The Baron and the Bluestocking (17 page)

“Do you think we will have much snow this winter, Lord Shrewsbury?” Lady Delacroix asked.

“I think it will be piled high and deep and that none of us will be able to budge from our hearth,” he replied.

“I must say, I thought Oxford a bit of a disappointment,” Lady Virginia said.

“And why is that?” Shrewsbury asked.

“All the colleges looked so similar. There was no great variation in architecture to account for differences in taste.”

“They were all built at various times during the rather lengthy Gothic period. Perhaps that accounts for it,” he said dryly. “I find it beautiful. In fact, it is my favorite city in all of Britain.”

“Oh. But then, you are a man. You do not have the same sensitivity to beauty as a woman.”

At this point, Christian had been ready to open the carriage door and trot alongside. How he kept a civil tongue in his head until they reached their destination, he could not have said. Especially when mother and daughter chose to wax eloquent on Delacroix’s many virtues. Chipping Norton was asleep when they arrived, but a lantern still burned outside The White Hart. Lady Virginia, upon entering the inn, asked immediately after her brother.

“He is in our private parlor, my lady, playing cards.”

“Will you tell him his sister and mother have arrived, please?” she asked.

Christian, anxious to avoid any further strain on his civility, bade the ladies good evening and climbed to his room, carrying his own case. His watch told him it was nine o’clock. Too late to call on Hélène. She had to arise early in order to go to the school. It was also too early to retire, but he had no desire to visit
en famille
with the Mowbrays.

Fortunately, he had brought a translation of Voltaire’s essays with an eye to comparing opinions with Hélène. Stretching out on the featherbed, he read by candlelight until his eyes tired. A check on the time revealed that it was midnight. The essays had been such a relief from two days of silly conversation that he had ingested them almost greedily.

Undressing, he reflected upon whether Hélène’s conversation had ruined him for anyone else’s or whether he had always been an intellectual snob. Christian decided he must blame it on Hélène. And Sophie, of course. He lay awake, studying different methods for approaching Hélène, and finally decided he would let the circumstances of their first meeting dictate a course of action. Upon making this decision, he yawned and fell asleep nearly instantly.

He woke early, washed, shaved, and dressed. It was before seven. If he hurried out to the school—they must see about naming it!—he could breakfast with the children. Leaving a note for Lady Virginia and her mother that he would be by at ten o’clock to take her to the school, Christian rode off on one of the carriage horses.

He arrived at the orphanage just as the cowbell was being rung for breakfast. His first glimpse of Hélène came as she was breaking up a fight between two older girls who seemed to be claiming the same ribbon. Her method was to put it in the pocket of her uniform, telling them they would discuss the matter later when tempers had cooled.

He approached her. “Good morning, Miss Whitcombe-Hodge.”

“Merciful Heavens! What are
you
doing here?” Her hands flew to the no-nonsense bun on top of her head.

As greetings went, it was not much, but to see the woman concerned about her hair when she was normally the least vain of creatures, put him in good spirits.

“Actually, I thought you realized I am a patron of this place. I have brought Lady Virginia and her mother down for a tour to see what you are doing here. I hope to interest them.”

Her face relaxed in relief and she took a long breath. “Thank heavens! Someone for his lordship to associate with during the daytime. Lord Delacroix grows weary of Mr. Blakeley and he does bother me so when he attends my classes.”

Did the man’s presence make her annoyed or self-conscious? “I am at a loss as to what he is doing here,” Shrewsbury said.

“He hopes to marry me,” she said baldly. Turning, Hélène began to walk her way through the benches, observing the girls as they ate. He followed, very glad he had already been privy to her otherwise shocking news.

“Have you given your answer?”

“This is not the time to discuss such things. Please stop following me about.”

“If you will agree to lunch with me. The best food to be had is Mrs. Blakeley’s cook’s. I will see if that good lady can give us some lunch and some privacy.”

Hélène gave a gusty sigh. “That would be quite heavenly, to tell you the truth, but what about your guests?”

He had completely forgotten his stated reason for his visit. “I shall tell them we have school business to discuss and they can have luncheon here or at the inn with their brother.”

“He usually brings a picnic and eats with me out in the orchard.”

“Well, today he can host his mother and sister for a change.”

During the next few hours, he visited with the Misses Jackson, Hewitt, and Flynn. The latter was very pleased with the new piano and looking forward to the concert on Saturday week. Shrewsbury had forgotten all about it, and was glad for another excuse to come down and meet Hélène. He solicited the teachers for their opinions upon a name for the school. They all agreed that it should be named for Lady Clarice Manton, who had been fighting for female literacy for many years, and had been so instrumental in putting Lord Shrewsbury’s plan into action.

“It must be named for a woman, my lord,” said the tall and comely Miss Jackson. “Surely you agree with that.”

“I do. I will put your suggestion to the board, and we will vote on it.”

On the way back to the White Hart, he stopped by the Blakeleys.’ Mrs. Blakeley was happy to fall in with his request regarding luncheon. “I know there are not sufficient places in that school for private conversations. It really needs a larger business office. That cubbyhole is filled to the rafters with classroom preparation materials.”

“That is another matter I shall take up with the board. We need a proper preparation room.”

He found his guests awaiting him, along with Lord Delacroix. They appeared by their quarrelsome attitude and sour faces to have had a disagreement of some sort.

Hesitating, he decided not to ask the cause, instead rallying them. “Let us go to the school. Lord Delacroix can probably tell you more about what goes on there than I can. I suspect he is an expert by now.” Observing the picnic basket, Christian said, “Miss Whitcombe-Hodge has told me about your picnics. However, today she and I have school business to attend to, so I shall be taking her away to lunch. It would be a perfect time for you to picnic with your mother and sister. Perhaps you need extra food before we go?”

Looking annoyed, Lord Delacroix walked back to the kitchens, telling the company he would be gone for mere minutes. As they boarded the carriage, Lady Delacroix said, “Can you believe that troublesome baggage, Miss Whitcombe-Hodge, still has not given my son an answer to his proposal? I should think she would jump at it!”

Shrewsbury said, “I do not believe the woman intends to marry.”

“She is a very odd woman, indeed, from all that I can gather,” Lady Delacroix said.

*~*~*

“So you have been keeping Lord Delacroix on tenterhooks, I understand?” he asked Hélène while they sipped excellent broth. They had been placed in a sunny parlor that was set up for their luncheon overlooking Mrs. Blakeley’s autumn garden of many-colored chrysanthemums.

“It is the oddest thing,” she confided, her brow troubled. “You know how I feel about marriage for a woman such as myself.”

“Only too well,” he said.

“He does not agree with any of my opinions, yet he says if I marry him, he will put them forth in the Lord’s.”

“I would advise you not to trust that man. Does not your sixth sense tell you that he is a bounder?”

“You think so?”

“I find him a bit too slick. And he is quite annoyed at my turning up.”

“Yes, I did gather that. There is something else you should know. Mr. Blakeley has also proposed to me.”

Shrewsbury closed his eyes and exhaled. This, at least, was no surprise. And she was probably far more likely to accept Blakeley’s proposal than Delacroix’s or his. He must state his case well. “For someone who is against marriage, you would seem to be inundated with suitors. I myself would like you to consider yet another future. I am the first to say that I do not know how we will work it out. But I think I have proven that I have charitable instincts where young women are concerned.”

“You have done that, certainly,” she said.

“And I spent an agreeable night reading Voltaire’s essays . . .”

“Did you? How did you find them?” Her gray eyes sparkled and she smiled at him like he was a clever schoolboy.

“Remarkable. Very prescient. I understand your preference for him.”

She looked pleased. A servant cleared away their soup bowls and brought them partridges, green beans, and roasted potatoes.

“There are many things on which we agree,” he said slowly, “but more, I am afraid upon which we disagree. And I have not forgotten that our estates in life are so dissimilar. I do not know that you would really know how to get on in the world of the
ton.
”

Putting down knife and fork, she looked at him, her eyes bewildered. “What are you trying to say, Lord Shrewsbury?”

“That whichever way I look at the matter, I cannot get around the fact that I am in love with you.”

She went off in a peal of laughter. “Do not tell me! You have been reading Miss Austen’s
Pride and Prejudice!
”

Awareness struck him. “But I am not as bad a Mr. Darcy, surely?”

“You abhor my background, do not agree with my opinions, do not know how we shall get on, but in spite of all that, you think you love me. Does that not sound like Fitzwilliam Darcy?”

Christian cut into his partridge with fury. “Am I to presume your answer is the same as Elizabeth’s?”

“No, it is not precisely the same. I, too, have been troubled by the very great attraction between us. But I thought it not strong enough to do away with your scruples. I am surprised by your proposal.”

He watched her fidgeting with her napkin. “Hélène, let me see your eyes.”

She brought them up to meet his. Heat flared between them, taking his breath. “Give me your hand.”

Reaching across the small, round table, she grasped his hand. Hers was cold. He brought his other hand up and chafed hers to warm it. “I think you
are
a little in love with me,” he said.

She nodded. “I have sought to talk myself out of it. Like you, I have my doubts. I am afraid any love between us would eventually grow cold, we think so differently about women’s issues.”

“I think, rather, you are afraid to give up your single status. You are afraid you would like being married and would no longer feel the need to exercise yourself on the part of single women of limited means.”

She pulled her hand away. “That is
not
true!” Her eyes sparked, her cheeks flushed. “See! We are already at odds!”

“But we love each other,” he said, aware that he was challenging her. His confidence blooming, he went further, “You cannot marry Delacroix or Blakeley when you love me.”

It was as true a statement as he had ever made.

{ 16 }

HÉLÈNE WAS STUNNED at Shrewsbury’s words. He actually was admitting his feelings and the reasons why he was fighting them. Just like Mr. Darcy, in fact. Hardly flattering. Then why was her heart racing like a gelding on a summer morning?

This would not do! “You know, I cannot help the estate into which I was born. But you are possessed of everything—looks, rank, wealth. Just as Lord Delacroix is. At least he does not find my birth and breeding beneath him. He is willing to brave the
ton
by marrying me.”

“As am I,” Shrewsbury said, matter of factly. “My thoughts have changed materially on that subject. I must beg your forgiveness for ever thinking myself superior to you in any way. It was unconscionable. It is not your social status that matters. It is the state of your heart. I have come to appreciate that you, unlike the
ton
beauties that I have known, are concerned with things of substance. Your life is an example of charity and true nobility of character.”

He took her breath away! Was it possible he had changed so materially? “Thank you, my lord. You have indeed changed in this matter. Like Darcy, you have had to fight your own prejudices.” Indeed, the conversation seemed out of a novel. She could not believe they were discussing such things—finally bringing them out into the open. Hélène endeavored to keep her wits about her before they went sailing out the window.

“Like him, at least I am honest,” Shrewsbury said. “I do not know what Delacroix’s game is, but I do not believe him to be of good character. I have told you that a man of his stamp and arrogance has only one use for women who will not increase his consequence.”

Not hungry, she made a great show of cutting up her partridge, but then only pushed the meat around her plate. “He may not be as black as you think him. I am pleasantly surprised at how much interest he takes in the school.”

“Hélène.” He spoke her name as a warning. She looked up at him. His eyes implored her. “Do. Not. Marry him.”

“I have the feeling he can be very unpleasant when crossed,” she said.

“Is he bullying you, then? Shall I have a word with him?”

“He is so determined, I do not think he would listen to you.”

“Is he imposing on you?” Shrewsbury’s eyes narrowed and his bottom lip stuck out belligerently.

“Nothing more than kisses.” She put the back of her hand up to her lips. “But I do not like them.”

The baron’s silverware clattered as he stood. “He has had the gall to kiss you? You let him?”

“I had never been kissed before. I thought I might like it. But I did not.”

He strode to her side, drew her to her feet, and took her face between his hands. “This is how you kiss someone when you are in love with them.”