by Norma Darcy
“She’s in the end bedchamber, my lord, and resting now. She took quite a tumble, and there’s a nasty gash on her head.”
“Has the doctor been sent for?”
“He’s on his way, my lord . . . but you cannot go in there; she’s in bed and it’s not decent—”
“Decency be damned,” he muttered, flinging open the door.
In the center of the room in the large canopied bed, Miss Blakelow lay supported by white pillows, her skin almost as pale as the bandage around her head, and her hair for once free of the white lace cap. Her dark locks fanned out across the pillow like liquid mahogany. Her eyes were closed, her eyelashes a perfect delicate fan against her cheeks, her right eye bruised and blackened, as good a disguise as ever her spectacles had been.
The earl approached the bed and sat on the edge of it, taking her hand in his. Her eyelids fluttered open and she looked at him for a moment, uncomprehending. Her green eyes, unencumbered by her spectacles, were clear and beautiful. She blinked and recognition came.
She smiled. “Oh, it’s you.”
He squeezed her hand. “My—” He broke off and cleared his throat. He looked down ruefully at her black eye. “You did take a tumble, didn’t you? How do you feel?”
“I have a headache,” she said.
He gave her a slow smile. “Well, if you will go gallivanting around in the dark . . .”
“I was looking for you,” she said softly.
“Were you? Ought I to be flattered?”
“I don’t think so. I was going to tell you that we were very touched by your gift but we couldn’t accept it,” she replied, wondering vaguely when he was going to let go of her hand.
“I might have guessed, I suppose. And does this decree come from all the Blakelow women or just my little bluestocking?” he asked.
She gave a wry smile. “Well, I must confess that if I were to force my sisters to give up their chance of a new dress, I’d have a riot on my hands.”
“So then. Accept my gift with a good grace.”
“It was very kind of you, but I could not wear such a dress.”
“You don’t like the color? I thought it would suit . . .”
“I think the color is beautiful, and I’m sure your last mistress did too,” she said.
His lips twitched appreciatively. “My last mistress did not have a dress that color, and if she had I would have liked it exceedingly.”
“I’m sure you would. It is a color that commands attention.”
“Which is why I would very much like to see you in it.”
“If you would not be offended, my lord, I would like to exchange it for something more . . .”
“Dull?” he suggested.
She pretended to glare severely at him. “Yes.”
“Well, I would be offended. Mortally offended. I have seen you in enough gray and black and purple to last me for a lifetime.”
“My lord, please, you do not understand. If you wish to pay for a dress for me, then let me change it to one that I may wear. I will not wear a ball gown. I don’t go to parties. I may choose a fabric half the price of the red silk and probably make myself two day dresses for less money than it costs to make one ball gown.”
“And what will you wear to Harriet’s ball?” he demanded.
“I am not going to Lady Harriet’s ball,” she said, trying gently to disengage her hand from his grasp.
“You damned well are,” he replied, holding her hand rather tighter.
“I am not. I cannot,” she said in a quiet voice.
“I want you there. If I am forced to attend the wretched event, then I will at least have someone there I choose to talk to. And, I may add, someone to dance with who does not bore me rigid.”
“Please, my lord,” she said, trying not to smile. “Don’t be angry with me.”
“You are going, even if I have to ride over to Thorncote myself and dress you with my own hands . . . which, now I come to think of it, does have a certain appeal . . .”
A footstep sounded outside the door and Lady St. Michael took in the scene. Miss Blakelow tore her hand from the earl’s but not quickly enough.
“Robbie, get out of here before you ruin this girl’s reputation for good,” complained his sister wearily, coming toward the bed.
His lordship stood up hastily. “I was checking that Miss Blakelow was comfortable.”
“I will see to her. Ask Mrs. Haskell to bring one of my nightgowns, would you? It is not at all the done thing for her to be wearing one of your nightshirts.”
“Well . . . I’ll . . . I’ll bid you good night then, Miss Blakelow.”
She turned her head on the pillow. “Good night, my lord.”
“Out, Robbie! Out!” Lady St. Michael said, pushing him through the door and closing it behind him. “Men are impossible, are they not, Miss Blakelow? Always under one’s feet. You will forgive my brother’s intrusion, I am sure. It was kindly meant.”
“Lord Marcham was not intruding,” Miss Blakelow replied softly.
“Well, and are you comfortable? Mrs. Haskell seems to have done a reasonable job bandaging you up, at least. Can I do anything for you?”
Miss Blakelow licked her dry lips. “If your ladyship could arrange to send word to Thorncote. I fear they may be worried. I should have been home hours ago.”
“Of course, my dear. I will ask my brother to send the carriage for your aunt. I am sure you would wish to have her staying with you.”
Miss Blakelow tried to raise herself up on her elbows. “There is no need. I shall be well again tomorrow and hope to return home in the morning.”
“That’s as may be,” said Lady St. Michael, pushing the patient back down onto the pillows, “but my brother won’t let you leave until you are quite well again, Miss Blakelow. I shall send up some soup for you. Try to get some sleep.”
CHAPTER 17
“AND HOW IS THE patient today?” asked his lordship the following morning, hovering outside the guest bedroom where Miss Blakelow was sleeping.
“A little groggy, my lord,” replied Aunt Blakelow, as she closed the door, “but on the mend.”
“Can I see her?”
“She’s sleeping at the moment. Best to leave her.”
He nodded stiffly and smiled. “Very well. Perhaps later.”
He turned to go and Aunt Blakelow bit her lip. “Oh, go on then! But don’t tire her out.”
The earl flashed a boyish grin and placed his hand upon the doorknob. “I won’t, ma’am, thank you.”
Miss Blakelow was sitting up in bed when he entered the room, staring out of the window, apparently deep in thought. She turned her head when the door opened and self-consciously pulled the covers up to her chin.
“Someone’s feeling better,” he observed as he closed the door.
“Good morning, my lord.”
He took a few steps farther into the room. “Did you sleep well?”
“Yes, thank you. You have been very kind.”
He pulled up a chair beside the bed and sat down.
“Sir, I have been thinking,” she began.
“Oh, Lord,” he murmured.
She glared at him but the look was spoiled by the smile tugging at her mouth. “You needn’t look like that.”
“I always look afraid when women get that look in their eye,” he commented, bracing one booted foot across the opposite knee. “It means I am either just about to be put to a great deal of expense or a great deal of trouble. Come on then, out with it.”
“Thorncote.”
“Ah . . . I was wondering when we would get to that.”
“The debts. I cannot let you write them off. Indeed it is most kind of you but—”
“Nonsense.”
“But you must let me at least try to pay them back. It may take me some time, but I will do it. I swear I will.”
“Please put them out of your mind. I did it for purely selfish reasons. You can have no notion how enjoyable it was to tear them up.”
/> Miss Blakelow looked down at her hands. “I want to do something for you in return.”
Several rather powerful images flashed through his lordship’s mind at that moment, and he was hard-pressed not to smile. But he had no desire to be in her black books again, so he quashed the suggestion that sprang to his lips in favor of something less contentious.
“There is no need, Miss Blakelow. To see you restored to full health is all the thanks I need.”
She reached for the glass of water on the table by the bed and sipped from it delicately. “I would like to return home this morning,” she said, “if I might impose upon you to borrow your carriage?”
“My carriage is at your disposal, ma’am, but I believe the doctor advised that you stay here for a couple of days.”
“There is no need. I am very much better already.”
“Are you going to argue with me about everything?” he asked, amused.
“No, my lord.”
“Well,” he said, standing and pushing the chair back against the wall. “I promised your aunt that I would not stay too long. Please let me know if there is anything you need.”
“A book?” she replied, her eyes flicking over him as he walked to the door.
“Something instructional and morally improving? Fordyce’s Sermons perhaps?” he asked with a smile.
“I do not believe such a work exists amongst your collection, my lord.”
“Then you’d be wrong,” he replied with a hand on the doorknob. “And no, it is not used as a paperweight; I have actually read it.”
“And enjoyed it?”
“I’m a rake, Miss Blakelow. I’m afraid there you are pushing the realms of possibility too far.”
She smiled and snuggled down under the covers. “Choose me a novel, if you please.”
He bowed. “Something frivolous coming up.”
Miss Blakelow watched him until he had closed the door. She looked around her at the tasteful decor of the room, the rich embroidery on the bed curtains, the thick carpet on the floor, and remembered her own threadbare room at Thorncote. She had not known such luxury since she had stayed with her Uncle Thorpe in London for her season all those years ago. She wondered, had she not been so reckless with her own reputation as a young girl, whether she might now be mistress of a home such as this, with fine clothes and furnishings, jewels and carriages, servants at her beck and call, and a husband to have and to hold at night. Many a woman would jump at the chance to have all these worldly goods; women sacrificed much for a secure financial existence, but Miss Blakelow wanted more. She wanted love. If the earl was unable or unwilling to give her his heart, then she’d sooner die an old maid than marry a man who was not truly hers. These reflections inevitably transported her mind back to the day of the picnic, and in the quiet of his home with the scent of his cologne still in the air, she closed her eyes and allowed herself the fantasy of being his.
Miss Blakelow was persuaded to stay at Holme for two days. She read two very frivolous books, one of which was a gothic romance that was so preposterous that she pronounced herself surprised that his lordship would countenance its presence upon his hallowed bookshelves. They fell into a routine of sorts; he came to see her once briefly in the morning and again for a longer visit in the afternoon, when they played chess while Aunt Blakelow changed the dressing on her head. The only blot on her landscape was Lady St. Michael, who seemed to delight in bursting into the room uninvited at any hour, once catching Miss Blakelow about to use the chamber pot.
Miss Blakelow was angry at the woman’s intrusion and was at a loss to explain it. Nothing would have pleased her more than to have told the woman to get out. But it was not her room and not her house. She was a guest. And a guest deeply beholden to the Holkham family, at that.
It was during his lordship’s afternoon visit on the second day that things came to a head.
Aunt Blakelow had gone for her afternoon nap, leaving her niece alone with their host. He was seated on the edge of the bed, as he usually was, and the chessboard sat on Miss Blakelow’s lap. She was pondering her move when she slanted a deeply wicked look at him from under her brows and asked, “Is it true that you fought a duel when you were only sixteen?”
He looked up from contemplation of the pieces. “Where on earth did you hear that?”
“My brother. He said you nearly killed your man, cool as you please, and went out drinking afterward.”
Lord Marcham shifted uncomfortably. “There are lots of stories about me. Not all of them are true.”
“Is that one?” she asked.
He sighed. “It is true that I fought a duel when I was sixteen. But I was not ‘cool as you please.’ I was little more than a boy and frankly terrified.”
“Oh.”
“Yes. Now concentrate, Miss Blakelow. I am about to take your queen.”
“But is it true that you gambled Holme Park away on the turn of a card and lost? And then won it back the very next moment?”
He leaned back, frowning. “What’s brought all this on?”
“Nothing . . . I’m just trying to gauge exactly how debauched you are.”
“I see,” he said stiffly.
She gave a gurgle of laughter. “Dear sir, please don’t be angry. I’m just curious. One hears so many stories . . .”
“I am glad that you find my past so entertaining.”
“I have upset you.”
“My dear girl, it would take more than that to upset me. But I am not altogether proud of all my . . . er . . . youthful achievements.”
“So is it true?” she asked quietly.
He folded his arms. “It’s partly true. It was not Holme that I nearly lost but my house in London. It was the height of folly and I’m not proud of my behavior, but it’s true.”
Miss Blakelow kept her eyes lowered. “But you regret it now you are older and wiser?”
“Of course. I was lucky no serious harm was done but it could have been a disaster. I was young and naive. What other excuse is there? I’m sure not even the irreproachable Miss Blakelow could claim she never put a foot wrong in her youth.”
She was genuinely taken aback. “Me? I can assure you, I am the very last person who would ever claim that.”
“Then why, if you admit to fault yourself, did you write that pamphlet about me? That smacks a little of hypocrisy, do you not think?”
“I know you must question my motives, but I genuinely care for the fallen women of society, those who have no choice but to submit to the will of men. I . . . I know a little of their circumstances, and I find it intolerable that many of them are blamed and punished by the world we live in for giving in to their desires or just trying to provide for their families, when men are equally as responsible.” She paused and felt heat climbing her face. “I wrote it as a warning to all young women to be wary. Besides, what better way to divert attention than to point the finger at someone else? And your shoulders are broad enough to take the weight.”
“Why me? There are a hundred or more such men.”
“Because I grew up living within the sphere of your influence, at Thorncote and in London. I felt I knew you better as a subject than any other man.” She paused and looked down at the chessboard and gave a wry smile. “And I suppose part of me wanted to punish you for daring to beat my father at cards and take Thorncote from us.”
“Will anyone ever replace Thorncote in your affections, I wonder?” he mused.
She shook her head, smiling. “Never. It is the place I love best in the world. It gave me a home when every other door was bolted against me.”
“Why would anyone bolt their door against you?” he asked, frowning. “I cannot imagine you can ever have done anything to earn anyone’s displeasure.”
Her eyes fell away from his. “A lady’s reputation is a fragile thing, my lord. It seems that I did not show mine enough care.”
“You were ruined then?” he asked curiously, in as gentle a voice as he could manage. “What coul
d such a sweet-natured creature as you possibly have done to offend?”
She shook her head as tears sprang into her eyes, unable to answer him for the sudden choking sensation in her throat. She found she could not speak the words. She looked away as a tear slid down her cheek.
Lord Marcham reached across a hand and tucked a curl of her hair behind her ear. He would not press her for more if it upset her so. “And if I told you that my door was open for you now and always—could you ever consider this house as your home?”
Her heart leapt at the sudden touch of his hand. “I think it would be presumptuous for me to do so,” she said.
“Not if you were my wife.”
A silence fell. Miss Blakelow kept her eyes lowered. “If I am to be your wife—”
“If you are to be his wife, you had best have a very forgiving nature,” said Lady St. Michael suddenly from behind them. “He has a mistress in town and probably another in Loughton.”
Miss Blakelow jumped and overset the chessboard. All the pieces rolled and fell onto the counterpane and the carpet.
His lordship turned and glowered at his sister. “Thank you, Sarah, thank you very much indeed.”
She smiled her bittersweet smile. “Anything to help, dear Robbie. You seemed to be unable to tell dear Miss Blakelow that which she most needed to know. You are wanted downstairs, by the way. You may leave Miss Blakelow in my care.”
“Your care, Sarah? Why does that thought send a shiver down my spine?” he muttered.
She smiled. “You needn’t look so worried. Your secrets are safe with me.”
He hesitated, a chess piece in his hand, reluctant to leave his sister alone with Miss Blakelow. What stories would Sarah tell her? How much further would he sink in the eyes of Miss Georgiana Blakelow?
“Go, Robbie,” commanded his sister. “Miss Blakelow is to have a wash and you will be very much in the way.”
Lady St. Michael closed the door on her brother and stared down at Miss Blakelow. She set down a pitcher of water. “My brother is very entertaining, is he not? You should know precisely the sort of man he is if you intend to marry him. He is rather a selfish creature, who takes little interest in anything but the pursuit of pleasure. Did you think that he had reformed his character just for you? Do you think you will be able to convince him to give up his mistress after you are wed? You poor little innocent. You’d best not let your heart become involved, my dear. It is much the best thing to look upon it as a business deal, for ten to one he will return to his old ways within a year. You said you wanted to know how debauched he is? Be under no illusions, he is not called a rake for nothing.”