―Excerpt of a letter from The Most Honourable, Lucian Barrington, Marquess of Montagu to Miss Matilda Hunt.
Close to midnight, still the 24th February 1815. Briar Cottage, Mitcham Village, Sussex.
By the time the carriage drew up outside Briar cottage, Solo was beside himself with impatience. Thanking heaven that the lights were still on in the parlour; he didn’t bother pretending that finding the place in darkness would have made a jot of difference. He would see Jemima this night if he had to rouse the entire cottage, The Priory, the village and the dead too, if it came to it. So it was in this uncompromising frame of mind that he raised his fist to pound upon the door, only to have it open magically before him. There stood Bessie, arms folded over her chest, staring up at him and looking a very long way from impressed.
Oh, how the mighty had fallen.
Finding himself discomfited by Bessie’s uncompromising gaze, Solo cleared his throat.
“I would see Miss Fernside… please, Bessie,” he added as her eyes narrowed.
“Why? You come to shout at her some more for telling you the truth?”
Solo stiffened. Mrs Norrell might rail at him on occasion but he was quite unused to being spoken to so by a maid of all people, and yet he knew that Bessie was protecting Jemima, that she was cross with him for the same reason he wanted to cut out his own heart, and he could not fault her for her loyalty.
“No,” he said, leaning heavily on his cane as his leg throbbed and fretted with complaints after a day which had taxed it sorely. “Only to beg forgiveness, Bessie, if you would allow me to.”
As if he’d rubbed a lamp and summoned a genie, Bessie’s expression softened, her eyes full of the admiration he’d taken for granted ever since he’d known her.
“Ah, well, now… that’s different. Come along inside out of the cold, my lord. That’s it, give me your coat and hat, and let me know if I can bring you a bite of supper or something once you’ve got everything settled between you.”
Solo felt his throat tighten ridiculously at the maid’s swift change in demeanour, and even though he knew he ought not lower himself to ask her, he found he didn’t care a damn about propriety and what a gentleman ought to do.
“Will she let me settle things between us, Bessie?” he asked, hating the uncertainty in his voice.
Bessie paused, looking up at him, her gaze intent once more. “If your intentions are good and… and honourable,” she said, putting her chin up, challenge glinting in her eyes, “I reckon she might.”
Solo let out a breath of relief. “They are, Bessie, I promise you.”
Bessie flashed a swift grin at him. “Well, then, what you waitin’ for? You’d best go and ask her what you came here for. You’ll find her in the front parlour.”
Solo did not need telling twice and strode directly to the door, flinging it open without so much as a knock. Jemima was standing by the fire and whirled around as the door flew open, her grey eyes wide. The dress she wore was a deep pink shot silk which glinted garnet red as she moved. The firelight burnished her hair, turning the blonde to shades of gold and bronze, and Solo wondered how his heart could keep up the ridiculous pace it had set, but it only seemed to thrash about harder and faster as he considered what a fool he’d been. Yes, he’d been a fool for ever loving Hyacinth, but that was nothing compared to how he had behaved that morning. Had it only been hours ago? He felt he’d endured a lifetime in the moments between then and now. He could only pray that Bessie was correct, that he had not broken Jemima’s trust in him utterly, that he still had a chance for forgiveness.
“My love,” was all he managed, the words snagging in his throat, but it seemed to be all that was required as she crossed the room at a run and flung herself into his arms.
“Forgive me,” he begged, enclosing her in his arms. “I was a damned, bloody fool and I knew it within moments of you leaving me. You were right, right about all of it. I think that’s why I was so bloody angry. You forced me to face the truth. I was haunting the damn place, hiding from life, from the possibility of being hurt again, but I’m done hiding, Jemima. I want to live…I want to live with you by my side, with no shame for what I have done, no regrets for what you have been forced into.”
He moved away from her, determined to do this as it ought to be done, to ensure she had no doubt of his intentions. Awkwardly, he got to his knees.
“Oh, no… Solo, get up, your poor leg!” Jemima protested, blushing and crying as she realised what he meant to do.
“Do stop fussing, love,” he said, grinning at her. “A fellow likes to do a thing properly, though you may need to help me up again.”
He chuckled as she stared down at him, her eyes glittering with unshed tears, one hand covering her mouth. He took the other one, bearing it to his lips and pressing a kiss to her knuckles.
“Jemima, if I have achieved anything at all these past weeks, I hope I may have made my feelings clear, but as I’ve made such a spectacular mess of everything, I can’t have any faith in that, so I must spell it out to you. I love you. I believe I may have loved you from the first moment I saw you in Hatchard’s, attacking that poor old fellow and his defenceless book.”
She stifled an unsteady giggle, but Solo ploughed manfully on.
“Despite your many attempts to seduce me, I have somehow kept myself reasonably pure, although my every thought of you has been nothing less than wickedness and decadence, and torture to endure. The truth is that I will be a wreck of a man without you. I need you. I need your love, your kindness and your good sense, your scolding when I’m bad-tempered, your laughter and all your smiles. I need you in my bed and by my side, always and forever. Please, darling Jem, make me the happiest of men and say that you’ll marry me.”
In hindsight, he wasn’t sure she actually gave him an answer, just dropped to her knees and flung her arms about his neck with such enthusiasm he fell backwards, narrowly missing bashing his brains out on the leg of the sideboard. Undaunted, he grabbed the back of her neck and pulled her mouth down to his, kissing her with all that was in his heart and finding that poor, traumatised organ soar as she returned his kisses in kind, holding nothing back.
Breathless, he rolled her over and gazed down at her.
“Was that a yes?” he asked, a trifle unsteady after such turmoil.
“Of course it was a yes,” she said, blinking at him, her eyes full of laughter. “Though you quite took the wind out of my sails, you know. I spent the entire evening working up to such a splendid scold for you with so many fine set downs, and now it’s all gone to waste.”
“Save them,” he counselled gravely, stroking her cheek with his thumb and not bothering to hide the adoration she must be able to see in his eyes. “I look forward to them. No one has ever scolded me like you do, and I adore it.”
“Nonsense,” she said, huffing. “Mrs Norrell has it down to a fine art.”
Solo shrugged. “Perhaps, but it’s not the same, though I suppose in a strange way it is. She’s known me since the day I was born, and she scolds me because she cares. I know you do too, and it is the strangest thing to realise, but I have needed to hear someone get cross and rail at me when I’m being an idiot because they love me and they know I can do better, be better.”
Jemima shook her head, holding his face between her hands. “No, not for that, only because I know you could be happier, and I intend to prove it to you.”
“I intend to let you,” Solo replied, and kissed her again. With a bit of help he got his protesting leg working again and got to his feet, settling in a chair by the fire and taking a great deal of pleasure in tugging Jemima into his lap. There was a deal more kissing and sighing which strained all his good intentions to their limits, but he endured. When he finally stopped for breath and looked up, his gaze fell upon a slightly shabby top hat sitting on the small round table to the side of the chair. Peering down at it with a frown, he noticed it was full of bits of paper.
“What is that?”
<
br /> Jemima grinned. “That might take some time to explain.”
It did, as she interspersed her story with kisses which he was only too happy to return, alongside caresses that were in danger of getting out of hand if he didn’t leave soon. Somehow, he kept himself in check, and she finished her tale.
“So, you took a dare?”
She nodded. “Though I was not so brave as the others. They practically had to force me, and in truth my dare was very easy to accomplish.”
“What was it?” he asked, wondering how she could possibly think she wasn’t brave.
“Find something you want and stop at nothing to get it. Though,” she added thoughtfully, “to be fair, I wanted you from the outset, and I suppose I did stop at nothing, not even that frightful Lady Kline, so….”
“So you did not need a dare, my love. You are without a doubt the bravest woman I have ever met. It was you who returned my courage to me, Jem. No one else. Only you.”
She sighed happily, kissed him again, and then began to giggle.
“What?”
Solo frowned as she shook her head and tried to rearrange her face into something less amused, but her luscious lips would not play along and kept turning up at the corners, making him want to kiss them again, so he did, but he did not stop her giggling.
“How is a fellow supposed to concentrate on kissing you thoroughly when you keep sniggering so?” he complained.
“Oh, I do beg your pardon,” she said, pressing her lips together with her fingers as though that might keep her laughter contained. “It’s only something Lady Helena said, and… and….”
“Tell me.”
She shook her head.
“Jem,” he said, his voice stern.
“Oh, well… it’s only that, when she heard my dare, Helena said that what I wanted most was you, preferably on your knees begging for my forgiveness and promising me the world.”
“Oh, is that all?” Solo replied placidly. “Then, I should say you have completed your dare with success.”
“Yes,” she agreed, and kissed him again.
It was the hardest thing to leave her. Though he longed to take her to bed, he was not about to make love to her for the first time in the tiny cottage with Bessie and Mrs Attwood too close for comfort. Dragging her through the gardens in the dead of night was not an option either and, besides which, he’d determined to do this all properly. He would kill any scandal by behaving with the utmost propriety and Mr Pemble—damn his eyes—would marry them and eat crow in the process if he didn’t want his living to go to someone a deal more charitable. Solo was well respected by the bishop, an association he would not hesitate to use if his wife was not treated to the respect she deserved. He was mollified and yet further tortured when Jemima protested him leaving, and worse still, not taking her with him.
“But what does it matter now?” she demanded. Her indignation when he told her she would walk the aisle, if not completely innocent, then at least virginal in fact, was a balm to his own desires, knowing she would miss him and chafe at his absence just as badly. “Everyone at The Priory knows I have spent the night in your bed and—”
“And I will know,” he said, pressing a finger to her lips before she could tempt him beyond sanity. “Spare a thought for my eternal soul, would you?”
“Piffle,” she muttered, folding her arms. “You don’t believe that any more than I do.”
“I believe that I love you, Jem, and that I wish you to walk down the aisle with your head held high before the Mrs Grangers of this world. Which is another good reason you must be here and not at The Priory in the morning. I had a little set to in the village earlier, and she ought to be calling on me with an apology on her lips at nine sharp, at which point she will come here and repeat the process. I beg you will remember your position as Baroness Rothborn and be as haughty as a queen, or you’ll never recover from it. A spiteful tattle monger like that needs a firm hand, or she’ll get even further out of line.”
“What kind of set to?”
The gleam of interest in her eyes made Solo grin and so he recounted his evening’s work in the bar, earning himself a shocked squeal of delight as she heard of how he’d treated Mr Pemble.
“Oh, the poor man,” she said, trying and failing to school her face into one of sympathy for the odious cretin. “One ought not find amusement in such things when, really, he had the right of it.”
“Devil take him, he most certainly did not!” Solo retorted, furious all over again. “He called you a doxy and said I’d brought the village into disrepute. Disrepute!”
Jemima soothed his fury away by kissing him until he could barely remember his own name, never mind whatever it was he’d been upset about, and so it was close to dawn before he could finally tear himself from her and return to The Priory.
Chapter 20
My dear friend,
I am writing to tell you I am going to be married…
―Excerpt of a letter from Miss Jemima Fernside, copied to each of the Peculiar Ladies.
25th February 1815. Briar Cottage, Mitcham Village, Sussex.
Jemima listened to Mrs Granger’s stilted apology in silence, her face utterly expressionless. This was less to do with punishing Mrs Granger for being a vile tattle monger, and more because Violet was glaring at the woman with such fierce dislike that Jemima had to work hard to keep her own countenance impassive. Like Solo, Violet believed she should crush such behaviour before it had the temerity to raise its head again, but Mrs Granger looked so miserable and flustered by the end of her apology that Jemima could not help but feel a little sorry for her.
“Thank you for your words, Mrs Granger,” she said carefully. “I believe all of us have been guilty of jumping to conclusions at one time or another. It was not astonishing for you to believe the worst of the situation, but I hope that you have learned it was nothing but a foolish argument and my own nerves getting the better of me. I’m afraid everything has happened so quickly, and my change in circumstance is so dramatic that I became a little overwrought.”
At this point, Jemima resisted the urge to cross her fingers and prayed she would not go straight to hell for telling such an outright plumper when the woman had been spot-on in her estimation. That she ought to have a deal more Christian charity in her heart, and mind her own business, was enough reason for Jemima to have enjoyed making her squirm, but she did not want an enemy in the village, and so she continued with that in mind.
“Lord Rothborn has gone this day to Doctor’s Commons to obtain a common licence so that we may be married the day after tomorrow. There will be a wedding breakfast at The Priory, and the village will be invited to the celebrations… I do hope that you and your daughters will join us?”
The relief on the woman’s face was so intense it was almost comical.
“Oh, yes, my lady. Thank you! I should not miss it for the world. It’s been an age since there were any celebrations at The Priory. Oh, I remember the balls and parties when I was a young woman—too many moons ago now—but we have often reminisced and said that it’s such a shame for the young people that such entertainments have been lost to them.”
“I am not a lady quite yet, Mrs Granger, just Miss Fernside, but yes, I can imagine it must be a loss to the society of the village. Lord Rothborn is not much of a one for socialising, but I think perhaps I might persuade him to give the occasional ball. Perhaps a garden party in the summer? It is a shame that the beautiful gardens about The Priory are not enjoyed by more people. What do you think?”
Violet sniffed with displeasure at the woman being offered such an invitation, but Mrs Granger positively glowed at having her opinion sought, and Jemima decided she knew just how to keep the lady on side and her tongue quiet—relatively so, at least.
“You let her off far too lightly,” Violet complained as Bessie came in to clear the tea things, once Mrs Granger had taken her leave.
“She’s too tender-hearted, that’s the trouble,” Bessie sa
id with a sigh.
“Oh, I believe facing Solo to explain herself this morning will live in her memory for many years to come,” Jemima said with a smile. “There was no need to make the poor woman into a pariah. I think she’ll defend my honour to anyone who’ll listen, now I have her onside. For I may decide not to invite her lovely daughters to the splendid events that I have planned at The Priory.”
Bessie gave a chuckle. “Sneaky, that is. Perhaps not as tender-hearted as I’d believed.”
“No, indeed,” Jemima replied with a haughty sniff. “Lady Rothborn will be a force to be reckoned with.”
“Oooh, you looked just like Lady Helena when you did that,” Violet exclaimed with a laugh.
“I should think so, I’ve been taking note of how she does it,” Jemima said with a grin. “She seems so terribly cold and aloof and aristocratic, and yet underneath she’s an absolute dear.”
“I liked her very much,” Violet said, reaching for a sugar biscuit before Bessie could snatch them away. “Will she come to the wedding, do you think?”
Jemima nodded. “I think so, if she can. I wrote invitations to everyone this morning, but as it’s such short notice I don’t imagine most of them will be able to come. Only those who live close at hand.”
“Well, it will be a nice surprise to see who makes it and, speaking of the happy day, we must arrange for you to be well dressed. Come along and let us see what can be contrived for a wedding gown, fit for Lady Rothborn.”
***
27th February 1815. Briar Cottage, Mitcham Village, Sussex.
“Oh, miss, miss!”
Jemima turned from her position before the full-length mirror as Bessie thundered up the stairs, squealing with excitement.
“Whatever is the matter, Bessie?” she exclaimed as the maid almost fell through the bedroom door.
“Look!” the breathless creature shrieked, holding out a large, square leather box.
“Oh, my,” Violet breathed, one hand going to rest upon her plump bosom. “That’s jewellery, that is.”
To Bed the Baron (Girls Who Dare Book 9) Page 22
