The Bluestocking and the Rake (The Regency Gentlemen Series) (8 page)

He was distracted from his thoughts by the sight of Lady Emily Holt standing momentarily on her own with her back to him. In a trice he had left his friend and re-appeared at her side, grasped her arm none too gently and frog-marched her out onto the terrace.

* * *

“I did not
mean
to do it,” whispered Lady Emily, staring at the floor, her great blue eyes swimming with tears. “Indeed, I am very sorry, my lord, but when Mama asked me if you had made me an offer…I couldn’t tell her that you had not after all the expense…bonnets and gowns and slippers. Father would have been so disappointed in me…”

The rest of this speech was lost as her tears choked off her ability to make coherent speech. Lord Marcham took out his handkerchief and impatiently thrust it at his fiancée.

“You don’t wish to marry me, do you?” he demanded.

She shook her head, dabbing her eyes.

“No…nor I you. I don’t wish to offend you, my lady, but I don’t think we’d suit.”

“No,” she whispered, forlornly staring out at the Silverwoods’ garden, shrouded in darkness but for the lanterns that were strung prettily across the paths.

“Was it your parents who spread this abroad?”

She nodded.

“But why me?” he asked. “There are any number of eligible men in this county who would make you a much more suitable husband than me. I wouldn’t let any daughter of mine marry a man like me, Earldom or no.”

“You are of noble birth and good family. You are also extremely rich. Father’s estate is mortgaged to the hilt. We are not as well off as we appear.”

“I see,” replied Lord Marcham. “A woman who wants my money to save the family estate. Now where have I heard that before?”

She blinked at him. “My lord?”

“Never mind. You will begin this evening. You will tell everyone that our engagement is at an end,” replied Lord Marcham, pacing back and forth across the terrace. “You may tell them that I played fast and loose with your affections if you wish it. Make me the cause, I care not. All I want is that this engagement between us is at an end.”

“I cannot, my lord. Please don’t ask it of me,” she cried, grasping his arm.

“You can and you will.”

“But you don’t know Mama. She has set her heart on seeing us wed,” said Lady Emily. “She will be so terribly displeased.”

“Bullies you, does she? I thought as much,” said his lordship grimly.

The lady sniffed into the handkerchief. “She will be so very angry with me.”

Lord Marcham bit back the retort that sprang to his lips which went something along the lines of recommending that she developed a backbone. But he didn’t say it and controlled his temper with an effort. In another man, her tears might have provoked sympathy or the desire to comfort the fragile young woman in his arms. But his lordship was unmoved, irritated even, and he wondered how he had ever believed that this woman would make him a suitable wife.

“What are we to do?” she asked mournfully.

He ran a hand through his hair. “I am not going to marry you, my lady.”

“Oh…I know that, my lord. And I don’t want to marry you either.”

“Do you have any other relatives?” he asked. “An aunt perhaps? Someone who will stand up to your mother?”

“My Aunt Croft is just as frightened of Mama as I am. But my grandmother is every bit as forthright as Mama. She’s her mother, you know, and lives in
Harrogate.”

“Capital,” replied his lordship. “Write to your grandmother and ask her if you may stay with her.”

Lady Emily swallowed hard. “I haven’t seen her since I was fifteen.”

“Even better. Write and tell her how you miss her or some such thing and wangle an invitation to visit.”

“But Mama will never agree to it.”

“Your Mama will never know about it,” said the earl. “I will escort you there myself.”

“Oh,
would
you?” she breathed. “Dear Lord Marcham, you have been so excessively kind to me.”

“No, I haven’t,” he replied bluntly. “I am being kind to myself, as always.”

“Sir?” she asked, a blank expression in her face.

“Never mind. What you need, my girl, is a husband.”

“But I thought you just said―?”

“Not
me
,” he said impatiently, rolling his eyes. “You need to escape from the controlling influence of your mother.”

“Oh, yes,” cried Lady Emily, clapping her hands together.

“You need to be mistress of your own establishment and to do that you need a husband.”

A silence greeted this remark. “But, sir…who?”

“I don’t know…Is there no-one for whom you have a preference?”

Lady Emily blushed tellingly but she shook her head.

“Are you sure? I thought perhaps you still cherished an affection for Mr. Edridge?”

She shook her head again.

“Well, write to your grandmother. Leave the rest to me.”

“Thank you. Dear,
dear
Lord Marcham,” she grabbed his gloved hand and kissed it, just as the curtains moved and Lord Holt appeared on the terrace, his face red with drink.

Miss Blakelow did not see Lord Marcham again for a month. She had been absent when he had called to take her and her aunt out driving to see the estate
―in fact she had taken great pains that he would not find her at home. Aunt Blakelow was well equipped to show him Thorncote anyway; she knew the place better than anyone else having been born and raised there. She returned from the drive with a sparkle in her eye and Georgiana could not help but wonder if the Earl had deployed his famous charm in cartloads when dealing with the old lady.

Miss Blakelow had been in the village, visiting some of her father’s sick tenants and when she returned, her aunt was seated by the fire positively glowing. She removed her bonnet, watching Aunt Blakelow in faint amusement.

“I venture to think that he was very well pleased with Thorncote, my love,” said the aunt. “Very well pleased. And who would not be? It is a fine estate―I won’t say that it’s as fine as Holme Park or as large but the land is good and the potential is huge. I won’t say either that his lordship is ready to make amends, but I fancy we have put a kernel of an idea inside that dissipated head. He may come around.”

“Indeed, ma’am?” enquired Miss Blakelow, gratefully taking off her spectacles.

“Oh, yes. He may be a sinful man entirely given over to pleasures of the flesh, but he is not unintelligent and we had a fair conversation. He knows a little about architecture.”

“Architecture?” repeated Miss Blakelow in amazement. The only architecture she could imagine his lordship taking an interest in was the structure of ladies’ undergarments.

“He was interested in the central tower and whether it was indeed twelfth century. I could not remember―I do not have a head for such things―and I recommended that he asked you. He seemed disappointed that you did not come with us.”

To tease me and flirt with me and then pull the rug from under my feet and make me feel ridiculous
, Miss Blakelow thought gloomily. It seemed to be his favourite sport at the moment. Mock the bluestocking and punish her for writing her pamphlet. She gave a wan smile. “Did he? That seems unlikely. I hardly know the man.”

“Well…he asked me all sorts of questions.”

“To be sure he did,” returned Miss Blakelow, folding up her shawl. “If he wishes to invest in the estate, I imagine he will wish to have every detail.”

“Not about the estate,” said Aunt Blakelow. “About you.”

“
Me
?”

“Yes. He asked me why you had never married.”

Miss Blakelow froze, her hands leaning upon the table for support. “And what did you tell him?”

“Never fear, my dear. I told him that you had suffered a disappointment as a young woman.”

Miss Blakelow’s face fell. “Dear ma’am, what did you tell him that for?”

Aunt Blakelow blinked at her. “Did I do wrong? I did not give him any details. I spoke only in the most general of terms, I assure you.”

“But we had agreed not to divulge anything to anyone. Surely you must realise that to reveal any information, to him of all people, is disastrous? If he were to remember…”

“Calm yourself, my dear. He does not remember a thing. How should he indeed? You were a mere slip of a girl then.”

Miss Blakelow began to feel sick. She put a hand to her head. “Oh, Aunt, I wish that you had not said as much to him. I had already told him that it was
you
who had suffered the disappointment, so now he knows that one of us is lying. I would not have had you say such a thing for all the world.”

Her aunt stiffened visibly. “Well I do not see why you should fly up into the boughs about it. How you expect a man to remember some chit of a girl from ten years ago when he has had countless women since is a mystery to me.”

Miss Blakelow relented. “I am sorry Aunt. I am sure there has been no harm done. But we will need to tread carefully from now on. He might be a dissipated rake, but he is no fool.”

The door opened and the younger Blakelows burst into the room.

“Well Aunt?” asked young Jack Blakelow, fifteen and stuck upon the brink of manhood. “Is his nibs going to cough up the blunt?”

“Jack!” admonished Aunt Blakelow. “I wish you would not talk in that horridly vulgar way.”

“Is he?” demanded the boy, unrepentant.

“It is too early to say.”

“He doesn’t
look
like an earl,” said Lizzy, wrinkling her brow. “The only earl I ever saw before was so old and fat that his buttons popped on his waistcoat.”

A collective giggle greeted this utterance and Miss Blakelow turned away to hide a smile.

“Elizabeth, mind your manners,” chided their aunt. “To be sure he is a most gentlemanly like man―in public at least―and a handsome one.”

“Do
you
think him handsome?” Catherine asked and Miss Blakelow was surprised to find that the question had been directed at her.

She blushed faintly under the eyes of
every other person in the room. “Yes, I believe one would call him handsome.”

“Are you in love with him?” asked Jack, without preamble, he was slouched across one of the chairs with one foot dangling, as he had seen his eldest brother William do on many an occasion. He fancied it gave him an air of cool nonchalance.

“Ridiculous boy,” replied Miss Blakelow, laughing. “Of course I’m not in love with him. I hardly know him.”

“Well, you women fall in love at the drop of a hat,” he continued, as if he had great knowledge about such things.

“Not this one,” murmured Miss Blakelow, picking up a periodical and leafing through the pages.

“Probably just as well…he’s marrying that Holt female.”

Miss Blakelow’s hand stilled. She looked up and fixed her eyes upon her youngest brother’s face. “Lady Emily?”

“Didn’t you know?” he asked, turning his blue eyes on her.

“No, well I heard the
rumours
of course…but he said there was no truth in them,” she answered.

“The man’s got himself into a great deal of hot water.”

Miss Blakelow put a hand to her head. She was confused, dazed. How could he be marrying Lady Emily Holt? It could not be possible. He’d told her that it wasn’t true. And why did she care? “Who…what―I mean, why is he marrying her?”

“It’s all over Loughton,” put in Ca
therine with eyes gleaming.

“We had it from Hetty Bradshaw who had it from Lady Emily Holt herself,” added Lizzy.

“What is?” asked Miss Blakelow, fidgeting with impatience.

“He got caught with his tongue down her throat.”

“
Jack
!” cried Marianne, throwing a cushion at him. “Don’t be repulsive.”

“Well he did,” said her brother. “It was at the Silverwood ball. They were out on the terrace alone and he tried on more than he should and her father caught him and there we are. He’s about to be leg-shackled.”

Miss Blakelow sensed her aunt’s eyes upon her and studiously kept her own gaze lowered. Her face seemed strangely tingly as if all the blood had drained from under her skin. “Well, I’m surprised, is all I will say,” she said meditatively. “A man of his experience is not one to be trapped like that unless he wished to be.”

“You think he was tricked into marrying her?” asked Aunt Blakelow.

“I have no idea. He has to marry someone I suppose.”

“But why
her
?” said Marianne.

“Because she’s beautiful and rich,” replied Miss Blakelow softly.

“Well, if he were to see you without those hideous spectacles, he would know that you are not so weasely faced as he supposes,” said Jack.

“Thank you,” replied Miss Blakelow meekly at this back handed compliment.

“She is not weasely faced!” cried Marianne, firing up in defence of their eldest sister. “How can you say such a thing?”

“If you would but
listen
, you would know that I said she
wasn’t
weasely faced,” retorted Jack, vigorously swinging his leg.

“I know those glasses make her look a hundred years old, but never
weasely faced
!” continued Marianne, her blue eyes sparkling with tears.

“Oh, lord, you’ve set her off again. Jack, how can you be such a clod?” demanded Ned, his senior by two years and a fiercely intense young man.

“What?” asked Jack, spreading his hands. “All I said was―”

“Yes, we all
heard
what you said,” replied Ned wryly. “You described our dear kind sister, as being
weasely faced
. As if she doesn’t have enough to put up with looking after
you
since you were a nipper. Not to mention being an old maid and stuck here at someone else’s beck and call because she is too poor to live anywhere else. And now you call her
weasely faced
. I’m sure she is overcome by your gratitude.”

His younger brother coloured painfully and stole a swift glance at the averted profile of his eldest sister. “I’m sorry.”

Miss Blakelow summoned a smile from somewhere. “No matter. But please can we drop the weasel reference? I’m not sure my pride can take it,” she said with an unsteady laugh.

“Of course,” he replied stiffly. “All I meant to say is that you scrub up well, when you don’t wear those glasses. I think any man would be proud to take you on.”

Miss Blakelow could take no more. She made an excuse and left the room and managed to hold onto her tears until she reached the sanctity of her own bedchamber.

Meanwhile, Jack was set upon from all sides.

“You idiot Jack!” said Ned angrily.

“What?” he retorted, spreading his hands.

“How could you?” cried Marianne.

“Did you see her face? She was mortified,” put in Catherine.

“She knows that she is not a beauty, but
weasely faced
? I should take you outside and beat you to a pulp,” said Ned.

“I said that she
wasn’t
weasely faced!”

“And then Marianne said that she looked a hundred years old,” said Lizzy.

“Yes Marry,” agreed Ned, rounding on his sister, “what possessed you to say
that
? What woman likes to be reminded of her age?”

“Well
you
said that she was a poor nobody and stuck here because no-one wants her―”

“I did
not
say that she was a poor nobody!”

“You did too!”

“I said that she was an old maid―”

“Yes,” chimed in
Elizabeth. “Very flattering. No doubt the girls of the town of Loughton will be falling over themselves to be courted by you.”

This pithy but
eloquent speech had the effect of sending her other siblings into guffaws of laughter and reddening the face of the adolescent to whom it was addressed to such a degree that he resembled the colour of the deep red curtains in the dining room.

“Shut up, Lizzy,” recommended her brother.

“Children,” said Aunt Blakelow softly, holding up her hand. “Enough. We will say no more about it.”

“Should we apologise, Aunt?” asked Marianne.

“I think enough references to the phrase ‘weasely faced’ have been made to last your poor sister a lifetime. Let it go. Find another way to apologise. Do something for her that she will appreciate. Now, I am going upstairs to check on your sister and when I come down again, I expect to find you all engaged in a sensible manner. Is that understood?”

“Yes, Aunt Blakelow,” they all chimed dutifully.

As soon as their aunt had left the room, Ned cuffed Jack around the back of the head.

“Ow! That hurt!”

“Be thankful I don’t break your legs,” muttered Ned ominously.

“You may try, but we both k
now who is the better boxer. William said so―”

“Oh, put a sock in it, both of you,” recommended Lizzy, by far the most pragmatic of the girls and something of a tom-boy. “If you had kept your mouths shut, we would not have now a mawkish female on our hands
.”

This attempt to sound like a boy never failed to irritate Marianne and she pointedly ignored her sister. “Let us try and think what she would like,” she said, her eyes becoming wistful.

“A new pair of spectacles?” suggested Jack and a cushion was hurled at his head for his trouble.

“A new dress?” suggested Catherine.

“Since when did you see her in anything other than black?” responded Marianne. “She doesn’t like pretty dresses. She has a trunk full of them and never wears them.”

“That is because they are out of fashion,” said Catherine.

“But she could have them made over if she wished to,” said Marianne. “But she does not wish to. She prefers to wear her mourning dress.”

“But why?”

Marianne shrugged. “I don’t know.”