by Norma Darcy
The earl smiled affably as she drew him forward and the introductions were made. The man with the fleshy nose was introduced as Mr. Joshua Peabody, the eldest son of a friend of the late Sir William Blakelow. He owned Goldings, a large estate on the Worcestershire border. The reserved gentleman, the earl discovered, was Mr. Samuel Bateman, from a wealthy family that lived in Loughton and as quiet in appearance as he was in character.
That both of these gentlemen were in pursuit of Marianne, his lordship soon dismissed when he saw the way they looked at the eldest Miss Blakelow. He knew a moment of surprise. Given that she was a virtual recluse, he had not considered that he would have competition for her hand.
“Are you related to my Blakelow friends, Mr. Peabody?” asked Lord Marcham as he accepted a cup of tea from Georgiana’s hand.
“I consider myself some sort of cousin, I suppose,” he answered, dabbing at the stain on his trousers. “Their dear father and mine were good friends. Sir William Blakelow was a very fine man. He would have done anything for his children . . . anything at all.”
“I’m sure he would,” replied the earl politely, looking around at the sadly dilapidated state of the furnishings and the stained bare patch on the wall where a painting had once been. A father so fine that he gambled away their home out from under their feet, he thought. “I am sure that you would agree that such a kind father would have left his children’s future well cared for?”
“Yes, of course. Sir William was nothing if not thorough in all matters of business.”
“Indeed? And so if he thought that his youngest sons would benefit from a school education, he would have no doubt arranged it?”
“Er, yes . . .”
“Or if he thought that Miss Blakelow needed the assistance of a guardian in making her arrangements for the family, he would have arranged that too?”
Miss Blakelow blushed at his lordship’s inference. “I do not believe such an arrangement exists, my lord.”
“Quite so,” agreed his lordship smoothly.
Mr. Peabody bristled. “I only mean to counsel Miss Blakelow in areas where I think she needs it. Our families have always been close, and as William is often away, I look after them in his absence.”
“Very commendable, Mr. Peabody, but that will no longer be necessary,” said the earl. “As the hopeful future brother-in-law of Sir William Blakelow of Thorncote, if such decisions are needed, then I will take them—in conjunction with my wife, of course.”
“Your wife?” echoed Mr. Bateman, staring from Marianne to Catherine to Elizabeth and then back at the earl.
“Yes.”
“And do you imagine that Marianne, Kitty, or Lizzy would have a man like you?” demanded Mr. Peabody.
“Not for one moment,” replied his lordship. “And as I have not asked them to marry me, then such a conclusion is, dare I say it, impossible.”
Mr. Peabody scratched his head. “Then . . . who?”
“Miss Georgiana Blakelow.”
The lady in question closed her eyes in silent pain as the room seemed to explode around them.
“What?” shrieked Mr. Peabody.
“Impossible,” said Mr. Bateman, his face pale with anger. “She would not have you. I would rather marry her myself than see her shackled to you.”
“I’m sure Miss Blakelow is overcome by your kindness,” said his lordship dryly.
Miss Blakelow was in fact looking around her for something to hurl at their noble visitor. Everyone in the room stared at him, mouths agape.
“Please, Mr. Bateman, Mr. Peabody, pay no heed to his lordship’s jokes. He is mad,” Miss Blakelow said and heard the earl give his low laugh. “I am not going to marry anyone, I can assure you. Lord Marcham thinks it amusing to pretend there is an agreement between us—”
“You?” demanded Mr. Peabody, as if the lady had not spoken. “But you . . . I mean . . . you are a . . .”
“Yes?” inquired the earl softly.
The portly gentleman gulped, remembering suddenly the stories of the duel his lordship had fought as a young man. “But you hardly know her,” he said, settling on the safest complaint that popped into his brain.
“I know her well enough to know that I wish to marry her. And so if any chastisement needs doing, I will do it . . . Jack?”
“Yes, my lord?”
“Consider yourself duly chastised.”
“Right . . . oh . . . is that it?”
“That’s it. And you are barred from fishing for a week.”
“Er . . . right.”
“But you don’t even like fishing—” Kitty began. “Ow! I don’t see why you should kick me, Jack Blakelow!”
“You seem to forget, sir,” said Ned, ignoring all this with a cold smile, “that our sister refused you. All of us heard her turn you down.”
The earl smiled. “When you come to know me better, you will realize that when I want something, I invariably get it.”
“Lord Marcham?” said Miss Blakelow, smoothing the material of her gown over her knee.
“Yes, my love?”
“Not this time,” she said with a sweet smile, but as their eyes met through the lenses of her spectacles, hers held the distinct gleam of a challenge.
“Georgie is the best of sisters, but she has no great opinion of men or mankind. What made you choose her as your bride?” Marianne asked the earl. “You must know that she has vowed never to marry anyone? It is common knowledge.”
“Hush, Marianne,” said Miss Blakelow quietly.
“You may think you know her but you don’t, my lord,” continued her sister regardless. “She had any number of beaux when she was young and refused them all.”
“Indeed?” he replied, meeting Miss Blakelow’s gaze. “A veritable little heartbreaker.”
The lady blushed and looked away.
“She doesn’t want to be married,” declared Marianne.
“I see. Well, what does she want then?” asked his lordship.
“She is happy to stay here with us,” said Kitty.
“Yes. And although she is not strictly related to us, she has always managed everything creditably,” said Marianne.
“And is like a mother to us all,” put in Lizzy.
“I see,” said the earl. “And what will happen when all of you marry? And when William brings his new wife to live at Thorncote? Do you imagine the future Lady Blakelow will be happy to have her sister-in-law running the house for her?”
“She will come and live with me,” said Marianne gallantly.
“And me,” said Kitty.
“She will be the dear kind teacher to our children that she was to us.”
Although this impassioned speech was intended to be a compliment, it hit Miss Blakelow like a slap around the face with a dead fish. She tried to smile and failed.
Lord Marcham saw the look of consternation on Georgiana’s face and longed to box Marianne’s ears. “What an attractive prospect to be sure,” he said. “But perhaps your sister would prefer to have children of her own to love and nurture. And I own, I would like nothing more than to try to give them to her.”
There was an audible gasp in the room, and Miss Blakelow blushed scarlet.
“Sir!” cried Mr. Peabody. “There are ladies present.”
“So there are . . .” agreed the earl, picking up his cup and sipping from it. “Miss Blakelow has given up her youth and prospects to look after you brats. It is time she did something for herself.”
Miss Blakelow protested. “What nonsense! I did not give up anything.”
“That’s not what I heard,” he said.
She sank into brooding silence, wondering how much Aunt Blakelow had told him.
“You, my lord, are a disgrace!” said Mr. Peabody, almost as red as a holly berry.
“So I have been told.”
“To speak of the . . . the marital act . . . in front of impressionable young minds is simply not to be borne!”
“If these young minds are anything like mine wa
s at their age, then they probably already know more about it than you do,” replied the earl.
A collective giggle answered this remark, and Mr. Peabody stormed from the room. Mr. Bateman sat quietly in the corner, disapproval emanating from every pore.
The earl’s eyes twinkled engagingly as they rested upon his reluctant fiancée. “Well, that got rid of him, my love; I told you I would achieve it, didn’t I?”
“My lord Marcham, might I have a word with you in private?” asked Miss Blakelow, a steely edge to her voice.
He set down his cup and smiled. “I thought you’d never ask.”
“What exactly are you up to?” Miss Blakelow demanded, watching as the party retreated to stroll in the gardens. His lordship held the door open for her, and as she brushed past him, she trod on something and tripped, only just catching herself before she ploughed face-first into his chest.
“That was my foot,” he said with a pained expression on his face.
“Sorry,” she said awkwardly.
“What did you do with that money I gave you for the new spectacles? You clearly have not made use of it. If I find you have spent it on any of the Blakelow brats, it will be very much the worse for you—”
“What are you doing?” she interrupted with some impatience. “Are you determined to shame me in front of the entire neighborhood?”
“Not at all. You wanted to be rid of Pearbrain, did you not?”
“His name is Peabody. Please try and remember it. I did . . . did wish that he might go away . . . but not like that. And I wish that you wouldn’t say that I have given up my youth and prospects and beauty for my brothers and sisters, for it is not true, you know.”
He looked down at her, a warm light in his eyes. “I didn’t say that.”
“You did.”
“Not your beauty. I didn’t say it for I don’t think it.”
“Then you need spectacles even more than I do,” she said caustically.
He smiled. “My eyesight is fine and I suspect yours is too.”
“Did I or did I not refuse your offer of marriage the other day?” she demanded.
“You did.”
“I did. I am glad that we are in agreement over that. So why then, given my very clear refusal, have you just announced that we are to be married?”
“I didn’t. I announced my intention to marry you. That, my girl, is entirely different.”
“I am not going to marry you. Can you understand that?”
He gave her a twisted smile. “I will allow that you are not ready to marry me at the present moment, but I hope that once you have discovered that you cannot live without me then you will change your mind.”
There was a loud groan from the lady.
“Yes, my love?”
“I will not change my mind. I won’t marry. I cannot marry. There, can I be any plainer?”
“Why not?”
She rolled her eyes. “I am not having this discussion with you. Please consider this my final answer.”
“Very well. I will come to an agreement with you. I will not send details of our engagement to the newspapers just yet.”
“How kind.”
“Yes. We will be friends first.”
“When are you going home?” she asked, as if his presence gave her exquisite pain.
He grinned. “When you have agreed to ride with me tomorrow.”
“Then you will have a long wait, my lord.”
“A walk then, by the lake.”
“No.”
“You are being rude to me today,” he marveled.
“And you are making decisions for me and I don’t like it,” she said tartly, trying to move past him.
He caught her elbow in his hand and held it fast. “Don’t you?” he asked in a soft voice. “I venture to think that you like it a great deal.”
She blushed and tried to remove her arm. “You flatter yourself. I know it amuses you, my lord, to mock me because you think I have no experience of men. But I do not find it amusing, and I wish that you would find yourself another flirt.”
“Is that what this is all about? You think I am teasing you?”
“I think we both know that you are amusing yourself at my expense. Now, please let go of me, or we will be remarked upon.”
He released her. “You will allow me to tell you that your Peabody fellow is a great deal too busy in your affairs, ma’am.”
She glared at him. “No, you are a great deal too busy in my affairs. You are no more my choice of husband than I am your choice of wife.”
He smiled. “Then that shows how little you know me . . . and yourself for that matter.”
With this very perplexing remark he let her go and watched her disappear into the rose garden with Mr. Samuel Bateman. He left soon afterward, sure in the knowledge that Miss Georgiana Blakelow was thinking about him—perhaps not in the most flattering of terms, but she was definitely thinking about him.
“My dear Miss Blakelow,” began Mr. Bateman slowly, ten minutes later, “forgive my impertinence, but marriage to the Earl of Marcham?”
She gave him a speaking look as they found a seat at one end of the rose garden. “There will be no marriage, never fear. Pay no heed to his lordship, Mr. Bateman.”
“Pay no heed? The man is a . . . a scoundrel.”
The note of shock in his voice made Miss Blakelow want to laugh, and she bit her lower lip and sucked it under until she had controlled herself. “This is his idea of a jest only. He seems to take enjoyment from baiting me.”
“Baiting you?” he repeated. “But why?”
She shrugged and adjusted the shawl around her shoulders. “He has likely never come into contact with someone like me before. As part of my work with the church, I wrote a pamphlet, you may remember, condemning his morals and behavior. No one was more surprised than I was when it was published across half the country.” She smoothed the worn skirt of her gown over her knees and gave him a rueful smile. “I think he is looking for revenge.”
Mr. Bateman reached under the slats of the bench and pulled out a weed from between the gravel chippings. “I would never have thought a man like him would be bothered if a hundred such pamphlets were published.”
“I agree. But for some reason he seems determined to punish me by pretending to have an interest in me.”
“The thrill of the chase,” he said distractedly.
She smiled. “Something like that. I don’t believe he has ever been turned down by a woman before. And his pride is wounded.”
“And such pride too.”
“Oh, I don’t say that he has insulted me or accosted me in an improper manner. Merely that he has made it his mission to make a fool of me.”
“How any man could make a sport of such a pure and gentle creature is beyond me,” Mr. Bateman said earnestly.
Miss Blakelow, who considered herself anything but pure and gentle, pulled a face. “He is bored.”
“Do you think so indeed? Bored with his wealth and position? I wish that I had the opportunity to be bored with his advantages,” he remarked, and then colored as if remembering that he was supposed to be a Christian man. “My apologies, ma’am, I meant only that he has a world of opportunity spread before him. He has no reason to be bored. He may go where he likes, buy what he wishes, and marry who he wants . . . Others, younger sons especially, are not so lucky.”
“I don’t say that he is bored of his position, merely that he is bored of his life. Women come two-a-penny to a man like him. He is only making me the object of his attentions because I am different. A novelty.” She smiled brightly. “Do not worry for me. He wishes to make me fall in love with him so that he might cast me aside. And I am in no danger of giving him what he wishes.”
“Well,” he replied. “If the man becomes intolerable, let me know.”
“That is very kind of you, Mr. Bateman. What do you plan to do? Fight a duel on my behalf?”
He balked a little, unaware that she was teasing him.
“If I must,” he replied, running a forefinger between his neck and the collar of his shirt.
“Dear sir, pray don’t be ridiculous. I was jesting. Now tell me, are you planning to attend the dance next week with your mother and sister?”
“Yes, at least I think so, if my sister has recovered from her cold. Will you be there too, ma’am?”
“Me?” she said, rather taken aback. “Oh, Lord no. It has been a long time since I have shown my face in Loughton. No, my aunt will accompany the girls. She enjoys it, you know, sitting and chatting with her friends.”
Miss Blakelow remembered the horrible, tedious evenings, sitting amongst the dowagers and the chaperones, dressed in some featureless, dull gray gown that no one noticed, her obligatory spectacles hiding her from the world, her foot tapping longingly in time to the music. She watched with every other dowager present as the young people set about having fun and yearned to join the dancing herself. It was torture. No, let Aunt Blakelow go and leave her in peace.
“If you are worried that you will want for a partner, ma’am, I should be honored to lead you out,” said Mr. Bateman.
Miss Blakelow smiled. “That is kind of you, sir, but I do not dance. My eyesight is so bad that I constantly crash into people, and my memory so lax that I forget all the steps. No, don’t worry for me. I shall be happier at home with a book.”
They rose then and meandered their way through the gardens to the lake, where the rest of the party were engaged in skimming flat pebbles across the surface of the water. Mr. Bateman discovered a hitherto unknown talent and was soon lost in the laughter of the moment. As his hand curled around Marianne’s, instructing her how to hold the stone, Miss Blakelow smiled like the veritable matchmaking mamas whom she so deplored.
CHAPTER 11
“WHAT CAN YOU HAVE found at Holme to entertain you all this time?” complained Sir Julius, looking at his friend through his quizzing glass. His lordship had come down to London on business. Within the hour, news of his arrival had reached a good number of his acquaintances. He had been invited to dine by three particular friends, and a note had been brought around to his house asking him to present himself at his mother’s house as a matter of urgency. Having been in London several days and having failed to abide by her wishes, the earl was bracing himself for an imminent visit from the countess. As his lordship had a very fair notion of what his mother wished to ask him about, he was much relieved to have found Sir Julius upon his doorstep instead.