“Oh, miss, just wait till you see!”
Bessie giggled, then rushed to a large armoire and flung open the doors. With something approaching awe, she withdrew a folded scrap of material that fluttered open as she held it up with careful fingers. Jemima gaped as she realised she was looking at a chemise, though it was unlike any chemise she owned. Made of cambric so fine it was almost sheer, it was edged at the hem with a wide band of the most delicate lace she’d ever seen in her life. The neckline was wide and deep and trimmed with a tiny frill. With a gasp, she noticed how short the item was. It would barely cover her to mid-thigh.
“Good heavens.”
“Isn’t it beautiful?” Bessie stared at the chemise with wide brown eyes. “I never saw nothing so lovely in all my days.”
“Lovely,” Jemima said faintly, discovering it was hard to breathe.
“You’ll hardly know you’ve got it on.”
Jemima blushed, a furious rush of colour that only made Bessie giggle harder.
“Oh, if you could see your face…! But surely you’re not frightened, are you? I mean, you like him and he’s devilish handsome. I’d take your place if he’d only take a fancy to me.”
“Bessie!” Jemima said, shocked, but she couldn’t help but laugh at Bessie’s enthusiasm.
“You ain’t frightened, are you, miss?” Bessie asked again, her tone more serious now.
Jemima bit her lip. “N-Not frightened, exactly.”
“And you do know… what goes on….”
Jemima’s gaze snapped to Bessie.
“Why, do you?” she asked, a little astonished, as Bessie was younger than she was.
There was a snort of amusement. “I grew up in the country, miss. Ma told me years ago and even if she hadn’t, my brother works with horses and I seen the stallion servicing the mares. Aye. I reckon I know well enough.”
“Oh.”
Bessie grinned at her. “Wait there.”
Not having a great deal of choice in the matter, as there was no way on earth she was leaving this room alone, Jemima sat before the dressing table and waited. She allowed herself a moment to look about, and almost at once noticed the door… the one that must connect to the master’s chambers. Good heavens.
She turned away, as if not looking at the door would change anything. Not too much later, Bessie returned with a decanter and a crystal glass.
“Reckon you need a nip of brandy, settle your nerves, like,” Bessie said, pouring out a generous measure and handing it over.
Jemima practically snatched the glass from her hand and took a large swallow, coughing a little as the liquor lit a fire down her throat.
Bessie took the glass back and set it down on the dressing table. “Right then, miss. Let’s get you ready, and I’ll tell you everything I know.”
Chapter 8
Dear Minerva,
Oh, how dull it is without you here to entertain me. Prue and Robert are dreadful company now. Prue is forever falling asleep and Robert fusses about her, doing a fine impression of Matilda at her most maternal. It is terribly sweet and I’m happy for them, but from my point of view it is terminally dreary. I shall run mad if something exciting doesn’t happen soon.
Speaking of excitement, the shining light on the horizon comes from my Uncle Charles (Baron Fitzwalter), who is hosting a small house party. He’s very good company and always invites the most amusing people. For instance, Harriet’s brother, Henry Stanhope with be there—he is sweet on me, you know — and guess what…
He’s bringing Mr Gabriel Knight.
Perhaps all is not lost.
―Excerpt of a letter from Lady Helena Adolphus to Mrs Minerva de Beauvoir.
4th February 1815. Mitcham Priory, Sussex.
Solo paced his dressing room and did his best to reassure himself that he was not being unreasonable. He hadn’t thought he was being an unreasonable, until Jemima had gone as stiff as a board in his arms, her eyes doing an alarming impression of a frightened doe caught in a hunter’s sights. Yet, earlier in the day, she’d been willing enough, enthusiastic even, so he’d simply assumed…. He was an idiot, naturally. To think that he’d once been considered quite the ladies’ man. Of course she was terrified. She was an innocent, forced into this situation through no fault of her own. The poor creature must think him an absolute beast. The least he could do was take things slowly and not frighten her any more than needs be.
He remembered how she’d felt then, soft and pliant in his arms, the delicate scent of her skin still fogged his brain like opium smoke. It was a scent he still hadn’t identified to his satisfaction, only that it was enticingly feminine and made him think of the garden in spring after a shower of rain, lush and fertile. Oh, bloody hell. His body ached with desire, a longing to lose himself in her, and he took a deep breath, willing himself to be patient. He wasn’t some fool boy, and she’d not been displeased earlier. There were plenty of ways to bring them both pleasure without frightening the wits out of her and, if she was too nervous to allow him that much, he would simply wait until she was ready. She hardly knew him, after all. He hadn’t employed a doxy to service his needs, but a companion, a mistress, and he did not believe any woman deserving of impatience or ill treatment for being afraid.
Resolved to behave like a gentleman—even if it killed him—he knocked on the adjoining door and waited until he heard a soft reply bid him enter.
Solo walked in, and froze, his heart leaping to somewhere in the vicinity of his throat and his body tightening with anticipation. Letting out a slow breath, he reminded himself sternly that the brain in his head was in charge, not the smaller, badly behaved one that resided somewhat lower.
She was standing by the fire, something she’d likely have decided against if she’d realised what the firelight did to the sheer fabric of her night-rail. Solo had imagined her wearing it almost every night since the day he’d ordered it. His imagination had fallen a long way short of reality. Her blonde hair was loose and cascaded down her back, shimmering gold in the light of the flames. The arms were bare and crossed protectively about her middle, pulling the fabric over her breasts, making the peaks of her nipples visible, pressed tight against the night-rail. The hem of the gown was short and a good proportion comprised fine lace which covered little, allowing him a generous view of slender legs, all the way to her bare toes.
Solo tried to find words, to find some pretty quote from any number of the poems he’d read over his lifetime, but as he reached to find something it slid from his mind like a fish darting into deep water. It was sometime before he realised he’d just been staring at her in silence.
He cleared his throat, deciding actions would have to speak for him, and moved towards her. She was breathing hard, but so obviously trying her best to look calm and unruffled that tenderness welled inside him. Solo held his hands out to her and, with rather stiff movements, she unwound her arms from about her body and put her hands in his. He lifted first one and then the other to his lips, kissing each knuckle in turn.
“Exquisite,” he managed, the word sounding like a growl.
She gave a little half smile, still trying so hard to please him.
Solo tugged at her hand and led her to the chair by the fire. He sat down and then gestured for her to sit in his lap. She did, stiff and awkward.
“Come here,” he said, gently easing her back against him. “There’s nothing to be afraid of. We don’t have to do anything you don’t like. My word upon it.”
She put up her chin and turned towards him, though she didn’t meet his eyes. “I… I know what is expected of me. It’s q-quite all right. You have been very patient already and—”
Solo hushed her by pressing his lips to hers and kissing her. Gently he coaxed her, teasing her mouth with his, with touches of his tongue that tempted her to respond, to seek more of him. Little by little, he felt some of the tension ease away and her body relaxed against him. He pulled back and drew her head onto his shoulder, stroking her hair.
“There. Is this all right?”
She sighed and nodded and Solo smiled, pleased.
“I told you, there is no need to fear me. I would never hurt you. I know this is all new and no doubt you are afraid, but I would never force you. I want you to want me, Jemima. I want nothing that is not freely given.”
“I do want you.”
She spoke so quietly he almost missed what she said, but the admission had desire simmering beneath his skin.
“I’m just… I wasn’t expecting….”
“I know,” he said, smoothing his hand up and down her back, lightheaded with the sensation of her nearly naked body in his lap, the heat of her skin burning his palm and making him breathless with the need to slide his hand beneath the cambric and find the silk of her flesh under his fingers. “I’m a thoughtless brute. The truth is, I’d not intended to ask you to stay, not yet, but… but I did not want you to go. I’m sorry if I frightened you.”
She looked up then, her storm cloud eyes troubled. “I don’t want to be silly and missish. I knew what I was agreeing to, and had no illusions. You have been so generous, so patient, and I feel so foolish to… to fret over what is inevitable.”
“Hush,” he said, sliding his hand about her neck. “There is no rush, and you’re not being silly. Tonight we will talk, and you will get used to having me close. Perhaps you will stay again, like this, just to talk, and then we shall see how you feel. If you are still unsure, we will wait a bit longer.”
“How kind you are.”
Solo felt uncomfortable when faced with the soft look in her eyes. Kind? He was the wicked seducer, the man who would ruin her, take her innocence and make her a whore in the eyes of respectable society. Oh, yes, how kind he was. He reminded himself that she had a warm, comfortable home, plenty of food and firewood, pretty gowns and the company of women who would not judge her. He had done all of that to please her… yet the knowledge did not ease his guilt. His guilt was not enough to halt what would happen, though. He needed this woman and now, having met her, he knew no one else would do. It had to be her.
“What shall we talk about?”
Solo smiled. “I’ll tell you a little about The Priory, shall I? That will send you to sleep in no time.”
“Oh, I’m sure it couldn’t do any such thing,” she said, and he found himself pleased by the enthusiasm in her voice. “It’s such a beautiful place, and it must have such an extraordinary history. Do please tell me.”
So he did. Solo told her about the moat—one of the longest in the country—that enclosed The Priory and eight acres of gardens, making it an island all its own, where you could shut out the world if you wished to. He’d been doing it for some time. He told her about the ancient parts of the building, the original Augustinian priory and about the later Tudor additions. He told her some of the bloody history of his ancestors and found himself delighted when he made her laugh with some of the naughtier tales most people never heard. She asked questions and soon seemed quite at ease in his arms, welcoming his kisses when he became distracted by her nearness and his desire to have just a taste of her. After a while, she relaxed against him, one hand resting on his chest, over his heart, her head on his shoulder, and it was some time before he realised she was asleep.
“There,” he said ruefully. “I told you I’d send you to sleep.”
He gazed down at her, mesmerised by the sight of her in repose, the soft sweep of dark gold lashes and the luminescence of her skin. Her mouth was a dusky pink, the top a perfect cupid’s bow, the bottom wider and fuller. The longing to taste her again was almost too strong to resist, but he didn’t wish to disturb her. Then he wondered how the devil he was to get her into her bed without waking her. Well, he’d just have to carry her. Once that would have been an easy matter. Now, with his blasted leg, it presented more of a challenge.
Somehow, he got to his feet, trying not to jolt her and biting back a yelp as pain lanced down his thigh to his knee. Jemima stirred, nuzzling against him and sighing before settling back to sleep. He was unsurprised to discover she weighed next to nothing. She was still far too fragile, her limbs too slender, though there was more colour in her cheeks that when he’d first met her, and he looked forward to watching her blossom as regular meals and an end to financial worries worked their magic. Still, light as she was, the unfamiliar burden taxed his injured limb as he tried not to jostle her. The pain made him nauseous, a fine sweat breaking out on his forehead and down his back with the effort of keeping quiet as he made his way towards the bed. Good God, how had he never noticed how bloody big these rooms were.
Finally, he made it, and set her down with care, taking a moment to steady himself by clutching at a bedpost and forcing himself to take a few deep, steadying breaths. Once the dizzying pain had subsided, he reached for the covers and tucked her in, lingering for a long time. With a wry smile, he reflected that it had been the most enjoyable evening he’d ever spent, and he’d barely touched her.
“Goodnight,” he said softly, and made his way back to his own chamber.
7th February 1815. South Audley Street, London.
“Oh, I know I’m horribly selfish, but I wish you didn’t have to go,” Matilda lamented, reaching for a slice of plum cake.
Aashini laughed and set down her teacup. “It has been a lovely visit, but I offered for you to come with me. Why don’t you?”
Matilda smiled and shook her head. “You are already missing Silas most dreadfully, that much is obvious, and I’d just as soon miss the romantic reunion,” she said, laughing and hoping she didn’t sound like a bitter old crone. “Besides, I’m to stay with Nate and Alice. They’ve been pestering me for ages, and I want to be there for the birth of the baby, though I think there are five or six weeks to go yet. Still, it will be lovely to see them both again, as long as they don’t start matchmaking.”
“I thought you wanted to make a match, though?” Aashini said, frowning a little as she took a fresh baked roll and tore it into pieces. “Why would you object?”
Matilda shrugged and broke off a corner of her cake, staring at it with a frown before setting it down again.
“I… I don’t know, it’s just….”
It was just that there was only one man she wanted. There was no point in trying to deny it any longer. How could she try to find herself a husband when her mind was full of thoughts of him? It would be unfair to any man, and to herself. So what did that mean? Montagu was still an enigma to her. Why had he stepped in to expose Mr Burton? Because he was a good man at heart, one who cared that people were being ill-treated?
“It’s just because a certain marquess is the only thing on your mind,” Aashini finished for her. There was no condemnation in her eyes, no judgement, but there was concern, and sadness too.
Matilda let out a little breath of laughter. “I’m the biggest fool alive.”
“Never that.” Aashini reached out and took her hand, squeezing. “Do you love him?”
“Love him?” she repeated, a desperate ache settling in her heart. “How can I love him? I don’t know him. It is merely desire, I suppose, though merely seems a pitiful description of what he makes me feel.”
The words sounded rather caustic and defiant, but a little voice in her head screamed liar, liar, liar, and her heart was full of an emotion to which she refused to put a name. She didn’t know him, not really, though she wanted to very badly, but her heart didn’t seem to care. It had made up its mind.
“I had a letter from Mr Burton,” she said, changing the subject before Aashini could question her further.
“No!” Aashini said in astonishment.
The scandal sheets were glorying in his downfall, never having liked to see a self-made man succeed. That made his disgrace all the worse in Matilda’s eyes. How hard people had to work when they were not born to privilege, and for such a man to be exposed as a villain, how much harder it would become. His wickedness in treating his workers worse than beasts had shown him to
be vile and heartless, and she could not believe she had been so mistaken. She had thought him a good man! How flawed her judgement must be.
Strangely, Montagu’s part in his downfall was never mentioned, nor was the identity of the mysterious benefactor who had bought the mills, set about making them safe places to be, and promised to create a school for the workers’ children… though Matilda had a strong suspicion she knew. This anonymous benefactor had also set up a charitable fund for those injured and the families of the dead.
Had the cold-hearted, wicked marquess been as ill-judged as Mr Burton?
“He tells me it is all lies,” she said, her scorn apparent. “Apparently, Montagu set out to ruin him because he wants me for himself. He blames me for having played with his affections whilst angling for a carte blanche from the marquess. I shall spare you the names I was called, but he was very disagreeable.”
Matilda’s voice shook a little as she tried not to remember. She had flung the letter into the fire and spoken of it to no one until now.
“Oh, Matilda,” Aashini said, leaping to her feet and moving around the table to throw her arms about her and hug her tight. “Oh, love. I’m so sorry. What a beastly, disgusting excuse for a man he is, but even Silas was taken in and that’s no easy feat. They had some business interests in common—not in the mills, thank heavens—but we both believed him good and honest. So, you see, it was not just you that was taken in. Now, you must put him out of your mind, do you hear me? I can’t quite believe I am saying this, but… thank goodness for Montagu. I shall thank him myself the next time I see him, if he deigns to notice my existence, that is,” she added with a smile.
Despite everything, Matilda chuckled and hugged Aashini in return. “I fear I must as well. I tried when he was here, but I was so shocked and distressed I suspect he misunderstood my words. I think he believed I was angry with him, which is so… so… ridiculous.”
Her voice broke as regret at having not properly shown her gratitude to him for what he’d done made her feel stupid and emotional.
To Bed the Baron (Girls Who Dare Book 9) Page 9