The Pleasure of Bedding a Baroness

by Tamara Lejeune

  “That would be up to you,” she replied. “You should think of your reversal of fortune, not as a defeat, but as an opportunity to make something of yourself. My grandfather arrived in America with nothing but the clothes on his back. Twenty years later, he was the richest man in Philadelphia. You might do as well, if you apply yourself to something.”

  “I don’t want to be the richest man in Philadelphia.”

  “Those are my conditions.”

  “I suppose,” he said slowly, “I might—For many years now, I’ve had a special interest in amateur theatricals. I suppose I could get a job down at the theater.”

  Patience’s eyes narrowed. “My fourth condition is that you go nowhere near the theater.”

  “Which one?”

  “You are not to go near any of them!” she said crossly. “You’re to have nothing to do with plays or—or actresses. You might do something with horses,” she went on quickly. “You’re good with horses.”

  “I’m good with actresses,” he said.

  “No actresses.”

  “I thought you liked the theater. At least, you were looking forward to going.”

  “The rector will not wait forever,” she told him. “Have we an agreement?”

  She stuck out her hand, and, after a moment, he shook it.

  “Very well, madam. I agree to your terms.”

  Patience nodded. “Give me but a moment to splash a little water on my face,” she said. “I will meet you downstairs.”

  “You can splash water on your face when you are married,” he said. “Let’s to church.”

  “But my dress,” she protested weakly. “I must change my dress.”

  She had slept in her theater gown. It was now crushed and wrinkled, and the lace at one sleeve had been torn away to make a bandage for Pru’s arm.

  “No one will see it,” he assured her. “’Twill be under your cloak.”

  “But—”

  “That is my condition,” he said. “We must hurry; the rector won’t wait forever.”

  Taking her by the arm, he propelled her out the door.

  Chapter 17

  It hardly seemed worth the trouble of arguing. Patience did not feel like a bride, so it mattered little to her that she did not look the part. At least her hair, which must have been in a frightful mess, was as hidden by her bonnet as her dress was by her cloak.

  “I hope you don’t mind,” he said, as he handed her into his curricle. “I dismissed your carriage. Would you like to drive or shall I?”

  Patience pulled the fur rug over her knees. “I wouldn’t know the way to the church.”

  “Perhaps on the way back,” he suggested lightly.

  “Perhaps,” she answered, marveling at his cheerful mood.

  Despite the gloomy sky overhung with dark clouds, Max seemed pleased with the world and everything in it, especially her. Most especially her. It was as if nothing unpleasant had taken place at all. As he drove, he kept picking up her hand and kissing it, to keep it warm, he said, for she had left the house without her gloves.

  “This job of mine,” he said suddenly. “Whatever it is, it will have to be lucrative. I’ve acquired a taste for the finer things in life. I fully intend to cover you in jewels.”

  “Sounds rather heavy,” Patience said. “Covered in jewels, I might drown if I fell in a pond or something.”

  The bells were ringing as they drew alongside the church. The groom jumped down to take the reins from his master, while Max handed Patience from the vehicle himself. Patience stood for a moment with her head tilted back, admiring the church’s beautiful, white, tiered spire as it cut into the gray sky.

  “Why did your uncle choose this church?” she asked.

  “You don’t approve of the church?”

  “It’s very pretty,” she replied. “I suppose he chose it because it was far away from Mayfair. I don’t suppose it is frequented by the fashionable set.”

  “I’ll have you know that I was baptized here,” he said. “When I was born, my mother was living in poverty just a few streets away. As you know, my father was disowned by the mighty Purefoys when he married my mother. They had a rather hard time of it. My father even had to get a job—a black fate for a gentleman in those days. He built and painted sets at the opera where my mother danced.”

  “My grandfather disowned my mother when she married my father,” Patience told him.

  Max smiled. “Your grandfather did not approve of the younger son of a baron?”

  “No, he just hated the English,” Patience explained. “He got to know them when they occupied Philadelphia during the War of Independence.”

  “War of Independence? Oh, yes; that is what you Americans call your Revolution. But he relented ... your grandfather, I mean,” Max added. “He forgave your mother?”

  Patience shook her head. “Not while my parents lived. Even after they died—Well, he took us in because it was his duty. And he left us his money because he had no one else. But he never relented. My father gave music lessons. He never seemed to have time to teach us. He was so tired in the evenings.”

  Max held out his hand to her. “You can tell me all about it when we are married,” he said. “We have kept the rector waiting long enough, I think.”

  Mrs. Drabble was waiting for them inside. The ribbons of her lace cap fluttered as she hurried down the black-and-white-patterned floor and kissed Patience. “My dear,” she said, a little breathlessly. “I was beginning to think you weren’t coming!”

  “What are you doing here?” Patience blurted out in amazement.

  “I took the liberty of asking Mrs. Drabble and Miss Haines to be our witnesses,” Max explained. “That’s all right, isn’t it?”

  Miss Haines waved her handkerchief gaily from the front of the church.

  Mrs. Drabble beamed. “The rest of the ladies are at my house putting the finishing touches on the wedding breakfast.”

  Patience frowned at Max. “You are very sure of yourself, sir!”

  “Of course he is,” said Mrs. Drabble. “He knew, as I knew all along, that he was innocent. But I’m in your way,” she hurtled on before Patience could utter a word, “and the rector is in such a hurry!”

  As she bustled back toward the altar where an austere clergyman waited in his white robes, Max took Patience’s hand and tucked it in the crook of his arm. “You see? Not everyone has disowned me,” he murmured.

  “I’m glad,” she said, her eyes fixed on the altar.

  “This is a Christopher Wren church, is it not?” she said, as they started down the aisle. “Your English churches are funny.”

  “How so?” he asked politely.

  “In America, all the pews face the front. Here they face each other.”

  “You’re talking more than usual,” he observed. “Not nervous, are you?”

  “No,” she said, then clamped her lips together.

  “Shall I tell you why the pews face each other?” he asked. When she made no reply, he went on, “It makes it easier for the gentlemen to ogle the ladies. It’s the only reason men come to church. And, of course, the ladies only come to see what the other ladies are wearing.”

  “That is dreadful,” Patience murmured, whispering because they had drawn near to the altar and the clergyman was looking at her with piercing dark eyes.

  “I do not speak of myself,” he protested. “These days I only go to church to get married. And only then because it is the law.”

  “Hush!” she pleaded. “He will hear you.”

  Miss Haines pressed her lace handkerchief in Patience’s hand. “Something new,” she whispered. “I made it myself. And your cloak is blue. But you must have something old. Something old, and something borrowed, or it is very bad luck.”

  Mrs. Drabble quickly took off her wedding ring. “Take it,” she said, closing Max’s fingers around the plain gold band. “It’s old and borrowed. You can give it back to me when you have bought her a proper ring.”

  “Yo
u’re very kind, Mrs. Drabble,” Patience said, moved by the gesture. “Thank you, Miss Haines.”

  The rector cleared his throat impatiently, and they all snapped to attention.

  After ferreting out that the bride had no middle name, the clergyman ran through the service as if his tongue were on fire. Patience wondered at the amazing capacity of his lungs. He hardly gave the bride and groom time to repeat their vows, and he scarcely paused as Max placed Mrs. Drabble’s wedding ring on Patience’s finger.

  And then it was over.

  Weeping, Miss Haines ran forward to kiss Patience. “I know it’s silly,” she said, tears streaming down her wrinkled cheeks. “But I always cry at weddings.”

  “Better take this, then,” said Patience, giving her back the handkerchief. “I think you need it more than I do.”

  “I see what you mean,” Miss Haines said, dabbing at her eyes. “You will not be crying.”

  Mrs. Drabble had been congratulating Max. Now the two ladies changed places.

  “We have laid a fine wedding breakfast for you,” Mrs. Drabble said. “Four tiers to the wedding cake! And, Max, of course, would have my gooseberry tarts. There’s cherry for you, as well. Mrs. Bascombe’s recipe.”

  The rector cleared his throat again, and Max hurried to place his name and the name of his bride in the register. Everyone signed the marriage certificate, the rector cleared his throat for a third time, and they all hurried out of the church to discover that it was raining.

  Max summoned a hackney coach for Mrs. Drabble and Miss Haines while his groom raised the top over the curricle. While Patience waited in the curricle, Max sent the jarvey on his way to Wimpole Street. “Happy?” he asked, joining Patience in the curricle.

  “I am content,” she answered.

  He frowned. “Well, I am happy,” he declared. “I have wanted to marry you since I kissed you in Hyde Park.”

  “As long as that?” she said lightly. “But two weeks? Three perhaps?”

  “It seemed like an eternity to me,” he said, his tone reproachful.

  “And was that before or after you made your bet?” she asked politely.

  His hand must have jerked the reins for his horses gave a sudden start. Max quickly got them under control, but his face was grim. “Made my what?” he said sharply.

  “Wager, if you prefer,” she said. “You did make a wager that you would marry me, did you not? Forgive me, if I am mistaken.”

  “You are not mistaken,” he said, after a pause. “I did make a wager, but that was—that was a moment’s foolishness only. Pray, do not regard it. I was in my cups. The Earl of Milford was annoying me.”

  “So it is true, then. I wasn’t sure.”

  “You’re not going to tax me with this,” he said curtly. “On our wedding day? I tell you, it was nothing. I haven’t the slightest intention of collecting, if that makes it any better.”

  “Oh, do you think I am angry?” she asked. “Not at all, I assure you. I think it’s a good thing that you made this bet. In light of recent events, a very good thing. If you are going to start out in business, you will need capital.”

  Her pragmatic tone set his teeth on edge. “May I ask how you know about this bet?”

  “Lord Milford told me.”

  “Of course he did,” Max said angrily. “He made a bet of his own—that he would marry you. He has no business discussing the betting books outside of our clubs!” Max said indignantly. “I could have him blackballed for this.”

  “Please do not give my feelings another thought,” Patience said coldly.

  He frowned, puzzled. “You said you weren’t angry.”

  “I’m not,” she snapped. “I’m glad. I’m glad you made a wager that you would marry me.”

  He sighed. “You are angry.”

  “Not at all,” she insisted. “I’m very glad you’ve won your bet; I helped you do it. My conscience will never be truly clear until I’m able to contact your uncle, but, at least I’ve done all I can to make amends to you. You’re not completely penniless.”

  Cursing under his breath, he pulled his horses to the curb and checked them. “I told you, madam,” he said coldly, “I haven’t the slightest intention of collecting on that asinine wager. May we please drop the matter? Our wedding breakfast awaits us.”

  “Under the circumstances,” Patience said primly, “I don’t feel right about attending a wedding breakfast.”

  “What circumstances?” he growled. “We’ve just had our wedding; we’ve not yet had our breakfast. Those are the circumstances. It would seem to me to be an ideal time for a wedding breakfast.”

  “But those ladies think we are really married,” Patience protested. “They think it is a happy occasion. They don’t suspect that I only married you so that you could collect on your wager. Mrs. Drabble has gone to a lot of trouble.”

  “What did you say?” he demanded.

  “I said Mrs. Drabble has gone to a lot of trouble.”

  His gray eyes narrowed as he stared at her. “Before that,” he drawled. “Do you mean to say you only married me so that I could win a bet?”

  “Well, I felt terribly guilty about your uncle disowning you. You will need something to live on. With fifty thousand pounds, you could live in style.”

  “Fifty thousand?”

  “Yes. That was the amount of your wager, was it not?”

  He smiled tightly. “Not quite, my sweet. You have been misinformed. I gave Milford odds of five to one.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means that I hazarded fifty thousand pounds. He only hazarded ten.”

  “Oh. Well ... ten thousand pounds is a handsome sum, too. For your sake, I wish it were more.”

  “For the last time, I have no interest in the money. I will never collect on that bet. Never.”

  “Don’t be foolish. Of course you must collect. You cannot afford to be proud. Remember, you agreed never to touch my fortune. Where will you live? How will you eat? How will you look after your horses? I bet they eat a lot. How will you pay your groom?”

  “I will live with my wife,” he answered. “I will share her food. My horses will be kept in her mews. My groom will work for nothing, because he is loyal.”

  Patience was shaking her head. “That will not be possible. You cannot live with me. I live with my sister. It doesn’t bear thinking about. I married you so you could collect your money, but there it ends, I’m afraid.”

  “Just a moment—” he began hotly.

  “We wronged you, Prudence and I,” she interrupted him. “I am very sorry for that. But you—you wronged us, too, did you not?”

  “Did I?”

  “You devoted yourself to my sister for weeks. Your attention to her even received notice in the newspapers! Then you made your bet with your friend, Lord Milford. Suddenly, your interest in my poor sister withered away, and you began to pursue me. We both know why.”

  “Are you insinuating that I married you for a mere ten thousand pounds?” he demanded. “I? Maximilian Tiberius Purefoy?”

  “I think, when you made that bet, it was a game to you,” she said calmly. “Life, I daresay, was a game to you. But it isn’t a game now. You’re not Maximilian Purefoy. You’re Maximilian Farnese—and you’re poor!”

  “How could you misunderstand me so completely?”

  “But I do understand,” she argued. “There’s no need to be so defensive. I am not angry. But if you think you’re going to—to have your cake and eat it, too, you are very much mistaken.”

  “What cake?” he said sullenly. “My cake is at the wedding breakfast.”

  “Let me be perfectly plain,” she said. “You can have the money. Take it with my blessing! But you cannot have me. This marriage will be annulled as soon as I can make the arrangements. In fact, I would be grateful to you, sir, if you would drop me at my attorney’s rooms. They are not far from here, in Chancery Lane. Do you know it?”

  “This is my town,” he said coldly. “O
f course I know it.” Clicking his tongue, he brought his team of grays back to life and turned them smoothly back onto the cobbled street. “May I ask,” he went on presently, “on what grounds do you propose to annul our marriage?”

  “I should think it quite obvious,” she said sharply.

  “Nothing about this is obvious to me,” he returned.

  “We are not man and wife. Nor shall we ever be.”

  “I see. You are aware, I suppose, that, as your husband, I have certain rights, should I choose to exercise them?”

  Patience colored slightly, but not nearly as much as he had hoped. “You won’t do that,” she said confidently. “If I thought you were that sort of man, I would never have married you.”

  “I think you will find that getting an annulment is a rather complicated affair.”

  “No. It’s perfectly simple. The marriage will never be consummated. It must be annulled.”

  “I don’t know how you do things in America, of course,” he said, rather snidely, “but here we take ‘what God hath joined’ and all that rot rather seriously, I’m afraid. You can’t just tell the Church you want an annulment and presto! The Church has to make an investigation.”

  “Investigation!” she exclaimed. “What is there to investigate?”

  “First, you will have to prove that the marriage has not been consummated. I suppose they have a physician examine you, or, perhaps the bishop does it himself. I’m not really clear on that point.”

  “You are lying!” she said angrily.

  “There’s more. By law, a man has the right to consummate his marriage—or not, just as he chooses. You can’t be granted an annulment simply because your husband does not choose to exercise his marital rights. You will have to demonstrate to the court that I am incapable of performing in the bedchamber.”

  “Demonstrate? How?”

  “In such cases, the courts will be obliged to appoint a woman to examine me, which should make for some interesting evidence.”

  “That is ridiculous,” she said, though more than a little taken aback by his apparent knowledge of a process of which she was entirely ignorant.

  “Oh, let the bishops have their fun,” he said tolerantly. “God knows they lead dreary lives. Did I mention, before you can proceed with the annulment, we shall be obliged to share a bed for a period of not less than three years?”