The Secret Bluestocking: Isobel's Traditional Regency Romance

by Alicia Quigley

  Isobel hastily stuffed the papers into her secretary, locking it and pocketing the key, and swept out of the library, leaving the field to the victorious Lord Francis. He gazed after her contemplatively.

  Late the next forenoon, Isobel sat in the morning room, perusing a volume on the architecture of the Romans. It was still another grey day, and the rain beating relentlessly on the windows prevented her from taking her mare out to ride. Lord Francis' unwelcome presence in the library had driven Isobel to this sanctuary with her research. It was a nuisance, no doubt, but his lordship would be leaving in a week or two, a fact that Isobel took less pleasure from than she felt she should. She told herself that doubtless it was her concerns for his health that made her wish he would stay just a few days longer; she had no desire for her hard work nursing him to come to naught because he had proceeded on his journey too soon.

  She put down her book and paced up and down the room. The thought of Lord Francis had interrupted her concentration, and she now found her book to be a shade dull. The author did not write with sufficient vigor about his subject. She stood gazing out the window, her mind wandering to the library where Lord Francis was doubtless taking his ease among Isobel's books, many of which would no doubt be much more engaging than the one she had in her possession. What an annoying man. She sighed.

  The butler entered the room and cleared his throat. "Excuse me, Miss Isobel," he said. "Your brother is here."

  Isobel looked up, surprised, but pleased to see her brother. She was very fond of him, despite his pedantic ways. He was a good husband and father, took pride in his estates, and was kind to his sister, despite of what seemed to him to be her unfathomable interest in Britain’s past. As was his wont, he was dressed formally, even for a visit to his sister in the country, and his heavy step matched his florid person and conversational style. Isobel was accustomed to his solemnity, and as usual she spoke to him in a rallying tone.

  "Frederick, how delightful to see you. What brings you visiting on such a raw day? Surely ‘tis not my charming company. The weather must have prevented you from doing the farm work, or meeting with your agent, or perhaps the effect of several days confined indoors on your active brood has driven you from Wereham Place to find a respite here?"

  Frederick smiled slightly at her lively tone, but then looked grave. "No, sister, it is duty which brings me here, my duty to prevent you from making a grievous error," he pronounced heavily.

  Isobel looked surprised, and raised her eyebrows discouragingly. "Well Frederick, I am long past the age where I thought I needed advice on conducting my affairs, so I hope you will think carefully before you try to order me about."

  Frederick looked sheepish. "I thought of that, but Honoria assures me that I must speak to you."

  "Your confirmation of Lady Wereham’s involvement makes me certain that I will not be pleased with your comments, but since I am equally sure that there is nothing I can do to prevent you from making them, I beg you to say your piece quickly and be done with it."

  The Viscount stuffed his hands in his pockets, rolled on to the balls of his feet and cleared his throat.

  "Dear sister," he began, "I cannot believe that you have thought carefully about the continued residence of Lord Francis Wheaton here at Kitswold House. From the local talk, I apprehend that he has the run of the place, and lives in your pocket. It presents a very peculiar appearance and you lay yourself open to all manner of gossip. I must ask you to consider ensuring that he leave this place as soon as you can arrange suitable transportation to restore him to his family, where he can more appropriately convalesce." His lordship had all the appearance of a man more than prepared to continue his peroration, so Isobel held up her hand to stall him.

  "Upon my word, brother, you are making some very unattractive insinuations," responded Isobel. "Lord Francis was severely injured on my doorstep in foul weather. Would you have had me send him elsewhere, at grave risk to his health, out of missishness? I can assure you that my attentions to him were confined initially to those of a nurse, and now that he is able to get about the house, they are those of a gracious hostess to an invalid guest."

  "Yes, but he is an eligible gentleman, while you are a young and beautiful single woman. The county is full of wagging tongues who will make hay out of a single man living in the house of an unmarried woman."

  "Allow me to correct you, brother. Lord Francis is convalescing in a house owned by a single woman. You are well aware that Cousin Harriet chaperones me, and this house is full of my servants. Surely you do not believe that with a broken collar bone and his right arm in a sling his lordship is capable of compromising me against my will? Or do you believe that I am a lightskirt who would consent to such a thing? I wonder who or what can have given you such a pretty notion of my character." Isobel’s voice had grown annoyed, and her eyes flashed at her brother.

  The Viscount sputtered at her and dropped his pompous manner for a moment. "Don’t rip up at me, Isobel," he snapped. "I have accused you of no improper conduct, nor Lord Francis. I asked you only to consider your reputation and the wagging tongues of the old tabbies in the neighborhood."

  Isobel bit her tongue on a swift rejoinder that Lady Wereham could not be described as an old tabby, but fortunately thought better of it.

  "If the ladies of the neighborhood are gossiping it should be of my graciousness in doing my Christian duty in opening my home to an injured gentleman, and tending him with my own hands during the most dangerous part of his illness, nothing more."

  "Well, dash it, I know that you have no interest in flirting with him, because you’d rather have your precious books than a husband, but your guest had quite a reputation in the petticoat line before he became involved in the wars, and people remember," said the viscount spiritedly.

  Isobel sighed. "Frederick, I really feel that we must change the subject if you wish to remain on amicable terms with me. When do you and Lady Wereham contemplate removing to London for the Season, I wonder?"

  Lord Wereham recognized that he had nothing to gain by continuing the conversation, and left the issue alone. At the end of his visit, however, Isobel took pity on him and informed him that Lord Francis planned to leave within the se'ennight, and invited Lady Wereham and him to join Dr. Alvey and the inhabitants of Kitswold House for dinner three evenings hence.

  Chapter 5

  The night of the dinner party soon arrived. Cook had been instructed to prepare a truly elegant repast. Isobel, still slightly peeved with her brother and his wife, and obscurely wishing to entice Lord Francis so that she might illustrate to both him and her brother her seriousness of mind, determined to wear quite her most stunning dinner ensemble.

  A full-blown ball gown would be quite inappropriate, of course, but she removed from her closet an elegant heavy silk evening dress of a shifting blue-green color, that drew out the depth of color in her hair and eyes. It sported a décolletage about which the highest stickler could not truly complain, but which must draw attention to her fine shoulders and bosom. The gown was not lavishly trimmed except around the hem, where a heavy drape of embroidery and a tiny hint of a train pulled the dress against her as she walked, offering the occasional tantalizing outline of her long slim legs. A thin silk shawl in an elegant print was draped over her arms, while her hair was dressed dashingly, with ringlets falling from a beaded headdress. Diamond drops flashed in her ears and around her throat was a matching necklet. Altogether a most attractive picture, she thought with satisfaction as she examined herself in the looking glass. Her brother would disapprove heartily, she mused, as she smiled at her reflection with a hint of smugness.

  When she entered the drawing room, Isobel saw that Miss Harriet had also done honor to the occasion and was looking very well in a lavender gown, heavily trimmed, and a frivolous little lace cap. Isobel had no more than enough time to settle in a chair and converse briefly with her cousin when Haggock announced Lord Francis. He was wearing evening dress, and it was clear that no le
ss a personage than Weston must be his tailor, for his coat fit his broad shoulders without a wrinkle, and molded itself to his upper body. His knee breeches fit closely, and Miss Harriet, who had already commented favorably on his lordship’s legs, allowed her eyes to linger on these magnificently proportioned and muscled features of his physique for longer than a young unmarried lady could have without blushing or occasioning comment.

  A snowy cravat, perfectly creased, surrounded Lord Francis’ neck and a single diamond winked among its elaborate folds. Despite having one arm in a sling, his lordship made his finest leg to the two ladies, kissing Miss Harriet’s hand, and then bowing low over Isobel’s while appreciatively eyeing her fine bosom.

  At this somewhat unpropitious moment Haggock entered the room. "Viscount and Lady Wereham," he pronounced, and Isobel’s brother and his wife entered the room.

  At the sight of Lord Francis bowing over his sister’s décolletage Wereham frowned, but the little tableau soon changed as Lord Francis greeted the Viscount and Isobel rose to embrace her sister‑in‑law.

  "You look very fashionable, I am sure, dear sister," declared her ladyship in a faint voice. "I vow I should catch my death of a fever were I to be so daring in our wintry weather."

  As her ladyship was robustly built, dressed in a long sleeved gown draped about with shawls, the fire was roaring, and it had been a mild day, Isobel was nonplussed by this remark. However, she replied with a laugh that she was merely preparing to attend parties in drafty town houses on cold April evenings when no one with any pretensions to fashion would carry so much as a shawl.

  The Viscount and Lord Francis had discovered that they had attended Eton at the same time, though not in the same form, as the Viscount was two years Lord Francis’ senior. Isobel noticed with some surprise that Lord Francis appeared to be making an effort to tailor his conversation to Wereham’s pedantic style. It seemed to be pleasing her brother, for the storm clouds that had clearly been gathering on his brow when he first entered the salon had dissipated, and he was smiling.

  Lady Wereham had seated herself with Miss Harriet and was describing the latest accomplishments of her various offspring. Isobel, who was well acquainted with them, and felt they were children only a mother could love, had no choice but to join the gentlemen in their conversation. Her astonishment to discover that Lord Francis was amiably discussing modern farming methods, and pig breeding with her bucolic brother was great. She, however, dared to tax Wereham with the dullness of the topic, and urged a livelier discussion.

  "Well, sister, I vow ‘t’is no more uninteresting than those everlasting diggings of yours," he replied. Lord Francis raised his eyebrows at this comment, and gave Isobel a shrewd glance. He began to open his mouth to comment, and she first cursed herself inwardly for giving her brother an opportunity to criticize her yet again on this head, and then for possibly exposing her scholarly activities to Lord Francis, before hurrying into speech.

  "Ah, but I do not discuss my pastimes, Frederick. Music, gossip, or politics, if you please, shall be the topics of the evening. But as you are a confirmed Tory, and I do not know Lord Francis’ political views, perhaps I should not suggest politics," she added.

  Lord Francis could not now politely pursue the topic, so he amiably did as she commanded.

  "My political views have largely been military, ma’am," he commented. "I do plan to take up some occupation now that the wars are over, but whether it will be politics, diplomacy, or even farming I cannot say. Wereham certainly convinces me that successful farming requires far more study than I had any notion of."

  "You should not be thinking so seriously of a career when you are just returned from the wars," said Isobel merrily. "You have the best excuse a young man would ever have for a year or two of folly and self indulgence."

  "I find such seriousness of mind refreshing," said Frederick. "You should not encourage a young man to waste his time in frivolous pursuits."

  Isobel was relieved when Haggock chose that moment to announce Dr. Alvey, whose presence meant that the group could soon dine. The Viscount led his wife in to dinner, followed by Isobel on Lord Francis’ arm, and Miss Harriet escorted by the doctor.

  Harriet could not help reflecting sentimentally on what an attractive pair Lord Francis and Isobel made. Her chestnut curls stood out against his blonde locks; her height and statuesque presence were made queenly by his tall, intensely masculine figure. Lord Francis’ thoughts were somewhat similar, though he concerned himself only with his hostess’ distracting attractiveness, which had never been more obvious to him than tonight with the silk of her dress clinging lovingly to her curves and caressing her thighs as she walked beside him. He enjoyed it.

  Isobel was impatient with herself for being overwhelmingly conscious of Lord Francis, of the sinewy arm she touched, the warmth and magnetism of his body, and the faint, clean scent that hung about him. She did not enjoy it. Lord and Lady Wereham thought only of their dinners, and Dr. Alvey looked forward to port and a rubber of whist after a fine meal.

  Although the party was small and quite intimate, Wereham’s presence imposed a formality that forbade talk across the table, and Isobel, with her brother on one side and Lord Francis on the other, found herself with little to say. Frederick’s conversation was never very amusing, and his presence prevented her from making the lively, sportive remarks that she was accustomed to address to her guest. Talk ran desultorily along the line of horses, the weather, and the coming delights of the Season.

  When the ladies left the gentlemen to their port, Isobel resigned herself to the undiluted doings of her young nephews and nieces. However, Lady Wereham did not require a response from her audience, so Isobel was able to allow her thoughts to wander, only occasionally murmuring in agreement or surprise at some remark of Lady Wereham’s, and allowing Miss Harriet to carry on such additional conversation as was required to maintain her ladyship’s flow of words.

  Wereham was disposed to linger over the port, for he refused to stock the highest quality in his cellars, and enjoyed indulging in his sister’s vintage bottles while pontificating to a new audience. But Dr. Alvey longed for his cards, and Lord Francis began to find it difficult to maintain his calm in the face of some of his lordship's more absurd pronouncements, so the gentlemen soon joined the ladies.

  Once Dr. Alvey and Lady Wereham were together in the drawing room, whist was inevitable. Isobel found little pleasure in playing cards, so she contrived to substitute Miss Harriet, who was quite a gamester when given the opportunity. Lord Wereham must perforce play with his wife, so Isobel and Lord Francis were left to their own devices. He strolled towards the pianoforte and opened it with a significant smile.

  "We must either read in silence, converse under your sister‑in‑law's eagle eye, or entertain ourselves with music," he murmured to Isobel. "Since it can soothe the savage breast, perhaps it may also quiet gossip."

  Their eyes met in a moment of good-humored understanding as Isobel moved towards the pianoforte, where she began to unbutton her evening gloves. He came closer and took her hand, making to assist her by slowly opening the tiny fastenings. His long white fingers lingered over the task, and she felt a sudden stab of heat where his hand held hers, followed by a shiver through her body. She snatched her hand away and finished the unbuttoning hastily.

  "Silence gossip, indeed," she hissed. "See how Honoria stares at your gesture, my lord. You are more like to compromise us both."

  "Although that would be hard to achieve in a drawing room with this crowd around us, perhaps that would not be so ill, Miss Paley," he responded. "I must marry, you know, as my brother is sickly and has produced no heir in ten years of marriage. You are a beautiful, gracious and eligible lady. Surely I could convince your brother that I am a suitable parti." His voice was teasing, but his grey eyes met hers directly.

  Isobel’s face flamed, but she answered robustly. "Nonsense. I have no interest in the wedded state, while your ambition, I feel sure, is to cut
a dash in London this spring. There will be plenty of young ladies with an eye to your many advantages. You need have no thoughts of me."

  He raised an eyebrow, but did not reply. Her blushes having receded, she finished removing the gloves, and seated herself before the instrument with some works of Handel. His lordship had just settled himself, resting his elbows on the instrument and smiling at her in a disturbing way, when she paused.

  "Will you not turn the pages for me, my lord? I fear I do not know Handel’s works intimately enough to play from memory."

  Lord Francis quickly moved to oblige her, and Isobel was at first pleased at her suggestion, as she would not now have to look into his face. But as Lord Francis then took advantage of the task to take a stance rather closer behind her than was necessary, she began to wonder if her ploy had been wise. She could sense the warmth from his body near her bare shoulders and again she felt the disturbing pull of attraction that he exuded.

  Fortunately for Isobel, she was a true musician, and well trained, so she allowed the melody to carry her away from the distressing present, into a place of sound and emotion. Never had she played with such passion, she realized as the music proceeded, nor with such skill in her interpretation. When the last strains of the concerto died away, she noticed that even the whist game had come to a halt.

  "Bravo, my dear Miss Paley," cried the doctor. "I knew you played delightfully, but this is something beyond the common way. Your presence must inspire her, Lord Francis, for I know it cannot be our company."

  "Indeed Isobel, you must have been practicing much more diligently than I had ever suspected for I have never heard you play with such energy and feeling," added Miss Harriet.

  "Enough, enough," cried Isobel. "Spare my blushes, I beg you. Perhaps it is just the beauty of the music. I think I will settle for country music and simple airs for now, however, as I cannot believe it possible to receive such praise for a second effort."