The Baron and the Bluestocking by G. G. Vandagriff Page B

Shrewsbury asked.
    “We cannot have that!” Hélène said. “What did you think of Mr. Blakeley? Do you not think he will make a fine MP?”
    “As to that, I cannot say. I have yet to hear him speak. Is he to be your mouthpiece?”
    Hélène felt her temper rise. “Now you are goading me intentionally.”
    “He said you share a close relationship. And you did engage me to dress him. I gather you have a particular interest there.” He feigned innocence, laying a hand over his heart and widening his eyes.
    “What if I have? I cannot stand for Parliament myself!”
    “A word of warning, my dear Miss Whitcombe-Hodge. He has no intention of taking up those issues dearest to your heart. He confided as much to me.”
    “I do not believe you! Why would you want to make trouble between Mr. Blakeley and me?”
    “Maybe because being civil to you is much too dangerous.” His eyes bore into hers with strange heat. All at once it seemed that they were the only ones in the room.
    “I do not take your meaning,” she said, her heart pounding warmth into her face.
    “And you are meant to have a first-class brain.”
    Before she could reply, Lady Virginia was back at her side. Hélène hid her shaking hands in the folds of her skirt. As soon as civility allowed, she departed from their company and went to find Lady Clarice so that they might leave.
     
    *~*~*
    As Hélène lay upon her bed in Lady Clarice’s townhouse that night, she viewed in her mind the many faces of Lord Shrewsbury: the amused face with his lips smiling and his eyebrows raised; the angry face he had shown at Lord Kent’s comment, with his jaw set and his eyes hard; the weary but tolerant face he had shown the first time she met him. But the face that lingered was the last one she had seen. Those hot eyes had ignited a fire in her breast. Turning on her side, she felt it again. She could not ignore that there was something between them, but she was too inexperienced to know whether it went beyond mere flirtation. And what of Lady Virginia? Maybe tomorrow she would learn more of that relationship. Enough to cool this growing ardor inside her.
    In order to banish those thoughts, she remembered the words he had spoken about Samuel. They could not be true, could they? Samuel could not be so duplicitous. But what would happen if she married him and found that they did not think alike on political ideas? She realized that then her whole rationale for marrying him would disappear. Clearly, there were some things she needed to get straight before she consented to be his wife. It was no longer a foregone conclusion that she would marry him.
    Hélène did not rest easily that night.

{ 9 }
     
    WHAT HAD HE BEEN THINKING of when he invited Lady Virginia and Miss Whitcombe-Hodge—possessor of that ridiculous name—to ride with him in the park, Shrewsbury wondered. Was it not enough that they were becoming bosom bows? If only the termagant goddess had stayed in the country where she belonged. Seeing her amidst the ton was making him forget the unfortunate station in her life that made her an unsuitable choice for a baron of the Realm.
    Her clothes, for instance. Last night she had worn that horrible black schoolteacher’s uniform, a white collar at her neck and buttons down the front. What on earth would she have to wear in the park? Last night everyone had known her for a schoolteacher. But today in the park they would think he was bringing out some sort of Friday-faced poor relation.
    No. That was not fair. She was not at all Friday-faced. Her face was lovely and more so in contrast with her plain garb. Let the ton make of it what they would. At least, they would not make the mistake of thinking he had any intentions toward her.
    With these thoughts in his head, he was confounded when he met the two ladies at Rose House. He had no sooner greeted them than he exclaimed, “Where did you get that frock, Miss Whitcombe-Hodge?”
    The schoolteacher looked like some model