Patience Carruthers is a bluestocking with no interest in the fleeting uncertainty of love. Her passion is for books, knowledge, and the improvement of the world. When she learns of Mrs. Oliver’s work, instructing ladies in intimate matters to better their marriages, she is resolved to see that volume published for the public good—and will even accept an agreement to wed a notorious rake to accomplish her goal.

Thanks to his uncle’s reckless wager, Arthur Beckham has immediate need of a wife. Insisting he has an understanding with Miss Carruthers, a lady of good sense and practicality, may provide an escape from his predicament—assuming the lady in question can be persuaded to agree. He proposes a marriage of convenience to Miss Carruthers, vowing he will do whatever she desires in exchange for one son—even ensure the publication of such an uncommon volume.

Arthur is intrigued by this lady and her ability to surprise him. Her commitment to honesty tempts him to abandon the disguise that has defined his life for decades—though Arthur fears that admitting his deception might turn Patience against him forever. Can the book help him to capture the heart of his pragmatic bride before his secret is revealed?

Buy the ebook:

The Bluestocking’s Bargain is also available in a mass market paperback edition.

An excerpt from The Bluestocking’s Bargain:

Miss Patience Carruthers liked to collect facts as much as she liked to collect books. She found pleasure in knowing things, the more things the better. In fact, it was her considered opinion that the vast majority of people did not know nearly enough – or read enough – to be relied upon to function well. 

The rakehell Arthur Beckham was a good example. Despite his charm, his remarkable good looks, and his determination to win her approval, he was incapable of shaking her convictions. After all, the man’s reading habits were woefully inadequate. If he would just pause for breath, Patience would tell him so.

“Clearly, the book,” Arthur said with an engaging smile “is wrong.” He pushed a volume across the counter which he was returning along with the other books his mother had borrowed earlier in the year.

Patience bristled, confident that she was unaffected by that smile. “Books, sir, are not wrong simply because an individual does not care for their content. Books provide an infinite variety of entertainment options as well as a wealth of factual information. Those books which appeal to one person may not appeal to another, which explains the inventory of libraries and bookstores…”

She could have continued at some length in this vein, but the well-attired gentleman on the other side of the lending counter at Carruthers & Carruthers opened the book in question, presenting its contents to her. Patience had already noted that it was a leatherbound edition of Childe Harolde and surmised it was one of their lending copies, given that it was being returned with a number of other such volumes. But when the book fell open in Mr. Beckham’s gloved hands, she immediately saw that it had been savagely mutilated.

She gasped, as loudly as if he showed her a child with a fatal knife wound.

The block of pages had been rudely sliced from the inside of the case, the edges left so ragged that there were threads of linen binding visible. The endpapers were torn, as well, a travesty since they had been of fine marbled paper, perhaps from Florence. The volume that had been sloppily stitched into the case for the poem had a disreputable look about it. It was much smaller than the original block had been, which meant that the ravaged binding was exposed at the top and bottom of the spine. The paper was cheap and thin, and the pages were scuffed as well as discoloured around the edges. It was either a very well-thumbed volume or one that had been left in shocking circumstances for some extended period of time. The very prospect of a book being so abused was a shock to Patience and she gripped the lip of the counter, as well as falling into a horrified silence.

What had happened to the poem that had originally been inside this case?

Surely it had not been discarded?

Surely the man before her had not destroyed the original volume? If so, he was even more reprehensible than she had imagined.

Patience raised her horrified gaze to his and he raised a hand, almost retreating a step. “It was like this when we opened the package of books. I am not responsible for this book’s state, Miss Carruthers.” His dark gaze bored into hers with startling intensity. “I give you my word of honor.”

Patience had no notion of the merit of his word of honor, though he made the declaration with such vehemence that she could not remained unmoved. She was only slightly relieved, for the damage could not be repaired.

“The book remains wrong, however,” he said and held it a little closer to her.

Patience’s gaze slid over the text and she retreated a step, appalled when she understood the content. The words printed there formed no part of the poem Childe Harold and were, in fact, lewd in the extreme.

But then Arthur Beckham was notorious in so many ways.

She glared at him, as he continued to watch her, eyes twinkling. (They were very, very dark and she dared not look into them for long, lest she tumble into those alluring shadows and forget herself utterly. Doubtless he relied heavily upon his very pleasing countenance to lead innocents astray.) “Do you see my meaning, then?” he asked.

“That book does not belong in that case.”

“And yet, here it is.” Mr. Beckham closed the book and shook it at her. “I must say that I never expected to receive such a volume from Carruthers & Carruthers.”

“But…”

“My mother left an order of books to be borrowed for our trip to Venice,” he continued smoothly. “And this volume was included in the parcel, though its contents were not as expected. Fortunately, I discovered the truth before my mother or younger sister became aware of it.”

Patience had a sick feeling then, for she recalled an instance that she had dismissed at the time. Her older sister Catherine had been annoyed about a book disappearing in the spring, a book that she insisted did not belong to the bookshop. Had it not been a copy of Childe Harold? Patience thought perhaps it had been.

She had packed Lady Beckham’s order. She remembered that well. Was she responsible for the inclusion of this volume? She had to be.

And Mr. Beckham appeared to have guessed as much.

“I will see the matter resolved, sir.” She reached for the book with an unsteady hand, examined it upon all sides, then checked the endpapers front and back. There was no stamp declaring that it belonged to the bookseller. In fact, what remained of the endpapers were marbled with a thread of gold, an expense her father only undertook for particularly important books and never for those to be lent.

Which meant that either Mr. Beckham played a jest upon her, having presented a book that had not originated in her father’s place of business – and that meant he might be lying about his role in the desecration – or this was Catherine’s missing book.

 There was no logical cause for Mr. Beckham to jest with her. Patience was certain they had never spoken before, though – of course – she knew who he was. And she, perhaps foolishly, trusted his word. He seemed very earnest in this moment and she was tempted to believe he told the truth as he knew it.

She stole a glance at him to find her watching her closely, as if he could not anticipate what she might do and was interested to find out. Patience’s heart fluttered, as it never did, for such action would be irrational—but then, she was not accustomed to having very handsome and eligible young men study her so avidly.

She was glad she had worn her better dress on this particular day, which made no sense at all.

She shook her head. It was Catherine’s book, then, and the mystery of why her sister had such a volume in her possession could wait for a later interview.

Patience held fast to the book and smiled politely. “I thank you for bringing this error to my attention. I will ensure that the necessary corrections and repairs are made.”

“That is all you mean to say?”

“I cannot imagine what else I would say. It appears that no one was inconvenienced by the mistake, and by your own admission, there is no cause to send apologizes to your mother or sister.”

“But I was grievously affronted.” The wicked glint in his eyes hinted otherwise.

Patience gave him an icy look. “But a glance, sir, apprised me of the book’s content, and given your reputation, I hardly expect the content was a shock to you.”

He grinned. “Was it a shock to you, Miss Carruthers?”

“I hardly see that the reply is of any import at all.”

“Oh, but I see it as a very worthy question.” He leaned closer and she could not avert her gaze from his cursed confidence – or those eyes dancing with mischief. What would he say? “I must wonder whether you included that volume on purpose.”

Patience gasped. “To what end, sir?”

“To provoke me into thinking of you. Perhaps to create this very opportunity for discussion.”

Patience felt her mouth open and close again. She had no reply to such an audacious suggestion.

He nodded with a confidence that was irksome beyond all. “Perhaps you wished to speak with me. Many young ladies do. I assure, you, Miss Carruthers, that I am yours to command.” He consulted his pocket watch as she was amazed by his high opinion of his own charms. “For the next seven minutes. After that, I will be obliged to attend my mother.” He closed the watch and returned it to his pocket and regarded her, his pert expression reminding her of a sparrow watching a particularly tasty crumb.

“I did no such thing,” Patience said. “Though I am reluctant to confess as much lest you be overly disappointed in the measure of your own allure.”

He laughed, a loud and merry sound that made more than one patron turn to look. Patience felt her color rising. “Touché, Miss Carruthers. You put me in my place for making assumptions about your interest.”

“If I did include the book, it was by accident, though I have no recollection of so doing.”

“Then I should take it back, as perhaps it does not belong to Carruthers & Carruthers.”

Patience tightened her grip upon the volume. “We did have a report of a lost book of this title in the spring. I shall see it returned to its rightful owner.”

“May I witness that exchange?”

“To what purpose?”

“I imagine, Miss Carruthers, that you blush most emphatically.” His gaze swept over her, an appreciative gleam in his eyes. “You are so fair. It must be bewitching to watch, and I cannot imagine that you could return that volume without a blush or two.”

“Oh! You are audacious beyond all, Mr. Beckham.”

He grinned, then touched the brim of his hat. “Perhaps unlike other young men of your acquaintance.”

“You have no notion…”

“Why else would I surprise you so?” He gave a dramatic sigh. “I suppose that you have a very proper betrothal arrangement, to a very proper clerk who is very properly suitable match for the proper daughter of a proper bookseller and publisher, and as such, is not a man to make such improperly bold suggestions.” He lifted a brow, which made him look disreputable indeed. The twinkle in his eyes did not mitigate the impression at all. “Perhaps you peruse such volumes with him?”

“I have no betrothed,” Patience said crisply. “I yearn for no man to take my hand within his, for I have books for companionship.”

“A book like that might keep you awake long into the night. It did as much for me.”

What was in that book? Patience wished she’d had more than a glance, but she wouldn’t open it while Mr. Beckham was still watching her. The deed would give him far too much satisfaction and he was already insufferably confident.

She lifted her chin. “Everyone should be so fortunate as to be kept awake at night by a good book,” she said, not expecting his loud guffaw. Evidently, she had surprised him, for he strove to cover his amusement, though her father gave him a stern look from the back of the shop. Patience was very aware that this exchange would be drawn shortly to a close, one way or the other. She spoke clearly, so others could hear. “The poetry section, sir, is to the right of the pillar there, while historical sagas are on the opposite wall. I trust you will find something similar to Childe Harolde in one location or the other to snare your interest.”

“What about more books like that one?” he asked and she glanced at him. “The one that is actually inside the binding.” He dropped his voice to a dangerous whisper and he watched her closely as he spoke. “Harris’s List of Covent Garden Ladies.”

Goodness. Is that what it was? Patience’s cheeks were on fire at the prospect of holding a copy of that guide to courtesans and whores. She glanced down at it, curious indeed.

“Aha! You know it!”

“I…I…”

“Have you read it?” Mr. Beckham murmured, the words recalling her to the situation.

“We do not stock such volumes, sir. This work clearly does not belong here and I thank you for doing your part to see it reunited with its rightful owner.”

He looked left and right, then leaned over the counter, the very image of devilry. “Will you read it first, Miss Carruthers? We might arrange to meet and compare observations on the text.”

Patience barely resisted the urge to cast the book at him – but then he might abscond with it and keep it, which meant she would have no opportunity to read it herself.

Or return it to Catherine.

How had Catherine even come to have such a work in her possession?

“You make the most scandalous suggestions, Mr. Beckham. I do believe several moments have passed, and would not detain you from your meeting with your mother. Good day.” Instead of turning to the next customer, Patience retreated into the back of the shop, where the printing presses were running noisily.

She was not truly hiding from an aristocrat overly convinced of his own merit, but there was no other way to terminate the conversation. Mr. Beckham seemed oddly determined to speak with her at length.

In fact, she glanced back to find his gaze still locked upon her. He lingered at the counter for long moments, apparently waiting for her return. The man must believe himself to be irresistible. He certainly had a rare ability to disconcert her, a talent possessed by very few.

Patience glared at him, then retreated into her father’s office.

She peeked out a moment later to see the back of Mr. Beckham’s impeccably tailored dark blue jacket as he left the bookstore. She watched as he tipped his hat to a pair of ladies entering the shop, then caught her breath when he glanced back one last time.

It was as if he knew she watched him.

Of course, he would expect her to be fascinated by him.

Patience saw no reason why he should learn that his expectation was correct.

Patience returned to the office, closed the door, then sat on a stool. Harris’s List of Covent Garden Ladies. She had heard of the scandalous volume, of course, but no one ever specified in her presence what might be found within its covers. She opened it at a random page and felt her eyes widen.

It was a list, including the names of courtesans and women whose favors could be hired, with addresses, descriptions—and prices. Oh! She snapped it shut, certain she was blushing all the way to her toes.

Mr. Beckham would have gained his wish to see her blush, of that there could be little doubt, but she would not be disappointed that he was gone.

It was easy to imagine how he would laugh and how his eyes would glimmer and how utterly handsome he would appear – with his gaze locked upon her. Patience had spoken to him for a matter of moments and the man had beguiled her as easily as any adoring young maiden. She could only hope he had not guessed his effect upon her ridiculously agitated heart.

Doubtless she would never see him again. He had been amused and undoubtedly had forgotten her already.

But there remained the book.

Excerpt from The Bluestocking’s Bargain
Copyright ©2024 Deborah A. Cooke