by Norma Darcy
“People are talking. They are saying things about me. Things that I cannot defend for as long as we are friends.”
“What things?”
That I have set my cap at you. That you are going to make me your mistress. That you will cast me aside when you grow tired of me. And my Aunt Thorpe is threatening to tell you everything about me and I could not bear it. I could not bear to see the condemnation and disgust in your eyes.
“You know what things,” she whispered.
There was another silence.
“And so you would cast me aside to save a little gossip?”
“Hardly anything so paltry, my lord. A little gossip, as you call it, can ruin a woman’s life.”
“And you care for that more than you do for my friendship?”
She choked as her sadness lodged like a ball in her throat. “No . . . yes . . . I have to.”
There was a sharp, painful silence. “I see.” His fingers traced the outline of her cheek, his thumb tracing the sensitive curve of her lower lip. “To hell with the gossips,” he said, “to hell with them all. You are a passionate creature. You were made for love. And I was made for you. Let me love you, Georgie.”
So he had said it. Her Aunt Thorpe had said he would, but Miss Blakelow had refused to believe he was just like all the other men of her acquaintance. He wanted her to be his mistress. Well, at least now it was out in the open. No more games; they had found the truth at last. She felt the bitter sting of disappointment in the back of her throat. She was going to cry. And soon, but she’d be damned if she would cry in front of him.
“Oh . . . you—you cad!” she cried.
He blinked at her. “I beg your pardon?” he replied.
“You would like that, wouldn’t you?” she continued, her voice shaking with anger. “I believe that’s all you have ever wanted from me.”
“What are you talking about—?”
Miss Blakelow stared at him, heavy tears brimming in her eyes, slowly shaking her head in disbelief. “Would you like to do it right here on the seat of your curricle, my lord? Or would all that heaving and groaning frighten the horses? But I’m sure for a man of your considerable talent and expertise that would present no trouble at all. You are, after all, a master of seduction. Shall I hitch up my skirts right here, my lord, or shall we find a barn?”
His lordship had the distinct sensation that he had just stepped into horse manure up to his neck. He saw the blaze of anger and hurt in her eyes and held out his hand in a placating gesture. “I think that you have misunderstood me.”
“Oh, I understood you perfectly, my lord. I can readily believe that a woman whom you haven’t bedded must be a serious fascination to you. No doubt that was what the marriage proposal was all about to begin with. Just a way to get me bedded sooner—preferably before the vows were spoken so you would never have to actually say them.”
“Georgiana—”
“I must be a rare specimen indeed, one who must be studied. There must clearly be something wrong with me if I have not succumbed to your charm, is that not right?”
“That is not what I meant.”
“How is it that you have not already had me?” she demanded. “That is what you are asking yourself. You have walked with me, ridden with me, taken me for picnics, flirted with, and flattered me. You even paid for that ridiculous ball gown. And women have fallen into your bed for less, have they not?”
“You know very well I meant nothing of the sort—”
“I believe you set out to seduce me from the first moment you found out that I wrote that pamphlet. You swore for revenge, did you not? And what better way to punish a bluestocking than to rob her of her virtue?”
He grasped her wrist. “You have deliberately misunderstood me. You know that I meant no insult, but you have been determined to pick a fight with me from the first moment you laid eyes on me this morning. Why? What has happened?”
“Nothing.”
“Someone has said something to upset you, haven’t they? Is it my sister? Has Sarah upset you?”
“It is not your sister. I am just sick and tired of men and their assumption that every woman is fair game. I came to this part of the world to escape from men like you—” She broke off, her voice choking on a sob.
He pulled her around to face him again. “Men like me . . . what the devil does that mean? I’m a gentleman. I do not make indecent offers to gentlewomen no matter how attractive I may find them,” he said angrily.
“No? Why do I find that hard to believe?”
“Because you have lost all faith in my sex, that’s why. You think all men are like him.”
“Him? Who are you talking about?” asked Miss Blakelow as she felt the color drain from her face. She knew precisely whom he was referring to.
“You tell me,” he said, glaring down into her eyes. “The man who broke your heart. And he did break your heart, didn’t he, Georgie? He stamped all over it.”
She struggled to release her wrist from his grasp. “Let me go.”
“Do you still love him?” he demanded. “Is that why you push every other man away?”
“Let me go!”
“Or is it that you are afraid to love again in case you get hurt?”
“And why is it that you immediately assume that I am lovelorn because I am not falling into your arms? It never occurs to you that I simply don’t want you, does it? You have no interest in me, but you pretend that you do because you have made a bet that you can make me love you. It is all a game to you. You mock me by pretending to be attracted to me. But look at me. What do I have that you could possibly desire? Why would you prefer me to Marianne or any other beautiful girl in the neighborhood? It is laughable. And I would be grateful if you would credit me with a little intelligence. The only reason you come here is for revenge, pure and simple.”
Lord Marcham clenched his teeth with frustration. “If I set out with any such intention, it has been many weeks now that I have forgotten it in the pleasure of your company.”
She laughed scornfully, shaking her head in disbelief. “I am not going to marry you. I do not even like you. Your lifestyle is abhorrent to me as is your pursuit of the most vulnerable in our society at the card table or in the bedroom.”
There was a chilly silence.
“Indeed?” he inquired at last, his voice like ice. “How very kind of you to enlighten me as to my faults. I realize that to such a paragon of perfection as you, I must be a sad disappointment indeed.”
She flushed. “You force me to be blunt, my lord.”
He struggled for a long moment to retain his composure, a muscle flexing in his jaw. “As you wish, ma’am,” he said coldly, taking the reins into his hands, “as you wish. You win. I officially give up. Go and be happy playing schoolmistress to your sisters’ children. I care not. I wish you joy of this solitary existence you have chosen, and I sincerely hope that you may not live to regret it.”
“I won’t.”
“We will see, won’t we? Live your life alone if you wish, but don’t expect me to do the same. I’m tired of loneliness. I need someone to hold at night even if you don’t.”
She stared at a distant clump of trees, unable to say another word. The thought of him living with another woman as his wife, holding her close in his arms at night, made her so unhappy that her previous resolve not to cry in front of him was broken, and the tears fell unheeded from her eyes.
“Well, let us turn around and go back. I will not trouble you with my acquaintance any longer,” he said coldly.
He swung the curricle about, and they drove in silence the entire way back to the house, where his lordship’s groom helped Miss Blakelow down and took her place on the seat next to his master. She had hardly set foot upon the gravel when his lordship set the vehicle in motion once again, and she watched it in misery until it had disappeared through the lodge gates.
Now that their friendship was over, Miss Blakelow mourned the loss of it like a severed li
mb. She had driven their friendship over the edge, willingly, determinedly, because there had been no other choice. She simply could not risk her reputation again—there was too much to lose. If William married Charlotte Thorpe, her aunt would carry out her threat to tell his lordship the whole history of her past, and she could not bear to see it in his eyes when he found out that the woman he thought he knew was a lie.
CHAPTER 20
A WEEK LATER, TWO men galloped over the rise, their coattails flapping out behind them, their faces chilled by a cold November breeze. They reined in as they crested the hill and looked down on Thorncote, the house nestled prettily amongst the trees.
“Well, and are you going to let me have a look at your beauty?” asked Hal, grinning across at his brother.
Lord Marcham’s horse pranced restlessly, and it took him a moment to calm his steed. “If we must. But I am not altogether sure who you may mean.”
“Oh, this gets better and better! So there is more than one beauty at Thorncote? I thought you were keeping your cards close to your chest. Don’t trust me with her, do you?”
“My dear Hal, precisely what are you talking about?” asked the earl, looking pained.
“The chit Sarah tells me you are hanging after. The one you spirited out of the house before I even managed to get a look,” complained his brother. “Not fair, big brother, not fair at all. To keep all the best sport for yourself when you must know that Holme is as dull as dull can be.”
Lord Marcham shrugged. “The doors are unlocked. No one is forcing you to stay if you find it tedious.”
“Now, Robbie, don’t get in a miff. I like Holme well enough, but you must allow that compared to London, the country is a little slow.”
“My dear Hal, there are three young and extremely pretty Blakelow sisters and one spinster aunt for you to try your charms on. Not even you can find fault with that.”
“And Georgiana?” asked his brother, a smile on his lips.
The earl looked away to the hills behind the house on the other side of the valley, where a lone figure, no more than a pale blur at this distance, was slowly moving toward a farm gate. “By all means,” he replied. “I wish you luck with your endeavor. You’ll need it.”
“Speaking from experience, Rob?”
His lordship made no reply but patted the neck of his horse.
“Oh-ho!” cried Hal, grinning. “Here’s a to-do! Lovers’ tiff, eh?”
Lord Marcham threw him a scornful look. “To have a lovers’ tiff, as you term it, one would actually have to be in love. And I don’t think Georgiana Blakelow is capable of any such emotion.”
His brother’s grin broadened. “She has upset you, hasn’t she? Is that why you have been in the foulest temper all week?”
The gray eyes swung around sharply in his direction. “Can we go?”
“Go home? Not a bit of it,” replied Hal cheerfully. “I want to see the delightful Marianne. She is quite something out of the common way, or so I’m told.”
“She is,” his lordship agreed. “If you like meek and mild.”
“And you don’t like her?”
“Me? God no. Not in the way you mean, at any rate.”
“Sarah thinks that you secretly wish to make a match of it,” mused Hal airily.
“Does she indeed? Then Sarah is sadly mistaken.”
“Come on then,” cried Hal, urging his horse into a canter. “You may introduce me!”
Hal Holkham could hardly believe his eyes.
This was Georgiana Blakelow? This oddity was his brother’s beauty? This strange-looking woman who was wearing a very large, ugly, and outmoded cap upon her head was the woman with whom he was infatuated? He must be queer in his attic!
Why, when his lordship could have the company of the most stunning women society had to offer, had he fallen for this nervous creature who stared at the floor through thick glass spectacles and covered any curves she may have had under a greatly oversized mourning gown? Apart from the fact that she was clumsy and spilled half the contents of the teapot across the tray, she also spoke no more than a handful words from the moment they arrived until the moment they took their leave.
That she and Marcham had fallen out was obvious; they barely spoke two words to each other for the entire duration of the visit. Hal watched his brother and noted with amusement how often his eyes strayed across the room, not seeking the angelic countenance of Marianne Blakelow, but seeking instead the stony features of the eldest sister.
And the strangest thing of all was that the woman seemed to show no interest in the earl. In fact she seemed far more interested in watching him. Hal would look up and find her staring at him, hastily turning away when she was caught in the act. What the devil was the woman staring at? Did he have a pimple on the end of his nose or something?
He decided to ignore her, trying to stave off the nagging sense that he knew her from somewhere, and instead focused his eyes on the perfect youthful bloom on Marianne’s downy cheeks. She really was the most delectable little piece. Too bad if his brother had cast his net into other waters. This girl was all eager attention and blushes, and he’d be damned if he wouldn’t have a little dalliance while he was in the neighborhood.
Miss Blakelow was never more relieved than when the two gentlemen stood up to leave.
To endure the icy, resentful stare of Lord Marcham was bad enough, but to sit opposite Hal Holkham for the first time in ten years, to be forced to watch him flirting with Marianne, was more than her nerves could bear.
She exchanged a long meaningful look with John as he showed the visitors to the door, and she soon pleaded a headache and went to her room.
Hal Holkham was here. She paced the floor, her fingers trembling.
Hal Holkham. She put a shaking hand to her head and swore in a most unladylike manner.
What did this mean? Had he recognized her? How long would it be before others found her too? How long before her past threatened to rip her from her family? She couldn’t bear the thought of being separated from Marianne, Kitty, Lizzy, Ned, and especially young Jack.
Mr. Holkham had sat opposite her, a cup of tea in his hands, looking every bit as handsome as she had remembered. He had paid her no attention, of course—why should he? He did not recognize her. She had gone to great lengths to ensure that no one should know her. But the way he looked at her, as if trying to place her, was disquieting to be sure.
She had peered at him over the rim of her cup, taking in his figure, his face, his smile. She couldn’t help it. Her eyes were drawn to his face as if he were magnetic. He seemed to sense her stare and looked in her direction and then uncomfortably looked away. He smiled uncertainly, as if feeling out whether she was friend or foe, but she could not return the gesture. Her mind drifted back to the last time she had seen him, to that sordid inn, miles from anywhere. His arms, warm and safe . . . comforting. He looked thinner, older, slightly world-weary, but he was still her Hal.
And then she had sensed other eyes upon her and knew that his lordship was watching her. She could feel his scrutiny, the critical, resentful stare burning into her face. His expression when they parted was not one she would easily forget.
She stalked to the armoire in the corner of the room and pulled down the cloak bag that was always kept packed and ready for an emergency flight.
Had he guessed? How much did Marcham know? And did he blame her for it as every man she had ever come to care for had?
“I thought that’s what you’d be thinking,” said a low voice behind her.
Miss Blakelow whirled around as the door closed. “Oh, John, what choice do I have?”
“He didn’t recognize you.”
“He was looking at me,” she cried, flinging the bag onto the bed. “I could tell he sensed something.”
“He did not recognize you, miss,” he said again, coming toward her.
“I have to go. Now. This minute,” she said, unfastening the bag and opening it.
“We can�
��t, miss. We’re not ready.”
She picked up her book and flung it into the bag. “Then I’ll go on ahead. I’ll send word where I am.”
“And bring him direct to your door in the process,” said John with gentle admonishment. “I won’t let you do it. I swore to your papa that I would look after you, and I’m not letting you wander alone without even me for company.”
“But, John, don’t you see? If Hal has found me, it’s only a matter of time before he finds me too. And I can’t allow that.”
John put his hands on her shoulders and turned her to face him. “You have become as dear to me as a daughter. Do you honestly think I would let anything happen to you?”
She looked into his well-worn and rugged face. “I’m tired of running, John.”
“I know you are, miss.”
“And I’m frightened.”
He clumsily patted her shoulder. “There now, don’t you cry. Old John Maynard still has a trick or two up his sleeve.”
“No,” she said, wiping angrily at her tears. “I mean . . . I’m truly grateful to you . . . for everything . . . but no more. Not this time. You’ve followed me from pillar to post since my mother died. You gave up your own chance of a family and happiness to look after me.”
He blushed. “Nah, miss. It’s not so bad. And I’d do it again if the decision was mine to take.”
“Dear John, you have been such a good friend to me. But enough. You love Thorncote. You are married. You have Janet now, and I won’t let you give her up for me. The time has come for me to shift for myself.”
“And what do you plan to do, miss? Where will you go?”
“I don’t know,” she replied.
Her faithful servant cleared his throat. “As the wife of the Earl of Marcham, you’d have his protection . . .”
Her eyes lit with fire. She remembered the way he had looked at her, and she was determined that she would never ask him for anything ever again. “No!”
“No man would dare go up against his lordship—”