The Bluestocking and the Rake (The Regency Gentlemen Series) (7 page)

“I listen to the gossip, just the same as anyone else. Then there was Mrs. Maria Stockbridge, and you cannot deny that
she
was beautiful. They called her the diamond of―”

“Miss Blakelow, can we
please
desist from raking up my past?”

“But I am proving my point, my lord. You love the company of beautiful women. And why should you not? You are personable and rich. I am sure any number of women would find you an attractive p
rospect.”

“But not you?”

“Oh, no, not I,” she said before she could stop herself. “I mean I…er…you are not the sort of man that would attract me.”

“Thank you,” he murmured with heavy sarcasm.

She bit her lip, aware that she might have just insulted him. “Oh, that sounded worse, didn’t it? Dear sir, I did not mean to insult you, I meant only that―”

“Yes, it’s alright. I know very well what you meant.”

She threw him a grateful look. “But you will have to own that it is much easier to acquire precisely what one wishes from the men in this world if one is blessed with the looks of an angel. I have often observed it. Men are predictably gullible, are they not, when it comes to women? And Lady Emily Holt is destined for great things, I feel sure of it.”

His lordship turned his grey eyes upon her and once more she found herself being scrutinised. Her breath caught in her throat as she saw the look of cool regard as if he were mentally weighing her up and deciding whether to let fly the stinging retort that she felt sure was on the tip of his tongue. She stiffened under his scrutiny and raised her eyes defiantly to his face.

“You have a very poor opinion of men, Miss Blakelow,” his lordship replied at last.

She regarded him warily, not altogether sure of his mood. There was a glint in his eye that told her he had been angered by her words and her insinuation that he was as great a fool for a pretty face as any other man.

“Some men, indeed,” she agreed.

“You mean me.”

She coloured faintly. “I merely point out that you only seem able to fall in love with the most stunningly beautiful women.”

“
Love
?” he repeated incredulously. “Who said anything about love?”

There was a moment’s silence while she digested this.

“You did not love them?” asked Miss Blakelow, eyes wide with surprise.

He laughed, but it was a harsh mocking sound. “No, ma’am, I did not love them.”

“Oh.”

“You will allow me to tell you, Miss Innocence, that women who give up their virtue at the drop of a hat are not the sort of women that men fall in love with.”

“Oh,” she said again, dropping her reticule, a rather sizeable, homemade receptacle that made a solid thud as it hit the ground.

“And I will also add,” said he, stooping to pick up her bag, “that it is not at all seemly for a young woman to know of a gentleman’s…peccadilloes.”

“No, my lord,” she replied meekly.

“Good God, what have you got in there? A dead body?” he asked, feeling the weight of her reticule.

“It is a book, sir.”

“Well, yes, I had realised
that
. What sort of book?”

“A…er…um…Fordyce’s Sermons, my lord.”

“I see,” he murmured, handing it back to her. “Very worthy.”

Miss Blakelow winced. She found her temper rising at the glazed look of boredom that swept his countenance at that moment. She had borrowed the book from a friend in the village and if he were to open the reticule he would have found
Glenarvon,
the anonymously written novel which was widely known to have been penned by Lady Caroline Lamb. It was a revenge on that lady’s former lover, Lord Byron, and although it was entertaining to spot caricatures of the rich and famous within its pages, it hardly fit her bookish image. She would have given anything at that moment to declare that she had read the poetry of Byron and loved nothing better than to curl up in bed with a gothic novel so that he would not think her the dull creature that he evidently did. But she would not do it. “If you will excuse me, my lord?” she said, bobbing the briefest of curtseys.

He relented. “May I offer you a lift home, ma’am? As a peace offering?”

“No thank you. I had rather walk,” she replied, pulling on her gloves.

“Oh lord, you are giving me that martyr look that all females employ when they are put out. I apologise then, if you must look at me that way.”

She struggled with the urge to smile and conquered it. “You are mistaken. I am not at all put out, I assure you.”

“Indeed? And is that why you are looking at me as if you wish to push me into that open grave over there and fill in the soil around me?” he demanded.

This time she did smile. “You have not angered me.”

“Good. And now
you
must apologise to me for insinuating that I am shallow, Miss Blakelow,” he murmured.

Her lip quivered. “I did
not
say that you were shallow, my lord.”

“You did. You said that I was incapable of seeing the worth of any woman who was not blessed with superior beauty.”

“You are no different to any other man, my lord,” she offered.

“And is that supposed to make me feel better?”

“I say only that you cannot help it. It’s nature after all.”

“It gets better and better,” he cried flinging up his hands in mock horror. “She now says that I have no control over my lustful feelings and that my brain is disengaged when in the company of a beautiful woman.”

Miss Blakelow met his gaze and merely smiled sweetly but made no answer.

He laughed shortly. “Very well, ma’am, that’s how it’s to be, is it? You will allow me to tell you that you are extremely impertinent.”

She dimpled. “And you will allow me to tell
you
that you goad me into incivility and then look outraged when you make me do it.”

He stared at her for a moment and then surprised her by laughing. “And you goad me into losing my temper, Miss Blakelow, and I promise you that I did not wish to do it on such a fine day. Come,” said he, extending his arm, “let us be friends. I will drive you home and you may tell me all about the sermon, which I must confess I heard hardly ten words of.”

He smiled that smile of his and Miss Blakelow felt her heart skip a beat and she wished him at Jericho or a million miles away from her, at any rate. When he looked at her like that, with the impish smile dancing in his eyes, she felt a connection between them; a connection that was as disturbing as it was dangerous. She had once again to remind herself of who he was, of
what
he was. She had to remind herself of all that had befallen her, of everything she had done to achieve her current state of contentment. She would not give it all up for the smile of a handsome man, a smile that she knew had been well practised upon the weaker sex and perfected for ultimate effect.

“Now tell me honestly, Miss Blakelow,” murmured his lordship, “how long was it through Mr. Norman’s sermon before you fell asleep?”

“I did
not
fall asleep, my lord,” she answered with a faint smile. “I heard every word.”

“I thought I detected a distinct nodding of your head during one key passage concerning the fate of the Israelites.”

“And why were you watching me when you should have been paying attention to Mr. Norman?”

“Because you are far prettier and not nearly so dull.”

She gave him a sideways look. “Flirting with me, my lord?”

He smiled. “A little.”

“And have you practised that speech all morning?”

He shook his head in mock censure. “For shame, Miss Blakelow. Has no-one ever taught you how to accept a compliment?”

“A compliment from your lips does not sit well, my lord. It has rather a too studied an air to be convincing.”

“My word, you speak your mind to me as you wish, do you not ma’am?” he marvelled. “You might wish to know a man before you condemn him merely on the say so of others.”

“I rather think that you forged your reputation with your own hands, my lord. No-one forced you into the life that you have led and you cannot blame anyone but yourself if people judge you by your actions.”

“And whatever happened to ‘Let him who is without sin cast the first stone’? I would have thought that a fine Christian woman like you would have a little compassion for a man who has lost his way?”

“You have not lost your way, my lord. You chose the route that you have taken. You came into your inheritance far too early and you had no-one to check you. That behaviour is allowable in a boy of eighteen but not in a man of nine and thirty.”

“Please, Miss Blakelow, do not, I beg of you hold back,” he replied, a distinct hint of annoyance in his voice. “Why not say what is really on your mind?”

“Because if I did, you would not help us with Thorncote,” she said bluntly.

He stopped and stared at her for a long moment and just when she thought he was about to lose his temper, he burst out laughing. “Frank and to the point, Miss Blakelow. I swear that I have never before met your like.”

“I will take
that
as a compliment, for I believe you meant it,” she replied.

He shook his head, regarding her with wonder. “I
did
mean it! You are a truly remarkable woman, ma’am.”

“Thank you.”

“You have a way of making me feel five years old again,” he said, still amused. “I am sure my father was the most fearsome man on this planet, but I think that even
he
could have learned much from you.”

She winced.
That
touched a nerve. She knew that she deserved it for goading him but it hurt nonetheless. “I have offended you, my lord.”

“Not at all, ma’am,” he said tipping his hat, “but I will take my leave of you. I have spied a beautiful woman and my uncontrollable baser urges force me to her side. Good day.”

He strode away without another word towards a petite woman with a riot of golden curls framing her face. Jane Bridlington, daughter of a retired admiral, she lived in Loughton with her parents. She was seventeen, beautiful and dressed in an extremely fashionable pelisse of blue complete with military style trimmings.

She watched him tip his hat and smile at the girl. So proves my point, thought Miss Blakelow with an inward smile as she watched them converse and the young lady blushed prettily.

Miss Blakelow’s own heart was still pounding at her audacity for goading him as she had done. She would not have dared speak to anyone as she had done to Lord Marcham. But hopefully he had learned his lesson. Miss Blakelow of Thorncote was not a fool.

With a satisfied smile she turned to the path that took her back through the fields and home.

Lord Marcham was on the verge of walking out.

If he had to endure one more felicitation from the father of a simpering Miss Onthecatchforarichhusband, he would scream.

What in God’s name was he doing here? He
never
went to these affairs. And he hadn’t been to the Silverwood’s ball in years. It was hot. It was a crush. It was every bit as tedious as he’d remembered. And on entering the room, he was very soon furnished with the knowledge that Miss Blakelow had been correct, and news of his supposed engagement to Lady Emily Holt was spread far and wide.

He had been congratulated by two persons whom he had no recollection of having ever met before in his life, clapped on the back by several of his friends demanding to know if they might have his mistress now that he was about to be leg-shackled, and when the woman in question, Lady Emily Holt, arrived half an hour later, she started visibly at the sight of him, stared miserably at the floor and would hardly meet his eye. He made it his mission to inform as many people as he could during the course of the evening that no such engagement existed and told himself that he did not care if her reputation was ruined in the process. He moved purposefully towards his fiancée, determined once and for all that he would make her publically deny all knowledge of an engagement between them, but she saw him approach and made good her escape before he could work his way through the crowd to her side.

The suspicion that news of the engagement had been spread abroad by Lady Holt was confirmed when he overheard that lady discussing bridal clothes with a group of her friends, declaring that the Countess of Marcham would have no cause to fear that any daughter of hers would turn up to her wedding dressed like a pauper. Marcham, goaded into incivility, muttered that she might dress up like a queen if she chose but that he would not be there to see it.

He reached for a glass of champagne.

Damn and blast Thomas. His information was sadly mistaken. Mr. Edridge had told him that the Blakelows would be in attendance that evening. And for something to do, he’d come along, telling himself that an evening out was what he needed to dispel his gloomy thoughts and that dancing with pretty girls was much preferable to an evening spent alone in his library with nothing for company other than a book.

He saw Lady Emily stand up with a young man in a wasp-waisted coat, and she moved across the floor as gracefully as a butterfly. The smile she turned up to the gentleman was truly something to behold. The lucky gentleman glowed.

The earl frowned.
She never looked at me that way
, thought his lordship, watching her with a sudden blinding insight. Was the chit in love with George Holkam?

Damn. How had he missed that? Was he losing his touch?

“March!” cried a voice at his elbow as a hand slapped him on the back.

“Don’t you dare,” muttered his lordship.

Thomas spread his hands innocently and laughed. “Don’t what?”

“Offer me your congratulations.”

“Well I
was
going to ask you if it were true,” he confessed. “Is it?”

“No,” snapped the earl.

Mr. Edridge grinned. “Well I thought as much. Couldn’t ever see you willingly going up the aisle…thought it was all a hum. Told my friend Jim as much when he tackled me on the subject last week. So how have you managed to get yourself engaged when you don’t wish to be?”

“Mothers. Two of them. Hers and mine.”

“Oh, lord.”

“Quite,” agreed Marcham, gloomily.

“So dance. Dance the night away with as many pretty girls as you can find.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

The earl turned. “Because I’d rather hack my arm off with a razor than endure another peal of false congratulations over my impending nuptials.”

“March, don’t be a fool. Flirt outrageously with every other girl here. Make her cry off.”

“I need to go home.”

“Home? How can you talk so? Do you know, Rob, I swear you have become middle-aged. Shocking as I know that must sound, but I feel it my duty to drop the hint to you.”

“I
am
middle aged,” muttered his lordship, somewhat dismally contemplating this admission.

“Well, I never thought to hear you say that! What has happened to the man I grew up with? What happened to
London’s most infamous rake?”

“He grew up.”

“Oh, tosh! You, my friend, are bored. You need a new flirt.”

His lordship groaned.

“You do! A pretty face, a kiss or two, the promise of a little dalliance would put the ink back in your quill…there! The yaller-haired chit in the white gown by the door. Isn’t she the most heavenly creature? Even
you
cannot be unmoved by such beauty.”

Lord Marcham turned to inspect the vision his friend had described to him. “She is, I will own, a pretty girl.”

“A
pretty
girl?” repeated Mr. Edridge. “What is wrong with you, man? She’s ravishing.”

“But,” drawled his lordship, bored with the whole subject, “distinctly un-ravishable. One requires a ring for the fourth finger of her left hand to indulge in any of the activities currently occupying your mind, Tom.”

His friend grinned. “No harm in trying, is there?”

“If you have a mind to be leg-shackled before the week is out, by all means try. I won’t stand in your way.”

“Now March, come out of the doldrums, do. Such a sweet natured girl. Anne or Amelia or Amanda or some such. I have to confess I wasn’t listening to her name.”

His lordship looked faintly amused. “Yes…they
are
distracting, aren’t they?”

Mr. Edridge choked on his champagne. “You needn’t pretend that you hadn’t noticed.”

“I’m not pretending anything of the sort,” replied the earl smiling. “I merely point out that you seem unduly hypnotised by her…er…natural assets.”

“And you’re not?” demanded Mr. Edridge.

“
I
am able to remember her name at any rate,” countered Lord Marcham with a smile.

“Which is?”

“Miss Annabel Crosbie.”

“Lord…they’re almost worth getting hitched for.”

“Almost,” agreed the earl, “but not quite.”

“So speaks the rake.”

His lordship smiled. “I retired from that game quite some time ago. Didn’t you know?”

“Well that’s what they
say
to be sure. But no-one believes it. Julius told me and I could scarcely stop laughing.”

“It’s true,” the earl protested.

“Have you tired of women? The thrill of the chase? The chance of a kiss behind a husband’s back? Don’t you miss the excitement?”

“Not
in the least,” replied his lordship, “and I don’t miss being thrown naked out of a lady’s bedchamber when her philandering husband returns unexpectedly to town either.
That
I can quite happily live without.”

Mr. Edridge grinned. “I heard about that.”

Lord Marcham sighed as if in pain. “
Everyone
heard about it. I was climbing out of a bedroom window in nothing but my breeches. I don’t think there was a soul in London who did
not
hear about it.”

“Were you foxed?”

“Extremely.”

Thomas laughed. “Poor March. And was she worth it?”

His lordship shrugged. “It was enjoyable enough while it lasted.”

“So where’s the problem?”

“There is no problem.”

“Then why have you announced your retirement?”

“Because it’s no longer enough…not any more. Not for me, anyway.” Marcham looked away. Why had he given it up? Because he was bored. Because a pretty face, despite what Miss Blakelow might think, was agreeable enough, but when a woman could not hold a conversation with him, or give as good as she got, or make him laugh, his ardour rapidly cooled. He had begun to question his life; his days filled with the business of running his estates and his evenings with no more taxing a subject on his mind than which coat to wear to dinner. Something was missing. He was lonely.

“But you cannot expect me to believe that you have vowed to a life of
celibacy
?” said Mr. Edridge.

The earl looked at his friend as if he had developed a second head. “Now, Tom, you are stretching the realms of possibility too far.”

His friend grinned. “Then how?”

“Marriage, dear boy. I am of a mind to get myself a biddable wife who will see to my every whim.”

Mr. Edridge looked taken aback. “Marriage? But I thought you just said you didn’t want to be engaged?”

“Tom, you numbskull, I said I don’t wish to be engaged to Lady Emily. It is not the fact that I am engaged, but the woman to whom I am affianced and the manner in which it came about that irks me.”

“Yes, but…marriage? You?”

Lord Marcham sipped his champagne. “One must provide an heir Tom, and I only know one way of doing that.”

“But you’ll be bored―I’ll lay you odds that you tire of matrimony within a month.”

“Possibly, but I plan to take extreme care in my choice.”

“Lord,” breathed Mr. Edridge.

The earl looked amused. “I was thinking of Jane Bridlington. What say you to her?”

Mr. Edridge blinked at him and his eyes sought the trim form of Miss Bridlington. “Well, she’s pretty enough I suppose and if
you
like her, March…but don’t you find her a trifle…dull? How you could prefer her to Lady Emily, I don’t know.”

Lord Marcham’s amusement grew at his friend’s studied air of indifference. “I thought you were fond of her.”

Mr. Edridge shrugged nonchalantly as his eyes settled on the young lady in question. “I
am
fond of her. We enjoyed a little flirtation…of a sort. She grew clingy though. Stuck to me like a leech. Be careful there, March, the parents will have you up the aisle if you even look in her direction. The Lord and Lady Holt are nothing to it, mark my words.”

“I don’t doubt it. And on the subject of the Holts, you did some damage there Tom, with Lady Emily, I mean, if you but knew it. I think you raised expectation in that lady’s breast, if not her parents’.”

“I consider myself fortunate to have escaped from such an alliance. Look at her with Holkam, staring up at him with those doe eyes of hers. It makes me sick to watch them.”

“Did you never think it was an act?” asked the earl softly.

“An act? To what end?”

“To make you jealous as hell, Tom.”

“Me? Jealous?”

“She’s punishing you.”

“No, no…you’re way off there, March. Only look at the way she stares up at him. She’s quite obviously in love with him.”

His lordship shrugged and set down his champagne glass. “Well then. If you’re not interested, perhaps I
should
make Lady Emily an offer?”

“If you wish it,” replied his friend stiffly, downing the rest of his own champagne in two gulps.

Lord Marcham turned away to hide a smile. Thomas was looking a trifle bosky, his eyes were glazing over and his countenance was flushed. His lordship had no doubt that Lady Emily’s determined flirtation with Mr. Holkam was the cause.

“Marianne Blakelow is what you might call, in your style,” offered Mr. Edridge.

Lord Marcham’s eyes strayed from the demure features of a voluptuous dark-haired beauty he had been admiring on the other side of the room and focused on his friend. “Blakelow? Related to Miss Georgiana Blakelow?”

“The sister, I believe.”

“Indeed? And is she here this evening?”

“Mumps.”

“Mumps?” repeated his lordship blankly.

“The younger brother has it.”

“Oh.”

“They were worried that Marianne might have it too so they stayed away this evening.”

“I see. And Miss Georgiana Blakelow? Is she here?”

“Thoroughly Moralising Miss? Lord, no. She doesn’t ever come to occasions like this. Far too beneath her.”

“You don’t like Miss Blakelow?” asked his lordship.

“She makes me want to drop to the floor and say a thousand hail Marys and I am not even Catholic. She terrifies me.”

His lordship smiled. Truth be told, she terrified him too. That is, the disapproving glint in her eye when she looked at him, as if she had just trodden in something unsavoury, the feeling that he would never be good enough to meet her exacting standards and the feeling that she had very deliberately set him at a distance as if she were handling an extremely explosive substance and needed to establish a containment area.

He’d only come to the wretched ball in the vague hope that she would be there too. His eyes skittered around the room, over milk and water misses and mother hen chaperones and he wished that she were there. Someone to share a joke with, that delicious moment where their eyes would meet after he’d said something outrageous, merely to shock her or to force her eyes to his. Something about her intrigued him and he wasn’t entirely sure that the feeling wasn’t mutual. He looked amongst the dowagers and the chaperones and saw again what he already knew; that she was not present. Acknowledging within himself a mild disappointment, he decided that he needed to drown his sorrows in drink to get through the evening.