The Bluestocking and the Rake (The Regency Gentlemen Series) (23 page)

“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 at that moment, 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. “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?”

“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 neighbourhood? 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.”

“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. “You cannot stop, can you? The platitudes still tumble from your mouth. You will stop at nothing until you have had what you want and you can brag that you’ve had me to everyone in the country.”

He laughed bitterly, flinging away her hand and shaking his head in disbelief. “You flatter yourself, my dear. If you honestly believe that, then you are a great deal more foolish than I had given you credit for.”

“I do. I do believe it. This is all a game to you. But I, my lord, am tired of it. 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 enquired at last, his voice like ice. “How very kind of you to enlighten me as to my faults. I realise 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 sir.”

“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 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.

A week later, two men galloped over the rise, their coattails flapping out behind them, their faces chilled by the early November air. They reined in as they crested the hill and looked down on Thorncote, the house nestling 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 towards a farm gate. “By all means,” he replied. “I wish you luck with your endeavour. 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 grey 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.

“Did she indeed? Then Sarah is sadly mistaken.”

“Come on then,” cried Hal, urging his horse into a canter. “You may introduce me!”

* * *

Hal Hockingham could hardly believe his eyes.

This
was Georgiana Blakelow? This oddity was his brother’s beauty? This queer looking woman who was wearing an extremely 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 ignored her. He devoted his attention to Marianne, trying to stave off the nagging sense that he knew the older sister 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 neighbourhood.

* * *

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 Hockingham 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 Hockingham was here. She paced the floor, her fingers trembling.

Hal Hockingham
. She put a shaking hand to her head and swore in a most unladylike manner.

What did this mean? Had he recognised her? How long would it be before others found her too? How long before her past threatened to rip her from her newfound family? Marianne, Kitty, Lizzy, Ned and Jack. Most of all little Jack.

Mr. Hockingham 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 recognise 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 shook hands at their parting was not one she would easily forget.

She stalked to the armoire in the corner of the room and pulled down the 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 soft voice behind her.

Miss Blakelow whirled around as the door closed. “Oh, John, what choice do I have?”

“He didn’t recognise you.”

“He was looking at me,” she cried flinging the bag onto the bed. “I could tell he sensed something.”

“He did
not
recognise you, Miss,” he said again, coming towards 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 go back to him…I won’t.”

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 have Janet now and I won’t let you give her up for me. The time has come for me to strike out on my own.”

“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―”

“I do not need his help.”

“Begging your pardon Miss, but I think you do.”

“I’d rather marry Mr. Peabody than marry a man who has less idea of marital fidelity than…than the Prince of Wales!” she flashed.

“I know you and he have fallen out…”

She glared at him. “Do you?” she asked dangerously.

“My Janet is friendly with the housekeeper up at the big house, Miss. The word was that you sent him to the roundabout and that he was not best pleased about it.”

Miss Blakelow’s bosom heaved. So now her private conversation with his lordship was all over L
oughton? “Indeed?”

John swallowed. “Janet told me that he―um, well, perhaps I’d best not say.”

“She told you that he’d what, John?” she pursued with narrowed eyes.

He shuffled his feet. “I’m not sure as I should say, Miss.”

“John, you had better tell me.”

Her servant coloured and looked at the floor.

“John?”

He sighed deeply. “Janet told me that he fell asleep in the bed where you stayed when you were knocked off your horse, Miss.”

Miss Blakelow opened her mouth to say something, thought better of it and closed it shut again.

“He’s taken your refusal awful bad, Miss.”

“Good,” she flashed, swiping a miniature portrait of her mother from her bedside table and throwing it in the bag.

“They say he’s hardly ate a thing all week.”

“I don’t care,” she declared.

John reached into the bag, took out the tiny painting and set it back upon the table again.

She glared at him. “What are you doing?”

“I could have a word with Janet who could drop a word to her friend up at the house that you were of a mind to have him.”

“And have all the servants knowing my business?”

“Begging your pardon, Miss, but they know it anyway.”

She put her hands on her hips. “I will
not
marry Robert Hockingham. Can I be any plainer?”

“You’ve no fancy to be a countess, Miss?”

She took the tiny painting and put it back in the bag again, daring her manservant to disobey her again. “None.”

“It would solve a good many problems.”

“And create a good many more,” she muttered, pulling a bundle of letters from a drawer and flinging them into the bag.

He bit his lip. “Lord Marcham is…is a man of the world. Chances are that he’ll understand your predicament better than most.”

She shook her head. “He won’t.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do know it. Men—present company excepted—are hypocrites. He once told me that men of his sort did not fall in love with women like me.”

John, recognising the signs of a stubborn female digging in her heels, said no more. But once his mistress had calmed down enough to stop trembling, he managed to elicit from her a promise that she would not run away that night and went even so far as to encourage her to set the miniature of her mother back upon the table.

* * *