To Bed the Baron (Girls Who Dare Book 9)

by Emma V. Leech

Jemima laughed, quite able to imagine Alice saying such a thing. “A boy or a girl, do you think?”

  “I don’t know, and it won’t matter a whit to either of them. That child will be the most beloved to have ever been born.”

  They were silent as Bessie helped Matilda on with her spencer and handed her back her gloves and bonnet.

  “Goodbye, Jem, dear.”

  Matilda embraced her so warmly that Jemima’s eyes prickled. How she could ever have believed she would lose her friends she couldn’t understand now. They would stand by her, even though they ought not.

  “Matilda, if people start to talk… about me….”

  Matilda’s face grew stern in an instant. “Whatever you are about to say, swallow the words down now, and never consider them again. I keep my friends, no matter what. I’ve faced scandal before now, and I doubt it will be the last time. You did not shun me for my reputation, and I will hardly be the one to do so. I shall visit you when I wish. I trust that is clear?”

  Jemima gave a choked laugh and nodded. “Bless you, Matilda, and thank you.”

  “Thank you, Jem,” Matilda said, before walking away to her waiting coach.

  What she was being thanked for Jemima wasn’t certain, but she was very glad Matilda had come.

  Chapter 13

  Dear Minerva,

  I feel my dare is hanging over my head like the sword of Damocles. The longer I wait the more nervous I become. Thank heavens Prue and Robert are finally going away at the end of this month now Prue is feeling so much better. I must strike in their absence—once Robert is far enough away to give me a head start at least. He will be furious with me! May I hide in your husband’s laboratory if things get too heated? Perhaps he can turn me into a frog?

  I spoke with the intriguing Mr Knight the other evening. For a wicked rake and seducer, he’s rather blunt. I always supposed such men to have silver tongues and charm in abundance. Well, there’s been none of that on display on any of the occasions we’ve met, but I suppose he dislikes me for being a peer’s daughter, though it seems a little unfair. I can no more help my birth than he can. You were right, by the way; I am far too direct and need to watch my tongue more carefully. Do you know he thought I wanted to arrange a tryst with him! I confess I was shocked. Though it was thrilling, too.

  Is it true, do you think, that he wishes to marry a lady of the ton in order to enter polite society?

  ―Excerpt of a letter from Lady Helena Adolphus to Mrs Minerva de Beauvoir.

  17th February 1815. Mitcham Priory, Sussex.

  Jemima regarded her reflection in the mirror and studied the new hairstyle Bessie had been practising for the past few days. The morning sunshine bathed her bedroom in its golden light and made her feel hopeful that she would see Solo today. She had missed him dreadfully.

  “It’s lovely, Bessie, thank you.”

  “You look like the goddess of spring, Miss,” Bessie said. “That silly man won’t know what hit him.”

  Jemima sent Bessie a reproving look, but prayed she was right. The pale green gown was trimmed with yellow and put her in mind of spring and primroses, and everything fresh and new. She hoped Solo liked it.

  “Well,” Bessie said, shaking her head and making a final adjustment to the coiffure she’d spent the best part of the past hour perfecting. “He is silly. Running away to London like that. I don’t believe there’s any business he needs seeing to up there, not for one moment. He’s never stayed away for more than a day or two, Mrs Norrell says. I reckon he’s in love with you, miss, and he’s scared half to death.”

  “Bessie!” Jemima scolded. “You must not gossip about Lord Rothborn, especially not such foolishness as that.”

  Despite herself, her heart fluttered as hopes that Bessie had the right of it made her chest ache with longing. Bessie mimed buttoning her lip and flounced out of the room.

  Why had Solo deserted her so abruptly, though? Where had he gone? Well, today she would get an answer. He had called on her before he’d left. He’d kissed her, too, but there had been a reserve in his manner which had not been there before, and it had been a chaste kiss with none of their previous passion. All the intimacy and warmth that she’d felt between them the night she’d spent in his bed had faded and gone. During his absence, she had resolved not to be a fool for him. Better to know the truth, to know where she stood. Mrs Attwood had agreed.

  As if she had conjured the woman, she appeared at the bedroom door, which Bessie had left ajar. With a soft knock on the doorframe, she peered into the room.

  “Can I come in?”

  The woman was elegantly dressed as always, in a deep blue morning gown today, and at Jemima’s invitation she came and sat on the bed.

  “You look as pretty as a picture,” she said, looking Jemima over with approval. “Now, you remember what we spoke about?”

  Jemima sighed. Mrs Attwood, or Violet, as they were now on more familiar terms, had been a great comfort and confidant to Jemima, but it had baffled her to discover the woman was as wilfully romantic and silly as Bessie.

  “He is not going to propose to me, Violet.”

  “A man does not get the woman he desires into bed and then stop short of ruining her for no reason.”

  Jemima groaned and rolled her eyes. This same argument had been raging between them for days now. “I expect there was a reason. Likely he… he was tired or didn’t want me after all. Perhaps he didn’t find me to his taste.”

  Violet made a sound of disgust. “Piffle. He told you plain he wanted you, and a man like that don’t go in for fits of the vapours. He didn’t ruin you because his conscience wouldn’t stand for it. ’Tis why he’s playing least in sight and all, you little goose.” She shook her head, curls bouncing with impatience. “That man’s fallen for you, Jemima, you mark my words, so don’t you go messing it all up.”

  “It’s you and Bessie messing it all up!” Jemima protested, surging to her feet with a swish of fine material, fighting the urge to cry. “You are raising my hopes of something I never dreamed of, have no right to expect, and how foolish I will look when he offers me nothing more than he promised. I shall blame you for my weeping and wailing in that event, and you’ll just have to stand it, for it was your own fault.”

  “Away with you,” Violet commanded, getting up and making shooing motions until she’d ushered Jemima out of the room to where Bessie was waiting for them downstairs.

  “Really, you are both impossible.”

  Jemima’s complaints fell on deaf ears, and she submitted to their fussing and primping as they hustled her into pelisse and gown and rearranged the flowers on her bonnet until they proclaimed she was quite perfect.

  “Now, go and get yourself a husband.” Violet ordered whilst Bessie smothered giggles behind her hand.

  Jemima groaned but didn’t bother to argue as they thrust her outside the back door and watched her walk out of sight.

  ***

  Solo knew he was in trouble the moment he saw her walking through the gardens towards the house. Not that he hadn’t already accepted that fact, but it was brought home to him with such force as he watched her come to him that he wanted to weep with frustration. Even seeing her from afar made his heart leap, and she looked so very lovely in the sunshine, every bit as fresh and perfect as a spring day. It seemed to him she’d dressed with the sole purpose of breaking his heart.

  What a fool he had been. He’d thought an educated lady would make a fine companion, someone to talk to, and to ease his loneliness when he could not bear another night alone in his bed. He’d never considered someone as young and lovely as Jemima would accept the position. Damn Mr Briggs for bringing them together, and yet what might have happened to her if he hadn’t? Might she had gone to some other man, someone who did not appreciate what he had, who would have ill-used her? Solo felt his stomach clench, nausea rising in his throat. Not that he could claim to have done so very well by her, but he would do better. He could not marry her, but he could put thi
ngs back on a proper footing. They could still be friends. He was not strong enough to remove her from his life altogether, but he believed he was not so weak as to give into his baser instincts. Not after spending the past week away from her. If the alternative was all or nothing, he would take what he could get. He would not ruin her, and he could not marry her. So, she would be what all her neighbours believed her to be—a respectable spinster—and he would be her friend, nothing more.

  He steeled himself as he heard Mrs Norrell greeting her, the sound of the two women’s voices making it clear they were pleased to see each other. How quickly she made friends and gained the good opinion of everyone she met. What a perfect wife she would have made him. His heart ached with longing, imagining her living here, with him, waking beside her every morning and sharing his life with her.

  Stop it. Stop it, you damn fool.

  He forced himself to smile warmly as Mrs Norrell showed her into his study, and he asked the housekeeper to bring them tea.

  “This is a pleasant surprise, Miss Fernside,” he said, hating himself for the formality, more so when he saw the confusion in her eyes.

  “A surprise?” she repeated, standing in the middle of the room. She looked uncertain, and he hated it. “But you have been gone for days. I came the moment I heard you had returned. Did you not expect me to, when I missed you so very much?”

  The desire to close the space between them was a sharp pain in his chest. He wanted to take her in his arms and hold her to him, swear he would never leave her again, not for a moment. Instead he acted as though he’d not heard her words and pretended to busy himself tidying the papers on his desk. He ought to look like a man with things to do, one who did not have time to spare on social calls.

  “I had business to attend to. Nothing very exciting, but one cannot put such work off.” He hated the brisk tone of his voice. Good God, but he sounded like a pompous ass. For both their sakes he did not mention that he’d spent the entire time in the room he’d taken at his club, drinking too much and trying desperately not to give into the urge to return to her.

  Silence filled the room, and he did not dare look up.

  “I think you have been working too hard,” she said, her voice soft with concern. “You look tired, Solo.”

  “I think you had best address me as Lord Rothborn.”

  Though he still didn’t look at her, too afraid to see the hurt in her eyes, he felt the impact, felt the sting of his words.

  Before she could form a reply, Mrs Norrell returned with the tea tray. She had evidently been expecting Jemima’s visit, even if he had not. No doubt Mrs Norrell had sent word to the cottage the moment Solo had come home. The woman gave him a quizzical glance, clearly aware of the tension in the room. Solo dismissed her, curtly enough to earn himself a glare of displeasure.

  Neither of them made a move towards the tea things. Solo turned his back on the room, staring out of the window and willing himself to be strong. He was doing this for her, because he loved her too well to ruin her. He heard her moving, the soft rustle of skirts as she came closer, and still nearly leapt out of his skin as she slid her arms around his waist.

  “No!” he said the word like it was a curse, panic surging through him at having her touch him. There was only so much he could endure.

  She jerked back as he moved away from her, putting distance between them before her touch could snap the fragile threads of his will.

  The shock and hurt in her eyes made him want to howl with misery.

  “I’m s-sorry,” she said, blinking back tears. “What have done, my lord? I know I have given you a disgust of me, but I-I don’t know… I don’t understand….”

  Solo shook his head, horrified she should think such a thing but unable to get the words out. His throat was too tight, his grief too encompassing.

  “Nothing,” he managed, forcing the word out. “You’ve done nothing wrong.”

  “Then why?”

  Solo turned away again, staring outside at the garden. He’d lived here alone, for years now, with only the ghosts for company. As much as he told himself he did not believe in such things, he knew they were there. Not that he’d ever seen or heard one, but they haunted him all the same. Not only those that came with The Priory, but those he’d brought back from war with him and those that had followed after him too, because he’d not been there to do his job. He ought to have been with his men, ought to have died with them, alongside them, rather than sitting at home, safe and warm and far from danger. He drew on every reserve of courage and honour he had, knowing she deserved the truth, or she would blame herself, find fault when there was only perfection.

  “I cannot marry you.”

  He turned and hated himself all the more for her quizzical expression. She’d never expected him to offer. He’d made his intentions clear to her.

  “I know that,” she said, staring at him in confusion. “I never—”

  “You ought to have expected,” he snapped. “God damn it, Jemima. You’re a lady. Any man would be proud, beyond proud, to have you as his wife. I know I would, but I cannot marry you, even… even if it is what I would wish to do, more than anything.”

  Her eyes widened, glistening with tears. She took a step closer, but he halted her with a terse word.

  “No. I cannot offer marriage, but I can refrain from bringing you dishonour.”

  “You… You would send me away?”

  “No!” he protested, knowing he ought to. If he truly wanted her happiness, he should find her another home, far from him, but he was not as strong as that. “I cannot send you away. I am selfish enough to want…to want your friendship still. I cannot deny myself that much.”

  She stared at him for the longest time and he could not read her expression, could not decipher the myriad of emotions that flickered in her eyes. Then she took a breath, and he recognised the one she settled on: resolve. Her jaw set, a flicker of anger in her eyes as she undid her bonnet and flung it aside, quickly followed by the gloves.

  “What are you doing?” he demanded, unsettled by the sharp, furious movements, and more by the way her slender hands reached for the buttons on her pelisse.

  She ignored him and made quick work of them, stripping off the coat and letting it fall to the floor in a heap. The moment she reached for the fastening on her dress, he knew he was in deep trouble.

  “Stop that. Stop that at once!”

  She stared at him, expressionless, struggling to twist about and untie the fastenings at the back of her dress. With relief, he realised she’d never manage it without a maid to help, and he thought he was safe until she gave up and tried another tack. When she lifted her skirts, showing him her slender legs clad in silk stocking, and began to untie the garter, his mind snapped.

  “No! Jemima, for the love of God, what are you doing?” He crossed the floor, snatching at her wrists, forcing her to stop.

  “Giving you back the things you bought me, my lord,” she said, the anger in her voice unmistakable. “As I’ve not earned them.”

  “Jemima, stop. Stop this, I’m trying to do the right thing by you, damn it.”

  She stared up at him, such an expression in her eyes he felt his own burn.

  “I don’t want the right thing,” she cried, tears threatening to overspill and cascade down her cheeks. “I want you. I love you, Solo, and I don’t care a damn for my reputation. I want to be with you, if you’ll have me. Say you want me.”

  She reached up and pressed her mouth to his, and he could not fight this battle. She didn’t play fair, bringing such powers to bear against him as the softness of her lips, and the words he’d seemed to have spent his entire life longing to hear. He let go of her wrists and pulled her to him, kissing her ferociously, with anger and frustration, and with tenderness too. She clung to him, returning everything he gave, sinking her hands into his hair, putting every part of herself into the kiss, holding nothing back. She would never hold anything back; she would give and give to him until s
he destroyed herself.

  He broke the kiss, still holding her tight, and discovered he was trembling.

  “I won’t ruin you. I won’t have you as my mistress. I love you too much to dishonour you, to cause you any harm.”

  She pushed away from him with a cry of frustration. “But this hurts me, Solo. You brought me here. We had an agreement, and I was content with that. I never expected love, affection, but to discover it has been a joy, a blessing I had never dreamed of, and now… now you wish to take it from me, from us? You would condemn yourself to loneliness once again, or will you bring another woman here, to serve you as you will not allow me to do?”

  “Hell and the devil! What do you take me for?” he raged, her words tearing at his heart. “You think I could touch another woman, look at another woman, now? With what I have in my heart for you? I would rather die.”

  “Then you punish us both for no good reason.”

  To his horror, he heard the tremor in her voice and watched as she dropped into a chair, as if her legs could no longer hold her. She put her head in her hands and began to cry.

  “Jemima, please,” he begged, falling to his knees before her but not daring to touch her. If he took her in his arms again, he wasn’t sure he’d have the strength to let her go. “Please, please, don’t cry. Damn me to hell, I ought to be horsewhipped.”

  She stopped crying abruptly and looked up, her cheeks still wet, tears spangling her eyelashes.

  “No, Solo. You ought not to be punished a moment longer, but it is you who punishes yourself, for things you are not responsible for.”

  That brought him up short.

  “You’re wrong,” he said in disgust.

  “I know.” He heard the anger in her voice, shocked by the force of her word. “I know what that awful, heartless woman told you and you ought never to have listened to her. She was wicked and cruel to say such things to you.”

  Solo stiffened. Damn Mrs Norrell and her bloody interfering. No doubt he had her to thank for his. He got to his feet, dragging himself up by clutching at the chair beside him, the movements clumsy and awkward as his leg protested.