To Bed the Baron (Girls Who Dare Book 9)

by Emma V. Leech

Taking up her candle, Jemima gave Matilda a brief hug, and took herself up the stairs.

  Chapter 6

  Dearest Aashini,

  I have just had the most dreadful and shocking news about Mr Burton. It will be in all the scandal sheets tomorrow and I can only thank heaven that I have had such a narrow escape. Except it is not heaven I must thank for my liberty.

  I feel the world has been turned on its head. I ought to believe that Montagu was motivated by his desire to have me for himself. It would be what any sane person believed. Yet I think he truly acted out of concern for my happiness and then could not ignore what he discovered when the horror was revealed to him. I do not know if that makes me the biggest fool that ever lived.

  Oh, my friend, when you read of the conditions found in Mr Burton’s mills, of the treatment of those poor children… and he must have known. How can I ever trust my own judgement again when I believed him a good man, when everyone knows Montagu is cold and cruel, and yet he is the saviour here. I do not know what to think. Montagu has taken it upon himself to bring the awfulness of these people’s lives to the public notice. Perhaps even a bad man can act for the good, or perhaps he is playing a deeper game than I can comprehend? Is it possible that the world has misjudged him? Or is it simply that I am still a fool with no reason when it comes to men, and I am seeing what I wish to see?

  ―Excerpt of a letter from Miss Matilda Hunt to Aashini Anson, Viscountess Cavendish.

  4th February 1815. Briar Cottage, Mitcham Village, Sussex.

  Jemima was kept busy for the next few days with a constant stream of visitors from the village. Though she knew this irritated Solo no end, for he felt compelled to keep his distance until the furore died down, it was certainly entertaining. The Grangers returned, which comprised Mrs Granger and her two daughters. Jemima and Mrs Attwood had immediately recognised the mama as a spiteful cat who would sooner speak ill of someone than give them the benefit of the doubt. She had two pretty daughters who seemed to have escaped their mother’s bitter tongue, but who were rarely given the opportunity to speak. Noting the envious glances Mrs Granger cast around the elegant parlour, and that her gown—though of quality—was last year’s style, Jemima treated her with unflagging courtesy and noted her down as someone to treat with extreme caution. Mrs Tuttle was next, a good-natured busybody who knew everyone and everything. A pretty, softly rounded lady of middling years, she was all ruffles, ribbons, and frills that rustled and fluttered when she moved. Her visit coincided with yet another by the schoolmaster Mr Stickles, with whom her dialogue alternated between motherly teasing and outrageous flirting until the poor man was the colour of a beetroot. His embarrassment aside, Mr Stickles was an amiable fellow with good manners and interesting conversation. The day after, Mr Pemble the vicar returned, and Jemima was put quite out of countenance by the way the clergyman had of addressing her bosom rather than looking in her eyes. Mrs Attwood nearly choked on her tea with the effort of not laughing. Young mothers Mrs Finton and Mrs Pellet followed him, bearing gifts of sugar biscuits and homemade elderflower cordial. Next came the widowed Major Hawkins, a rather dapper old soldier with a twinkle in his eyes for Mrs Attwood. He gifted two bottles of his own peapod wine with a jovial warning to underestimate it at their peril.

  So the villagers of Mitcham came and went, making themselves known to their new neighbour with various degrees of warmth and welcome, until Jemima felt quite giddy with the effort to remember all their names.

  “Well, you’ve certainly made an impression.” Mrs Attwood chuckled once the last of the guests had left.

  “Yes, but what manner of impression?” Jemima retorted, only half joking.

  She wondered how many of those amiable people would cut her dead if they knew the truth. Ah, well, that was the risk inherent in her new life and she ought not dwell upon it.

  They had no sooner sat down and picked up their abandoned needlework when the front door knocker sounded again. Jemima looked up in surprise as Bessie escorted Mr Stickles in for his third visit in little over a week. At this rate, it would not be Lord Rothborn everyone was gossiping about and linking to her name. The fellow carried a delicate posy of snowdrops and was blushing profusely.

  “Forgive me for the interruption, ladies,” he said, giving a very formal bow. “Only I was out walking, and I came upon the most glorious expanse of snowdrops I’ve ever encountered by the woods behind the vicarage. They were so pure and lovely, I… I felt compelled to pick some to bring to you, Miss Fernside.”

  He offered the little posy to her, flushing hotly as Jemima took them from his hand.

  “That was most thoughtful of you, Mr Stickles. Thank you.”

  Mr Stickles beamed with pleasure as the front door knocker sounded again and Bessie hurried to answer it. A moment later, Lord Rothborn strode in.

  Jemima felt her breath catch and was at once certain that the room shrank by half and the temperature plummeted to arctic climes as his lordship’s hawk-like gaze descended on Mr Stickles and his posy.

  “My Lord Rothborn,” Mr Stickles said, bowing deeply and looking more awkward than ever under Solo’s brittle greeting.

  Jemima felt dreadfully sorry for the poor man and watched with a combination of embarrassment and irritation as he stammered and stuttered through a stilted conversation whilst Baron Rothborn seemed determined to play up to his role of high and mighty lord of the manor. It was one she’d never seen him use before. Suitably crushed, Mr Stickles fled, and Mrs Attwood muttered something about being needed in the kitchen before doing likewise.

  The room seemed to shrink an inch or two more as Mrs Attwood closed the door, leaving them alone. Solo’s scowl indicated his mood. He thumped his cane on the floor a few times. She wondered if he knew he’d done it.

  “It is good to see you,” Jemima said, testing the water with care to see just what she was dealing with. He grunted and rested the cane against a chair before limping to the window. She studied him with curiosity as he stared outside, hands behind his back.

  “I’m surprised you even noticed my arrival, judging from the swarms of visitors that have scurried to and from your door these past days.”

  Jemima could not see his expression, but the words were terse enough to clarify his mood was one of deep annoyance. Whether with her or her guests, she wasn’t certain.

  “They have been very kind, and most welcoming.”

  There was an impatient harrumph, and Solo folded his arms over his chest. “Yes, Mr Stickles has been most welcoming. Three visits in as many days and a posy to boot. Everyone in the village believes he means to court you, and I see no evidence to contradict them.”

  Jemima’s eyebrows shot up, and she was so surprised she spoke without thinking, which was most out of character. “Frankly, I suspect I am unlikely see him ever again, now you’ve frightened the poor man out of his wits. Why do you not just paint a sign and pin it up over my front door, The Property of Baron Rothborn?”

  Solo stiffened, clearly shocked by her impatient words, but no more than Jemima herself, who couldn’t believe she’d said such a thing. Something about this man made her forget she was a lady, but then she’d agreed not to be a lady for him, so perhaps it made sense. She was on the verge of begging his pardon when he turned, and the uncertainty in his eyes halted her words.

  “Did… Did you wish for him to return?”

  Jemima let out a breath of surprise, and then reminded herself of what she’d learned of the man before her, that he seemed to have forgotten just how handsome he was, how magnetic his presence, and how lucky any woman would be to have his attention. She liked having his attention.

  He stared at her as she studied him in return, noting the stiff way he held himself, the arrogant tilt of his chin, and the doubt in his eyes.

  “He is my neighbour, and I should like to be on friendly terms with all those in the village, for as long as I may hold their good opinion. I assure you I am quite capable of rebuffing Mr Stickles, should the need a
rise. However, to answer the question I believe you meant to ask me… No. I have no interest in Mr Stickles. There is no reason on earth for you to be jealous, nor to act as though the poor man was something unpleasant you had rather not look upon.”

  Solo’s dark eyebrows drew together, his gaze troubled. “You do not mince your words, Miss Fernside.”

  Jemima felt a jolt of unease at being addressed so formally and wondered just how deeply she’d offended him.

  “I beg your pardon, Lord Rothborn,” she said, staring at the floor, her fingers twisted in a knot. Had she’d ruined everything by allowing her foolish tongue free rein.

  There was a taut silence and then Solo moved stiffly towards her, sitting down at her side on the love seat. Jemima let out an unsteady breath as he untangled her anxious hands, taking hold of one and lifting it to his lips.

  “Forgive me,” he said, bringing her hand to his chest and holding it there. “It’s been damn frustrating having to keep away, and then to see that… that blasted twit of a schoolteacher mooning about over you.” He sighed, shaking his head and scowling. “I’m sorry. I behaved very badly, and you were quite right to scold me.”

  Jemima stared at him, astonished by his apology.

  “No, indeed, I had no right at all,” she said, too stunned to just accept his words and be pleased by them. “Only you looked so terrifying and poor Mr Stickles has no defence against a man like you. He was quite outmatched and, you frightened him to half to death.”

  “A man like me?” he repeated, a glimmer of interest in his dark eyes.

  “Now you are just fishing for compliments,” she said tartly, though she smiled at him to let him know she did not mean it.

  “I am. Shall I get any?”

  “No,” she said, though her lips twitched. “I do not believe in rewarding bad behaviour.”

  Solo snorted.

  “Then I have nothing to lose in admitting it was my intention to frighten him,” he said, sounding just a little belligerent. “Though you are correct that such behaviour could easily be construed as possessive and I was a fool to act so. The problem is… I am possessive.”

  Jemima swallowed as his thumb traced a circle around and around her palm, and shivers went racing up and down over her skin in a delicious if horribly distracting manner. His next words made matters far worse.

  “I want you all to myself.”

  She could see that possessive light in his eyes clearly enough, and though she disliked the way he had behaved, she could not deny a little thrill at his jealousy. It was a new and wondrous thing to be wanted, and by such a handsome man. With chagrin, she acknowledged that her head had not only been turned, it was still spinning.

  “You came to the front door,” she observed, wishing she didn’t sound so breathless.

  “It would have been as remarked upon if I had not visited as if I had come too often, and I was a fool not to realise how badly it would chafe to see all the young blades cast their lures at you. Damnation, I cannot abide gossip and I hate having to be so circumspect when I want to see you all the time.”

  Jemima smiled at the idea of Mr Pemble and Mr Stickles resembling young blades of any variety, but said nothing. His hand still held hers, warm and strong, his thumb tracing that same path which was making her feel fractious and odd. Jemima stared at it, bewildered by too many emotions Unease stirred in her belly and momentarily pushed the other, intriguing sensations to one side as she wondered if their agreement didn’t please him as much as he’d hoped it would. He’d been annoyed this morning, and he still sounded irritated.

  “Do… do you regret our arrangement and wish I had not come?”

  “Regret?”

  Jemima looked up, struck by the incredulity in his voice.

  “Little fool,” he whispered, his gaze hot and dark. “Come here, and I will show you how much I regret it.”

  Though it was terrible to admit, Jemima wanted nothing more than to go to him and did not need a second invitation. He kissed her, his mouth a slow, sensual assault as he pressed closer and closer, and still closer. It was a moment before she realised she was being pushed back against the cushions and he was following her down. How strange, that all the world should go away, so far away, when he was close. It was as though time had been suspended, and nothing mattered, nothing even existed beyond the press of his lips, the caress of his wicked tongue against hers, and his warm hands mapping her like an undiscovered world. It was all new to her, though no doubt she held no surprises for a man like him. Perhaps the war and circumstances had changed him, but before there would have been no shortage of lovers for such a dashing, handsome officer.

  Perhaps she ought to be alarmed or ashamed, despite the agreement between them, but in that moment Jemima could not muster either response to his touch. She was at once languid and taut with anticipation, her limbs heavy whilst excitement coiled within her, a slow burn that grew hotter as his questing hands explored. Perhaps she should have protested a little at least when his hand closed over her breast and gently squeezed, and perhaps she might have done if the sensation that jolted through her hadn’t been so glorious. So, instead of protesting, she moaned and arched into his hand, somewhat appalled by her own abandon, but falling too fast to make it stop.

  “So beautiful,” he murmured, kissing a path down her neck.

  He expertly tugged aside the fine lace fichu that demurely covered the décolletage exposed by the dress, and kissed all along the border of the gown, over the swells of her bosom. Jemima’s breath hitched as his tongue dipped into the valley between her breasts, her hands sinking into the thick silk of his hair. She was increasingly frantic, an insistent burning ache having begun between her thighs. It was maddening and she longed to be closer to him, responding by pressing her body against his and thrilling in the low moan that rumbled through him.

  “Jem, my beautiful girl, oh God, you’re so sweet.”

  “Solo,” she gasped, wanting to ask—no, to demand—something, but not knowing how to articulate what exactly it was she wanted. “Please,” she said, struck by the desperation in that one word, but unable to take it back.

  He seemed to know, though, to understand, and he tugged her bodice down, undoing the ribbon on her chemise and easing her breasts free of her stays. Jemima cried out in shock as the heat of his mouth closed over her, but the sensation was too delicious, and she wanted more. Oh, this was sin. The road to the devil’s door must be paved with kisses so sweet. This was wickedness and debauchery. She was immoral and depraved, and how very good it felt. This was what her aunt and every maiden’s mama had warned them about. This was why innocent young girls were closely chaperoned, because how could anyone possibly resist… this.

  Any relief was short-lived, however, as the maddening desire for more only grew. The fire that had been smouldering inside her only burned hotter and hotter beneath his mouth and hands. She needed more of him, needed to be closer, wanted his skin on hers.

  “Let me touch you,” he murmured, and she wanted to shout yes at the top of her lungs.

  Yes, please ruin me now. All at once, she was riveted to the slide of his palm as it moved beneath her gown and up the inside of her calf. Her breath caught and held as his touch moved inexorably higher, until his fingers traced the delicate skin above her garter.

  “So soft,” he marvelled, taking her mouth again, making her giddy with kisses that seemed to act like an opiate, easing away her cares and making everything so easy and perfect and pleasurable.

  “Solo?” His name was a combination of pleading and uncertainty on her lips, and he hushed her with soothing noises of reassurance.

  “It’s all right. It will feel good, so good.”

  She was relieved to discover he was breathing as hard as she was as he eased her thighs apart, and then his fingers brushed the hidden curls, the touch so intimate she jolted even as her body ached for more.

  “I won’t hurt you,” he promised, kissing her mouth, her face, the warm, damp t
rail of his lips and tongue moving over her skin. “This is for you, to please you, my lovely Jemima. Let me make you feel good.”

  She gasped as his touch became more insistent, his fingers gently insinuating their way inside, and then she was lost. Any pretence that she might still be the nice girl her aunt had brought her up to be had been abandoned and cast aside beneath his clever hands. The sensations were delicious and maddening, at once too much and not enough, and she squirmed restlessly, wanting both to scream with frustration and purr like a cat. Shamelessly, she moved under his caresses, arching into his touch, desperate for more, her vocabulary reduced to little sounds of pleasure, gasps and moans and broken cries that he swallowed with kisses until her body betrayed her entirely. At last it gave itself up to him without regret, shuddering and swept away on a tide of sin and joy, sparks glittering behind her eyes as she fell into the flames.

  Jemima was floating on a dark sea, her limbs heavy as lead, too weighty to move an inch. Even her eyelids refused to cooperate, though perhaps that was the knowledge that shame must surely await her if she dared to lift them. She was dimly aware of Solo’s hands upon her, setting her to rights. With those clever fingers that had undone her so comprehensively, he put her back together again, her skirts rearranged, her chemise tied, and stays and gown eased carefully in place.

  She couldn’t look at him. She’d never be able to look at him again. What must he think of her?

  “I’ve shocked you.”

  There was something she recognised in his words, a touch of masculine pride that made her dare to peek at him. His expression matched his tone. He looked smug, undeniably pleased with himself. Well, he wasn’t disgusted by her then, that was a relief.

  “A little,” she said, thinking that must be the biggest understatement of anyone, anywhere, ever. “H-have I shocked you?”

  His eyebrows shot up and then he grinned, looking as pleased as a schoolboy promised sweets.

  “You were total perfection. Just as I predicted. I told you, I am never wrong. You may as well accept that now.”