The Bluestocking and the Rake

by Norma Darcy

  She took his arm and led him over to the other window, out of earshot of their mother. “Don’t throw yourself away on Lady Emily. Be patient.”

  “I would say twenty years is patient enough, wouldn’t you?”

  She stared at him. “What’s happened to you? Have you finally given up hope? What happened to the man who wanted to wait for love?”

  “He’s gone. I cannot wait forever, Caro. This family needs an heir,” he replied.

  She stole a glance at their mother and lowered her voice. “But you’re so . . . so jaded. I think you’d rather read a book these days than . . . well . . . rather than make love!”

  He looked at her with amusement from under his hooded lids. “Sister, you shock me.”

  “I am a married woman of the world—well, widowed at any rate—and you, Robbie, were never shocked by a little plain speaking, so don’t come the outraged prude with me. When was the last time you looked at a woman and wanted her? I mean really wanted her?”

  An awkward silence followed. Lord Marcham felt the truth of her words hit home and resonate with the part inside him that yearned to love. He saw a desolate future stretching out before him, a future in which he was trapped inside a loveless marriage. He wondered if he had left it all too late. Had he run out of time? He was already six and thirty. How much longer could he afford to wait? No, let him take Lady Emily, in sickness and in health, until an heir was conceived. Then, once the future of the earldom was secure, he could rest easy, knowing his duty had been done.

  “Then where is she?” he asked quietly. “Where is this paragon? I have waited for her long enough. No, it is time I married. I need an heir. Emily is my choice, and I would ask you and Mama and Sarah to respect my wishes . . . especially Sarah, as she is, of all of my sisters, the busiest in my affairs.” He kissed her on the cheek. “Have you heard her news, by the way?”

  “Yes. Wonderful news,” Caroline said absently, thinking that when their eldest sister found out that their brother was planning matrimony with Lady Emily Holt, there would be the devil to pay. Sarah was two years younger than Robert, but she acted as if she were the eldest and the head of the family. Harriet, the youngest of the three sisters, would be over the moon at Robbie’s news. Anything her big brother did was perfect in her eyes.

  “If she has a son, do you think she will name him after me?” he asked.

  “What sort of a name is Lucifer for a baby?” Caroline replied with an innocent look.

  The Earl of Marcham snorted in amusement, made his good-byes, and sauntered down the steps of his mother’s home in a restless mood. He had by no means been certain that he was about to make an offer for Lady Emily, but his mother’s outrage at his choice had provoked the devil in him, and he had found himself declaring an interest in the girl when he had not entirely made up his own mind on the subject.

  Yes, he found Lady Emily attractive. Yes, she was a kind and generous woman, and he had no doubt she would make a splendid countess.

  So let it be Lady Emily Holt. Or any of the other respectable women of Worcestershire. He cared not.

  The woman’s mother irritated him, the earl decided as he sipped his tea.

  The overattentive, almost fawning, desire to please set up his bristles. She was like a spider, spreading her web out wide to catch him.

  He was given the best chair, or so she told him, and the best tea served in the best china. He watched Lady Holt, a plump, vacuous woman, titter on the edge of her chair, praising the accomplishments of her eldest daughter, and he felt an overwhelming desire to run in the opposite direction.

  Lady Emily sat opposite him, looking demure and shy, and hardly raised her eyes to his face. If she were beyond the age of twenty, his lordship would be very much surprised. He found himself wondering if she would be the image of her mother in thirty years’ time.

  The earl had traveled from his mother’s estate to the Holts’ residence expressly to decide once and for all whether he was to make an offer. Emily was pretty, petite, and voluptuous, with blonde artificially curled hair and a small mouth that simpered rather than smiled. He wondered if she had put on her best dress for him. He wondered if her mother made her life a misery in private. He wondered if Lady Emily would rather marry the devil himself than him.

  He looked at her closely, trying to detect any warmth in her expression as her eyes rested upon him. Was she being forced into this match by her mother? And if he married her, would he find her a dutiful but unenthusiastic contributor to the more intimate moments of wedlock?

  He set down his teacup and suggested that Emily show him the rose garden that he had spied from his curricle.

  The mother beamed. The daughter blushed and looked sick.

  A shawl and a bonnet were fetched, and soon the Earl of Marcham, the most notorious of men, was alone with the eminently respectable Lady Emily Holt.

  “You—you have been away, my lord?” she stammered as they pushed open the gate into the rose garden.

  He nodded. “To see my mother.”

  “And is she well?”

  “Yes, I thank you.”

  A silence fell, and Emily looked away.

  “Do you know why I am here?” he asked.

  She turned fuchsia pink. He found himself irritated by her blushes, her lack of worldliness, her die-away airs. He had been about for a good many years and had seen more than his fair share of blushing virgins. Many had set their snares for him, and many had failed to entrap him.

  He smothered a yawn as she turned toward him.

  “You are here to visit my poor Mama, and indeed we are grateful for your kindness,” she said.

  “My kindness?” he echoed. “Pray what have I done to deserve your gratitude?”

  “You have taken an interest in us, even though you circulate in considerably more fashionable circles than ours. We are simple people, my lord.”

  He doubted that. Her father was an earl, albeit an impoverished one, but they were still an old, noble family and not so poor that they could not afford to put on a show for a prospective son-in-law.

  “And yet that is a very fashionable gown you are wearing, Lady Emily.”

  She shrugged a pretty shoulder, pleased with the compliment. “Oh, this old thing? I have worn it for an age.”

  “I’m sure I would have remembered if you had . . . Emily. May I call you Emily?” he asked, touching her arm. “I wish to know . . . are your feelings engaged? Forgive my candor, but I must know. You and Thomas . . . is everything entirely at an end between you?”

  He knew something of what had passed between Lady Emily and his old friend Thomas Edridge and knew that it had not ended well. What he was less sure of was how greatly the lady’s affections had been engaged. He had to be certain that she was not in love with Thomas. He was prepared to give up his own hopes for a love match if he must, but he had no desire to marry a woman whose heart was given elsewhere.

  Lady Emily Holt paled and looked at her hands. “Mr. Edridge has . . . has decided that I am not . . . I mean he has . . . other interests.”

  “I see.”

  There was a silence.

  Lord Marcham watched her face, trying to read her feelings. But she was so calm and pale that he could not detect any signs of her heart having been touched. He tried another approach. “Thomas tells me that you are merely friends. He said that you have told him it was all a mistake, and you had no feelings for him beyond that of a brother. Forgive me, I do not wish to give you pain, but I have to be certain.”

  Lady Emily Holt raised her chin. “I won’t pretend that you do not perfectly understand the circumstances, my lord. Mr. Edridge has . . . has toyed with my affections. He is nothing more than an acquaintance to me now.”

  He nodded, satisfied. “Then . . . I mean . . . would you do me the honor . . . ?”

  “Yes?” she replied breathlessly, staring wide-eyed up at him.

  He froze. The words stuck in his throat. Somehow he could not do it. The thought of taking h
er in his arms sent a spike of dread through him. The thought of waking up next to her every morning for the rest of his life filled him with such a sense of loss that he felt bereft. His heart cried out at the injustice of being quashed by his will. It would not remain quiet. It called to him. It whispered to him to have hope, still, when he thought all hope had gone. Caroline had been right; however attractive Lady Emily was, he simply couldn’t do it. He cleared his throat.

  “Would you do me the honor of escorting me to the lake? I have a fancy to see it.”

  “Of course,” she replied demurely as she led the way along the path.

  “Well, child, well?” asked Lady Holt as soon as his lordship had driven away.

  Emily blushed and stared at the floor. Her mother came toward her and took her face between her hands. Emily lifted her eyes.

  “Well, child? Has he asked you?” Lady Holt demanded.

  The young woman knew what it meant to her mother. She knew that the new gowns and bonnets had all been for his benefit. Her mother regarded her with such a sense of expectation that Emily felt trapped. To let down her family after such expense, to be a disappointment to the people she loved so well—she could not do it.

  “Oh, Mama,” she began.

  Lady Holt beamed. “You are engaged then? Tell me, Emily, is it true?”

  She stared at the floor, her mouth refusing to work. Lord Marcham was everything a young woman could wish for: handsome, titled, and rich. Her parents yearned for a match between them. How could she let them down? Perhaps, given time, Lord Marcham would indeed propose; she had felt certain he was about to do so when they had walked in the garden together, but something had made him change his mind. Perhaps if she pretended a real engagement did exist between them, it would eventually come to fruition, and her mother would not be so dreadfully angry with her. So she stayed silent and let assumptions be made.

  Her mother shrieked with joy.

  CHAPTER 2

  “HAVE YOU SEEN THIS rag?” drawled Sir Julius Fawcett, crossing his booted ankles and resting them on the table.

  Lord Marcham cast a disapproving glance at his friend and reflected that pristine white tablecloths should be absent from the table whenever Sir Julius Fawcett joined him for breakfast. He looked at the paper being waved at him without interest. “No, what is it?” he asked, carving himself another slice of ham.

  “A sermon. At least it might as well be.”

  His lordship reapplied himself to his breakfast. He had come down to London on business to stay at his town house, and Sir Julius, on finding that his old friend was back in town, immediately accosted him at a very unfashionable hour. “Are you taking up religion at last, Ju?” his lordship asked.

  Sir Julius shuddered and set the paper down. “Perish the thought.”

  “Then would you like a slice of ham or sirloin instead?”

  His friend waved it away impatiently with a look of distaste. He was an extremely thin man who never seemed to eat, a fact that contrasted strongly with Lord Marcham’s legendary appetite. Sir Julius was a good ten years older than his friend and had spent much of his youth abroad, his family having made their money in sugar in the West Indies some years before. Somewhere along the line, the Fawcetts had earned respectability by marrying into the aristocracy, and Sir Julius, the grandson of the union, was now as much a part of the English nobility as Lord Marcham himself.

  Sir Julius rubbed his spectacularly long nose. “It’s another one of those pamphlets, March. You surely must have heard about them? Every drawing room has one.”

  “Really? Not mine,” said his lordship over the rim of his tankard.

  “You will be pleased to learn that you feature in this one—well, she doesn’t actually mention you by name, but anyone may guess who she means.”

  “She?” repeated the earl. “And who is she?”

  “The author . . . a Miss Blakelow.”

  “Never heard of her.”

  “Well, she has definitely heard of you,” said Sir Julius.

  “Everyone has heard of me, Ju,” replied his lordship without a hint of conceit. “My youthful . . . er . . . adventures have made me infamous, you know.”

  “It’s called ‘The inexorable pursuit of earthly pleasures by the moneyed classes and the consequences upon the poorest and most vulnerable in our society.’”

  Lord Marcham raised his eyes from his plate. “Memorable.”

  “Isn’t it, though?” agreed his friend.

  “Are you dining out this evening?” asked his lordship in a valiant attempt to change the subject. “I thought that I might go to Whites.”

  “Miss Blakelow condemns your morals,” said Sir Julius. “She says that a man in your position should know better.”

  “Indeed?” The earl yawned and cut a sliver of ham from the slice on his plate. “And who is Miss Blakelow to question me or anyone else?”

  “‘A woman with the highest moral principles,’ or so it says here.”

  “A veritable saint then,” replied his lordship when he had swallowed his mouthful. “But I don’t answer to Miss Blakelow or her following.”

  “And she has a following,” said Sir Julius gloomily, turning over the publication in his hands so that he might examine the back of it. “She must be making a pretty penny from all this too.”

  “Good for her.”

  “March, I do not think that you are taking this at all seriously,” complained Sir Julius. “Damn me if you aren’t a little too relaxed about the whole affair.”

  “She is making money from peddling gossip. In my view that makes her no arbiter of moral excellence. I’ll wager she has achieved notoriety by sensationalizing the same old stories that have been regurgitated continually since I was eighteen.”

  “Oh, no, she has done her research. She seems to know an awful lot about you.”

  Lord Marcham fixed his rather hard gray eyes upon his friend. “Research? What research?”

  “She knows about the duel.”

  His lordship rolled his eyes. “Everyone knows about that.”

  “No, the other duel,” said Sir Julius with a meaningful look.

  There was a short silence. Lord Marcham thought back the best part of twenty years to the young fool he’d been at the age of seventeen and grimaced. A friend of his father’s had accused him of cheating at cards, and Marcham, as hotheaded as he was hot-blooded, had told the fellow he’d meet him whenever, wherever, he chose. The attendants at the duel had been sworn to secrecy, and he was as sure as he could be that the doctor hadn’t blabbed. Where on earth had she got her information?

  “The other . . . How the devil—?”

  “Exactly. See? I told you. She knows things. And now all of society knows about it too.”

  The earl snatched the pamphlet from his friend’s hand.

  “Third page, second paragraph,” said Sir Julius, a hint of triumph in his voice.

  There was a silence while his lordship read the offending piece, a frown between his brows. “Devil take her,” he muttered under his breath. “Who is the woman anyway?”

  “I told you,” said Sir Julius with some irritation. “Miss Blakelow. Don’t you ever listen?”

  “Yes, I heard you the first time, but that does not tell me who she is.”

  “She knows things,” repeated his friend ominously.

  “But I’ve never even heard of the woman . . . wait . . . Blakelow, why is that name familiar to me?”

  His friend stared at him. “Her father was your neighbor.”

  “Was he? Damned if I can remember.”

  “Sir William Blakelow. Gamester and profligate, and that description could be applied equally to the son. Seems to me that the daughter knows your business, and if I were you, I would look to my household.”

  The earl threw down the pamphlet. “What do you mean?”

  “Ten to one your servants have been blabbing what they shouldn’t.”

  His lordship shook his head. “My servants don’t bla
b—not if they wish to retain their positions in my house. Besides, they don’t know anything.”

  “You’d be surprised,” said Sir Julius. “They have a way of knowing everything.”

  “Well, mine don’t . . . not everything.”

  “You may say that, but somehow Miss Blakelow knows about the Diana Ingham affair, and I certainly didn’t tell her.”

  A gleam of annoyance stole into his lordship’s eyes. “Does she indeed?”

  “She knows you covered it up and that you went to great lengths to do it.”

  The earl pushed back his chair and flung his napkin onto the table. He remembered how smitten his younger brother, Henry, had been by Diana Ingham. The boy had made a fool of himself. Diana, as clever as she was beautiful, had Hal wrapped around her little finger from the moment she’d met him. It took all his lordship’s persuasive powers and a sizable purse to induce the woman to leave the lad alone. Now here was Miss Blakelow, raking up the past when he thought he had buried it so deep that no one would ever find it again. Confound this Blakelow creature—she was going to undo all his hard work!

  But drawing attention to her wretched pamphlet would only prove that the words written within it were correct and provide more ammunition for the woman to write another edition. No, the best way to deal with this was to pay it no attention. Pretty soon the ton would find another story for their gossips. He sighed. “Can I not eat my breakfast in peace?”

  “I’m telling you, March, you will have to take her to task. Pay her off or something.”

  “Pay her off?” repeated Lord Marcham. “I will not.”

  “I will lay odds that she’s writing another one.”

  “Let her. Who is she that she dare question me?”

  “She says that she is hell-bent on, and I quote, ‘exposing the corrupt attitude of the nobility and their belief that any woman is fair game.’ There. Did I not warn you? This chit is a troublemaker.”

  “You don’t say.”

  “Have you and she . . . you know? Had relations?” asked Sir Julius.

  The earl pulled a face. “Hardly, when I can barely remember her name.”