To Bed the Baron (Girls Who Dare Book 9)

by Emma V. Leech

  “Come to The Priory tomorrow,” he said, buttoning his greatcoat. “Bring Mrs Attwood to keep any busybodies happy. She’ll have a fine time with Mrs Norrell, who will be glad of the company. I should like to show you a little of my home.”

  Jemima nodded and handed him his hat and cane. “I would like that very much.”

  At the back door he kissed her hand, polite and chivalrous, and she bade him a good night, standing in the cold and dark, and watching his figure retreat into the shadowy garden.

  Chapter 5

  Dear Harriet,

  How is life at Holbrooke House? Ireland is damp and dreary, and I long for the spring. Luke, however, is wonderful, and we have made our new house into a home. I wish you could come and see it. In truth, I am perfectly blissful, though I do miss you and the other Peculiar Ladies most dreadfully. Please send me all the gossip and tell me what everyone is doing. I heard from Ruth yesterday and she is full of plans for all the things she wants to do at Wildsyde. It sounds very exciting, and such a romantic place. I would love to visit her one day. Perhaps we could go together?

  Now take your nose out of whatever book it is currently stuck in and get writing, you dreadful creature. I want to hear it all, especially if it’s scandalous. Much love to you and Jasper.

  ―Excerpt of a letter from Mrs Kitty Baxter to Harriet Cadogan, The Countess St Clair.

  28th January 1815. Mitcham Priory, Sussex.

  Jemima shifted the basket on her arm and stared in awe at the building before her.

  “Good heavens.”

  “It’s huge,” Mrs Attwood murmured, as they gazed with astonishment at the ancient priory. “I mean it’s a fraction of the size of Chatsworth or Dern, but still. I never expected such a fine place.”

  “You’ve been to Dern?” Jemima asked in surprise.

  Mrs Attwood nodded. “The Marquess of Montagu allows visitors when he’s not in residence. I was lucky enough to see it last summer.”

  “What’s it like?”

  “Old, grand, and vastly intimidating.”

  Jemima returned her attention to The Priory. “It’s haunted,” she said, worrying her lip with her teeth.

  “Not in daylight, I’m sure,” Mrs Attwood said briskly. “Come along.”

  They were greeted by Mrs Norrell, the housekeeper, who—as Solo had predicted—was delighted to see them. Jemima wondered at it, having assumed she would be disapproved of, but the woman seemed genuinely welcoming. Tiny, yet with a quite considerable girth, the housekeeper appeared to be a force of nature. She bustled them into a comfortable parlour with leaded light windows that looked out upon the fine gardens. Every wall was panelled in oak from floor to ceiling, and the wood glowed in the reflected light of the fire.

  “This is the cosiest room at this time of year, save the kitchens,” she said cheerfully. “A wretched draughty place it is in the winter, though don’t tell his lordship I said so. Loves the bones of the place, he does, for all he complains about it. He’ll be with you in just a moment, and, Mrs Attwood, I should be glad of your company in the kitchen once you’ve had your visit.”

  She bustled out again, leaving the impression of a woman who ruled her domain with vigour and enthusiasm. As she’d said, a moment later Lord Rothborn appeared, and Jemima could not hide the blush that rose on seeing him again. Each time she promised herself he would not overwhelm her, and each time she felt a little stunned by his presence. It was not simply that he was handsome, but there was something indefinable about him that commanded attention. He seemed a man who had been born to take control and give orders, a man others relied upon.

  “Miss Fernside, Mrs Attwood, how lovely to see you. I wish the sun was shining for you, but hopefully The Priory did not disappoint at first sight.”

  “Disappoint?” Jemima said with a chuckle. “Good heavens, it’s marvellous. Quite the most romantic building I have ever seen. One look at it and my head was filled with villains and desperate heroines, with mad monks inhabiting every corner.”

  “Have you cast me as the villain?” he asked, a warm light in his eyes that made Jemima look away as she remembered last night.

  “Certainly not, nor a mad monk either, before you ask.”

  “Well, that is a relief! And Mrs Attwood, how are you settling in at Briar Cottage? I hope you have both found everything to your satisfaction.”

  “Indeed, my lord, I do not see how we could fail to be delighted. It is warm and comfortable, and I believe we shall both be most content.”

  “Excellent,” Solo replied, and all at once it was a little awkward.

  Mrs Attwood cleared her throat. “Well, if you would excuse me, my lord, I know Miss Fernside is eager for a tour of the building, but I have been invited to take tea with Mrs Norrell.”

  “Ah, then you are in luck. I have it on good authority she is baking lemon cake today, which is a personal favourite. Please remind her to send some up to me, as I am awaiting it with anticipation.”

  Jemima watched, amused and a little mortified, as Mrs Attwood curtseyed and hurried away. Solo sent a rather crooked and boyish grin in her direction.

  “There, I do have manners. Aren’t you relieved to discover it?”

  “You are charm itself this morning, my lord,” she said, unable to resist the desire to tease him. “I believe you must have slept well and eaten a hearty breakfast to put you in such good humour.”

  He shook his head and closed the distance between them, taking her hand and raising it to his lips. “Wrong on both counts,” he murmured. “I did not sleep a wink, and I was too distracted to eat, because I knew you were coming and so I have been counting down the minutes.”

  “Such flattery,” she said, flustered and happy. “Yet I am relieved to hear it, for I have been just the same you know. I can prove it, too, for I awoke so early I baked you some scones.”

  Jemima gestured to the basket, feeling a little silly and unsophisticated, but at the look of delight in his eyes her confidence returned.

  “You baked for me?” he said, obviously pleased and surprised.

  Jemima nodded. “I’m afraid it’s a rather shameful secret for a lady who ought to prefer needlework or painting, but I enjoy baking. I had to learn when my aunt was ill, and we could not afford staff. Imagine my surprise at discovering I was rather good at it. Scones are my favourite, though, and Mrs Jarvis was so kind as to put in a jar of bramble jam, and now I am no longer a lady I realised I could do as I pleased,” she added with a laugh.

  Her brows drew together as she noticed the smile had left his eyes and he looked troubled once again.

  “Don’t say that.” He lifted her chin and pressed a soft kiss to her lips. “You are and will always be a lady. I am sorry that life has been hard for you, yet I am selfish enough to be glad of it too, because it has brought you into my life, and I am too greedy for your company to wish it otherwise.”

  “I have no regrets,” Jemima said, realising that—in this moment, at least—it was true. Perhaps that would change when she was shamed before her neighbours, but today, in this man’s company, she was happy.

  “Come,” he said, offering his arm. “I shall show you a little of the place. It’s too big to see all in one go, and besides, I need something to lure you to come back and visit me again.”

  Jemima took his arm, knowing that there was already lure enough, and she needed nothing else to make her want to spend time in this romantic setting with such a man.

  ***

  Solo glanced down at Jemima, entranced by her delight in the old place that he loved so dearly. He realised it had been important to him that she liked it. The Priory was as cold, inconvenient, and troublesome as any ancient building, and he knew well enough that many people would far prefer a smart new house with every fashionable accoutrement. Yet her enthusiasm had been genuine, he was sure. She had peppered him with questions, not least about the ghosts, which seemed at once to fascinate and terrify her.

  “Very well,” he said, laughing
as she insisted on hearing more. “But do not blame me when you have nightmares.”

  She grinned up at him and, for the first time in longer than he could remember, he felt happy. It was such a departure from his usual frame of mind that he just stood staring at her for a moment, basking in the emotion and in the light she had brought into his life. It was as though he had turned his face to the sun after living in the dark. He cleared his throat, trying to marshal his thoughts, which always seemed trickier to do when she was near.

  “Along this corridor there is the ghost of a monk.”

  “Oh!” she said, clutching at his arm. “I knew it, a mad monk!”

  Solo laughed, delighted by her. “Well, whether he was mad I cannot say. He is purported to walk here at night, though, and sometimes he is seen in the gardens beneath the yew tree.”

  The shiver that ran over her was noticeable and too good an excuse not to pull her into his arms. “Are you cold, Jemima, or have I chilled your blood speaking of such fiendish creatures?”

  “A little of both,” she said, stealing his breath as she snuggled against him and laid her head on his chest. “Such stories seem fanciful and not the least bit scary with you by me, but I know if I were here alone, I would be terrified.”

  “Then you had best always keep me by you,” he said softly, before lifting her chin and kissing her.

  She responded to him at once, sliding her arms about his neck, and Solo’s heart soared. This… this was everything he had been missing, longing for. His hands slid to her tiny waist, so slender he could span the width with ease. She was too fragile from too many years of scrimping and saving and putting on a brave face. It made him ache to know how close she had come to disaster, to know that he was a form of disaster for her, albeit a less uncomfortable one. He wanted to protect her. He was her protector, he realised with disgust. That was what he would be named, the man profiting from her desperation. He pulled away from her, suddenly ashamed of himself.

  “What is it?” Her soft voice penetrated his self-disgust, the uneasy note making him realise she was concerned. “Did I… did I do something wrong?”

  “No!” he said at once, returning to her and gathering her in his arms. “No, no, how could you think it?” He kissed the top of her head and sighed. “It is I who is forever in the wrong, taking advantage of your desperation. I feel ashamed, but not so fiercely as to want to find another way to help you. I’m a wretched excuse for a man.”

  “Stop that at once.”

  The severity of the command was rather astonishing to him and he looked at her in surprise. There was a glimmer of something powerful and perhaps even dangerous betrayed by the glitter in her eyes, something that suggested this frail, gentle creature was not as helpless and delicate as he might think.

  “I like you very much,” she said, putting her chin up. “You tell me you still think me a lady, that I ought not feel ashamed, and I believe it… until you speak in this fashion. If not for you, I don’t know where I would be. You have given me a home, security, and you have been so very, very kind and patient. I may be innocent in some ways, my lord, but I am not so naïve to not realise how rare that is. I am happy to be here with you. Indeed, I could not wait to be in your company again this morning. So, do you not think we can forget the morality of the situation? There are people enough who will pass judgement upon us when they discover the truth, I believe we can afford to be kind to each other in the meantime.”

  Solo let out a breath and nodded. “You are too kind, and you give me far too much credit, but I have no wish to spoil the day. I have no wish for you to ever leave.”

  “Kiss me then,” she demanded, and Solo was only too happy to comply.

  ***

  The invitation to the wedding of Miss Minerva Butler to Mr Inigo de Beauvoir arrived mid-morning, to both their delight. Although it was to be only the next day, for them at least it was not unexpected, and Solo had made plans to travel to town as soon as the date was announced. Jemima was touched to see how very pleased he was to be asked to stand as best man for the groom. It clearly meant a great deal to him and gave her further proof as to his character and the kind of friend he was to those for whom he cared. As they were neighbours and both friends of the happy couple, Solo insisted it would be quite unexceptional for them to travel together in his coach, with Mrs Attwood and Bessie playing chaperone. Jemima would spend the night with Matilda, assuming her friend did not mind the imposition, and Solo would return to collect her the next day for the return journey.

  In truth, Jemima was rather jittery to be in the company of all her friends with Solo in attendance. Minerva already knew the truth, and whilst Jemima had been pleasantly surprised—not to mention relieved—at the way Minerva had reacted, she could not help but experience a qualm of misgiving. Despite meaning what she’d said to Solo, she realised she did not want her friends to know her circumstances, not yet at least, not while she was still getting used to those circumstances herself. The sensation of not knowing quite who she was had grown stronger over the past days, since Solo had taken her in his arms and kissed her. That she had kissed him first was still something she could not quite believe, and only added to her anxiety. Everything her aunt had brought her up to believe desirable in a young woman of quality, everything she had taught her, Jemima was casting aside. All those lessons seemed meaningless when Solo was beside her, and far less important than she’d always believed them to be. She was happy. Yet she felt she was living apart from reality, as though this was a sweet dream, and she very much feared waking up.

  Mrs Attwood seemed conscious of her distraction and kept up a merry stream of inconsequential chatter. Jemima did her best to join in, more than grateful for her companion’s efforts on her behalf, but she was aware of the way Solo watched her, and of his growing impatience with Mrs Attwood. Eventually, the lady desisted, and by mutual if silent agreement, they feigned sleep for the remaining hour of the journey.

  Minerva’s obvious joy in the day did much to revive Jemima’s spirits, that and the tactful way in which Solo kept his distance. Now and then, she felt his gaze upon her and turned, but he was always looking elsewhere. The ceremony was brief, which was just as well for the poor befuddled bridegroom, who stumbled and stuttered over his words, much to the exasperation of the poor clergyman trying to marry them. Mr de Beauvoir was obviously so overwhelmed by his good fortune that no one could doubt the sincerity of his feelings, and there was much laughter and a deal of surreptitious eye wiping from the ladies. Matilda had a sodden hanky clenched in one hand when Jemima gave her a gentle nudge and offered her a fresh one.

  “Thank you,” Matilda murmured, and gave an audible sniff. “I always cry at weddings,” she said, giving a little hiccoughing laugh and taking Jemima’s arm in hers.

  Though she was sorry to say goodbye to the others, it was a relief to leave with Matilda and enjoy a comfortable evening together. Jemima suspected her refusal to allow Matilda to come and stay had hurt her friend, and now that Minerva knew the truth, she felt she owed Matilda an explanation. Yet when it came to the point, it seemed a deal harder to do than when Minerva had appeared on her doorstep.

  Jemima knew, as all the Peculiar Ladies knew, that Matilda and the Marquess of Montagu were drawn to each other. That Matilda desired him was clear to them all, though whether or not she actually liked him was another matter. He wanted her for his mistress, yet despite what must be a dreadful temptation, Matilda continued to resist him. She had held her head up and rebuffed every advance, and for Jemima to concede that she had capitulated when Matilda held firm, made her feel a little ashamed.

  Shame turned to frustration, however, as she looked about the luxurious and elegant home on South Audley Street. Matilda had every advantage, for she he did not want for money. Yes, her reputation meant that she suffered the indignity of men who believed they could purchase her for the right price, but she did not have to fight hunger, or worry if the next night would be her last with a roof over her
head.

  “Is everything all right, Jem, dear?”

  Jemima looked up to find Matilda watching her with concern in her eyes.

  “Yes, of course. Why ever not? It’s been a lovely day, though a little fatiguing after the journey and all the excitement. I confess I slept ill for fear I should oversleep and keep Baron Rothborn waiting for me.”

  “Yes, he seems a rather prickly fellow,” Matilda said, lifting her cup of tea to her lips. “St Clair tried to speak to him, but he was terribly curt.”

  Jemima bristled on Solo’s account, and then reminded herself that the observation was likely fair enough, even though the man himself was far different when you got to know him a little.

  “He doesn’t do well in company, that’s all,” she said, still feeling the need to defend him. “He was very kind to us on our journey here.”

  Matilda set her cup down, thoughtful now. “A military man, I recollect. So many suffered during that dreadful conflict and I can imagine returning to the civilised world must be a difficult adjustment after everything he’s seen and done. Thank heavens that monster, Napoleon, is dealt with at last.”

  Jemima nodded, trying to commence a conversation that would end with, and I am his mistress. Before she could contrive a way in which to do so, Matilda stifled a yawn and begged her pardon.

  “I must go to bed or I shall do something unforgiveable and fall asleep before you. I promise you it is not your company, however. I confess I have missed you dreadfully and it is good to have you here again, if only for a night.”

  Jemima smiled, knowing this was the moment she ought to explain why she could not invite Matilda to stay, but the words caught in her throat.

  “I have missed you too,” she said instead, feeling like a dreadful friend. “But bed sounds like a wonderful idea, or I risk snoring in the carriage tomorrow and making poor Lord Rothborn most uncomfortable.”