The Pleasure of Bedding a Baroness

by Tamara Lejeune

  “I trust everything is to Your Ladyship’s satisfaction?” Mrs. Oliver said, sounding a little anxious.

  “Yes, thank you,” Patience said quickly.

  Mrs. Oliver beamed at her. “And may I say, Your Ladyship, we’re all very glad to see the young master married at last.”

  “Young master?”

  “That is what we call that rogue you have there,” Mrs. Oliver said fondly.

  “Mrs. Oliver, you make me blush,” Max said.

  “May I ask how you know we are married?” Patience asked.

  Mrs. Oliver looked surprised. “Sure, didn’t we read it in all the London papers?”

  Patience felt very foolish. “Oh, I see. Yes, of course.”

  Stopping at the door, Mrs. Oliver curtsyed again. “I’ll leave you to it then.” She backed out of the room, closing the door.

  Max slowly pulled the ribbons of Patience’s bonnet. “Well, my dear,” he said gently. “Shall we bathe before ... or after?”

  Patience glanced around to make sure they were alone. “After,” she said, shamefaced.

  He tossed her bonnet aside, and she did not care where it landed. “Shall we eat before or after?”

  “After,” she said, reaching for him.

  Laughing softly, be bent to fasten his mouth to hers, walking her backward to the bed until she fell through the slight opening in the bed curtains onto the deep feather mattress, dragging him with her.

  Chapter 22

  In the warm darkness behind the bed curtains, Max undressed himself swiftly and expertly while Patience was still fumbling with the clasp at her cloak.

  “Hurry up!” he said, stretching out beside her.

  “It’s not a race,” she said primly.

  “Slowpokes always say that,” he complained, rolling onto his back.

  “You’re on my skirts,” she said, tugging.

  “I should like to be up your skirts,” he muttered.

  “Good things come to those who wait,” she told him sweetly.

  Catching her by surprise, he hauled her across his naked body. “I know how to get good things without waiting,” he said roughly. Patience protested weakly as his hands searched under her skirts for the buttons of her drawers. “Let me have you, just like this,” he whispered. “All I need is one tiny opening, a little ... Ah! There it is.”

  He sighed deeply as with one finger he delved into her warmth. “Shall I thread your needle for you?” he asked, making Patience laugh.

  “Yes, please.”

  In the darkness, he took her swiftly. The urgency of his lust excited her, but it was over too soon to bring her satisfaction. At the end, he was content, and she was still panting. A very sorry state of affairs, as he himself observed.

  Leaving the bed, he opened the curtains. Patience had not been shy in the darkness, but now she kept her eyes averted from his body until he found a dressing gown.

  “What shall we do now? Bathe or eat?”

  Patience was horrified to see that their supper had been laid on the table before the fireplace. A bottle of champagne was chilling in a silver bucket. “That wasn’t there before!” she exclaimed. “Max! The servants must have brought it in while—while we were—!”

  He shrugged, already easing the cork from the champagne bottle. “What of it? The curtains were closed. We were very quiet. Well ... I was very quiet. How else were they to bring us our supper?”

  Patience was red in the face. “Has no one in this establishment heard of privacy?”

  Max brought her a glass of champagne. “I’ll speak to them about it,” he promised. “Come and eat. We have roast chicken and strawberries and asparagus tips and every good thing.”

  Somewhat mollified, she let him lead her to the sofa. After two glasses of champagne, she let him undress her. He threw off his dressing gown and they ate their supper on the rug in front of the fire, as naked as two savages. Then he took her slowly and gently, postponing his pleasure until she with sharp, wild cries found hers.

  After a little more champagne, Patience groggily stumbled for the closet. As she opened the door, a maidservant scrambled to her feet beside the steaming copper bath, dropping into a deep curtsy.

  Patience screamed. Running naked to the bed, she dove behind the curtains and would not come out until Max assured her that they were quite alone.

  “What kind of place is this?” she wanted to know.

  “It’s her job to make sure the bath water stays hot,” Max told her.

  Patience clutched the sheets. “Max, she saw me naked!”

  He sighed. “For the life of me, I cannot understand why you are so ashamed of your body. Don’t you know you’re beautiful?”

  “It’s called modesty,” she said crossly. “I don’t suppose you’ve ever heard of it!”

  He hadn’t even bothered to cover himself. She could not help looking at his body. She resented the effect the sight had on her. Wrapping the sheet around her, she went into the closet and closed the door.

  The busy servant had unpacked her trunk. Her nightgown was hanging up for her.

  Patience bathed quickly, terrified that servants were going to burst in on her at any moment. Safely in her nightgown, she found her hairbrush and carried it with her to the bed.

  Max bathed while his bride brushed her hair, emerging from the closet as naked as he had gone in. “Where is your nightshirt?” she asked, exasperated. “You’ll catch your dead.”

  “I’m warm natured,” he assured her, slipping into bed. “I’m as good a bed warmer as you are apt to find anywhere in England.”

  Still damp and hot from his bath, he smelled of fresh soap and something deeper that could not be washed away: his own dark, warm smell, woodsy and animal at once. Patience took a deep breath to steady herself. Surely he could not want her a third time?

  But, yes, he did. Grunting, he pulled her hard against him, covering her with the warmth of his body. Patience kissed him eagerly, wrapping her arms around him tightly. The entire staff of this peculiar inn could have paraded across the room and she would not have noticed or cared.

  “I am so happy,” she whispered in his ear as he nuzzled her neck.

  He was tender, and sleepy, his mood mirroring her own. Her hand moved possessively across the fine dark hair that covered his chest. “I can feel your heart beating.”

  He felt it only proper to return the gesture. “I can feel yours,” he said, taking her small breast in his hand and caressing it through her gown. The next moment, his hand was inside her gown.

  The first time he had touched her so intimately, she had been as one paralyzed. Hardly had she dared to breath. The sensation still was so exquisite as his warm fingers played with her nipple that she could hardly bear it. Taking his hand, she pressed it to her cheek. “I want you inside me now,” she whispered. “Now, my love! Don’t make me wait.”

  He laughed softly. “You are the strangest creature! One minute you are shy, and the next you are begging me to bed you quicker. Is there no pleasing you?”

  “Hurry up,” she explained. “I’m dying.”

  “So impatient!” he laughed. “But I think I will make you wait a little.”

  “You shall not!” she said fiercely.

  Roughly, she pushed his head lower down, forcing his mouth to her breast. Groaning, he pushed her nightgown up over her thighs. Opening her with his hand, he placed himself at the entrance.

  “Not like that,” she panted. “All at once. I want to feel you as far inside me as you can go.”

  He did as instructed, with good result. Slowly, he withdrew until only the very tip of his member still touched her. Then all at once, he drove his full length into her. “We call that heel to toe,” he informed her as she flung her head back and gasped.

  “Never mind what you call it,” she said harshly. “Do it again!”

  With a low animal moan, he fell upon her, taking his pleasure from her open body, his mouth against her sweet-smelling neck, her fingers digging int
o his back instinctively.

  Collapsing into her arms, he lay as still as death.

  “My love,” she repeated helplessly, holding his wet body against hers. “My love, my love.”

  She drifted in pleasure for a long time, her fingers lazily playing in his hair. When at last he lifted his head and kissed her, she was hungry again. She jumped out of bed, her nightgown somehow still clinging to her, and ran to the table. He watched her with half-closed eyes, his body glowing in the firelight, as she selected a plum and slowly returned to the bed.

  She bit into the fruit, and was dismayed when the juice ran down her chin and stained her fingers. With a strange growl he pulled her to him.

  “Again?” she giggled, proud that he wanted her so much.

  The plum rolled away as he slowly devoured her fingers, then lapped at her chin. Finally, he drove his tongue deep into her flavored mouth.

  In the early morning, he woke her by stroking her naked breasts and belly. Patience was exhausted and sore and a bit hungover and happier than she had ever been in her life.

  “Imagine,” she said softly, snuggling against him, “sharing a bed for three years without touching!”

  Max was rather taken aback. “Come now! It wasn’t that bad. I think you even liked it a little.”

  Chuckling, she turned in his arms to face him. “You told me if we were to get an annulment, we would have to share a bed for three years without—without touching. I was thinking how impossible it would be.”

  “Thank God. You frightened me.”

  Sitting up, she stretched her arms over her head. “Do you think it is safe to go into the closet now? Or do you think there is a servant lurking there?”

  “I’ve spoken to Mrs. Oliver. We will not be disturbed. They will leave all our meals outside the door. You will not see another servant as long as we are here.”

  Climbing out of bed, she stifled a yawn. “Of course, we will not be here very long,” she said. “We must get on to Wildings.”

  “I thought we might stay here a day or two,” he said.

  “Heavens, no!” she exclaimed. “We must leave here at once!”

  “Don’t you like it here?” he protested.

  “No, not at all,” she said vehemently.

  “But ... it is a handsome house, is it not?”

  “Yes, very handsome,” she conceded. “But, Max, I’m sure the servants must have heard us last night. We were not very discreet. They all know what we’ve been doing in here. And, don’t forget, that girl saw me naked. No! I shall be very glad when we are on the road again.”

  “One more day,” he pleaded. “Your bottom must be sore. You should not travel on a sore bottom.”

  Patience blushed, but said firmly, “Another day and I won’t be fit to travel! Go and pay the bill. We must leave directly after breakfast. Do you need money?”

  Max swung his feet out of bed. “No. The rates are very reasonable here. You’d be surprised.”

  Three days later, as the sun was just beginning to set in the west, they reached the ivy-covered gatehouse of Wildings.

  No one answered the coachman’s call, so he was obliged to stop at the gate. It was soon discovered, however, that one of the gates had rusted off its hinges, and they were able to pass through with relatively little trouble. The path beyond, overgrown with weeds and brambles, led in a roundabout way to the house, tall, but not very wide, its windows choked with ivy.

  “Good heavens!” Patience exclaimed in dismay.

  Max eyed the structure with an air of profound doubt. “Your Mr. Campbell wasn’t lying about the state of the house, at any rate.”

  “No,” she sadly agreed. “I wouldn’t feel right taking ten thousand pounds from an unsuspecting buyer. We shall have to clean it up and make repairs. Even then, I doubt it could be worth ten thousand pounds.”

  “You’re forgetting the land,” said Max. “Good, fertile land is hard to find. In America, I know, ’tis only three cents an acre, but we are an island.”

  “Only two working farms; scarcely any rents. Most of it seems to be rather mountainous terrain. The shooting is said to be very good.”

  “Who has made the offer?”

  “A Squire Colebatch. He owns the adjoining property.”

  “Perhaps the squire is a sporting gentleman,” Max suggested. “But it seems a shame to sell something that has been in your family for so many years.”

  “I promised Prudence I would sell it and split the profits with her,” Patience said.

  As she spoke, the carriage jerked to a stop. Max let the window down to speak to the driver, who had jumped down from his box to examine one of the wheels. “A stone has wedged itself in the works,” he reported to Patience. “The wheel is jammed. It’s but one or two hundred yards to the house. Shall we walk?”

  Leaving the coachman and the two footmen to deal with the horses, the couple waded through the weeds up to the house. Patience’s skirts were wet to the knee and studded with burrs as they came up to the ivy-covered porch. A dog was barking within.

  “That is a good sign,” Patience said, ducking under the hanging ivy to seize the door knocker.

  “That will depend on the dog,” he said dryly. “He sounds rather annoyed.”

  The door opened before Patience could knock, and a stooped little man wearing a dirty shirt, and dirtier, torn breeches swung a lantern in her face. “What yer want?” he said roughly.

  His terrier was less friendly. Leaping up, it seized a mouthful of Patience’s skirt and refused to let go, twisting and growling with all its might as it hung on.

  “Mr. Moffat?” Patience said, doing her best to remain polite as she struggled to rescue her skirt from the dog. “I am Patience, Lady Waverly. The new owner of Wildings This is my husband, Mr. Farnese.”

  The lantern swung from one face to the other.

  “Would you be good enough to call off your dog?” Max said sharply.

  The little man did so, eyeing them with resentment.

  “You are Mr. Moffat, aren’t you?” Patience asked, checking the damage to her skirts as the dog was banished to the recesses of the house.

  “I’m Archie Moffat. What yer want?” he repeated suspiciously.

  “Her ladyship has explained it to you already,” Max said angrily. “Now stand aside, my good man! We have had quite enough of this nonsense.”

  “You don’t mean yer coming in?” he said, apparently amazed.

  “I do mean it,” Max said curtly. “Our vehicle is bogged down in your lawn—in your weeds, I should say. Send someone this instant to collect my lady’s trunk.”

  “Ain’t no one here but me,” said Moffat, thrusting his jaw out fiercely.

  “Then you go!” Max snapped. “Quicker, please! And direct my men to the stables. Thank you!” he added, dragging the man from the doorway and sending him on his way down the path. The terrier, no longer restrained by his master’s foot, lunged at Patience again.

  Ignoring him, Max lifted his bride in his arms and carried her over the threshold with the terrier still attached to her skirt, which was beginning to tear.

  It was extremely dark within, despite the modest fire in the big hearth. The furnishings were sparse, namely a pair of worn wooden settles and an age-blackened table in the inglenook. The stone floor was strewn with leaves that seemed to have blown in from the outdoors. In the farthest corner of the room, a milk cow stood in a mound of straw, placidly chewing her cud. As Max and Patience stared at her, she greeted them with a dull moo.

  “We seem to have found the stables,” Max said, setting Patience on her feet. Kneeling down, he pried the terrier’s jaws apart and freed her skirt. Tucking the dog under his arm for safekeeping, he climbed to his feet.

  “You mean this is not the house? Oh, thank God!”

  “No, this is the house,” he told her apologetically. “This is the house and the stable.”

  “Oh, dear,” she said, looking around in dismay. “I think the cow has been eating the
curtains.”

  “I think you are right,” he said. “Have a seat by the fire,” he added, handing her the dog. “Dry your skirts. I’ll see if there’s anything to eat in this cursed place. I am hungry, but not hungry enough to eat the curtains.”

  Patience carried the squirming dog to the inglenook while Max lit a candle and went off to find the kitchen. The table between the two benches in the nook was covered with books, old newspapers, and shoe-black. Mr. Archie Moffat, she supposed, had been polishing his boots when they arrived. Patience sat down on one of the benches and removed her bonnet, setting it on the bench next to her.

  It was a mistake. The terrier instantly seized it and ran off. Patience gave chase, pursuing him to the stairs, shouting, “You rascal! Come back here!”

  At the staircase, she caught the newel post and skidded to a stop as the dog darted up the stairs and dropped her bonnet at the feet of the tall, spare gentleman on the landing. As Patience stared, the tall man stooped to retrieve her bonnet.

  “His name is Rufus,” he said. “He is indeed a rascal.”

  Patience stared at the man in disbelief. He was much older than she remembered, but his eyes were a clear green without a trace of hazel and his features were finely sculpted.

  “My God!” she gasped, pale and struggling to breathe.

  “No,” he said, coming down the stairs toward her, with his little dog on his heels. “I must insist his name is Rufus. I know, you see; I named him.”

  “I beg your pardon!” Patience stammered. “For a moment, I thought you were someone else. Who—who are you?”

  “Who am I?” he repeated. “Don’t you know, child? I know who you are.”

  “But ... it can’t be,” she whispered. “You’re dead.”

  “No, child,” he said, drawing nearer. Slowly, he reached out and placed his thin hand on her shoulder.

  Patience looked into his green eyes, and, for the first time in her life, she fainted.

  When she came to, she was lying in the inglenook, on one of the settles, and Max was hovering over her with a look of concern on his dark face. “Oh, Max!” she said, throwing her arms around him. “I have seen a ghost.”