The Bluestocking and the Rake (The Regency Gentlemen Series) (35 page)

“Your maid?”

“No…thank you, my lord.”

“You’re tired and the stress of the situation has made you emotional.”

She nodded. “That’s it, yes.”

“Jack is on the mend now. There is no need to cry.”

The softness in his voice just made it worse. She nodded through her tears and through her watery haze saw him step towards her.

“Please, Georgie, don’t cry. You must know that your tears are a worse punishment to me than anything in the world.”

She dropped her gaze to the floor. “I think we both said things that we ought not to have done.”

“Yes,” he agreed.

“I’m sorry, my lord,” she whispered.

“So am I.”

“Can you ever forgive me?” she asked, turning watery eyes up to him.

He reached out a hand and cupped her face, his thumb brushing away her tears. “Hush now.”

She smiled tremulously. “I said such horrible things to you.”

“And I you,” he said softly.

“Julius was in the room listening. He promised that he would not hurt you if I drove you away. I put on an act to make you leave.”

“I know.”

“You know?”

“John just told me.”

She stared at him in surprise. “Oh.”

She moved down the hallway, dashing her sleeve against her wet cheeks. “It is late and you must be wishing for your dinner. I can offer you stew. It’s not as fine as your French chef would make but it has carrots and chicken and―”

He moved suddenly before her, bracing his hand against the opposite wall so
that his arm halted her retreat. “Georgie, wait,” he said hoarsely, as if the words were torn from him.

She blinked, staring up at him in surprise, fearful of what he might say, fearful of yet more bitter words tumbling from his lips. She couldn’t bear to argue with him again, to feel his condemnation; it just hurt too much. “My lord?”

He closed his eyes for the briefest of moments as if finding strength from somewhere and then said, “I―oh, damn it all―Georgie, is there no hope for me?”

The colour flew into her cheeks and she turned her face away from him in distress.

He took a step towards her and then seemed to check himself as if the leash that restrained him had jerked taut. “Is there no hope?” he asked again more softly. “Tell me that you feel something for me. Tell me that I didn’t imagine it all.”

“I―I should find Marianne―”

“To hell with Marianne. I must speak or go mad. You do not know―you
cannot
know the agony of living without you.”

“My lord, don’t, please―“

“I have not been able to stop thinking about you in two long years and it’s tearing me apart.”

She hung her head. “Please,
sir, don’t pain us both by bringing up the past again. Nothing has changed. I cannot marry you and you cannot force me to.”

“I can and I will. My happiness, nay my sanity, requires it. If you think I’m going to let you walk out of my life again you are very much mistaken.”

Miss Blakelow sent her eyes heavenward, fighting the urge to cry still more. “I can’t do this. Do you hear me? I can’t.”

“Can’t do what?” he demanded.

“This,” she replied with an angry sweeping gesture.

“Georgie…”

“I
can’t
!” she sobbed. “Oh, why couldn’t you just let me go? Why do you put us both through this…this torture?”

“Because I can’t live without you.”

“Will you
stop
?” she cried, as a tear slid down her cheek. “Why can’t we just be friends and acquaintances? Why do you push me for that which I have already told you is impossible for me to give?”

“Because I’m in love with you.”

She shook her head. “No.”

“Those feelings are stronger than ever, after two long years. I never stopped thinking about you, even when it seemed that I would never see you again, do you hear me, Georgie?”

Miss Blakelow’s hand shook as she rummaged without success in her pocket for her handkerchief. “No.”

Lord Marcham pulled out his own handkerchief and gave it to her. “Yes. Yes, I tell you. And when a man loves
a woman, he wishes to do things to her that requires them to be married first―well, in polite circles anyway.”

She shook her head. “It’s too late,” she whispered.

“Dammit woman, when will you ever stop running away from me?” he demanded. “Marry me. I swear to you my love, my fidelity and my devotion until the day I die. Marry me Georgie…I beg you. Put me out of my misery.”

“But I
eloped
with your brother,” she cried.

“I know.”

She wrung the handkerchief in her hands. “I let him convince me to run away with him. I thought we were to be married.”

He nodded. “I know.”

“Don’t you despise me?”

“
Despise
you? No. How could I?” he replied.

“I make no excuses for myself. I wanted to do it,” she said, her eyes searching his face. “It was only later that I began to regret my decision. When I found someone I wanted for my husband…oh, not you my lord, at least not then. No, this was years before I met you…a military man who told me that he loved me. So I confided my secret to him. And I saw the condemnation in his face and the disgust. He all but called me a whore. And I never saw him again. You asked me once who broke my heart. It wasn’t your brother; it was the man who followed him, who could not live with what I had done.”

“Then more fool him.”

“Can you live with it, my lord?”

“Willingly. That and a good deal more.”

“But everyone knows what I did. Everyone would know that your wife dishonoured herself with your brother. I could not bear for you to hear everyone gossiping behind our backs for the rest of our lives.”

“I don’t care. Georgie, darling, I swear I don’t.”

“You will, when your every acquaintance remembers who I am.”

“They wouldn’t dare.”

“And are you going to fight everyone who takes my name in vain for the rest of our lives?”

“If I have to.”

“And what of your family? Lady St. Michael and your mother loathe me.”

“They will learn to treat you with the respect owing to the Countess of Marcham or I will cut them out of my life.”

She shook her head. “You cannot. I won’t let you shun your family and friends for me.”

“I have a feeling I won’t need to once they realise what a darling you are.”

She dashed away another big fat tear. “I was ruined, don’t you understand? I spent three days and nights away with your brother.”

“I know.”

Her eyes locked with his. “We were intimate.”

“I know,” he said softly.

“You
know
?” she repeated.

He half smiled. “Well, I guessed. A long time ago, actually.”

“Let me be perfectly clear so that there is no misunderstanding. I am not a virtuous female. You will not be my first.”

He took her face between his hands once more. “And you will not be mine.”

She gaped at him. “And you do not hate me?”

“My darling, beautiful, stubborn idiot. It will be our first time together. And it will be perfect. Isn’t that enough?”

Her eyes searched his face. “Truly?”

He kissed the tip of her nose. “Truly. All I care is that you love me. Do you love me, Georgie?”

She stared up at him in wonder as if waiting for the import of his words to penetrate his own brain and for him to change his mind. She searched his eyes, and saw that they were full of tenderness and longing and she knew finally that he meant it.

Shyly, she reached up a hand and touched his face; he caught her hand in his, turned his head and dropped a kiss into her palm. She blushed and tears of joy sprang into her eyes.

“Do you love me, Georgie?” he whispered.

She threw her arms around his neck and buried her face against his chest. “Oh, Robbie! I have been so unhappy because I thought you had stopped loving me when I had just started loving you!”

His arms pulled her to him. “My love,” he breathed, burying his face against her hair, inhaling the scent of her as if she was his oxygen and he could finally breathe again.

In the semi-darkness of the hallway, her hand found his and of one accord they moved along the threadbare carpeted corridor.

He followed her in silence, unquestioning, his eyes dark in the dim half light, his large hand cradling hers. The house echoed with the distant movements of family and servants and they both understood the need for quiet and discretion. She pushed at the door to her bedchamber and pulled him inside. The dark wood door closed softly and she gently slipped the bolt across. She turned towards him, smiling, no words needed, knowing beyond doubt that she would not, could not send him away. Not now. Not ever.

The room was barely lit by the remnants of the fire burning in the grate, and in the soft orange light he stepped towards her and reached out a hand. She came to him and he touched her hair, unpinning and unravelling the dark mass of it until it lay upon her shoulders, soft and gleaming under the firelight. He took a curl and entwined it through his fingers, letting the silky skein caress his skin, like molten copper.

They stared at each other for an age, two halves of the same being reunited at last; happy and complete now that they had found each other again. She looked up at him, complete trust shining in her eyes.

And in a trice he closed the distance between them and they were breast to breast and his lips were on hers. He kissed her softly, tenderly as if afraid to frighten her with too much passion. She slipped her arms around his neck, opening her mouth under his, desperate for him to hold her, desperate for him to make her his. As the spring rain beat against the leaden windows, he pulled her tighter against him, deepening the kiss as he sensed her need for more. He reached for the fastenings of her gown as she reached for the buttons of his coat and by the dying embers of the fire they freed each other from the confines of their clothing.

She met his eyes unflinchingly as her shift fell to her feet and she was revealed to him as naked as the day she was born. Somehow she was not shy to show herself to him. She knew that he loved her and would love her still, whatever the physical imperfections of her naked form might be.

“You’re beautiful,” he whispered.

She laid a finger over his lips. “Don’t.”

She didn’t want the words that he had said to others. She did not want to be reminded of the fact that he had slept with many women before her. She didn’t want to hear the seduction routine of a rake. This was her night, and she wanted nothing but truth.

“You are,” he insisted, slipping a hand around her waist and drawing her against him once more. “You’re perfect.”

She reached up on tip-toe to press her lips against his, to silence him, unconsciously pressing her soft womanly curves against the hard planes of his body. He groaned as she came against him, he couldn’t help it. She felt so good. He had dreamed of this moment for what seemed like an eternity.

She pulled away slightly and took his hand again.

“Are you sure?” he whispered as she tugged his hand, pulling him towards the bed.

She nodded, smiling.

“We can wait. I can go to London for a special licence tomorrow morning, we can be married―”

She silenced him with her mouth, kissing him long and hard. “Love me,” she whispered against his lips.

“Georgie. I want to, God knows I do, but not if you’re unsure.”

She took his hand and brought it to cup her breast. “I’
m sure. Love me. Please, Robbie.”

He kissed her then, passionately, his tongue claiming every inch of her mouth. He lifted her high in his arms and carried her the short distance to the bed, laid her down upon the counterpane and covered her body with his own.

And as the rain lashed against the windows, they began to touch, entwining arms and legs and warm skin against warm skin in a desperate bid to get closer. The world receded, the past and previous loves and heartaches were all forgotten and all that mattered were two new lovers revelling in the joy of a love re-found. And as they explored the contours of each other’s bodies, as he sank himself deep inside her in the way of lovers time immemorial, as they rode to ecstasy in each other’s arms, she cried out his name and he felt his heart burst with joy as his own climax claimed him with shuddering, uncontrollable pleasure. This was it. Love at last.

* * *

It was early. Very early.

The room was still dark save for the tiniest sliver of grey light threading its way into Miss Blakelow’s room.

Lord Marcham awoke, gently moving out from under her body where she had been sleeping with her head on his shoulder. He swung his legs off the bed and sat there for a moment, thinking.

She stirred, opening her eyes and reached out a hand to touch the muscles of his back.

He turned his head. “I woke you,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

“No matter.”

“I should go.”

She propped herself up on her elbow, clutching the sheet to her bosom, somehow shy now as she had not been the night before. She nodded. “Yes.”

He twisted around to face her, still seated upon the edge of the bed. “The servants will be up soon. I can’t be found in here,” he said softly.

She smiled. “I know.”

“I don’t want you to think that I’m leaving because I’m running away―”

“I don’t,” she assured him.

“Last night was…last night was everything I dreamed of, but it changed nothing for me. I still want you as my wife. I still want you to live with me.”

She sat up in bed and put her finger against his l
ips. “Robbie, I
know
,” she said softly. “You’re not Hal.”

There was a silence.

“So serious, my lord?” she said, smiling. “That’s unlike you.”

He looked troubled and stood up, pale and naked in the morning half light, looking for his breeches. Miss Blakelow looked away, shy and as yet unused to seeing him unclothed, the strength of the muscles in his chest and shoulders, the patch of dark hair between his legs and the perfect rounds of his buttocks. He was a fine figure of a man, with or without his elegant clothes.

“I shouldn’t have stayed here last night,” he said, pulling on his breeches. “I swore to myself that I’d wait.”

“I wanted you to stay.”

He ran a hand through his hair. “I’m no better than he was, am I? Last night was a test. And I failed it.”

“Last night was not a test.”

“You think that I came here only to seduce you.”

“No.”

“All I have done is confirm what you have always thought about me,” he said bitterly, “that all I ever wanted from you was a night between the sheets.”

“My lord, you’re
not
Hal.”

“I took advantage of you.”

She shook her head. “I wanted it. I wanted you. I don’t regret it for a single second. Last night was perfect—for me, at least. Don’t spoil it.”

“I’
ll go to London tomorrow.”

“Very well.”

“I want to marry you just as soon as I can arrange it.”

“Very well,” she said again, smiling as a tear shone in her eyes.

“You will still marry me, won’t you Georgie?” he asked, an anxious frown between his brows. “You won’t change your mind?”

She was touched by his uncertainty. She smiled tremulously up at him. “I won’t change my mind,” she assured him softly.

He nodded, relieved but apparently still anxious. “And you won’t run away from me again? You won’t leave me?”

“I won’t.”

“Because I couldn’t bear it,” he said and his voice wavered. “I couldn’t bear it if I returned from London to find you gone. Not now, not after what passed between us last night.”

“My lord, come here.”

“I missed you so damned much, Georgie. I don’t know what I would do if I lost you again―”

“Robert,
come
here,” she said softly.

He walked back towards her and sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the floor, a muscle pulsing in his cheek.

“Look at me,” she whispered.

He raised his eyes to hers and she saw the torment within him. She raised her hands and cupped his face.

“I didn’t run away from you, I ran away from myself,” she said. “I ran because I believed that no man would ever want me once he knew my past. I ran because I couldn’t believe that you could love me enough to overlook my indiscretions. But I did you a disservice. You are loyal and noble and true. You are a good, decent man and I love you desperately. I will marry you wherever, whenever you choose.”

He stared at her for a moment, his eyes searching her face and then he pulled her to him and pressed his lips against her soft cheek.

“Darling,” he murmured, his eyes curiously misty. “When? How soon can we be married? I can’t wait to tell the world that you’re mine.”

“And what about my bridal clothes? And my trousseau?” she teased, trying to lighten the mood. “Would you deprive a girl of her childhood dream?”

“Do you care for all that?” he demanded, flicking a careless finger against her cheek.

She smiled. “Of course. Doesn’t every woman?”

“How long do you need?” he asked.

She shot him a sly look from under her brows, a smile tugging at her mouth. “Well, there’s my gown to think of, and slippers and flowers. Plus clothes to go away in as I am in no doubt my current wardrobe would not meet your exacting standards. Three months would seem to be reasonable.”

He gaped at her. “
Three
months? No, that sounds devilish unreasonable to me. I can’t…I just can’t wait that long.”

Her lip trembled with laughter. “One month?”

He groaned. “I can’t wait a month to make love to you again.”

She smiled. “A fortnight, then?”

“One week,” he said firmly.

She gasped, laughing. “How can I possibly arrange everything in that time?”

“One week. And it will be hard enough keeping my hands off you as it is.”

She shrieked as he lunged for her, rolling them both over on the bed, laughing as he rained her with kisses. Then the mood changed and she made a different sound altogether as he sucked one rosy nipple deep into his mouth.

* * *

Miss Blakelow had a busy morning.

She checked in on Jack and found him much restored and sitting up in bed with a breakfast tray before him. He greeted her with a cheerful hello and brought a tear to her eye when he told her that he was glad that she was back. And as he demolished a plate of bacon and coddled eggs, he demanded to know when Lord Marcham would come and visit him to finish their game of cards.

Miss Blakelow, blushing ever so slightly, told him that his lordship had been very tired after his travels to and from Bath and that he would visit him as soon as may be. What she didn’t say was that the reason his lordship was so tired was because he had been making love to her until the small hours of the morning.

With this secret knowledge burning inside her, she went downstairs and found the whole family in the breakfast parlour, arguing over something in that familiar way that brought a loving smile to her face. Nothing had changed; they were still exactly the same as when she had left. And then her eyes spotted a young man at the head of the table and she almost didn’t recognise him.

“Ned!” she cried as she came into the room.

“George!” he returned, throwing back his chair and striding across the room to embrace her. “They told me you were back. And I’m glad of it, I’m so glad of it.”

“Look at you, all grown up,” she said softly, noting the shadow of stubble about his jaw.

He blushed with pleasure and a little embarrassment. “And how do you like my new coat, Georgie?”

She looked at his young shoulders, filling out his coat without the need of wadding and smiled. “You look very fine. I think Mary Callard will be quite swept off her feet.”

Ned Blakelow flushed as red as a berry.

“I hear Mary Callard has very poor eyesight,” said Marianne.

“Very funny,” retorted her brother. “And I hear that Mr. Bateman has taken leave of his senses. He must have to have fallen in love with you.”

“How Mary Callard can prefer you to Mr. Bateman is beyond me,” said Marianne as she bit into a pastry.

“Children, enough,” said Aunt Blakelow from the end of the table. “How are you this morning, Georgie? Did you sleep well? I noticed that you retired very early.”

Miss Blakelow could not stop the blush that infused her cheeks. “Yes, thank you, Aunt.”

The older lady stared curiously at her for a moment. “Are you quite well? You haven’t caught Jack’s fever, have you? You seem to be positively glowing this morning.”

“I am happy that Jack is on the mend, that is all,” she said, taking a seat at the table and helping herself to coffee.

“Yes indeed. Such a relief to us all. Not that I ever thought that he wouldn’t recover, mind, but for a moment there it looked as if it might take a turn for the worse. Still, I don’t doubt that your arrival has done much to aid matters; he missed you dreadfully you know. We all did.”