Despite this unequivocal statement, Jemima regarded him doubtfully.
He leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to her mouth. “I know morality would have it otherwise, but I do not believe you’ve done anything wrong. I wanted to please your body and I did. Why should you not enjoy my touch? I know I will enjoy yours when I am allowed the privilege. It is not right that men alone enjoy such pleasure, and it is foolish to believe a woman wrong to enjoy it too. Why would God have given you the means to experience such a thing only to deny it to you?”
That sounded reasonable, she supposed, but she must have still looked uncertain as he frowned a little.
“Do you regret—?”
“No!” she said at once. “I mean… I don’t know what I mean,” she said, laughing a little. “I don’t regret it, though a part of me insists I ought to be ashamed of myself. I am changing, and I don’t feel like those changes are for the worst, yet everything I have been brought up to believe… I don’t know what to think. I don’t even think I know who I am anymore.”
“I’m sorry. I wish—”
She pressed a finger to his lips, suddenly certain she did not want to hear what he wished. For if he expressed regret, she might feel she really had done something shameful, and she was still floating in some happy place she had no desire to abandon just yet.
Yes, she was confused, but she was not ashamed, and she did not wish to be. Solo took her hand and kissed each finger in turn with such tenderness that she ached for him. Why hadn’t this lovely man married? Why hadn’t someone seen how good and kind he was and snatched him up and given him a family? Why had he been left by himself to become brittle and lonely?
“Will you dine with me tonight?” he asked, his eyes warm and hopeful, and she could not think of a single thing she would rather do than spend time in his company.
“Yes. I would like that very much.”
He smiled with pleasure and, her heart seemed to give an odd little lurch in her chest.
Oh, Jemima, she thought with a sigh. You are in very deep trouble.
Chapter 7
My Lord Marquess,
The sale of the mills is confirmed, and I shall be pleased not to have to deal with Mr Burton again. Though he did not dare say it clearly, he implied that he had been slandered and ill-used, the mills swindled from him for a paltry sum. Since the news broke, no one will receive him. He is cut in the street and treated as an outcast. I believe he intends to go to abroad, and heaven help the poor devils who fall into his path.
I have made the arrangements you requested and set up an anonymous charitable fund for those who were injured and the families of those who have died. The new procedures we discussed are being implemented as we speak, and the mills will not reopen until we have completed a safety inspection. No children will work in these places ever again. The increase in wages will cover any loss of income for families whose children will no longer bring in a wage.
I look forward to your visit and to showing you everything we have accomplished in such a short time. We have done a good thing, and I am proud to have been a part of it.
―Excerpt of a letter from Mr Richard Glover to The Most Honourable Lucian Barrington, Marquess of Montagu.
4th February 1815. Mitcham Priory, Sussex.
Jemima smiled at Mrs Norrell, whilst butterfly wings swept about in her stomach. Mrs Norrell had been struck down with a megrim, much to that lady’s distress, and could not accompany her. So, Bessie had chaperoned her to The Priory for propriety—in case some disaster struck and they were seen—but also as Bessie wanted to visit her brother and his wife who was expecting their second child. She’d hurried off as soon as Jemima was safely inside and in Mrs Norrell’s care.
“What a lovely gown,” Mrs Norrell said with a gasp as she helped remove Jemima’s cloak. “If you don’t mind me remarking it, miss,” she added, a tinge of colour in her cheeks as she realised she ought not have commented. “I beg your pardon, but it’s so long since we had anything resembling company at The Priory. I’ve forgotten my manners.”
Jemima smiled. “Thank you, Mrs Norrell, and please do not apologise. I have no idea how we are supposed to treat each other in such circumstances, but… but I do thank you for your kindness. I did not expect it.”
There was an impatient huff, and Mrs Norrell gathered up her cloak and put it away.
“That man needs a bit of love and gentleness. I don’t see what business it is of anybody else’s what goes on. It certainly isn’t mine, and I’ve seen enough of life not to judge you for it neither. If not for that wicked fiancée of his….” She broke off, her lips thinning into a hard line.
“His… fiancée?” Jemima echoed. “He was engaged?”
Mrs Norrell nodded, her expression still hard and angry. “She broke it off when he came home.”
“Oh,” Jemima said, her heart sinking as she realised. “Surely not because he was lame?”
She watched as Mrs Norrell studied her, judging what and how much to tell her, perhaps.
“Mrs Norrell, do you plan to keep my guest to yourself for the entire evening?”
Jemima jumped a little as Solo’s terse voice echoed across the entrance hall and Mrs Norrell turned to tut at him. He was standing some distance from them, too far to have overheard their conversation, thank heavens.
“I was just about to bring Miss Fernside to you, my lord,” she retorted.
“Ha, when you’d finished gossiping, no doubt,” he muttered. “Hurry and bring the dinner in, and stop chattering with my guest. I’m famished, and the lady looks likely to swoon from hunger. Oh, and don’t forget that Rhenish wine for the dessert course. Keep it chilled until the last moment.”
“Right you are, my lord,” said Mrs Norrell, muttering as she went. “And I’ll stick a broom up me arse and sweep the floor as I go.”
Happily, Solo hadn’t moved and still could not hear her, but it took a great deal of effort on Jemima’s part not to splutter with mingled shock and amusement. With regret, she watched Mrs Norrell go, wishing they’d had time to finish their conversation.
“You look astonishingly beautiful.”
Jemima felt a little shy suddenly as she moved towards Solo, aware of the quality of his gaze as he watched her approach.
“Thank you,” she said, smiling and doing a twirl for him despite her nerves. “It’s my favourite of the gowns I bought before I left London, and really quite shocking. I thought you would like it, though.”
It was a dusky pink crepe robe with a demi-train. The dress dipped low at the back and off the shoulders with a soft satin border the same shade as the gown. Her hair was curled in thick waves, with a few thick coils falling to one shoulder. Truly, it was the most daring thing she’d ever worn, and she’d never have done so in public, but then she was dining alone with her lover, so… why not?
“I do like it,” he said, as he led her into the dining room and closed the door. “I like you,” he added, and bent to steal a kiss.
Jemima closed her eyes, her body thrumming to life with even that brief touch of his lips. Memories of how he’d touched her earlier that day came back with a rush, stirring her blood with anticipation. Would he touch her like that again? Tonight? A blush rose to her cheeks, and he let out a shaky breath as he watched her.
“Don’t look at me that way, or we will never make it through dinner.”
Jemima bit her lip and hurriedly averted her gaze. She moved forward as Solo drew out a chair for her.
“I don’t have many staff, as you see,” he said, sitting down at the head of the table, with Jemima seated at his right elbow. “I prize my solitude, and cannot abide people poking about and disturbing me, so I only keep on the bare minimum. On the plus side, they are loyal and not the kind to gossip.”
Jemima nodded. “Bessie told me as much. Between the cottage and The Priory, you employ most of her family.”
Solo nodded. “I discovered by accident that my grandfather was, er… rather a profligate
and wild character. I have reason to believe we may well be related, though I did not know that until a few years ago. Still, the least I could do was keep them in employment. They’re good people, too. Loyal to a fault, as Bessie has shown you.”
“She thinks the world of you,” Jemima said with a smile. “They all do.”
Solo coloured a little and harrumphed, reaching for the wine. “Try some of this. It’s very good.”
After a glass of wine and the first course of beef broth, which was rich and tasty, Jemima relaxed. Solo was excellent company, and she soon discovered they shared a love of books. In fact, he seemed to have read everything she had, and a great deal more besides. Most surprising, however, was his unabashed love of novels: a thing most men would deny vehemently, even if it were true.
“Well, no wonder you were so impatient with me when we first met in the bookshop,” she said, laughing now as she realised. “You were no doubt disgusted that, with so much choice, I failed to choose a single title.”
“I was not impatient,” he said, sounding impatient.
Jemima bit back a smile. “Indeed you were. You looked so formidable. Such a handsome, precise military man, and I was so terribly nervous that I nearly knocked that poor old gentleman flying and succeeded in wresting his book from his hands. If not for you, it would likely have given the salesman a shocking blow to the head, as he was the only other person in the shop that day and I was therefore bound to strike him with it. You were utterly horrified, which I compounded by admitting I didn’t wish to buy anything. I was certain you’d taken me in immediate dislike. I was only surprised you didn’t run in the other direction.”
Solo stared at her in wonder. “How odd that two people can remember the same event so differently.”
“We do?”
He let out a little huff of laughter. “I was convinced there had been some mistake and spent the entire time waiting to get my face slapped. I couldn’t believe that someone as beautiful, as perfect as the vision before me could ever… that you would even consider…. If by some miracle you were the woman Mr Briggs had sent me to meet, I knew you’d take one look at me and change your mind. I was certain of it.”
“Why on earth would you think such a thing?” Jemima asked gently. “You are a very handsome man.”
He frowned and looked away, and the conversation dwindled as they served themselves the next course. Little by little, Jemima coaxed him back by speaking of books. She was reading Undine, a romantic and tragic tale of a woman who was really a water nymph and married a knight. Naturally, he had read it too, and she found herself charmed by Solo’s enthusiasm for the tale. Truly, it was a romantic fairy story, but he seemed just as beguiled as she was, both by the story and the glorious illustrations that followed lovely Undine to her fate. The urge to reach out and touch him made her ache, the desire to hold his head against her breast and stroke his hair as she had once before so strong it was a pain in her heart. How this brave, careworn soul fascinated her. His willingness to open his heart to such a story, and his obvious sadness for the way the tale turned out when the knight betrayed poor Undine with unthinking words, only made her long to see him happy.
Perhaps this was why she spoke without thinking, but once the table was cleared after dinner and they were alone, the question slipped out.
“Did you never think of marrying?”
Jemima did not know why she asked. He obviously had thought of it, if he’d been engaged. She was simply prying, wanting to satisfy her curiosity about him. His tension was immediately apparent, and she regretted her inquisitiveness at once.
There was a sharp silence, and Jemima was about to change the subject when he answered her.
“I was engaged once. She declined to go through with it on account that I killed her brother.”
Jemima stared at him. Though it had been a shocking thing to say, worse was the bitterness and self-loathing in his eyes. It was painful to see.
“You did not kill her brother.”
Her words were full of certainty, and she didn’t know where that assurance had come from, but the sense that he was punishing himself was too strong to deny.
He made a disparaging sound and drained his wine glass, reaching to fill it again. “And you know this how, Miss Fernside?”
The question was full of mockery and Jemima found herself a little shocked by his tone, and by the fact that they were back to Miss Fernside again.
“Did you fight a duel?” she asked.
“No.”
Jemima nodded. “Then it was while you were at war. Perhaps there were events you feel responsible for that led to his death. I could understand a sense of guilt in such circumstances, but I doubt you put a gun to his head. Did you?”
“I may as well have done.”
Solo drained his glass and then got up, snatching up his cane and going to stand by the fire. He poked irritably at the uppermost log with the tip of his cane and it collapsed the stack below, sending a shower of sparks up the chimney as the flames leapt higher.
Jemima watched him for a moment and then followed, standing behind him, uncertain of what to do or say. His head was bent, and he stared at the flames while the flickering light made his dark hair gleam like bronze. He looked terribly alone, and she could not bear for him to feel so. Gathering her courage, she moved closer and put her arms around his waist, laying her head against his back.
“Forgive me. I ought not to have pried. It’s not my business.”
For a moment he didn’t react, and then he cast the cane to one side and turned, pulling her into his arms and kissing her hard. Jemima felt she had fallen into a shower of sparks too as the fire leapt inside her and seared her skin, dissolving her into molten heat. His tongue was urgent, devouring, and she gave what he asked with no hesitation, leading where he followed until he drew back, breathing fast.
“Forgive me,” he said.
His voice was still harsh, the tension singing through him not lessened a whit, but he evidently meant it.
“There’s nothing to forgive.”
He let out a breath and leaned his head atop hers, still holding her close.
“Stay.”
Oh.
“S-Stay?”
“Yes. Stay here tonight.”
Jemima’s heart skittered madly in her chest as she fought not to react. She’d known this time would come, of course she had, but… but she hadn’t expected….
“I… I don’t have any of my things….”
“Yes, you do. I asked Bessie to let me know what items you might require before you moved into the cottage and I ordered all she suggested, including clothes for the morning. There ought to be everything you should want but, if there is anything missing, you need only name it.”
Oh.
Too late, she realised she had gone rigid in his arms. He stepped back a little, regarding her.
“Jemima?”
“Yes,” she said, too brightly. “Yes, of course.”
He let out a breath. Relieved, she supposed. At least she’d managed not to have a fit of the vapours, though something panicked and trembled at the corners of her mind.
“I’ll ask Mrs Norrell to show you to your rooms, and Bessie will attend you.”
Jemima nodded. The motion was too jerky, but he seemed not to notice. She stood by the fire as he went off in search of Mrs Norrell, wondering what to expect. It had been her hope that Mrs Attwood would instruct her and give an explanation of what she was letting herself in for before this night, but now it was too late. The woman had tried a couple of time to raise the subject and enlighten her, but each time Jemima had shied away, not quite ready for such a frank discussion as Mrs Attwood would grant her. How stupid not to have taken the woman’s instruction and counsel while she could. Foolish of her to think Solo would continue to wait. She had made no such stipulation and she was his property, or her body was, all the while she abided by their agreement. The idea made her hot and cold and a little sick, but there was
no backing out now. Besides, she was being silly. She had not disliked his touch earlier, far from it. The thought of repeating the experience had excited her, so there was no point in getting all missish about it. So, she put up her chin and forced herself to appear calm when Mrs Norrell came to fetch her.
“If you would come with me, Miss Fernside?”
“Jemima, please,” she said, hardly able to look the woman in the eyes but grateful that she had still been addressed with respect and kindness.
They climbed the stairs, and Mrs Norrell led her along a long, gloomy corridor that seemed to go on forever. The candle guttered, the floor creaked, and a succession of long-dead Rothborn ancestors glared balefully down at Jemima, making her feel as if she’d been plunged into a Gothic novel. It was most unsettling.
“The old house makes a lot of odd noises, moaning and groaning,” Mrs Norrell said, sounding unreasonably cheerful. “But there’s nothing to worry about.”
“There isn’t?” Jemima said doubtfully, shivering in the chill as a draught whistled down the passageway, stirring her hair and making her look over her shoulder.
Her heart banged against her ribs as she contemplated being in this place alone at night. Except she wouldn’t be alone, she assured herself. She wasn’t certain whether that was entirely comforting.
After what seemed to be an eternity, Mrs Norrell opened the door and led her into a bedroom. It was a large, impressive room, and clearly part of the Tudor addition to the building. As with downstairs, the walls were panelled and the ceiling heavy with beams. Rich brocade curtains covered the windows, and there were luxurious rugs over the polished wood floorboards. A huge, ancient bed dominated the room, the covers just as lavish as everything else. The only sound was the snap and pop of a hearty fire in the beautiful carved stone fireplace. Much to Jemima’s relief, Bessie was waiting for her, arranging things on an elegant mahogany dressing table with a marble top and an adjustable octagonal mirror.
Mrs Norrell bade her a good evening and left them alone.
To Bed the Baron (Girls Who Dare Book 9) Page 8
