To Bed the Baron (Girls Who Dare Book 9)

by Emma V. Leech

  Still muttering, Solo pulled on his gloves, retrieved his cane from where he’d set it down, and headed out into the cold.

  Chapter 2

  Dear Robert,

  Please forgive me for all the trouble I have caused you. I must point out, however, that it is I alone who have caused the trouble. Prue knew nothing of my plans outside of the fact I was infatuated with Mr de Beauvoir, and poor Inigo—Mr de Beauvoir—did his very best to make me behave myself, but it was no good.

  I think perhaps I fell in love with him the very first time we met last summer, at least a little, and it’s been growing worse with every week that passes. I love him quite dreadfully, you see, but I’m afraid I behaved very badly and pursued him despite his best efforts to dissuade me. That being the case, I cannot allow you to hold him responsible for what has happened.

  ―Excerpt of a letter from Miss Minerva Butler to His Grace, Robert Adolphus, Duke of Bedwin.

  25th January 1815. Briar Cottage, Mitcham Village, Sussex.

  By half past four, the bulk of the unpacking had been done. The men who had accompanied the cart loaded with Mrs Attwood’s and Jemima’s belongings were thanked with tea and cakes and some extra coin, and sent on their way. Jemima was helping Bessie unpack the last of her many new dresses when Mrs Attwood knocked and came in.

  “What a lovely room,” she said, looking around the elegant bedroom with approval. “It will have a wonderfully sunny aspect, if ever the sun deigns to show itself again.”

  “Thank you,” Jemima replied, getting up from the floor and shaking out the wrinkles in her skirts. “I hope your own room is to your satisfaction?”

  “Satisfaction?” Mrs Attwood said with a tinkling laugh. “Good heavens, child. I never had such a beautiful room in my life. Grander, perhaps,” she said with a naughty wink. “But never so beautiful. You have impeccable taste.”

  Jemima blushed with pleasure. She’d always loved choosing fabric and colours, but it had been a long time she been able to indulge her love for pretty things, not when it had become a choice between paying the rent and putting food on the table. It hadn’t always been so, but the last years weighed heavy and seemed to diminish any lighter memories that had come before.

  “I’m so happy you are pleased.”

  She might have said more, except a knock at the door sounded and Jemima looked up in surprise. Surely the neighbours wouldn’t come calling on the very day she’d arrived. She glanced at Mrs Attwood, who returned a knowing look.

  “That was the back door,” the woman said, smiling now. “So we know who it will be. I didn’t think he’d be able to wait until tomorrow to see you. Such a gent, too, waiting to be seen in when the weather is so poor. Many a man in his position would barge in, as he does in fact own the place. I’ll see him settled in the parlour while you change your dress for something pretty for him. Hurry, now.”

  Jemima stared at her, suddenly panic struck as Mrs Attwood bustled to the door.

  “B-But,” she stammered. All at once, as anxiety coiled in her stomach and twisted her guts into a knot, she wanted to be back in the miserable little flat she’d been struggling to keep hold of these past months.

  “Good heavens!” Mrs Attwood said, laughing as she came back and gave Jemima a swift hug. “He’s not going to ravish you in your front room, dear. I expect he’s just anxious to see you are well settled, and eager to see you again. Stop looking like a virgin sacrifice, or you’ll make the poor man feel like a monster.”

  With that, she hurried out and Jemima took herself in hand. Of course, Mrs Attwood was quite correct. She was being a complete ninny. It wasn’t as if she didn’t understand the agreement she’d entered into. She must stop being so dreadfully silly.

  “Bessie, get me that blue and white striped gown, the last one we put away. Do hurry, we mustn’t keep the baron waiting.”

  Bessie paled and lunged for the wardrobe. “Oh, indeed not, miss. A stickler for punctuality, he is, what with being a military fellow. Can’t abide waiting for people, nor for his dinner neither.”

  “Oh. Is he bad tempered, then?” Jemima asked fretfully as Bessie wrestled her out of the frock she was wearing with ruthless efficiency.

  “Oh, bellows like a lion, he does, what and things don’t go how he likes ’em. Still, ’tis often his leg what pains him and puts him out o’ temper, so we don’t pay it no mind, what with him being such a war hero. My, the stories they tell of his heroics, especially at that Sagoohny place in Spain, where he was so badly hurt. ’Tis a wonder he came home as whole as he did, not that it weren’t wretched bad when he first came back, but he’s a good master, kind an’ all, so we don’t mind a bit o’ bluster. ’Tis like a north wind, miss, and soon blows itself out, and then he’s meek as a kitten.”

  Bessie, who had hardly spoken two words to Jemima before this lengthy exposition, suddenly realised her nerves had led her into chattering, and she blushed crimson.

  “Beg pardon, miss,” she said, casting Jemima nervous glances as she lifted the new gown. “I didn’t mean to rattle on so. Tongue like a fiddlestick, Mrs Norrell says, not that I gossip, miss, for I don’t. Not never. Only as you’re to be… as you are… what with… well, I thought you’d like to know a bit about him,” she said desperately, before tugging the dress over Jemima’s head.

  Once Jemima was clear of the voluminous fabric, she let out a breath. Bessie hadn’t exactly soothed her nerves, but she wasn’t entirely surprised by her description of Lord Rothborn either. Much of what Bessie had said had been apparent from their first meeting, and her estimation of his better nature had grown from the thought with which he had added items to make the house welcoming to her. The baron was a good man at heart, tempers aside, and those Jemima would learn to manage.

  Bessie was just putting the finishing touches to her hair when Mrs Attwood came back.

  “He’s settled in the parlour, waiting for you,” she said, giving Jemima a critical once over. She nodded with approval. “Lovely. He’ll not know what hit him when he sees you in that frock. In fine twig, I must say. Now, have a little nip of brandy for your nerves.”

  She proffered a small silver hip flask and Jemima took it with a frown.

  “I’ve never—” she began, but Mrs Attwood waved away her protests.

  “’Tis good for what ails you. Just a few sips and you’ll not blush and stammer quite so much, though I suspect he’ll not mind that. A gentleman likes to feel protective of a little innocent, but we don’t want him feeling like a brute for stealing your virtue, or some such nonsense if you overdo it.”

  Jemima didn’t even blush this time, beginning to appreciate her companion’s rather forthright way of speaking. Far better that than some farcical pretence that everything was perfectly as it ought to be. She upended the flask, taking three large swallows, and then choked as the liquor burned its way down her throat.

  “Good heavens!” she gasped, wide-eyed.

  “Well, it’s not lemonade! I said sip it, not swig it down.” Mrs Attwood laughed and tugged her to her feet. “Off you go, then, and remember to smile.”

  Jemima almost tripped down the stairs in her haste, slowing at the last step as the brandy bloomed into a puddle of warmth in her belly and eased into her veins. Oh, yes, she could see what Mrs Attwood meant now. Taking a deep breath, she gave herself a moment to gather her nerve, and headed for the parlour.

  ***

  Solo stood by the fire. The room was exceptionally elegant, and he felt a flush of pride in Miss Fernside for having arranged it so stylishly. Not for the first time, he considered his good fortune and wondered if his memory was playing tricks on him. Surely she could not have been as exquisite as he remembered. It had perhaps been a trick of the light that had given her skin that luminosity, the cold that made the blush of colour at her cheeks so sweet, and perhaps she’d used rouge to make her lips that inviting soft pink. He experienced a qualm as he wondered if she might have lulled him into a false sense of security. If she was
beautiful, she was likely expensive, and the restraint she’d shown in furnishing this house was the calm before the storm. Perhaps she’d demand diamonds and trips to the opera and the theatre. The diamonds he could manage, perhaps, if he must, but the idea of the opera or the theatre made him hot and uncomfortable. The noise and the throngs of people would be more than his nerves could stand. Not to mention how awkward it would be, to be in the company of all those he used to spend time with when he was so changed… no. No, that would never do.

  He took out his pocket watch and scowled at it. What was taking so long? Was she having second thoughts? Perhaps she’d escaped out of the back door whilst he was waiting.

  Anticipation made his heart hammer in his chest and he told himself to stop being such a damned fool. He shifted his position, taking the weight from his damaged leg as it spasmed, protesting at standing for so long. Damn thing had a mind of its own, and a deranged mind at that, contrary article. It didn’t like it if he sat still, but complained if he walked about too much. It was bad-tempered in wet weather, yet if he sat by the fire it wanted him to get up and move. Honestly, it was like being attached to a fractious child.

  He huffed, irritated, and glowered at the watch, willing the hands to move and tempted to give it a little shake. The door opened, he glanced up, and almost dropped the watch as his gaze fell upon Miss Fernside.

  Good God.

  His memory had been at fault. She was far more beautiful than he’d been prepared for. He clutched the watch so tightly in his hand that it was a wonder he didn’t crush it, and stared as she closed the door gently behind her and curtseyed. As she rose, as elegant as a dancer, she noted the watch he held and his heart kicked in his chest at the fierce blush that bloomed over her skin. By heavens, he’d seen nothing so lovely in all his days. His mouth went dry and any sensible thought vanished, likely never to be seen again. He was hot and unsettled and out of sorts. He’d wanted a comfortable companion, a woman to converse with and to bed, and he’d… he’d…. How would he ever hold on to her? If any man of higher rank or fortune discovered this exquisite creature was his, they’d give her a far better offer and he’d lose her. The idea made him feel ill.

  “I do b-beg your pardon, my lord,” she said in her soft, musical voice. “I wanted to look my best for you, but I ought not have kept you waiting for so long.”

  Waiting? Had he been waiting? Time had been suspended and he was trapped in some world in between one heartbeat and the next. He couldn’t speak and saw the anxiety in her gaze as she stared at him with growing concern.

  “P-Please forgive me. It won’t happen again. I promise.”

  Solo tried to put the watch away and almost dropped the wretched thing, concentrating on fumbling it into his pocket and adjusting the chain to give himself a moment.

  “I didn’t mind,” he said, his voice sounding too loud, too strident in this elegant room, with this woman who was all delicate limbs, so very fragile, like a fairy queen.

  Lines from a Shakespearean sonnet came to mind and he had to bite his tongue to stop the words from tumbling out as if he was some lovesick swain.

  If I could write the beauty of your eyes

  and in fresh numbers number all your graces,

  The age to come would say, 'This poet lies;

  Such heavenly touches ne'er touch'd earthly faces.

  “Waiting,” he added, before realising he’d paused too long to add the clarification. “I didn’t mind waiting,” he repeated, cursing himself.

  God, what a damned buffoon.

  “May I offer you some tea?” she asked, daring to come a few steps closer.

  “No,” he said, with a brisk shake of his head, and then wanted to take it back.

  If he took tea with her, he could draw the visit out and stay longer. Too late now. Blasted idiot. He dared look at her again, to see her hands were knotted together, the slender fingers white. Poor little creature was scared witless. Damn his eyes, he was a mannerless brute.

  He cleared his throat, attempting to keep his voice gentle. “I hope that everything is to your satisfaction, Miss Fernside?”

  At that, her soft lips curved into a dazzling smile which knocked the air from his lungs. It was like falling from a great height and hitting the ground with a thud. He felt dazed, disorientated. Good grief, a smile like that should have a five minute warning go off ahead of time so a fellow could prepare himself for the impact.

  “Oh, my lord,” she said, the warmth of her words soothing him like a cleansing balm. “It is quite perfect. I’ve never…. My goodness, I feel the need to pinch myself whenever I look about me, for I cannot believe I shall truly live here. Your kindness as well, in taking such care to make it a home for me. I… I am so very grateful to you for everything.”

  “Kindness?” he queried, unable to look away, trying desperately not to stare at her mouth.

  “Why, yes,” she said, moving a few steps closer.

  If she came any nearer, he’d be able to reach out and touch her, to pull her into his arms and kiss that soft mouth, to feel her warmth through her gown, to put his hands upon that tiny waist.

  “The watercolour paintings, and the books and ornaments and, oh, a dozen little touches that have made such a difference. It was so good of you.”

  Solo swallowed, trying to hold on to the thread of the conversation.

  “Nothing of consequence,” he muttered, frowning. “You must remove anything that doesn’t suit. You have turned this rather humble abode into something of refinement and elegance, and I should hate to be responsible for spoiling it.”

  “Oh, no!” she said at once. “Good heavens, no. Your additions have been wonderful, perfect, and I should like you to feel at home here.” She hesitated, two high spots of colour burning on her cheeks as she lowered her gaze. “After all, it… it is to be your home too, after a fashion.”

  Solo clenched his fists as the desire to lay his hands on her became overwhelming. If he stayed a moment more, he would do something reprehensible and forget she was a lady. A wicked voice in the back of his head told him she was no longer a lady, that he’d paid for her, paid for every stitch she was wearing and for the roof over her head. He had rights. He silenced it, sickened and revolted. Miserable bastard. He wasn’t fit to be in the same room with her. If not for circumstances, she’d not even look in his direction. What use was he to a young beauty like her? A broken down old soldier too many years her senior. God, it was disgusting.

  “I’d better be on my way,” he said, not looking at her, stalking to the door and trying his best to hide his limp. Mrs Norrell had been right, damn her, the cold had only aggravated the pain.

  “Oh, but… my lord?”

  He turned, caught by the pleading in her voice.

  “I… I hope I have not displeased you?”

  “Displeased me?” he repeated, astonished. “Whatever put that maggoty idea in your head?”

  The demand was somewhat testy, but he was so taken aback he could not help his tone.

  “Well you seem… you…. Are you angry with me?”

  She blinked at him, her grey eyes wary, and he noticed her eyelashes were long and thick, and several shades darker blonde than her hair. He wondered if the hidden curls beneath her gown, those nestled in the secret place between her thighs, were that same dark gold shade, and felt a wash of colour creep up the back of his neck at indulging such a wicked thought when she was obviously distressed.

  “No.” He shook his head and tried to remember he was a gentleman, damn it. “It’s my fault. Abominably rude. Ought to have given you time to settle in. Didn’t want to intrude. Just to see all was as it ought to be. Shan’t keep you. Off now.”

  This eloquent little speech made him feel an utter imbecile and he took himself off, barely stopping to snatch up his coat and hat from Bessie and hauling his protesting leg back out into the cold.

  ***

  Jemima jumped as the back door slammed shut and gave Bessie a doubtful look.
>
  “Is he always like that?”

  Bessie pursed her lips and shrugged. “Yes, though he seemed touchier than usual. He’s a troublesome one, though, Miss. Not what you’d call an even temper, unless he’s got his head in a book. Never knew a fellow to read like he does. If he sits down with a book, he’ll stay quiet as a lamb and not get up again for hours. Ain’t natural, in my view. Can’t be good for his brain. Handsome fellow like that, filling his head with words. He might be lame, but he’s still a fine strong man. Better ways to fill his time, I should think.”

  Jemima’s eyes widened and Bessie obviously realised what she’d said, her expression one of mortification.

  “Beg pardon, miss. Must see to the supper,” she murmured and scurried back to the kitchen, head down.

  Jemima put her hand to her mouth and stifled a giggle. There was no point in not seeing the funny side of the situation. She stared at the back door for a long moment, wishing Rothborn hadn’t disappeared so quickly. Had he been anxious, as nervous as she’d been, in fact? She rather thought he had, which made her own worries ease a little. He was every bit as abrupt as she remembered, but that good, kind man had been obvious too. She smiled, feeling perhaps that she could manage Lord Rothborn well enough, given time.

  Mrs Attwood and Jemima ate their supper in the kitchen, all of them being too tired to worry about formality, though Bessie was horrified by this turn of events.

  “We shall have to get more staff,” Jemima said. “Poor Bessie will be worn to a thread. Yet who can we trust not to gossip?”