The Pleasure of Bedding a Baroness

by Tamara Lejeune

  “This can’t be true,” she said.

  “Your attorney will tell you. What’s his name, by the way?”

  “Bracegirdle.”

  “Ah, yes. He’ll tell you. But don’t look so glum,” he added. “We can always apply for an annulment on the grounds of your incompetence, rather than mine.”

  “I am not incompetent,” she snapped.

  “You are not yet twenty-one,” he said. “In the eyes of the law, that is incompetence. And we won’t have to share a bed for three years—or even at all. Your attorney can begin the process right away.”

  “Why didn’t you say so in the first place?” she said furiously.

  “I was simply pointing out the folly of your little idea of accusing me of impotence,” he replied. “Then I offered you the correct solution to your problem. You should be thanking me.”

  “If it is the correct solution, my lawyer will tell me the same thing. You need not have bothered.”

  “I wish you had told me you were only marrying me to atone for your sister’s sins,” he said, after a long, uncomfortable silence. “I could have saved us both a good deal of trouble.”

  “Meaning you would not have married me, I suppose!”

  “No,” he answered shortly.

  Stung, she retaliated. “If I had known you wouldn’t take the money, I would not have married you either!”

  As he drew up to the attorney’s building in Chancery Lane, she opened the door and jumped out before either he or his groom could assist her. “You will end up collecting on that wager!” she told him. “You won’t have a choice. You wouldn’t last a day in a world where you had to earn your own keep. You’re too lazy to work at anything, and too dissipated to do anything worthwhile with your money even if you could earn any!”

  Max’s eyes glinted. “Would you care to make a wager on that?”

  Shaking her head in disgust, Patience turned on her heel and walked into the building.

  He had already started off when he heard her calling out to him. Hastily, he pulled the team to a stop. “Yes?” he said quickly as she ran up to the car.

  “Please be good enough to return this to Mrs. Drabble,” she said.

  Instinctively, he held out his hand. Into it, she dropped the widow’s plain gold band. By the time he had dropped it into his pocket, she was gone.

  Mr. Bracegirdle closed the door to his office and listened to his client in silence, taking notes from time to time with his goose-quill pen. When Patience had finished, he asked her a series of particular questions. Where had the marriage taken place? Who had officiated? Names of the witnesses? He asked to see the license, and sighed when Patience told him it was in the keeping of the man she had married.

  He shook his head. “I do wish Your Ladyship had consulted me first.”

  Patience leaned forward in her chair. “But can you get me out of it, Mr. Bracegirdle?”

  “It won’t be easy,” he said. “It will take time. These witnesses—Miss Haines? Mrs. Drabble? Are they women of good character?”

  “Excellent character!” Patience said emphatically. “Mrs. Drabble is a respectable widow, and Miss Haines’s father was a colonel in the army, I believe.”

  “Too bad,” he murmured. “The annulment of a legal union is by no means a simple matter, you must understand.”

  “But I cannot stay married to him, Mr. Bracegirdle!”

  “Yes, I understand his uncle has disowned him,” the attorney said sympathetically. “How very disappointed you must be. You thought you were getting a duke’s heir. Instead, he turned out to be nothing but a fortune hunter. I’m sure the court will be sympathetic.”

  Patience was on her feet. “What? No! Good God! Is that what you think? I don’t want an annulment because his uncle disowned him. He’s not a fortune hunter, and neither am I. I married him so that he could collect on a wager.”

  He stared at her. “You mean you knew he was penniless when you married him? You knew that he had no expectations?”

  “Yes, of course. He didn’t deceive me, if that’s what you’re getting at.”

  He shook his head, the candlelight glinting on his spectacles. “Too bad. The court would have been very sympathetic. You realize, of course, that your husband is within his rights to take control of your fortune.”

  “Not at all. He has promised never to touch my money.”

  “He has relinquished all claims to your inheritance?” Mr. Bracegirdle said incredulously.

  “You have this in writing?”

  “No, not in writing. He gave me his word.”

  Mr. Bracegirdle looked very grave. “Oh, dear. This does make it difficult.”

  “But it can be done?” she said anxiously, striding about the room. “I don’t care what it takes. I don’t care how much it costs. I can’t stay married to him. It—it hurts too much!”

  “I beg your pardon,” he said, startled. “I did not realize the marriage had already been consummated! I’m afraid that does change the ... er ... landscape considerably.”

  Patience pressed her hands to her hot cheeks. “No, Mr. Bracegirdle! We came straight here from the church. What I meant was: it hurts to look at him. His face is so—so—”

  “He is rather swarthy, perhaps,” Mr. Bracegirdle conceded. “But I understand his mother was Italian, and no better than she should be.”

  “How dare you!” Patience said angrily. “My husband is the most beautiful man in the whole of creation. I have never had the honor of meeting his mother, but I’m quite sure she is exactly what she ought to be. Now, perhaps, you understand why I can’t stay married to him. I love him too much!”

  “I understand, of course. I’m not sure the court will.”

  “But he doesn’t love me. He only wanted to marry me to win a stupid bet. Before that, he was practically engaged to my sister. I cannot possibly spend the rest of my life married to a man who does not love me!”

  “I quite understand. Perhaps if Your Ladyship were to use your feminine arts, you could make him love you,” the attorney suggested. “I daresay it would be a good deal easier than obtaining an annulment from the Church of England.”

  Patience glared at him. “If he is too stupid to love me,” she declared, “then he doesn’t deserve me. Feminine arts, indeed! I’d sooner punch him in the nose! Now do you understand?”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  “Good! Then kindly stop babbling and get me my annulment!”

  “Yes, my lady,” he said, but she had already swept from the room.

  The effect was rather spoiled, however, when she was obliged to return to ask him to send for a hackney to carry her back to her house.

  In Clarges Street, she found her carriage waiting at the curb. Lady Jemima, dressed to go out, ostrich plumes adorning her golden turban, was coming down the stairs as Patience entered the house. “Lady Waverly! Where have you been? You are not dressed! Hurry! For it is the Torcast-ers’ ball this night.”

  The trill of excitement in her voice made Patience feel quite weary. She went up the stairs to Pru’s room. Prudence was dabbing French perfume behind her ears. “Where on earth have you been?” she cried. “We were just about to go without you.”

  Patience sat down on the bed, which was covered in gowns—Pru’s obvious rejects. “You will have to go without me,” she said. “I’ve just come from Mr. Bracegirdle’s office.”

  “Oh?” Pru twisted around, studying the view of her rear in the cheval glass. As cross as Patience was, she could not help but notice that the back of her sister’s gown was as heavily decorated with flowers as the front; Pru obviously did not mean to sit down at the ball. “I borrowed your pearls. You don’t mind, do you?”

  “You have pearls of your own,” Patience objected.

  “A single strand! I should be ashamed to wear only a single strand,” Pru said scornfully. “What did old Bracegirdle want?”

  “Nothing. I went to seek his advice about—about Mr. Purefoy.”

  “Mr
. Farnessi or Farinelli, you mean.”

  “Yes.”

  Pru seemed only mildly interested. “Does Mr. Bracegirdle think he will sue us?”

  “He won’t sue us,” Patience said slowly. “I—I’ve settled with him.”

  Pru frowned. “I hope he was not unreasonable! I hope his terms were not too high. I do hate having to pay blackmailers.”

  “You will kindly not refer to Mr.—Mr. Farnese as a blackmailer!” Patience said sharply.

  Pru shrugged. “I shan’t refer to him at all. How is that?”

  “Thank you,” Patience said dully.

  “How do I look?” Pru demanded.

  “The back of your gown will be crushed in the carriage,” Patience said, “if that matters.”

  Pru smiled at her triumphantly. “No, it won’t,” she said. “I shall lift it up before I sit down and sit on my petticoats. Is that not scandalous?” She laughed, and went dancing out of the room without waiting for Patience to reply.

  Chapter 18

  “I don’t understand!” the Duke of Sunderland said angrily.

  All morning he had sat in his bath chair in Mrs. Drabble’s—to him—tiny drafty parlor, surrounded by a gaggle of old women, and when Max finally arrived, the hour was ridiculously late and his nephew was alone. Mrs. Drabble, after one look at the bridegroom’s face, had sent the old ladies away. Tactfully, she and Jane had carried the wedding cake out of the room, leaving the uncle alone with his heir.

  Max sat down and began eating gooseberry tarts. They tasted like ashes in his mouth, but he continued eating them just the same. “I don’t completely understand it myself.”

  “Well, where is she?” the duke demanded. “Doesn’t the silly girl know we have been waiting here all day? Does she know I had to be carried up those poky little stairs? Did you tell her you’re not really disowned?”

  “If I thought it would make a difference, I would have,” Max murmured. “She is with her lawyer now, planning the annulment.”

  “What annulment?” the duke cried, horrified.

  Max lifted his shoulders and let them fall. “She wants an annulment. She only married me so that I could collect on a bet.”

  “Oh?” the duke said, with a sneer. “Madam wants an annulment, does she? Good riddance, say I! I’ll see that she gets it, too! I’ll send to the archbishop directly! Twenty thousand pounds ought to do the trick.”

  “You’ll do no such thing,” Max said sharply.

  The duke waved a hand. “Dear boy! I don’t care about the money. You’re better off without this—this American wench. We’ll find you someone much, much better. I’ll get you a Spanish princess, if that’s what you want.”

  “I don’t feel better off,” Max said, taking another tart from the plate. “And even if I am better off, who says I want to be better off?”

  The duke threw up his hands. “You don’t mean to say you still want her?” he said incredulously.

  “Would it distress you to hear that I now want her even more?”

  “Distress?” His uncle shrugged. “More perplexing than distressing, I’d say. But I have always said you may marry where you will. I vowed never to interfere in your choice—though I have watched many sweet and pretty creatures marry themselves to far inferior men than my nephew. But I say nothing. I do not complain. I do not nag you. Perhaps I should have. Lady Amelia would never have left you on your wedding day. She would not make you miserable.”

  Max smiled faintly. “She couldn’t.”

  “Quite so,” said the duke, utterly mistaking his nephew’s meaning. “But you did not want Lady Amelia, and so she married somebody else.”

  “Lord Irving. She makes him miserable.”

  The duke frowned. “Perhaps,” he conceded. “But she would not have made you so. Bah! I thank God my health never permitted me to marry. Take me home now, Max. I am tired. Tomorrow we’ll have the newspapers print a full retraction. We’ll forget all about this unfortunate incident.”

  Max was shaking his head. “No! No, let there be no retractions. If she finds out I am still your heir, I will lose her forever. She’ll never come back to me.”

  “Pshaw! She’ll crawl through the streets to you on her hands and knees. Remember, I could fall dead any day now, and then she would be a duchess.”

  “You don’t know her, Uncle. She would fear being thought a mercenary, and I would lose her forever. No, we must wait. I must have time to—to persuade her.”

  The duke scowled. “No woman can be worth all this trouble!”

  Mrs. Drabble came back into the room with the tea tray.

  “Is that so, Your Grace?” she asked, her blue eyes narrowed.

  “No American woman,” he said, hastily redefining the parameters of his declaration.

  “She is my choice, Uncle, whether you like it or not,” said Max. “She is my choice whether she likes it or not,” he added under his breath.

  “That’s the spirit!” said Mrs. Drabble.

  “Yes, indeed,” the duke agreed heartily. “You young people these days! You give too much thought to what the woman feels or likes! Bah! You have only to order her to go home with you, and the thing is done. By law, she is your property, boy. She should be treated as such.”

  “That is odious!” cried Mrs. Drabble, slamming down the teapot. “Don’t listen to him, Max!”

  “It may be odious,” the duke responded, “but it is the law. Don’t tell me Mr. Drabble would have put up with such nonsense.”

  Her plump cheeks were quite red. “Mr. Drabble,” she said indignantly, “was the kindest, gentlest, dearest soul who ever lived! If there were any justice in this world, he would have been born a duke, and you would have been born in the gutter.”

  The duke blinked at her in surprise. “I didn’t know Drabble was born in the gutter.”

  “He wasn’t!” she snapped. “But you should have been, with a mind like yours.”

  “What did I do?” he wondered innocently. “I was only explaining the law to the boy. A married man has rights!”

  Max held up his hand for peace. “Uncle, if I thought it would answer, I would take your advice. But I know very well it won’t answer,” he added quickly, as his former nurse began to squawk.

  “Well, what are you going to do?” the duke demanded. “You can’t let her get away with this. Her conduct is disgraceful.”

  “Oh, do be quiet,” Mrs. Drabble said impatiently.

  “Don’t tell me to be quiet,” he snapped.

  “I’ll say what I like! It’s my house!”

  “Who paid for it?”

  Mrs. Drabble balled up her fist and shook it at him. “I earned every penny of that money, looking after you for a dozen years and more!”

  “Please!” said Max, holding up both hands.

  Mrs. Drabble composed herself. “You must forgive your uncle,” she said, handing him a cup of tea. “He’s always crotchety at this time of day. What are you going to do?” she went on quickly, before the duke could retort, effectively giving herself the last word.

  “I’m going to get a job.”

  The duke was so shocked, he completely forgot his argument with Mrs. Drabble. “A what?” he cried in utter disbelief.

  “A job,” Mrs. Drabble said loudly, as if the duke were going deaf, when, in fact, she was quite as amazed as Max’s uncle. “He said he’s going to get a job.”

  “I heard what he said!” the duke snapped.

  “It means employment for financial remuneration.”

  “Yes, I know what it means,” he shouted at her. “But why is he—?” Breaking off angrily, he turned to Max. “Why would you do such a thing?”

  “I must earn a living,” Max replied.

  “Why?” the duke wanted to know.

  “Because she thinks I can’t!” his nephew explained.

  The next morning, Pru dressed very carefully, in anticipation of receiving visits from all the gentlemen with whom she had danced the night before. “Lord Torcaster him
self took your sister in to dinner,” Lady Jemima told Patience at breakfast. The chaperone quivered with delight, her pinkish hair almost glowing in the morning sunlight.

  “Is he not a married man?” said Patience, frowning.

  “La, Patience!” Pru said derisively. “Don’t you know anything? Husbands never escort their wives to dinner! Why, they would have to sit next to each other. And who would want to sit next to Lady Torcaster? She’s so frumpy! And her father was in trade.”

  Patience set down her coffee cup. “You should show more respect for your hostess,” she said reproachfully. “And need I remind you that your own fortune comes from trade?”

  “Only on our mother’s side,” Pru protested. “Our father was a gentleman. If he were alive today, he would be Baron Waverly.”

  “If he were alive today, he would spank you,” Patience muttered.

  If her companions heard this remark, they gave no sign of it. After breakfast, they repaired to the drawing room. Patience sorted through her correspondence, handing all invitations to Prudence, then settled down to read a lengthy report from Mr. Campbell, the estate manager at Wildings. Mr. Campbell urged her to accept the offer of ten thousand pounds for the property, citing numerous proofs that it would cost more to turn the place to account: the cottages were broken down, the tenants fleeing, the sheep were dying of some mysterious disease, and the roof was missing quite a few slates. There was scarcely a window that hadn’t been broken.

  “Sounds charming,” Pru sneered when Patience gave her the gist of it. “Sell it!”

  “I should like to see it before I sell it, but Mr. Campbell says the roads are flooded. I wonder how his letter reached me if the roads are flooded.”

  “It’s much too cold to go to Wildings,” said Lady Jemima. “Besides the Season is in full swing!”

  “We are invited to Princess Esterhazy’s musicale!” cried Pru, waving an invitation engraved in gold on an elegant purple card. “She is the wife of the Hungarian ambassador, you know.”