The Baron and the Bluestocking Read Online Free

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