To Bed the Baron (Girls Who Dare Book 9)

by Emma V. Leech

  “Would you?” she asked, tilting her head to one side. “How much would you appreciate it? What’s in it for me?”

  Gabe narrowed his eyes. She’d surprised him. For all he’d been aware of her interest in him, he’d not believed her a tart.

  She moved a little closer, looking up at him from under a sweep of thick, sable lashes.

  “Why do you insist on ignoring me, Mr Knight? It’s almost as though you are afraid of me, but I cannot fathom why. I find it frustrating, though, when you are the most interesting man here. I would like to know you better.”

  Her words were low, and certainly seductive.

  Despite his assessment of Helena’s interest in him, Gabe admitted himself shocked. She was so very young, and looked as fresh and innocent as a daisy, despite the uncompromising, bold quality of her gaze. Yet surely that had been an invitation? Women had suggested getting to know him better before now, and their meaning was never ambivalent. A wave of revulsion washed over him at what she was suggesting. He’d sold himself plenty of times in his youth, but had believed those days behind him. Never again would he need to bed a woman he didn’t want to put food in his belly or pay his rent, yet here was the bloody duke’s daughter demanding he debase himself for her.

  Gabe gritted his teeth as he considered it. He could do it, if he must. It was possible to be discreet. He could use her as she used him and, when he’d gotten what he wanted, he could watch her fall. These people, they lived in their gilded cages, letting no one who didn’t meet their requirements past the pretty bars. Well, he would find a way in, like a fox in a hencoop, and then they’d all have their feathers ruffled as he took control.

  “Do you have a place we can meet, then?” he demanded, seeing little point in beating around the bush. If she wanted him to bed her, she could damn well acknowledge it. He kept his voice low all the same, not wanting to draw attention to them. “Private rooms? Or should I arrange it?”

  For a moment there was nothing but confusion in her eyes, and then they widened so far that he felt a twinge of unease. His unease grew to discomfort as a searing blush scalded her cheeks and her mouth fell open. Her elegant hand rose to circle her neck as though she feared a physical attack, and Gabe took an instinctive step back, assuming she would slap his face and throw him out for his insult. Damn. He had misjudged her. How had he misread this situation so badly? Only, the way she looked at him, the hunger in her gaze… surely he’d not imagined it?

  To his surprise, she let out a startled laugh, never taking her eyes from his.

  “Good heavens, you… you thought I was suggesting… you service me? L-Like a st-stallion?” She gave a most unladylike bark of laughter and slapped her hand over her mouth. “Excuse me….” she said, as all eyes turned in their direction.

  She fled, leaving Gabe standing alone and utterly perplexed. Not quite understanding why he did it, he followed her. He found her in the next room, alone before a window which she’d opened a crack to let in some cold night air. Her shoulders were shaking and an unfamiliar sensation of guilt hit him as he realised the shock had worn off and she was crying.

  Bloody fool. Why the devil should he feel guilty? If she went around looking at men like she looked at him, she would get a deal more than she’d bargained for. The sooner she learned that lesson, the better off she’d be. He’d done her a favour and he was damned if he’d regret it. Gabe turned, deciding he’d be best served leaving her alone and pursuing his own path to get to speak with Fitzwalter. Henry Stanhope was here, and he’d use the fellow to gain the introduction he needed, as he’d first intended. Then he heard her laughter.

  His head swivelled of its own accord as the surprisingly deep, throaty sound rose around him. She hadn’t been crying, she was laughing herself stupid.

  Gabe folded his arms and scowled as she turned and saw him—and went off in another peal of laughter.

  “Oh,” she said, clutching her arms about her waist. “Oh… I… I do b-beg your pardon. Only, no one has ever… ever….”

  Off she went again, and Gabe rolled his eyes. It took some time for her to calm herself enough to speak, and even then, her eyes still glittered with mirth.

  “I’ll not apologise for the insult, if you are expecting such a thing,” he said, deciding she’d better understand the kind of man he was right now. “If you look at a man in the way you look at me, speak such flirtatious words, you can expect him to form a conclusion of what you want.”

  “Really?” Helena said, looking fascinated. “Oh, dear. Well, it seems my brother was right. I am a danger to myself, though it is partly his fault for protecting me so hard. I confess I have been very little in society, as I was in mourning—oh, forever it seemed—and I never did do very well at being ladylike. We lived quietly, and no one could ever stop me putting my foot in my mouth. You see, I only came out a few months ago, and no one else has ever caught my attention.”

  Gabe hid his surprise at her honesty, too interested to hear what she’d say next.

  “Men are usually falling over themselves to speak to me, so I’ve never had to exert myself before. I suppose I over-egged the pudding.” She gave such an impish smile and spoke so candidly that Gabe found himself unwillingly charmed. “Though I rather think the gentlemen I know would not offer their services quite so… so frankly,” she added, giving him a gently reproving look.

  “I’m no gentleman.”

  She smiled at that. “I know. That’s why you’re so interesting. You say exactly what you think, and you don’t flatter.”

  The chuckle that came from her seemed at odds with the elegant exterior. It had a naughty, irreverent edge to it that suggested she was not as buttoned up and haughty as she appeared on the surface. He was irritated to discover how much it intrigued him.

  “I don’t think you have the slightest idea how to flatter and cajole, do you, Mr Knight? A quality I find quite irresistible. You cannot imagine how wearying it is to be always be told your opinions are right, to have your every joke laughed at, and odes to your beauty delivered daily. If I hear my eyes compared to emeralds once more, I shall scream. You, on the other hand, have the subtlety of a hammer, and I suspect pound your point across until your opponent is squashed flat.”

  Despite himself, Gabe felt his lips twitch upwards at this apt description. He wanted to tell her that her that he knew her eyes were not at all like emeralds, not now he’d seen them up close. They were not as cold and hard as that. They were mysterious, with the shifting shades of a forest’s canopy, where the sun filtered through the green and turned it every conceivable shade as the leaves stirred in a breeze. He bit the compliment back, irked that such a nauseating thought had even occurred to him.

  “What did you want, then?” he asked instead, curious now.

  Helena shrugged, and when she looked at him her expression was guileless and rather shy, her youth and innocence all too obvious. “What I said. To know you better—not in the biblical sense,” she added in a rush. “Just to talk to you and hear about your life, how you made such a success of yourself. I find your achievements fascinating. How proud you must be to have accomplished so much in your life. I know I should be.”

  There was a wistful note to her words that struck him, but he shook it off. Lady Helena Adolphus was beautiful and interesting and bedding her would not be any hardship, but it would ruin his chances with her brother, so he’d best keep such temptations at a distance.

  “Well, my stories are my own, and I don’t share them with strangers for their entertainment. Find another man to practise your wiles on, my lady. This one has no interest in being your pet.”

  He ensured the words were hard, sneering at her to make certain she understood his contempt. Gabe did not bother seeing how she received them. He simply turned and strode away.

  Chapter 11

  My Lord Marquess

  I regret to inform you that the ‘item’ you wished us to locate was found by my men yesterday evening but slipped through their hand
s. You may rely upon the fact they have been severely reprimanded. I give you my word I will do everything in my power to ensure said item is on a boat to New South Wales as soon as is possible. It is, as you requested, a priority. Although I know you will not thank me for observing it, I have discovered you were behind the exposure of the conditions in those mills and I congratulate you on all you have done. In the circumstances I am only too happy to oblige you in seeing the vile thing gone from these shores.

  At the risk of incurring your wrath, may I ask if you have thought any more about the railway project I mentioned? Vulgar it may be, but I promise you it will be the most profitable venture you ever take part in if you change your mind.

  ―Excerpt of a letter from Mr Gabriel Knight to The Most Honourable Lucian Barrington, Marquess of Montagu.

  7th February 1815. Mitcham Priory, Sussex.

  Solo did his very best not to stare across the dinner table at Jemima, but it was nigh on impossible. She was growing lovelier by the day and his desire to spend every moment in her presence something he was struggling to contain. He had discovered that she had visited that morning, to see Mrs Norrell, and experienced a sharp and childish wave of jealousy. How ridiculous that a man of his years should behave like a spoilt boy. Nonetheless, he wanted to stamp his foot and yell that she was his friend, and demand all her attention for himself. Except she was only his because he paid her to be. It was like owning a wild, unbroken horse. He could claim ownership, feed and care for it, but he could not compel it to love him. His mood darkened as he wondered how she would view him if she had not been forced into the position in which he’d found her. Likely she’d have not given him a backwards glance. Why would she, when there were plenty of other men, lively, jovial, whole men who would want her as their wife, not to ruin her and use her for their own amusement? His appetite fled and he pushed away his dessert, barely touched.

  “My, how serious you look. Is the apple tart not to your liking? I warn you I may be forced to eat yours too. I cannot risk having Mrs Norrell offended, or she might revoke her recipe for lemon pond pudding.”

  Jemima’s soft voice was amused and coaxing, but with an underlying note of concern, and Solo only hated himself all the more. How it must disgust her to pander to his moods, to always try to please him because it was her job. Her job! He ought to remember that.

  “It is not for me to tiptoe around Mrs Norrell’s pride,” he snapped, struggling to get to his feet and almost overturning the chair as his temper rose.

  Damn him for being so blasted clumsy and ungainly. He was a bloody buffoon, always clomping about. He stalked awkwardly to the fire and stood staring down at it. It had rained all day and the cold and damp seemed to sink into his bones, making his leg throb like the devil. He wanted to sit down, but he was too aggravated.

  “I don’t suppose it is,” Jemima said, her voice cool. “But she puts a great deal of effort into pleasing you. I do not believe it is too much to ask you to spare a thought for her hard work. She thinks the world of you.”

  Solo frowned, a little taken aback at being scolded, albeit it gently.

  “Mrs Norrell knows well I appreciate her efforts.” He was uncomfortably aware that he sounded increasingly like a sulky boy, but the knowledge only made him ever more belligerent.

  “Does she?” Jemima enquired politely. “How?”

  “What?” he barked, irritated that she hadn’t given up on the conversation now she realised he was in a bad mood.

  She ought to change the subject for something soothing, surely she knew that much.

  “How does she know?”

  Solo considered this, frowning with annoyance as he turned around to regard Jemima. She was not looking at him, but eating her dessert, so still and placid and poised he felt the overwhelming desire to ruffle her.

  “She knows! She knows because I have never given her cause to believe otherwise.”

  Jemima nodded. “So, she knows you are pleased because you have never complained. You have, in fact, said nothing at all.”

  “Quite.” Solo thumped his cane on the floor to punctuate his answer, glaring back down at the flames.

  “Well, my lord. This may surprise you, but not complaining does not equate to a show of appreciation. We all need a kind word now and then, a compliment. Everyone likes to know their efforts have been noticed and that they are valued. You ought to tell Mrs Norrell how much you appreciate her.”

  “Perhaps you should tell her for me,” Solo muttered. “As the two of you have become so close. Thick as thieves, it seems.”

  Solo regretted the words at once, for they showed him up for the resentful child he was acting like, though he was damned if he knew how to stop. He’d noted too that she had addressed him formally, illustrating her annoyance. Though he wished he’d kept his mouth shut, he could not find a way of backing down from the foolish argument now. Jemima’s eyes were fixed on him, and he struggled to meet it, but found he couldn’t ignore the weight of her gaze.

  There was curiosity there, a thoughtful appraisal that made the back of his neck hot.

  “Would you have liked me to visit you, my lord?” she asked, her tone softening. “I would have, if I’d thought you wished it. Only I did not like to intrude, and you had invited me only to dine this evening. I promise you I meant no slight by it. Indeed, I should have liked to have seen you.”

  Solo frowned, his jaw rigid even as his heart felt buoyant and soared in his chest at her words, but surely, she was just being polite still, trying to please him. She desired him, a desperate little voice whispered. She did, he knew she did, yet desire did not equate to love or even liking. Love? Where the devil had that thought come from? He did not need or want love.

  The words were so obvious a lie that he felt a pain of longing stab deep in his chest. Well… he did not deserve it, at any rate.

  He watched, wary now, as Jemima got to her feet and moved towards him. He didn’t move an inch, curious what she would do next. Her job was to tame the beast, to flatter and coax him to a better humour. It was what any good mistress would do.

  “You’re being very silly,” she observed, tilting her head and regarding him with interest.

  Despite himself, Solo’s temper rose another notch. Well, that was not what a mistress should say to him, more like a nagging wife, and he’d not asked for one of those.

  “Silly?” he repeated, outraged. He was never silly. Bad tempered and irascible maybe, but never silly. It made him sound like a little girl with ringlets.

  Jemima folded her arms and nodded. “You are jealous because I spent the morning here but did not seek you out.”

  “Don’t be foolish. You are free to spend our time apart as you see fit, it is no concern of mine.” He sounded so stiff and pompous he almost cringed.

  “Yes,” she said. “I am. It is in the terms of our agreement, is it not? Yet I would have enjoyed spending time with you, if you had indicated the idea pleased you. You see, this is what I mean. You must tell people how you feel, or they mistake you. Like Mrs Norrell thinking you do not appreciate her. Or me, believing I would be an unwelcome bother if I called on you unexpectedly.”

  Suddenly, he couldn’t remember what the devil they were arguing about. She was so close, but still too far away to reach for, and he wanted to reach for her very badly. He didn’t want her to be cross with him.

  “You could never be a bother, and you will never be unwelcome. I long to see you, Jemima, all day… every day.”

  He hadn’t meant to say it, not that last bit at least, but the words had tumbled out of him, too honest, too desperate, and he could not take them back. His heart was pounding so hard he felt giddy, the sensation only intensifying at the pleasure he saw in her eyes at his words.

  “I long to see you too,” she whispered, such a rush of colour to her cheeks that he could not help but believe she meant it.

  Likely he was being a fool but… but damn it, he didn’t care. He wanted to believe she meant it so badly
.

  “Jemima.”

  It was only her name, spoken with all the reverence he felt, but somehow it meant far more. Did she hear everything he could not say aloud? For her name spoken thus said, come to me, stay with me, let me be your love, and she did. With a soft rustle of skirts, she closed the gap and threw herself into his arms, almost knocking him off balance. Not that he cared. He cast his cane to one side and pulled her to him, as close as possible, holding her tight as he took the kiss he’d been aching for.

  “Jemima, Jemima,” he murmured, kissing her mouth, her cheeks, her jawline, the beautiful length of her neck. “Oh, how I want you.”

  Her arms around his neck, the way she pressed herself closer to him, the urgency with which she returned his kisses all made him hope that this time, she would not shy away from him.

  “Stay,” he said, aware it sounded like begging and not giving a damn. “Stay with me, please.”

  She nodded and he wanted to shout with triumph, to laugh and spin her around, and promise he’d never let her regret it, regret him, even though such a thing was beyond his power. It was the hardest thing to pull away from her, to break the kiss and take his arms from around her slender waist, but he wanted more, so much more. He might be the villain of this piece but the least he could do was treat her right, and debauching her on the dining table did not seem to equate with that idea.

  So, although he was nigh on trembling with desire and anticipation, he saw her up to her room and left her there to give her time to ready herself, knowing the next half-hour would be the longest of his entire life.

  ***

  Once Jemima had dismissed Bessie, she sat at the dressing table and brushed out her long hair until it shone like silk. She noticed her hand was not entirely steady but realised it was not fear that disturbed her equilibrium. Though nerves fluttered under her skin as if her every limb was full of tiny butterflies, she was not afraid. Not this time. This time, she wanted him, wanted what was to come, and if there was regret for her situation, it was not enough for her to find no pleasure in what was to come. It was pointless to regret what was already lost. Perhaps it made her wicked not to wish to dwell on her loss of innocence. The situation she had found herself in was not of her own making and she did not see why she must punish herself for it. There would be plenty of others to do that job for her, to make her ashamed, if ever the truth was discovered. So she would enjoy the pleasures offered her, even if it was a pretty path to the devil, though she could never see Solo in such a light. The more she knew him, the more her heart yearned to know, to smooth away the rough edges that made him brittle and irrational. She wanted to please this man, wanted to touch him and hold him and make him smile, to take away whatever those dark thoughts were that would steal into his mind and shatter his peace.