To Bed the Baron (Girls Who Dare Book 9)

by Emma V. Leech

  She had seen it happen tonight, before her eyes. He’d seemed perfectly content, at peace, and they’d enjoyed a splendid dinner and animated conversation, and then he had fallen quiet. Little by little, she’d noticed the tension in him, seeing it roll over him like an incoming tide as his mood darkened. At first, she could not fathom what had started it, but she’d been rather astonished to discover he was jealous of Mrs Norrell, of all people. She felt certain he was aware he was being foolish, and she was not about to pretend otherwise. Perhaps, if she really wanted to please him, she ought to flatter his ego and coax him out of his sulks, but she thought he was too intelligent a man to want to be treated in such a way. There had been a shaky moment when she’d doubted she’d done the right thing—he really did not enjoy being told he was silly—but, in the end, he’d come around.

  I long to see you, Jemima, all day, every day.

  She smiled, holding the words close to her heart. Perhaps it was only lust he spoke of. Indeed, she should expect nothing more from him, but her heart was foolish and wilfully hopeful no matter how often she warned it of the danger it was in. Now she saw the connecting door open behind her in the looking glass and he came in, wearing a dark green silk banyan. The fine fabric moulded to his body, lovingly clinging to powerful shoulders and a broad chest. Jemima’s breath caught. His legs and feet were bare, and something hot and urgent tightened low in her belly as she realised he was naked beneath the gown.

  Oh goodness. Oh, good heavens above.

  He paused, staring at her, and her smile widened, even as her colour rose. He returned her expression, such sweetness to his smile that her chest ached. She watched as he moved to the bed and sat on the edge, setting his cane against the bedside table before getting on and making himself comfortable. He looked quite at ease as he adjusted the pillows and folded his arms behind his head.

  Uncertain of what to do next, Jemima hesitated, brushing her already smooth hair a little more to give herself time to consider.

  “I love watching you do that. You put me in mind of Rapunzel.”

  Jemima laughed. “Only if I was a prisoner on the ground floor, I’m not sure it’s long enough to reach any further.”

  “It’s beautiful, like spun gold.”

  Jemima set the brush down. “Thank you,” she said, staring at his reflection in the mirror.

  “Will you come to me?” He held out his hand to her and Jemima got to her feet, discovering her knees felt wobbly as she moved towards the bed. When she reached him she placed her hand in his and he lifted it to his mouth, kissing each knuckle in turn. “Nothing you don’t like, Jemima, nothing you don’t want. You have my word.”

  She nodded, the movement a little stiff, the smile at her lips hesitant, but reassured all the same. It was a relief to discover she believed him still, she trusted him. He would be kind and careful and there was nothing to fear.

  “Would you take this off for me… please?” He gave a gentle tug on the scandalously indecent night rail and, if not for the breathless, desperate edge to his voice, she might have balked at his demand, but she heard his desire, saw the warmth in his eyes, and could not refuse him.

  With trembling hands, she undid the tie at the neckline and allowed the garment to fall to the floor with barely a whisper of sound as it pooled at her feet. Far louder was Solo’s sharp intake of breath, and the way his eyes grew dark and hot made her skin heat too, as though she could feel the quality of his gaze upon her naked flesh.

  “I’m dreaming,” he said with a shaky laugh. “You cannot be real.”

  “Real enough, my lord,” she said, wondering at her own boldness as she moved closer to the bed. Jemima held her breath as he reached out and touched her with the back of one finger, sliding over the gentle curve of her belly as shivers rippled over her.

  “So you are,” he said, sounding as though he truly was astonished by that fact. “Warm and soft and lovely, and so very real.” He looked up at her then. “My name is Solomon, have you forgotten? I don’t like hearing you say ‘my lord.’ I do not desire such formality, and it makes me believe you are angry with me.”

  “I could never be angry with you.”

  His lips quirked, a remarkably boyish expression which made her smile.

  “That’s a Banbury story if ever I heard one. You were cross barely five minutes ago.”

  Jemima laughed, feeling astonished that she could feel so at ease standing in nothing but her skin before this man. “I was not angry, just…somewhat irritated.”

  “I like it when you scold me,” he said, drawing her closer to the bed. “It makes me believe that you care, at least a little.”

  “I do care,” she said, wondering too late if she ought to have revealed such a thing, but what was the point in hiding it?

  The way pleasure lit his eyes at her words made any regrets dissolve into thin air, and when he patted the place at his side she moved around the bed, obedient and willing. Her chest felt tight, her breath coming fast as she lay down beside him, arms and legs straight, rigid with tension as her nerves flooded back.

  “Jemima,” he said.

  He had turned on his side, his head cradled on his hand, and his expression was gentle and just a little amused.

  “Turn towards me.”

  Awkwardly she did, mirroring his position.

  “You are very beautiful. I am honoured that you are here with me.”

  She smiled and allowed her gaze to travel over him. The silk robe had fallen open to reveal the strong line of his throat, and a tantalising glimpse of his chest. The coarse hair that curled there was dark, and her fingers twitched with the urge to reach out and see how it felt to touch.

  “Were you ever in love?”

  The question startled her, and she looked back at him in surprise.

  “I know you had your come out at least, and were in society for a while. You must have had hordes of beaus desperately in love with you.”

  Jemima felt her eyes widen and a burst of laughter escaped before she could stifle it.

  “No!” she exclaimed. “I certainly did not. Who on earth would want the penniless girl whose dress has clearly been made over, no matter how cleverly my aunt contrived it? I had no connections to speak of, either. My family only ever clung to the fringes of the ton. In truth, I never expected to meet anyone, though I hoped, but I did it to please my aunt. It made her so happy to see me attend such affairs, and I believe she enjoyed them more than I did.”

  “Those men were fools not to notice you.”

  She was so touched by the real scorn in his voice that it took her a moment to reply.

  “I think you judge them too harshly. I doubt very much you would have given me a second glance, either, had you been there. There would have been too many beautiful ladies vying for the attention of such a handsome war hero. You’d never have noticed a faded wallflower.”

  “No,” he said, the word fierce as he reached out and cupped her cheek. “I cannot believe that. I will not believe it. You stole my breath the first time I saw you, and I don’t believe it has ever been fully returned to me.”

  Jemima’s heart felt as though it would burst at his words, and no matter that he did not speak of love, of his feelings for her, she knew her own were throwing themselves headlong into danger. She was falling hard and fast and there was nothing she could do to stop it, despite knowing how foolish she was, despite knowing her heart would likely be broken when he tired of her. She turned her face into his palm and closed her eyes, luxuriating in the warmth of his hand, the gentle caress of his thumb over her lips.

  Her breath caught as his hand moved, fingers tracing a path down her neck as shivers followed in their wake. She sighed as his hand found her breast, caressing and teasing her nipple.

  “Look at me.”

  Her eyes fluttered open and she blushed as she found his heated gaze upon her.

  “Don’t hide from me.”

  It was difficult to give him what he wanted as his lazy ha
nd slid down her body, but she watched him watch her, and found herself glad of the effort she’d made as she saw the change in him. His eyes darkened, almost black in the shadowy candlelight, his lips parting as his breathing quickened. As her gaze travelled over him, she saw the fine silk could not hide his awakening body, the thick, hard length a blatant show of masculine arousal that made liquid heat pool between her thighs.

  “I won’t hide if you don’t.”

  How she dared say it she couldn’t fathom, but the longing to see him was too fierce to deny.

  He hesitated, and it occurred to her that he was nervous. For a moment she couldn’t understand why, and then she realised that his injury must have left scars and that he might be sensitive to their appearance. Whatever his qualms, when he moved he was quick and decisive, tugging at the robe’s fastening and shrugging it from his shoulders. He still lay atop the heavy silk, but it no longer covered him and Jemima drank him in. There were a lot of scars, more than she had anticipated. She could only see the ragged edge of the injury to his leg as he lay flat now, the scar hidden from her.

  “What’s this?” she asked, bold enough to reach out and trace a long white line that ran across his shoulder, down his arm, almost to his elbow.

  “From a sword at the Battle of Alkmaar,” he said, his voice husky.

  She thought perhaps he shivered under her touch.

  “It must have hurt dreadfully,” she said, a pinching sensation assaulting her heart at the thought of anyone causing him pain. She had no scars, no visible marks upon her skin, and it frightened her to think of the violence he must have witnessed, and been subjected to. “Does it still?”

  He smiled and shook his head.

  “And this?”

  His muscles twitched and leapt under her touch as she traced a puckered divot in his side.

  “Bayonet, Battle of Alexandria.”

  She gasped, frowning over that, remembering the story Mrs Norrell had told her and trying not to imagine the cold metal piercing his flesh. He had saved one of his men and had this scar to show for it.

  “This one?”

  She touched a fingertip to his left arm, and he turned it to reveal two scars, one a short precise line, the other a faded but uneven scar some three inches long. She touched the straight one.

  “Sabre wound from a French dragoon.”

  “And this?” She traced the one further along his forearm and his mouth twitched.

  “Fell out of a tree when I was six.”

  She laughed, and held his wrist, pulling his arm closer to her and pressing her lips to each scar in turn, lingering over the childish injury and kissing him once, twice, three times, until she’d covered every part of it.

  “Poor boy,” she crooned.

  “Grazed by a musket ball here,” he said, motioning to a mark on his neck she’d not noticed. “Sword and bayonet cuts here.” He raised his hand to show fine white lines across his fingers. “And this.” He indicated a starburst of tiny scars that bloomed over his right side and back. “Shattered glass from a bombardment that hit our army camp.” His eyes glittered as he looked at her. “Aren’t you going to kiss them all?”

  There was no challenge behind the words, only a breathless curiosity, and though her cheeks flamed she nodded.

  “Of course. Such bravery should be rewarded.”

  “Idiocy for the most part,” he said with a short laugh, though his voice was raspy and uneven.

  “You are too modest,” she scolded him. “You have been hurt, suffered for your country, and you should wear these scars with pride. I am proud of you.”

  She lowered her head to his shoulder and made words deeds, touching each scar in turn with her lips, starting with the sword scar there, then the mark on his neck, each and every tiny scar that peppered his side and back, and finally by kissing each fine line that crisscrossed his fingers. His breathing had grown increasingly erratic and, as she pressed her lips tenderly to the last mark on his hand, his breath hitched and a sound close to pain left him. She looked up to see his eyes filled with tears, and she wondered if anyone else had ever given him such words, or treated him with the tenderness he deserved.

  Reverently, she kissed the scar on his side, and felt his large hand in her hair, stroking as her palm smoothed over his hip. As she moved lower, her gaze snagged on the part of him she’d not dared focus on before. A combination of nerves, excitement, and desperate curiosity lanced through her. The desire to touch him there was overwhelming, though it seemed a shocking thing to want, but then her hands slid over an uneven, bumpy patch of skin, and he flinched. Her gaze moved to his thigh.

  “Oh,” she said, staring at the mess of ropy, raised scars and the large indent that made it look as though some ferocious animal had torn a large chunk from his thigh. “Did I hurt you?” she asked, appalled as she removed her hand.

  He shook his head, but the motion was taut, his lips compressed, his face rigid. Only his eyes showed any emotion, wary and mistrustful as he watched her. He expected her to be revolted, she realised, when all she could feel was pain for the suffering he must have endured.

  “Does it hurt if I touch the scars?”

  He shook his head again, a sharp movement. “You don’t need to…” he began, but Jemima ignored him.

  “A bullet did this?”

  He shrugged. “The bullet wound was ugly enough, especially once it got infected and they had to cut away the dead flesh, but the scarring is mostly from where they cauterised the wound.”

  Her eyes filled with tears.

  “Don’t pity me, damn it!”

  The words were hard and angry, making her jump with shock. The intimacy of the moment fled in the wake of his fury, leaving Jemima raw and exposed, until she looked back at him and saw the anguish in his expression.

  “I don’t pity you, you damned fool,” she said, surprising herself with the harshness of her own words. She’d never sworn in her life before. “I admire you, you silly man, beyond anything I can express. All you have suffered and endured, the violence you must have experienced, and yet you are still so kind, so gentle. You can growl and snarl all you like, my lord, but I see you and you’ll not scare me away no matter how you bare your teeth.”

  He stared at her in confusion, obviously wondering why she hadn’t fled the room weeping, and Jemima took advantage of his momentary bafflement. She leaned down and kissed his thigh, where the scars were thick and white and shiny. She moved her lips tenderly over every inch of the ugly wound, and it was ugly, and yet there was a beauty to it as well. He had survived this, he had endured, and he was still here. These marks upon him showed his strength and his fortitude, and that made the twisted results before her a thing she could only find pride in and tenderness for

  She looked up at him and her heart leapt at what she saw in his eyes, at the adoration and wonder she saw there. She smiled and he held his arms out to her. It was an invitation she could not accept quickly enough, and she sighed with pleasure as he gathered her close, holding her to him. His body was hot against hers, sending such delicious jolts of sensation bursting through her and awakening such fierce desires she could never remember feeling so alive. She shivered as her body blazed to life, sighing as he reached down and tugged the covers up over her.

  “I’m not cold,” she murmured, snuggling against his chest. He stroked her hair, his hand carrying down the length of her back and resting at her waist. She almost pouted as his hand came to a halt, willing him to keep touching her.

  “You will get chilled in the night. You should sleep now.” There was an odd note to his voice, and she glanced up in dismay.

  “Sleep?” she repeated, quite unable to keep the consternation from her voice.

  He nodded, his expression strangely fierce.

  “But… but aren’t you… aren’t we…?”

  “There’s no rush, is there?”

  “N-No,” she said, hesitant as she wondered if she’d done something wrong and killed his desire for
her. Yet the body so intimately pressed to hers was as hard and virile as ever, blatantly so. Nonetheless, she had to ask. “Don’t you want to…?”

  There was a harsh bark of laughter. “I don’t think there is much room for doubt on that score, is there?”

  The words were vaguely mocking, but she knew they were not directed at her. Somehow, he’d gotten all tangled up in his head again and she must find a way to unknot him and set him free.

  Gathering her courage, she moved her hand down over his chest, enjoying the sensation of the warm, hard muscle sliding under her palm, but he grasped hold of her wrist before she’d even made it to his waist.

  “No,” he said. “Not… not tonight. I cannot pretend it won’t happen, my… my desire for you is too strong to deny, but….” He shifted down the bed until their faces were level and reached out, tracing the line of her jaw. “You deserve so much more than I can give you.”

  Jemima opened her mouth to object, but he pressed a finger against it.

  “The things you said, the way you made me feel this evening.” His eyes glittered and he shook his head, his voice shaky and full of emotion “I have no words. But I… my heart….” His mouth clamped shut, and he swallowed hard. “Just let me hold you tonight. Please.”

  How could she deny such a request? Indeed, her own heart swelled with hope at the idea there might be more between them than simply friendship and physical desire. She settled against him, enjoying the warmth and the nearness, and trying to ignore her body’s insistent clamouring for more, until the candles guttered and left them in the dark and she slept.