The Pleasure of Bedding a Baroness

by Tamara Lejeune

  “You did that on purpose, Mr. Purefoy,” Patience said hotly, the words falling from her lips impulsively. “You knew I was behind that lady in the landau! You knew she would stop to speak to you! You could have caused a collision!”

  His mouth twitched. “As you did to Sir Charles a bit further back? Is that not a trifle hypocritical, Lady Waverly? May I present my companion?” he went on smoothly, without waiting for her to reply.

  “No, thank you!” said Patience. “If it’s all the same to you, I would rather not meet your—your mis—”

  She broke off, staring in blank amazement as she recognized his companion.

  “You remember Lady Isabella Norton, of course,” said Max.

  “How do you do, Lady Waverly,” Isabella said with perfect equanimity while Patience stared, openmouthed. “And this can only be Miss Prudence! How delightful to see you.”

  “I don’t understand,” Patience said, frowning as she looked from one face to the other.

  Isabella looked at her quite blankly. “What do you mean, Lady Waverly? What is there to understand? A beautiful day for a drive, is it not?”

  “I see you decided to take Freddie’s grays,” Mr. Purefoy remarked.

  “I’m only minding them for him while he’s away,” Patience said, her cheeks flushed behind her gauzy veil. “I’m glad you didn’t get them,” she added.

  “Even if they match my eyes?” he said lightly.

  “They are too good for you,” she said angrily.

  Max raised his brows. “You see, Isabella? Lady Waverly and I are not the best of friends. She does not approve of me.”

  Isabella tightened her grip on the gentleman’s arm. “We need not care for her good opinion, surely.”

  “I shall endeavor not to care,” Max replied, pulling a face, “but I doubt I shall succeed. I do so wish to be liked by everyone.”

  “That is not possible for anyone, Mr. Purefoy,” Patience said sharply.

  Isabella was enjoying her rival’s discomfiture immensely. “Come, now, Lady Waverly! Jealousy does not become you!”

  Patience turned white. “Jealousy!”

  Isabella sighed. “Such bitterness! Mr. Purefoy, I must tell you something very unpleasant. This lady told me that you were in the habit of ravishing serving maids. Of course, I gave no credence to her scurrilous lies. Nor did I repeat them to anyone. But if you should hear of it, from anyone else, here is the source.”

  “You lie!” Patience gasped. “’Twas you who told me!”

  Isabella shook her head sadly. “Exposed, all she can do is point the finger at someone else. Pathetic, is it not, Mr. Purefoy?”

  “It certainly is!” Patience snapped.

  Finding an opening in the traffic, she drove away as quickly as she could. Isabella’s thin mouth curved in triumph as she watched her rival quit the field.

  “I’m so sorry, Pru,” Patience said, glancing at her sister’s pale, strained face.

  “Did you do that?” Pru asked. “Did you say those vile things about him?”

  “No, of course not! How would I know his habits? She told me.”

  “She lied,” Pru said fiercely.

  “Of course she lied. I see that now. And I was only too willing to believe her!”

  “We must tell Max he is nursing a serpent in his bosom,” said Pru.

  “Rather hard to say which is the serpent,” Patience said dryly. “In any case, I told him on Friday what Isabella had told me about him. I didn’t tell him her name, but he must have guessed. Today, he proved to me that she was lying. I would not change places with that lady for anything,” she added.

  “Nor would I,” said Pru. “I can’t wait to see the look on her face when she realizes she’s not half as clever as she thinks. Oh, Pay! Does this mean you approve of Mr. Purefoy now?”

  Taken aback, Patience made no immediate answer.

  “You were wrong about Max,” Pru insisted. “Admit it! He’s not the devil.”

  “Perhaps not,” Patience returned, “but that doesn’t make him an angel!”

  “Good,” Pru said, smiling. “I don’t want an angel. I want a man.”

  Chapter 11

  On Thursday, Patience left Pru at her dancing lesson at Miss Godfrey’s Academy for Young Ladies, then drove on to Mrs. Drabble’s house in Wimpole Street. Jane opened the door for her, bobbing a curtsy as she recognized the baroness.

  Slipping into the house, she hurried to the little cloakroom off the hall. There she took off her bonnet and placed it on the shelf before hanging up her cloak. Judging by the number of cloaks and shawls hanging on the hooks, she was almost certainly the last to arrive. She hastened up the stairs to make her apologies to the other ladies.

  “I’m so sorry I’m late, Mrs. Drabble,” she began breathlessly.

  “That’s quite all right, dear,” said Mrs. Drabble, coming forward to kiss her. “We are just getting started. Miss Haines brought us some of her famous currant buns.”

  “Mr. Purefoy has had three already,” Miss Haines said proudly.

  “Forgive me, Lady Waverly,” Max said quickly, as her startled eyes swung up to his face. “I’ve taken your seat.”

  He had risen from his chair when Patience entered the room. Looking quite large and out of place amid the petticoats, he stood surrounded by an assortment of seated ladies, most of whom were elderly. A fox among hens!

  “What are you doing here?” Patience demanded. “How dare you!”

  “It’s only a chair, Lady Waverly,” Miss Haines said mildly. “We’ll get you another one.”

  Mrs. Bascombe pursed her lips in disapproval. “Mr. Purefoy has as much right to sit in that chair as she does. More, too, for he is our patron!”

  “Our what?” Patience said incredulously.

  “Who do you think pays for our buttons, Lady Waverly? Our cloth, and our notions? Mr. Purefoy, that’s who.”

  “I have always been interested in helping orphans,” Max said, assuming a cloak of virtue Patience was certain he had no right to wear. “I am myself something of an orphan, you know. My father died before I was born. My mother, poor woman, did not know what to do with me. She gave me to my uncle to raise, and went back to her own country. You are also an orphan, I think, Lady Waverly? Perhaps we are kindred spirits?”

  “Kindred spirits!” she exclaimed in astonishment.

  “Of course, you have the companionship of a sister,” he went on amiably. “I have often wished for the comfort of a brother or sister.”

  “You have your uncle,” she said primly. “Perhaps you should go home to him.”

  “Well!” said Mrs. Bascombe. “I’m sure it is not up to you, Lady Waverly, when Mr. Purefoy goes home!”

  “Her ladyship thinks me a bad nephew,” Max said sadly. “But, actually, I am here on my uncle’s behalf. He desires me to speak to you, Lady Waverly. May I?”

  “You may use Jane’s little sitting room,” Mrs. Drabble offered. “No one will disturb you there.”

  “Oh, it is nothing private,” Max assured her. “My uncle has undertaken to give a ball for Lady Waverly and her sister. They are to be presented at court next week. What could be more splendid than a ball at Sunderland House? It sets just the right tone for the Season, don’t you think?”

  “Any young lady would give her eyeteeth to be launched from Sunderland House,” Mrs. Bascombe said, a little resentfully.

  Patience glared at Max. It was most unfair of him to bring up the subject in company—or at all. He ought to have accepted her refusal like a gentleman. “As I explained in my letter to your uncle, Mr. Purefoy,” she said coldly, “as grateful as we are for your uncle’s kind offer, my sister and I can’t possibly accept.”

  “You mean to say you refuse, Lady Waverly?”

  “I must, Miss Haines,” said Patience. Looking around the room, she saw that everyone was looking at her with a mixture of astonishment and disapproval. “I did not ask him to give me a ball!” she said defensively.

  �
��No, I did,” Max said ruefully. “I made a promise to your sister, which I am bound to keep, Lady Waverly.”

  “I hereby release you of your promise, sir,” Patience said tartly.

  Mrs. Bascombe loudly clucked her tongue.

  “If only it were that easy,” said Max, as the circle of ladies whispered amongst themselves. “But I’m afraid the arrangements have already been made. The banquet ordered. The musicians hired. The flowers on their way from our hothouses at Breckinridge. Invitations sent.”

  “I’m very sorry,” said Patience, “but you should have asked me first. I am Prudence’s guardian, you know. How would it look if your uncle—a stranger to us—were to give a ball in our honor?”

  Max shrugged. “Like kindness, I suppose. But how will it look if the ball is suddenly canceled?”

  “My dear,” put in Mrs. Drabble, “you can have no conception of the sort of gossip that would ensue—none of it flattering to you or your sister.”

  “That is preposterous,” said Patience. “Why should there be gossip?”

  “There is always gossip,” Max told her. “Very likely it would be enough to ruin all your chances in society. You do not care about that, perhaps, Lady Waverly, but think of your sister. Don’t let your dislike for me cloud your judgment.”

  After a moment, Patience said ungraciously, “Very well. You may have your ball.”

  “Very handsome of you, I’m sure,” Mrs. Bascombe said sharply.

  Mrs. Drabble looked tremendously relieved. “Good! It’s all settled. Do sit down, Lady Waverly, and try one of Miss Haines’s currant buns. More tea, Mr. Purefoy?”

  Max smiled apologetically. “I fear Lady Waverly has long desired my absence.”

  “You are mistaken,” she said crisply. “I’m completely indifferent as to whether you stay or go. I don’t regard it in the least.”

  He raised his brows slightly. “Then I need not leave on your account?”

  “No,” she said, seating herself on a wooden stool brought up from the kitchen by Jane. “There is little here for you to do, however. I’m sure you will be quite bored.”

  “Bored? You astonish me,” he said, resuming his seat between Mrs. Bascombe and Miss Haines. “How could I be bored with such charming companions?”

  “I see,” Miss Haines said tremulously. “She thinks that we are boring!”

  “No!” Patience said quickly, horrified that she had hurt the feelings of a sweet-natured, elderly spinster like Miss Lavinia Haines. “Indeed, I do not, Miss Haines. I meant only that an afternoon of sewing probably is not the gentleman’s idea of entertainment. By the way,” she went on as Miss Haines glowered at her, “your currant buns are delicious.”

  “At last! Something upon which we can agree,” said Max, making Miss Haines blush radiantly with pleasure.

  “Pshaw! An old family recipe, nothing more.”

  He smiled warmly. “But those are the very best kind of recipes, Miss Haines.”

  “Indeed, they are,” said Mrs. Bascombe. “You should taste my cherry tarts, Mr. Purefoy.”

  “I should be delighted,” he said. “And you, Lady Waverly? Do you think we two shall agree on cherry tarts as well?”

  “Oh, Lady Waverly likes anything with cherries,” said Mrs. Drabble.

  “I do,” Patience admitted. “I miss the cherry trees back home. I shan’t be there to see them bloom this year, but, God willing, I’ll see them next year.”

  Max frowned. “You mean to return to America, then?” he said sharply. “I—I assumed you would make your home here.”

  Patience shook her head. “As soon as my uncle’s estate is settled, Pru and I will go home, of course.”

  “And if your sister does not wish to leave England?”

  Patience frowned. “Prudence and I have never lived apart.”

  “We will lose our fastest darner when Lady Waverly leaves us,” said Mrs. Drabble. “She can make the rattiest old stocking look new again in mere minutes!”

  “A rare talent indeed,” Max said gravely.

  Patience had the distinct impression that he was laughing at her. To hide her annoyance, she opened her mending basket and took out a little jacket with several torn seams. “And you, Mr. Purefoy?” she said, locating a reel of black cotton. “Have you any talents that might be of use to our circle?”

  “I have been known to sort buttons and wind cotton,” he replied. “I’m surprisingly good at threading a needle, too. Shall I—Shall I thread your needle for you, Lady Waverly?”

  Somehow, he made the offer sound slightly indecent.

  “You may certainly thread mine, Mr. Purefoy!” Mrs. Bascombe said, rather suggestively. “My poor old eyes! Here, Mr. Purefoy. I’ll hold the needle for you. Now you must lick the thread, sir. Moisten it between your lips to make it nice and stiff. Or you’ll never get it in!”

  She regarded him over the tops of her iron-rimmed spectacles. “Dear me! I thought you said you’d done this before.”

  “Really, Hyacinth,” Mrs. Drabble chided the enthusiastic widow.

  “My dear Mrs. Bascombe,” Max protested, laughing. “You’ve got to hold it still! Stiff or not, how am I supposed to get my thread through the eye of your needle if you keep moving it about?”

  “Poke away, Mr. Purefoy! Poke away,” she said cheerfully.

  Miss Haines’s eyes were round. “Would you mind threading mine, too, sir?”

  “Certainly, Miss Haines. Such a tiny little needle yours is, too! Lady Waverly?”

  “I’ll thread my own, thank you,” Patience said, red faced.

  Mrs. Drabble felt it was time to change the subject. “Are you at all nervous about your presentation, Lady Waverly?” she asked, expertly pulling her thread through a tiny button on a little girl’s dress. “I’m sure I wouldn’t blame you if you were.”

  “I’m not in the least bit nervous,” Patience answered.

  “Nor should you be,” said Max. “You will have at least two friends in the room when you make your curtsy to Queen Charlotte. I always attend the first drawing room with my uncle.”

  “I don’t curtsy,” she said, frowning at him.

  “Never?” he said, raising his brows.

  “I’m American,” she explained. “We don’t believe in—”

  “Good manners?” he suggested.

  “We believe in equality, Mr. Purefoy. I would gladly shake her majesty’s hand—”

  He laughed out loud. “Now that would cause quite a stir!”

  Patience bent her head to bite her thread. She worked steadily with one eye on the clock. At the end of the second hour, she put away her mending and rose to take her leave. To her annoyance, Max, who had been keeping up a steady stream of conversation with the other ladies, rose with her. “Pray, do not go on my account, Lady Waverly,” he said quickly.

  “No, indeed,” she said crossly. “I must go and collect my sister from her dance lesson.”

  To her annoyance, he followed her into the cloakroom, closing the door upon them as she was putting on her cloak. “How dare you! Get out!” she snapped.

  She might as well have not spoken. “You were not driving in the park yesterday,” he said. “Those horses should be exercised every day, you know.”

  “I did drive in the park yesterday,” she answered. “Not that it’s any concern of yours. But it was Green Park, not Hyde Park. It’s just as beautiful and far less crowded.”

  “And, of course, it is nearer to Clarges Street,” he said thoughtfully. “Very well. I’ll take Hyde Park, and you can have Green Park.”

  “I will drive where I please, Mr. Purefoy,” she answered. “You may do the same.”

  “Thank you,” he said gravely. “I thought perhaps you were trying to avoid me. If that is your desire, you will have a better time of it if I assist you.”

  “I would like to avoid you now,” she told him. “You may assist me by moving away from the door.”

  He was very big and the room was very small, scarcely bigger th
an a closet. He took a step forward, pressing her against one wall. “Is this better?” he inquired solicitously.

  “Stand aside, Mr. Purefoy, or I will call for Jane,” she threatened.

  “If you call for Jane I will kiss you,” he replied.

  “If you kiss me, I shall scream!”

  “If you scream, the whole household will come running,” he said. “You would be compromised. I’d have to marry you.”

  Infuriated, Patience struck him across the face.

  “What was that for?” he asked, pressing his hand to his cheek.

  “You know perfectly well what it’s for!”

  “Perhaps I do,” he conceded. “It’s because I kissed you, isn’t it? Not today, but before, in the park. I didn’t mean to kiss you. It just happened. We’d nearly wrecked the curricle. My pulse was racing. My heart was pounding. And there you were! You seduced me with your fine eyes.”

  Patience glared at him, her chin balled up like a fist. “And my sister?” she said. “Did she also seduce you with her fine eyes? They are the same eyes, after all!”

  He frowned. “I never had the honor of kissing Miss Prudence,” he said coldly. “If she told you I kissed her, then she is lying.”

  Aware that she wanted to believe him more than was good for her, Patience frowned back at him. “She would not admit it, of course.”

  He relaxed. “No?” he mocked her. “Perhaps you should torture her. I understand that people will confess to anything—to killing Christ, even—if they are tortured.”

  “If I am going to torture anyone, Mr. Purefoy,” she snapped, “it will be you.”

  “Would you be good enough to start now?” he murmured. Taking her roughly by the shoulders, he kissed her mouth. The deep, rich warmth of his mouth shocked her, and she fell against him, her knees buckling. When he released her some time later, she was quite breathless and extremely disappointed in herself. His gray eyes laughed at her as she struggled to gather her wits.

  “Oh, Mr. Purefoy,” she gasped, her eyes round with wonder.

  He favored her with a smug grin. “Please, call me Max,” he invited her.

  “I—I—I—!” she gasped, panting desperately for breath. “Oh! Oh! Oh! I am all a-flutter!”