He could not hide the bitterness in his words, though he avoided her gaze, not wishing to see the realisation in her eyes.
He started in shock as a soft hand curled about his own, and gazed at her in astonishment as she lifted it to her face. She held it there, and Solo stared into those storm cloud eyes with his heart pounding. He watched, his breath held captive in his lungs, unable to move or breathe as he registered the satin texture of her skin beneath his fingers, and then she turned her face into his hand and pressed a tender kiss against his palm. Solo sucked in a breath, the soft sound as audible as gunfire in the quiet room.
She released his hand and he felt the loss of contact with a shaft of regret, wishing he’d stretched the moment out. Her eyes were cast down now, hidden beneath a thick sweep of dark gold lashes.
“Have I given you a disgust of me now?” she asked, her words breathless and uncertain. “I am afraid I do not understand how it is you wish me to behave. I am to be your mistress, after all, but—”
“No,” he said, his voice urgent with the need to reassure her. “How could I be disgusted? You have been… you are perfection.”
She peered up at him and he was struck by the glimmer of amusement visible beneath those lashes. “I fear you have very low standards, my lord, for I am a very long way from perfection.”
A smile tugged a little at one corner of his mouth and he gave into the impulse, allowing himself to be teased. “There I must correct you, Miss Fernside. I have exacting standards, as anyone who knows me will attest to. I must also point out one every important fact to you, and I feel it is best you learn the lesson now. You see, I am never wrong.”
“Never?” she said, her eyes widening a little. “My word. I did not understand I was in the company of such a paragon.”
“Oh, no. I cannot pretend to perfection myself, Miss Fernside. I only mean to point out that you cannot criticise my opinion, for it is always exactly right.”
“I see,” she said, giving a forlorn sigh, though her eyes now danced with laughter that made his poor heart jitter about like a March hare. “Then I must resign myself to the fact that I am perfect. How disturbing, when for so many years I believed I was merely adequate.”
The temptation to reach out was too much and he dared to touch her cheek again, too aware of the rush of blood in his veins, of the pulse thundering in his ears as felt the satin of her cheek beneath his fingertips.
“Adequate?” he repeated, dizzy with her proximity. He leaned a little closer as a delicate scent teased at him, luring him closer still. “Adequate?”
He laughed this time, thoroughly dazed as his eyes fell to the softness of her mouth, the sweet tantalising pink that beckoned him. His hand slid to the back of her neck, pulling her closer, and she came to him without the least resistance.
Solo had considered himself quite the ladies’ man once upon a time. He’d had any number of pretty light skirts vying for his attention, and he’d even gained something of a reputation. Oh, he’d been no rake, no seducer of innocents, and once he’d proposed to Hyacinth he’d been faithful to her, but before that he’d had his fair share of amours, and never been short of a willing woman to warm his bed. Yet suddenly none of that counted a damn. It was as though he’d never been kissed at all, for this kiss and those kisses seemed to bear no relation to each other. It was not a passionate kiss, there was nothing practised or erotic about the soft press of her lips against his, and yet the sensation rocked him to the core.
Shaken, he drew back to see Miss Fernside flushed and wide-eyed. She pressed trembling fingers to her lips, to that lush, perfect mouth, now shaped into a little ‘o’ of surprise. Solo braced himself, wondering how she would react. Yes, she was his mistress and she was no fool, she must know what that would entail, and realise he’d been very patient not to just order her to his bed as many men would have. He was no brute, though—not that manner of brute, at least—and he knew she’d been raised a lady, knew how shocking this change in her circumstances must be to her. He had no wish to frighten or alarm her. There was no trace of alarm in her eyes, however, nothing that spoke of shock or fear. The stormy skies he saw in her gaze had only darkened, and the sight made his blood run hot.
“Miss Fernside,” he said, somehow speaking her name, which was a wonder as his mind had turned to treacle the moment their lips had touched.
“Jemima,” she whispered, still gazing at him, a look of wonder on her face. She looked very much as if she wanted him to kiss her again. “You ought to call me Jemima.”
“Beautiful,” he murmured, thinking that was more appropriately what he ought to call her. “Beautiful, sweet, Jemima.”
He leaned towards her, and she moved too, closing the distance between them when suddenly there were voices beyond the door, which opened a moment later.
“Oh!” A young woman Solo assumed to be Miss Butler, and whom he wished to the devil, gave a little shriek. “Oh, I do beg your pardon,” she babbled and tried to back out the door again.
The ample charms of Mrs Attwood, who had not seen him and was still coming in, hampered her retreat, however. This resulted in a collision that saw the lace on Miss Butler’s gown caught on the small buttons on Mrs Attwood’s sleeve.
To his great relief, Miss Fernside—Jemima—rescued them all.
“Oh, dear, what a mess you have made! Do come and stand by the light so I may untangle you.”
A moment later they were freed, and Solo heard them both whisper mortified apologies to Jemima.
“My lord, may I present my very dear friend to you. This is Miss Butler.”
Remembering his manners, even if the circumstances were somewhat trying, Solo got to his feet and bowed. It occurred to him that Jemima must have confessed the situation she was in, as Miss Butler did not appear thoroughly scandalised by the fact he’d been kissing her friend. Though she had been having an affair with Inigo these past weeks, so she was in no position to throw stones.
“A pleasure, Miss Butler. I collect we have an acquaintance in common.”
Although Solo had surmised that Inigo had made a hash of everything, he was unprepared for the way that Miss Butler’s eyes filled, and her lower lip trembled.
“Oh,” she said. “Oh, I’m so… so… Please forgive me, I—I don’t feel terribly—”
With that, she rushed out of the door. Mrs Attwood dipped a hurried curtsey and rushed out after her. Good riddance, as far as Solo was concerned. He was more than content to help Inigo put things right, but for the moment he was selfish enough to want only to be alone with Jemima.
“Oh, the poor dear,” Jemima said, one pretty hand pressed to her heart. Solo wanted to rest his head there, upon that soft place, and it took a considerable effort of will not to act on the desire. “I wish there were something I could do.”
“Well, there’s something I can do, and I shall. Once I’ve gone, you may comfort her that all is not lost. I know the damn fool is head over ears in love with her. He’s just made a mull of things, the dolt.”
Jemima stared at him and Solo grinned. It was a rather wonderful sensation to discover that he could at least put something right for her.
“Inigo is my closest friend,” he said, daring to move closer and take her hand in his. “I promise you he won’t let Miss Butler down. He’s only a little befuddled, never having been in love before. It does odd things to a fellow, I’m afraid.”
“You mean he wants to marry her?”
Solo experienced that same sensation of falling from a great height as she gazed up at him, all her hopes shining in her eyes. It made him feel like a knight of old, promising to fight dragons for his lady. God, how nauseating, but nonetheless true for all that.
“I cannot speak for my friend, but unless something has changed drastically since last I saw him, then yes, I believe he does. Perhaps you’d best not tell Miss Butler that, but I hope I may reassure you, at least, that I will do my best to help them to put all to rights.”
It was a
s though she blossomed in front of him, the tender flush of colour at her cheeks, the sparkle in her eyes, the smile that made him feel like he’d been kicked in the head by a cantankerous donkey.
“How kind you are,” she said with a sigh. “I just knew you were a good man, and there, you have proven yourself already.”
Solo chuckled and shook his head, though he felt about ten feet tall all the same.
“Not good,” he amended. “Just never wrong.”
He lifted the hand he held to his lips and kissed her knuckles, one by one, experiencing every little hitch in her breath like an echo as his heart thudded behind his ribs.
“I wish we’d not been interrupted,” he murmured, daring to put his free hand to her waist.
“S-So do I,” she stammered, rather to his amazement.
Not being an idiot, some of the time at least, Solo did not need further encouragement. He bent his head and kissed her, careful not to overwhelm her and scare her off. This gradual unfurling was too delicious to rush, or spoil. He’d been alone long enough to savour the moment for what it was, the first lowering of her defences. She wanted his kisses, which was more than he could have hoped for. He was proud enough to admit he wanted her to want him in other ways too, ways which he would show her when she was ready. For now, he forced himself to draw back, which was no easy task.
“Do you think we might dine together tomorrow night?” he asked, and then cursed himself as he saw the troubled look flicker across her face. She had a guest, did she not? “And Miss Butler and Mrs Attwood too,” he added, wishing them to the devil.
Mrs Attwood could be left at home easily enough, she knew the situation, but Miss Butler….
“I’m so sorry, my lord. I did not expect to have a guest staying with me and know I have made difficulties for you. It is your right to dine here whenever you wish, and… and yet….”
He smiled, wanting to chase away the forlorn look on her face, though her friend’s presence was indeed a bother he had not counted on. “Yes, you should have refused her entry and turned her out into the cold and dark,” he said with mock severity. “Whatever were you thinking?”
Her lips twitched, which only made him want to kiss her again, so he did, overcome with delight at not only being allowed to, but that she did not seem the least bit horrified or missish about returning his kisses.
“I had best leave you,” he said, with real regret. “I think I have scandalised your friend enough for one day.”
Jemima blushed a little. “I am fortunate in my friends, my lord. I believed I should lose them all when… when they discovered my situation, but it appears I may not be abandoned.”
“I should think not,” he said, frowning over the idea he had forced her to make such a choice, and that she had chosen him believing her friends would disown her.
“You know how society works as well as I do. I could not condemn them for avoiding me when the association would tarnish them, if the truth got out. Perhaps it is not so dreadfully grave for those who are married, though it would still cause disagreeable gossip, but for the single ladies it is a considerable risk to their reputations.”
Solo grunted, knowing she was right but disgruntled all the same. Damn busybody gossips with nothing better to do than poke their noses into other people’s affairs.
“Don’t look so cross,” she chided, and he felt the frown that had gathered at his brow ease away under the soft, caressing tone that teased him just a little. “Not when I have worked so hard to chase away that daunting scowl.”
“Perhaps I should make you work a bit harder,” he countered and stole another kiss. It was only a brief touch of lips, yet his heart was thundering all over again and he did not wish to leave her, especially when she looked so adorably flushed and flustered.
“Goodbye, Jemima,” he said, knowing he would count the minutes until he could return to her company.
“Goodbye, my lord.”
“My name is Solomon.” He hesitated. “My friends call me Solo.”
“Solo,” she repeated, shy now though a smile played over her lips.
He stared at her for a long moment, fighting the urge to kiss her again, and then forced his unwilling limbs to take him to the door. He returned to The Priory in a daze, smiling like a fool the entire way.
Chapter 4
My dear old friend,
I regret the need to ask a favour of you, but I have returned from India for a time. There are things I can no longer ignore, things I have left undone and must rectify. I am not getting any younger and so it cannot be delayed any more than it has been by my cowardice to face the truth. As you know the situation between myself and my nephew is beyond saving, despite my best efforts. It breaks my heart to admit that there is no hope for reconciliation, but there it is. I am afraid of him and what he may do should he discover my return to England. He has become a powerful and ruthless man and I would be a fool to believe he holds any remaining fond feelings for his old uncle. The rift between us saddens me more than I can say, but I dare not make another attempt at rapprochement. I do not believe I overstate when I tell you our last encounter left me in fear for my life.
How I envy your close relationship with your nephew, the duke, but then Bedwin was always a good-hearted boy and was only led astray by a bad woman and circumstance. I fear my own nephew is beyond saving. His cruelty and contempt for all those he deems below him has grown past anything I could have foreseen. I believe he is utterly corrupted and there is not a drop of compassion left within his wicked heart.
This being the case, I am in need of a place to stay for the duration of my visit, a place where I may be safe from Montagu and among friends, and hope I may appeal to your kindness and the camaraderie between us that has endured these many years.
―Excerpt of a letter from Mr Theodore Barrington to Charles Adolphus, Baron Fitzwalter.
26th January 1815. Briar Cottage, Mitcham Village, Sussex.
After Solo’s promises to intervene, Jemima was a little astonished when—later that same night—Inigo de Beauvoir presented himself on their doorstep to declare his love and intention to marry Minerva. Jemima had not expected such a speedy resolution. She was baffled by the sack of coal, which Minerva seemed beside herself over. Apparently, it was a romantic gesture, but the girl was so overcome with emotion she did not seem able to satisfactorily explain in what way it was romantic. Still, one could not be unmoved by the sight of the poor man, soaked to the bone and dripping a puddle onto Jemima’s new carpet, and obviously out of his mind with loving Minerva.
Their betrothal settled between them, Jemima packed Mr de Beauvoir back to The Priory, sighing happily over the fact that Minerva would get her happy ever after. Coal notwithstanding, it was very romantic.
Now tucked into her own bed, she stared up at the ceiling, remembering her own brush with romance, or at least the closest she’d ever come to it. How very bold she’d been! Her hands had trembled so when she had touched his and pressed it to her cheek. Even now she could feel the soft press of his mouth against hers, as though he’d branded it, branded her. She had not expected the rush of… of warmth and excitement, of desire he had brought blazing to the surface with such a brief touch of his lips. Was she wicked to feel this way for a man she barely knew? The idea disturbed her even as she experienced a surge of relief. It would be a sorry fate that awaited her if she was forced to be mistress to a man for whom she felt nothing but revulsion. It was not revulsion she felt for Baron Rothborn, though. Oh, no. Did that make her lustful, to want his touch, to welcome his kisses? Should she be ashamed? Had she been destined to become a fallen woman from the start, her position as a man’s mistress a foregone conclusion because of her salacious nature? Perhaps Mr Briggs had seen that in her? Perhaps others could tell what kind of woman she was, and that was why he had suggested such a scandalous arrangement.
Realising she was becoming overwrought, Jemima forced herself to take a deep breath. Whatever she was, or was not, it woul
d not change her circumstances. Besides which, Lord Rothborn—Solo—had told her she was perfect, and he was never wrong.
Smiling to herself, she relaxed and allowed herself to fall asleep at last.
***
Much to Solo’s relief, Inigo returned to town with his beloved Miss Butler the next morning. Not long after, a handwritten note had arrived, inviting him to dine with Jemima that evening. Though Solo was beside himself with impatience and could have made a dozen excuses to visit, he knew that the village was in a flurry of curiosity over the new arrival in their midst. That the newcomer was a beautiful, elegant and unattached female of marriageable age only heightened the intrigue and speculation.
“I heard from Mrs Tuttle that the vicar was visiting this morning, and the Misses Granger and that dreadful mother of theirs,” Mrs Norrell informed him mid-morning, when he wandered into the kitchen in search of tea and biscuits. “And the schoolmaster wasn’t shy in coming forwards yesterday. I hear he’s had a haircut since, and no wonder. The whole village is abuzz with talk of how pretty she is, and such a lady besides. My, you’ve set the cat among the pigeons and no mistake.”
Solo scowled. It was something he had not considered before now. Whilst he was all for saving Jemima’s reputation—after all, he had no wish to cause her embarrassment or be at the centre of a scandal—how was he to keep the other single men at bay? He could not scare them off without showing his hand, and it would hurt Jemima when the gossip began.
Damnation, he should have foreseen such difficulties, but he’d been so overwhelmed by his own good fortune and anticipation at having her near, he’d not thought it through. Not that he could see anyway of changing things. Either they knew she was his mistress, or they believed she was a respectable unmarried woman and was therefore free to be courted. A flare of jealousy and irritability chased away his previous good humour.
To Bed the Baron (Girls Who Dare Book 9) Page 4