The Baron and the Bluestocking (3 page)

“You know,” he said thoughtfully, “Dogmatism is not the least bit attractive.”

She felt as though he had dealt her a blow. Tears started to her eyes again, though these were tears of humiliation. How ungallant! Ungentlemanly!

“I do not in the least wish you to be attracted to me!” she spat before she could think. Her color rose and she tried to stare him down. But her tears fell, and she looked away.

“Then I must beg your pardon.” He bowed his head slightly.

Turning away, she walked shakily into the next room, where the orphans were to be taught needlework and other homemaking arts. Hélène wished ardently that the man would disappear. Pulling a handkerchief out of her sleeve, she wiped her eyes.

He came up behind her. “Honey catches more flies than vinegar, you know.”

“Go away!” she said with a sniff. How often had her father repeated that same homily? How would this man know what it was like to be a gently nurtured, penniless female in this blighted society? As she whirled to throw this thought in his face, she found that he was escorting Lady Clarice back through the reading room and out of the school.

*~*~*

“What did you think of our patron?” Beth Hilliard asked her as they dressed for dinner back at the Blakeley mansion.

“Insulting, bigoted, and altogether too opinionated,” she said, her back to her friend. Hélène bit her lip as tears started again.

Beth laughed. “I did not think so. After all, the same might be said of you, dear. I think he annoyed you because he was so excessively handsome. Right down to that enticing dimple in his chin. You wanted him to be earnest and plain. Like the Blakeley’s son, perhaps?”

Hélène sniffed and blew her nose. “Samuel is not plain. Just . . . ordinary. I like him very well the way he is.” Looking in the mirror, she readjusted the knot on the top of her head. It was listing to the east. “Oh, bother!” she said. “I think I shall cut off my hair!”

“You will not!” Beth exclaimed, coming up behind her and peeping around to study her own reflection. “I will wrest the scissors from your hand myself! Your hair is glorious. It is really too bad you have determined not to marry, Hélène. A man could worship that hair.”

Hélène felt her face color. “I do not want to place my fate in the hands of a man ever again,” she said. “My papa was good and kind. He never mistreated us in the normal way. But what kind of person leaves his family starving?”

“I agree that was unconscionable,” Beth said. “But I do not want to marry a man solely for financial support, you know. I wish to know love. And I wish to have children.”

“My parents were in love,” Hélène said with a note of sadness. “And they certainly had children.”

When they joined Catherine and Mary for dinner in the dining room, they found their friends overflowing with admiration for the baron.

“If I met that man anywhere else I would never imagine that he could have such a compassionate side,” Catherine said.

“He is excessively handsome,” Mary said with a sigh.

Hélène refrained from comment. What they said was true, but he was also excessively rude. “I am glad you are to have a piano at the school, Catherine. Perhaps Mrs. Blakeley will give you leave after dinner to play on hers tonight. I would dearly love to hear some Bach.”

“Oh, yes!” said their hostess. “I would like that very much. And Samuel is to join us. He is very fond of music.”

*~*~*

Hélène was very happy to see Samuel Blakeley that evening. While Catherine played, they spoke in low tones.

“There is to be a by-election in two months,” Samuel said. “I have been selected as the Whig candidate.”

“Samuel! You have decided to stand for Parliament?”

“Yes. Chipping Norton is becoming a Whig stronghold. It is time we should have a Whig candidate.”

“How thrilling! If I cannot stand for election myself, the next best thing is for you to take it on. I will help in any way I can.”

Speaking brown eyes looked into hers. “I shall have to make speeches.”

“Does that worry you?”

He gave a half grin. While Samuel was not as classically good looking as some people, he was not ill-looking either. In fact, the self-deprecating grin made him appear almost attractive. “Not the speech-making, but the speech-writing.”

Was he asking her for help? “Perhaps I may be of assistance.”

“I am hoping you will,” he said, taking her hand and squeezing it firmly.

She hardly noticed his act, grinning in her excitement. “I shall draw up a list of topics straightaway and you can tell me upon which you would like to speak.”

“I would be obliged to you.”

“And you must buy some new clothes,” she said, as her mind flashed back to Shrewsbury’s attire. Hélène had noted it particularly. The man had worn a sage green jacket, a gold waistcoat, and buff-colored breeches with shiny top boots.

“What is wrong with my clothing?” Samuel’s heavy black brows drew together in a frown.

“It is not fashionable enough. I think you must go to a London tailor.”

“I know nothing of fashion.”

“You want to look elegant, but sober. Perhaps our patron, Lord Shrewsbury, could be of assistance. I will write him, shall I? He is a Whig, but of course he sits in the Lords.”

“I do not want to look like a good-for-nothing lord on the town!”

“Lord Shrewsbury may be a baron, but his founding of our school shows me that he is a dedicated Whig. I am certain he could be of assistance, and I think it would be worthwhile to ask him. You want to make a good impression, Mr. Blakeley.”

He was still frowning. “I would assume that this Lord Shrewsbury made a singular impression on you today.”

She looked down at her lap. Samuel had drawn his hand away. “He was very well dressed, but you know that I do not care for gentlemen of the
ton.
”

Hélène ignored the pounding of her heart at her lie and looked up with determination into Samuel’s eyes.

“Very well,” he said. “You may write him. I shall be glad of his assistance if you think he will give it.”

“I have no doubt of it.”

{ 3 }

CHRISTIAN RETURNED TO LONDON after a two-day ride. Handing Ridge his beaver and dustcoat, he asked, “Any messages? Urgent or otherwise?”

“No, my lord. Your mother called here today, but left no message.”

“I am sorry to have missed her. Perhaps I shall see her tonight at the Forrests’ ball. My post is in the library?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Will you ask Lathrop to prepare my bath?”

“Yes, my lord.”

Shrewsbury strode through to his library, inspected the post, and poured himself a whiskey. There was an odd letter from Grimsley, his estate manager, asking him to visit his property in Yorkshire and look into some sort of irregularity. The baron could not be bothered going to Yorkshire more than twice a year. And his next visit was not scheduled until October. Whatever it was needed to wait until then.

Christian was looking forward to his evening, needing the company of suitable women to wipe the memory of the strident but beautiful Hélène Whitcombe from his mind. She had been far too constant a companion on the ride to Town from Chipping Norton. Her face had appeared in his mind, and his remembrance of those smoky eyes and beautiful mouth had taunted him. But then he remembered her straight unyielding form, so at odds with her sensual features. It was true that the combination of her contradictory parts was compelling, but he was determined to banish her from his mind. No future to be found there.

Though the Season was officially over, the post contained invitations to a few balls, a masquerade, and even a Venetian breakfast. He rejoiced in the busyness that lay before him, but remembered to make a note to himself to see about a piano for the orphan’s school. The duke of Ruisdell would undoubtedly provide it. He was on the board and understood well the importance of music. Sophie’s sister, the duchess, was an accomplished pianist. Perhaps she would even have some word of Sophie.

*~*~*

The opportunity to speak to the duke came sooner than expected when he encountered him and the duchess at the Forester’s that evening. The pair stood together at the edge of the dance floor. Shrewsbury had often remarked how singular it was that the duke and duchess remained in each other’s company whenever they were out in public. Such was not the norm at
ton
events.

“Might I have a word, your grace?” he asked.

“If you have no objection to speaking to me in the company of the duchess,” Ruisdell replied.

“No, of course not. I have just returned from Chipping Norton where I met the new staff for the school.”

“Oh,” the duchess exclaimed. “Did you meet my friend, Miss Whitcombe?”

Raising his eyebrows, he said, “That, I did. Had you any idea that she has Radical sympathies, your grace?” he asked, smiling at the beautiful woman with the famous midnight blue eyes. Though she was Sophie’s sister, their appearance was as different as night from day.

“Was she awfully tiresome?” she asked. “Be patient. I rather think that this is just a phase. She felt exceedingly helpless when her father died and she was left virtually penniless. You must know that there are not many options for a penniless woman of gentle birth in our society. Feeling helpless does not suit Hélène.”

This was a perspective he had not fully considered. Why not? It was perfectly understandable. Still, the woman was not for him. “Yes, she was a bit tedious. But there was something else about which I wished to speak to both of you.”

He told them of Miss Flynn and her desire for a piano.

“Brilliant idea,” said Ruisdell. “I should have thought of it. Music is indeed a civilizing influence.” Turning to his wife, he asked, “Darling, when it has been delivered and properly tuned, shall we not go down to Chipping Norton and have you play a concert?”

His wife tapped his sleeve briskly with her fan. “You are always devising ways to put me on display. I am certain this Miss Flynn is very capable of a concert.”

“She is partial to Bach,” Shrewsbury said.

“The duchess is working on some Bach at the moment. It would be the very thing,” her husband said.

“Dearest duke, I know you are partial to my playing, but there are those far more accomplished than I. This Miss Flynn may be such a one.”

“We could make your concert an occasion, your grace,” Shrewsbury said, suddenly enthusiastic. “We could invite Miss Flynn to perform as well. The other board members could be invited to Chipping Norton for an evening. Mrs. Blakeley, who is a local patron, would provide a splendid supper afterwards, I am certain.”

“Oh, my. I am not certain when my piece will be ready.” The duchess bit her lip. It was a little mannerism that reminded him of Sophie and caused a flash of pain.

Ruisdell spoke. “Darling, you never think your pieces are ready. I think that is a splendid notion. It will give the board members and their wives a chance to judge how the school is doing.”

“When shall you be prepared to perform, your grace?”

“Oh, dear. Not for at least a month!”

“It will give you something to work toward, darling,” her husband said. “I am an appreciative audience, but not as appreciative as you deserve.”

A date of September fifteenth was finally settled on.

“Now you must tell me,” Shrewsbury insisted. “Any word from Lord and Lady Trowbridge?”

“Not since they’ve arrived in Vienna,” said Elise. “However, Sophie wrote from Paris that Gorgeous Frank bought her a trousseau, they went often to the Opera, and have shipped home some paintings. She is very happy. Especially, because she is able to walk better each day with the exercises that Frank’s doctor prescribed.”

Christian’s heart contracted, but he said, “I am very glad.”

They spoke about travel and the details of purchasing a piano. Shrewsbury eventually moved away, anxious to drown the ache in his heart with champagne.

Sophie could never have been mine. Frank loved her even better than I did. He saw to the healing of her limp. He thought of taking her to meet Beethoven. That is the love she deserves. I have never learned to love like that.

As he downed several glasses of champagne, he acknowledged to himself that his loss of Sophie had taught him a lesson. Frank had been right. Mentally, Christian crumpled his shopping list and threw it aside. He would attempt to allow himself to be surprised by love, as Frank had counseled. If he could ever get over Sophie.

Moments after making this resolution, he was approached by his mother. “Darling Christian,” she said, reaching up on tiptoe to kiss his cheek.

His mother was supremely gracious, with the beauty and skin of a younger woman, though her hair was prematurely white. She dressed with the utmost elegance—tonight being gowned in periwinkle blue silk tissue that exactly matched her eyes. He smiled at her with great affection.

“Mama, how delightful you look.”

“I have noticed that you are drinking an uncommon amount of champagne. Is anything amiss?”

“Not at all. I am merely thirsty. Been riding all day.”

She smiled in a knowing way, but did not delve any deeper. Instead she said, “I have someone I want you to meet. A very dear girl who only recently came up to Town. She was in mourning for her father until recently and was not here for the Season.”

His mother was not in the habit of introducing him to ladies. In fact, she had never done it before.

“We have arranged to take supper together tonight. Come to me casually in the supper room, and I will introduce you.”

He kissed her cheek. “To tell you the truth, I am feeling quite blue-deviled.”

“I know, dear.”

She moved off and all at once he was virtually alone in the ballroom full of people. Even the idea of making a new acquaintance did not appeal to him.

Why had Sophie gained such a hold over him? She was not adept at going about in society; she did not even dance. However, she was beautiful in an ethereal, innocent sort of way that tugged at his heart. And when she played her violin she became a goddess, exuding a masterful talent which changed her altogether. Dead honest, she had never led him on. She was perhaps the only woman who had ever preferred Frank to him.