longer than five minutes.

  “Robbie!” she said, waving him down to kiss her cheek, bestowing upon him a smile so sickly sweet that he immediately became suspicious.

  “Mama,” he replied, by this time dressed in a beautiful wine coloured coat and pantaloons the colour of oatmeal. “To what do I owe the honour?”

  “We were worried about you.”

  “Really?” he asked doubtfully. “Should I be flattered?”

  “You know, you wretched boy, that I am worried sick about this proposed match of yours.”

  His lordship cast his eyes heavenward in a bid for divine assistance. “Please, Mama, let us not discuss it again. I have no wish to argue with you.”

  “Darling Robert, you were always my favourite, you know,” she said softly.

  Lord Marcham struggled to hide his irritation. His mother’s tricks had ceased to work on any of her children many years ago once they had realised how adept she was at playing one off against the other.

  “Are you warm enough?” asked his lordship rather sharply.

  “Yes…but―”

  “Good, then you won’t mind me opening one of the windows, will you?”

  The countess spluttered, looking for an answer that wouldn’t further set her son’s back up and decided that that particular battle would be better saved for another day.

  “Has Sarah told you?” the countess asked.

  “Has Sarah told me what?” he asked with a feeling of distinct foreboding.

  “Harriet is to have a ball.”

  “Jolly good. Just don’t expect me to come and she can have as many as she chooses,” he returned crisply.

  His mother coughed. “Harriet wishes to have a ball…here.”

  “I’ll wager she does. I wish to fly to the moon but it ain’t going to come true.”

  “Now, Robbie, don’t be difficult,” said his mother. “It was her home too, remember?”

  “So it was. But it is my home now and I do not wish to host a ball,” he said, casting himself onto a sofa.

  “Why? What objection can you have?” his mother demanded.

  “Objections plural.”

  “Such as what? What pray do men know about organising a ball?”

  “They know about paying for them, ma’am, and that is my first objection: the expense.”

  “Oh, pooh and nonsense. What is there to pay for in a trifling ball?”

  “Flowers. Food. Champagne. Candles. The orchestra. Not to mention the rig you will turn her out in with jewels and the like. Slippers. Stockings etc. Etc.―no, Mama, let me finish. The fuss. The servants have enough work to do in this house without organising a ball. It needs to be co-ordinated and I have no inclination to waste my time in such a fashion. The noise. The night of the ball, I will not be able to sleep with all that racket going on so I will be forced to attend or go for a prolonged stay with Uncle Angus in the Hebrides because he will be the only one of my relatives not at the ball. The crush. No doubt everyone will wan
t to be there and you won’t be able to get to the food for wading through feathers and waistcoats and sweaty bodies. Not to mention the heat, swooning females everywhere and matchmaking mamas all dead set in pairing me off with their hatchet-faced daughter. The hassle. Ten to one Harriet will fall in love with some unsuitable wretch, as she always does at these things, and then it will be up to me to play the tyrannical brother and sort it all out. And finally, the infernal giggling. Guaranteed that every female within a fifty mile radius will be prating on about the wretched ball every minute of the day; what they will wear, how many feathers they will put in their hair and who they will dance with until every gentleman, including me, is driven to distraction. No, Mama. I do not want a ball in this house.”

  A short silence greeted this little speech.

  “Well if they are your only objections, I cannot see that it is insurmountable,” said the countess.

  His lordship opened his mouth to say something and then closed it again.

  “You may invite Halchester’s daughter,” she added as a sweetener. “I heard that you were fond of her…”

  Lord Marcham nearly threw his teacup at the wall. “I have no interest in inviting Lady Mary. But as you bring it up, that is another objection. I would be forced to invite her, for it would look very odd if I did not.”

  “Has he agreed, Mama?” asked Harriet, popping her head around the door at that moment.

  “Nearly, my love, nearly,” replied the countess.

  His lordship closed his eyes.

  “Oh, Robbie, wouldn’t it be famous?” cried Harriet, coming to sit on the sofa beside him. She grabbed his hand and held it tightly in her own. “I am so grateful to you for letting Holme host my ball. I think we will have a splendid time. Dearest, best of brothers, I knew that you would agree. And you may bring your mysterious lady too.”

  “I have not agreed to host your ball and I realise at this juncture that you may wish to take back the part about ‘best and dearest of brothers,’ but so be it. I do not have the time or the inclination to host your ball, and I rather think you are much better off using Hock House in Grosvenor Square. I will happily hand you the keys. There you may invite who you like, when you like, and arrange it all to your own satisfaction. I will even assist you with paying for it.”

  Lady Harriet’s face fell. Large glistening teardrops welled in her eyes. “Oh, Robbie, you don’t mean it.”

  “I do mean it. And you can forget the waterworks. They ain’t going to work on me. I have resisted women ten times as manipulative as you in my time.”

  “But―”

  “No, I’m sorry.”

  “There you are! I have been looking for you everywhere!” cried Lady St. Michael coming in to the room at that moment. “Heavens, isn’t it warm in here? Well, I have just seen the Lady’s bedchamber and I must say, Robbie, it has been very tastefully done. It used to be pink in Mama’s day, but I rather like the pale green. It brings a spring-like freshness to the room which is very appealing. What decided you upon changing it after all these years?”

  “Er…it was looking a little tired.”

  “Well it looks wonderful now. One would almost think it had something to do with planning for the future Lady Marcham,” said Sarah softly.

  “I’m always planning for that,” he returned coolly.

  “She doesn’t happen to have green eyes, does she?”

  * * *

  A week later, Miss Blakelow had been to the village of Thornhill to visit one of her father’s tenants and had there met with a maid from Holme Park, who’d had it from the footman, who’d had it from the butler that his lordship was to host a ball in his sister’s honour.

  Surprised that his lordship would agree to have his family stay in the house so recently frequented by fallen women, Miss Blakelow marched home across the fields, agog with the news.

  “A ball!” cried Marianne. “Oh, how wonderful!”

  “Do you think we shall be invited, Georgie? It is years since any of us has seen the inside of Holme house,” said Kitty, her eyes shining.

  “I have no idea,” replied her eldest sister, selecting a skein of green silk for the cushion cover she was embroidering. The hated spectacles remained in her pocket, close at hand in case they had any unexpected visitors.

  “But his lordship seems to like you, George. There is a good chance that we will be invited,” said Lizzy, looking just as excited as her sisters, for all her tomboyish protestations that she took no interest in such things.

  “Perhaps,” was all Miss Blakelow would say.

  “But what will we do for dresses?” cried Marianne. “There is no money.”

  “Marry is right. There is no money,” said Kitty gloomily, “what are we to do?”

  “You will have to economise like the rest of us,” said Ned from the window seat, moodily staring out of the window. “Go in your best dress.”

  “But they’re so old,” complained Marianne.

  “Then you will have to make them over.”

  “Trust a boy to say something stupid like that,” said Kitty.

  “Then don’t go. And stay here while all the rest of Worcestershire dances the night away,” recommended their brother a moment before he left the room.

  The girls then went into Loughton and spread the news to every acquaintance they came across. Before long, the whole town was buzzing with the news.

  * * *

  Lord Marcham, some days later, seeking to escape the three female relatives in his house, walked the two miles over to Thorncote in the early afternoon and found Miss Blakelow vigorously pulling up weeds from one of the flower beds. On spying him from a distance of one hundred yards, she threw down the trowel and hastily donned her glasses and lace cap, and succeeded in smudging mud half way across her face.

  “You needn’t wear them on my account,” he called out as he came up to her. “It is patently obvious to me that you don’t need them for gardening so why you think you need to wear them to talk to me is beyond my comprehension.”

  “And a good day to you too, my lord,” she retorted, bending once again to rip up a particularly fine specimen of dandelion. “Are you here to discuss the estate? Or business? Or have you merely come here to annoy me?”

  He folded his arms and leaned against the wrought iron gate, leaning back to get a good view as she bent over. “You’re in a good mood today,” he remarked. “Get out of bed the wrong side, did we?”

  “Any side of the bed in this house is the wrong side,” she muttered angrily. “It makes no difference what mood I may be in when I get into bed, but I always wake up to the same problems. Most of them which are caused by knowing you.”

  He frowned thoughtfully. “Come to think of it, which side of the bed do you sleep on?”

  “Why can that possibly interest you?” she fired at him over her shoulder.

  He shrugged. “When we are married we will share a bed. I thought it only polite to ask the lady which side she preferred.”

  “You being such a fine gentleman and all,” she said witheringly.

  He dazzled her with his smile. “Exactly. I tend to prefer the right side but I’m prepared to compromise.” His eyes drifted slowly down her trim form. “I’m sure you’ll make it worth my while.”

  Miss Blakelow gasped and stood up in a hurry. She came towards him, waving the muddy blade of the trowel under his nose. “You are beyond anything! How dare you speak to me like that?”

  He spread his hands, half laughing. “Like what?”

  “Like…like we are already married, which you know very well that we are not!”

  “Come, Georgiana, you cannot tell me that you are innocent of what occurs between a husband and wife?”

  “If you do not stop talking to me in that odiously disrespectful manner I will have you thrown off this estate. Do you understand?”

  “I love it when you’re angry.”

  Miss Blakelow thought she might explode. “I am not one of your whores, my lord,�
�� she said crossly.

  “No indeed you are not,” he murmured, frowning. “What has gotten into you today? You must surely know that I was teasing you? I meant no disrespect.”

  “You are trying to shock me, aren’t you?”

  “Not at all,” he replied smoothly. “I was merely referring to the very great pleasure to be had when you become my wife.”

  She clapped her hands over her ears. “Enough! I will not discuss this subject with you which you must realise is highly repugnant to me.”

  He bowed. “Then I apologise unreservedly. We will henceforth confine our conversation to the weather and your aunt’s many health remedies and mending shirts and books and pruning.”

  “That’s fine with me.”

  “And the best cut of meat to be had for a winter broth and other edifying subjects that I cannot at this moment think of.”

  “Very proper,” she approved.

  “And I may well die of boredom,” he added.

  “We can but hope.”

  “What say you to a discussion about the underlying engineering principles behind Stephenson’s locomotive?”

  “If we must. I am sure that it would be most instructive.”

  “Or whether I am corpulent enough that I should start wearing a corset?”

  “Stop trying to make me laugh.”

  “I wish that you would.”

  She flung down the hand fork she was holding and it landed vertically with its tines in the soil, spearing the earth. “Nothing amuses you more than to put me out of countenance, does it? You love to mock me and I do not like it.”

  “I was not mocking you, I was teasing you. There is a difference,” he said patiently. “What is the matter?”

  “You and that wretched ball. I have heard nothing else all day but dresses and silks and satins until I am thoroughly sick of it.”

  He frowned. “What ball?” he asked, although he already guessed.

  “What ball, he says. For your sister,” she said, ripping up a daisy and hurling it at the bucket.

  “I am not holding a ball for my sister,” he said calmly. “And I told her so in no uncertain terms when she arrived two weeks ago.”