Mrs Norrell paused in her preparation of the tea to give him a considering look. Solo rearranged his face into something slightly less murderous, but the damage had been done.
“What’s she like, then? Is she the kind to play you false?”
His scowl darkened once more as he turned a black glare upon Mrs Norrell, who looked thoroughly underwhelmed by such an expression.
“No,” he said, with frigid civility.
“Well, then there’s nowt to fret over then, is there?” the lady said with an imperturbable shrug, as though the matter was settled. She arranged a teapot, milk and sugar, cup and saucer, and a plate of shortbread onto a tray and hefted it. “I’ll set this in your study for you.”
Solo stalked after her, his cane clattering against the flagstones with more force than usual as he considered Mr Stickles the schoolmaster and the vicar Mr Pemble. Both were unmarried men in their late twenties. Mr Stickles was tall and thin, with regrettable ears that stuck out like a carriage with both the doors open, but otherwise he was a pleasant enough looking man. Mr Pemble was smaller, pockmarked and rather rotund, and had an unfortunate habit of sucking on his teeth. Surely, such men would hold no appeal. Yet those men were likely honest and good and could offer her marriage, and respectability. Irritation simmered beneath his skin and he wished—could not help but wish—but no, that was his punishment, to never marry, never have a family. It was a punishment he deserved and had accepted as his due, but never had it had consequences for anyone else but him before. Why should Jemima suffer for his failings?
Though he’d been well aware of his good fortune on first meeting Jemima, he’d been wholly focused on saving her from poverty. In his mind he had been doing something good for her and had even congratulated himself on how lucky she was to have fallen into his hands rather than a man who would use and abuse her. Now, though, the reality of how good and sweet and innocent she was fell upon him like a weight She ought to be a good man’s wife, a woman he loved and honoured and was proud to call his own, not a mistress to be kept in secret and cloaked in shame.
It was in this gloomy and introspective frame of mind that he whiled away the interminable hours until he was due to dine with her. Troubled and impatient, he presented himself earlier than he ought to have done and was further irritated to discover the lady was not yet ready to receive him.
***
“Oh, drat!” Jemima fretted. “Do hurry. You know how he despises tardiness, you told me yourself.”
“Then he had no business arriving fifteen minutes early,” Bessie muttered through a mouthful of pins as she arranged Jemima’s blonde hair into something artful and lovely.
“Oh, you ought to have been a lady’s maid, Bessie,” Jemima said, turning her head this way and that with approval. “You are quite wasted on me in this little village.”
“Nonsense,” Bessie said stoutly. “I know a good mistress when I sees one, me mum an’ all. She’s right pleased with being here, and is all a-flutter to be cooking for his lordship.”
“I’m sure she’ll do us all proud, Bessie, so do tell her not to fret, but now I must make haste before he is out of all patience with me.”
Jemima flew down the stairs as fast as she dared, spared a moment to catch her breath, and hurried into the parlour.
“My lord,” she said, curtseying to him and feeling her heart pound in her chest.
It would have been easy enough to ascribe the fierce beating to her speedy descent, but Jemima was nothing if not honest and could not fool herself. He looked terribly dashing. The dark blue coat fitted his broad shoulders to perfection, and he stood tall and straight, every inch the military man from the shiny gold buttons to the brilliant sheen on his boots. Jemima felt suddenly overwhelmed by him, and by the way his kisses had made her feel: both cherished and yet in quite desperate danger all at the same time.
“Solo,” he said, a note of irritation in his voice that put her on guard.
So, the good humour she had teased from him last time had faded already. Still, he had warned her he was not even-tempered, so she must do her best to lift his spirits.
“Forgive me, Solo. I’m afraid I find it difficult to address you so intimately when you arrive looking so splendid. I feel quite the dowd in your presence. It’s a good thing poor Bessie did not see you. I fear she may have swooned.”
“Nonsense,” he said, his dark brows drawing together in confusion. “You….” He stopped then and his gaze swept over her, something hot and dark flashing in his eyes that made heat pool low in her belly. “You look like a fairy queen.”
The admission made her smile, as he was still scowling.
“Well, if I do, I shall endeavour not to do so again as it seems to make you most dreadfully cross. Was it because I kept you waiting?”
“No, it was not,” he said, pacing away from the fire with impatient strides, his tense face telling her that his leg was paining him, and then he returned to scowl at the flames again. “You did not keep me waiting. I was early, as you well know, and why you must endure my… my wretched temper with such grace I cannot fathom. You ought to throw me out for being such a dreadful boor, and I like the way you look,” he added, sounding as sulky as scolded boy.
Jemima bit her lip, wondering if she was foolish to find him quite adorable. She dared to move closer to him and take his arm, looking up to discover his eyes upon her, wary now.
“What has put you all out of temper, my dear friend? What dreadful creature has undone all my hard work and taken the smile from your eyes? But never mind, you do not have to tell me. Bessie’s mother, Mrs Jarvis, whom I believe you know, has come to work for me and she is as marvellous as her daughter. We have a dinner ready fit for Prinny himself, and surely that will lift your spirits, if I am so dismal company as not to manage the feat myself?”
“Dismal?” he said on a huff of laughter. “You could no more be dismal than I could stop the sun from rising.” He reached out and Jemima felt her breath catch in her throat as a finger traced the line of her jaw, raising shivers that chased over her skin in tiny ripples of pleasure. “And if you must know the extent of my folly, it is Mr Stickles and Mr Pemble who have put me in such a wretched temper, damn their eyes.”
“Mr…?” she began, and then trailed off, staring at him with uncertainty. “They both called upon me to make me welcome to the village.”
“I know, and that is why I damn their eyes and their blasted intentions,” he said, and then muttered a curse. “Forgive me.”
He sounded weary and Jemima realised with a start that he was jealous. She almost laughed. Mr Pemble had been a dreadful bore and, whilst Mr Stickles seemed a good sort, if he stood beside this magnificent specimen of masculinity, he’d not fare well by the comparison.
Jemima had no experience of men, beside the usual polite interactions at dinners and parties, yet she was no fool. There appeared to be no obvious explanation why such a man as the baron—with his title and his wealth and good looks—should fret over two fellows he must know he cast in the shade, unless you considered that he had been through a terrible ordeal. What form it had taken she did not know past the fact he’d been shot in the leg, and yet she guessed it had wounded more than his limb, and this was why he was so fractious, so uncertain and so ready to believe the worst.
“There is nothing in the world to forgive you for,” she said, keeping her voice soothing. “But now you must come and eat, or we shall both have to beg forgiveness for ruining Mrs Jarvis’ hard work.”
Wondering how she dared, she lifted on her toes and kissed his cheek. Heat flared in his eyes and she looked away to hide her blush.
“Come,” she urged, tugging at his arm.
He did not resist, and followed her through to the dining room.
Mrs Jarvis was not the only new member of staff. They seemed to have employed the entirety of Bessie’s family between here and The Priory, for Bessie’s younger sister had come to Jemima as laundry maid, and her younger brother
was to keep the gardens in order. As Bessie’s eldest sister and her aunt worked with Mrs Norrell, her older brother saw to his lordship’s horses, and her uncle was The Priory’s coachman, it was quite the family affair. There were also some cousins who worked for the head gardener at The Priory, too, it appeared. Still, Bessie assured Jemima that the family had worked for the Rothborns for generations and would never tattle about so good and generous a master. With this, Jemima had to be satisfied. She knew it was unlikely their arrangement would remain private for long, but it had been nice to receive calls from her neighbours, even if some of them had been deadly dull. It would be far duller and more inconvenient to be thought a pariah.
As Bessie had warned, her mother was a plain cook, but a marvellous one. The first course of pea soup was delicious, and the pork cutlets that followed were tender and sweet. Jemima refused the rump of beef, which Solo declared a marvel, but she was pleased to watch him take second helpings of everything, including the vegetables. They finished with a bowl of preserved cherries, some good sharp cheese, and stewed pippins with cream. As Solo had sent wine from his own cellar, it was obviously excellent, though Jemima drank little, fearing what might happen if she allowed it to go to her head.
Bessie had set the table with his lordship at the head and Jemima at his right elbow. It was intimate and cosy and, little by little, she sensed him relax. Once the dishes had been cleared and the port brought in for him, she went to get up.
“I shall leave you to your port, then,” she began, only to halt as he laid a hand on her arm.
“No, don’t go. This port is exceptional. Won’t you try some?”
Jemima stared at him for a moment, then nodded. If she was to be ruined, she may as well enjoy all the things previously forbidden to her.
She took a sip, pleasantly surprised by the rich texture of the drink and the warm glow it set alight inside her. She watched him as he turned his own glass back and forth in his hand.
“There, now. Has the excellent Mrs Jarvis restored your sense of equanimity?” she enquired, teasing him just a little.
Solo harrumphed, but there was amusement in his eyes, so she was not perturbed.
“Indeed she has, though if I am honest, the company has had the most beguiling effect.”
“Oh, what a plumper,” Jemima said, laughing. “You looked positively rapturous when you saw Bessie carry the beef in.”
“Do you accuse me of dissembling, madam?” he said with mock indignation. “That is a very grave matter.”
“I do, and what is more I pronounce sentence. You are guilty as charged.”
“Not true.”
Jemima fell silent, aware of the change in his voice, of the darker tone that matched the light in his eyes. He put down his glass and reached out, taking her hand. All at once the warm glow the port had set flickering to life erupted into something hotter and more insistent.
“Come here,” he said, tugging gently at her hand as he pushed his chair away from the table.
She got to her feet, colour rising to her cheeks in a rush as she moved towards him.
“Closer,” he urged, a breathless note to the demand that sent the breath from her own lungs, leaving her giddy as she realised what he wanted. Telling herself she was being a ninny for hesitating, she did as he asked and tried not to tremble. She was to be this man’s mistress, to share his bed. Sitting in his lap was hardly too much to ask.
“I’ve shocked you,” he murmured.
Jemima shook her head, too conscious of the brush of her own soft curls tumbling around her face, and of the heat of the hard body beneath her, the warmth of his chest pressed against her arm as she tried to relax.
“Now who is dissembling?” he said, a gentle reproof in his voice.
She dared to look at him, aware her cheeks must be scarlet.
“I’m sorry,” she said, mortified by her obvious inexperience when he was a sophisticated man of the world. “I… I must seem very gauche, and not at all what you would wish for in your m-mistress, but I shall learn, I promise. If you would just be… a little patient.”
“You are more than I dreamed of, as I believe I have already told you,” he said, touching a thick coil of hair with such obvious reverence she found she could not doubt the sincerity of his words. “I am a wicked, black-hearted villain for despoiling such a prize. My only saving grace is that I know it. I know I am unworthy, and I shall do all in my power to compensate in whatever way I can, to make you happy, to keep you safe.”
Jemima stared into his dark eyes, and this close she found they were not merely brown but flecked with every shade from russet and amber through to bronze and gold.
“You are no villain,” she whispered, still trembling, but no longer from fear of what was to come.
This man would not hurt her. She’d known it before, for he had told her so and she’d believed him, but now she felt it in her heart, in her bones. He was troubled and a little careworn around the edges, but he was not the wicked seducer he painted himself, not when he took such care and patience to reassure her, not when he said such pretty things to her with painful honesty.
“I want to kiss you.”
“Yes,” she replied, that one word sounding too dreadfully like a plea, not that she could help it.
She was aching and fretful, wanting things she knew he could give her, even if the specifics of her desires were hazy.
One large hand cupped her cheek, his thumb stroking as he gently pulled her closer.
“Beautiful girl,” he murmured, angling her head so he could press his lips to the tender spot beneath her ear.
Jemima gasped, unprepared for the force of sensation that slight touch of his lips sent surging through her.
“Your scent is maddening,” he said on a groan, nuzzling into her neck, kissing and painting delicate pictures with his tongue that made her shiver with longing. “I dreamt of it last night. I want to wake with it upon my skin.”
“Oh,” she gasped, shocked by his words, but not in the manner of a well-bred young lady.
It was the way her body reacted that stunned her, the liquid heat that bloomed inside her and made her limbs feel both heavy and pliant all at once. As she imagined a morning where she might wake with him, in his arms, she could no longer conjure the dismay she’d previously felt. Yes, she was afraid still, but more that he should find her lacking, that she might fail to please him, for she wanted to please him. She wanted to keep the troubled look from his eyes, to chase away whatever it was that made him growl like a lion with a thorn stuck deep in its paw.
His mouth moved across her skin until their lips brushed and Jemima could not deny the instinct to turn to him, to press closer and wrap her arms about his neck. He groaned, and the sound vibrated through her with a thrill of exhilaration. How marvellous to draw such a sound from him! She wished very much to hear it again.
“Jemima.”
Her name was a whisper, spoken in a way that made it sound altogether different. It was the name of a man’s lover, the woman he dreamed of and longed for, and she wanted to be that woman. She gasped as the wet warmth of his tongue traced the seam of her mouth, startled by the intimacy of the touch. It became more intimate still as his tongue swept in, taking advantage of her surprise. Tentatively, she returned the touch with her own, beguiled by the silky slide and retreat. As she understood the way of it she became bolder, pressing her body closer. Solo’s arms pulled her in tighter still, so close he crushed her breasts against his hard chest as he deepened the kiss. She felt giddy and hot and out of control and when he finally released her, she could hardly breathe.
“Oh my,” she said, putting one unsteady hand to the place her heart thundered in her chest, as though it had become so frantic she needed to stop it escaping.
“Oh my, indeed,” Solo repeated, staring at her.
He looked a little stunned himself, which was reassuring. His gaze dropped to the hand upon her breast, and he reached to take it in his. Lifting it to his
mouth, he pressed a kiss to her palm, and then laid his head in its place, placing her hand upon his hair.
Jemima felt herself melting inside as she realised what he wanted. So she held him to her breast, stroking his hair and feeling the tension ease out of him at last. They stayed that way for a long time, his breathing having become so deep and even, she wondered if he was sleeping.
“I should go,” he said, his rumbling voice disconcerting her a little as the room had grown so quiet. “It’s late and I am keeping you from your bed.”
“I don’t mind.”
It was the truth. She didn’t wish for him to go, though she was not bold enough to ask him to stay. His kisses made her body ache and burn, and she knew there must be far more to come, but she was not ready to invite him to her bed. Perhaps he would invite himself. It was his right, after all. He’d been more patient and understanding than she had expected. He was treating her gently, still as a lady, for all that he was paying for her company. She pushed that thought away, not wishing to dwell upon it.
He raised his head at last and looked at her.
“Thank you,” he said, so gravely she could not help but smile at him.
“I don’t feel I have done terribly much,” she said, daring to touch her hand to his cheek. “But if I have lightened your heart, I am very glad of it.”
“You have. You cannot know how… how much this means to me. You… make everything seem better.”
He looked perplexed by the confession, but it was so obviously heartfelt that Jemima’s chest ached.
“That is undoubtedly the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me.”
“It is only the truth,” he said, sounding apologetic. “I can steal pretty words from cleverer, more romantic men, but the truth is that you ease my soul, Jemima, and I am very glad to have found you.”
Jemima blinked. The world had suddenly become a little hazy. Impulsively, she leaned in and kissed him. His arms pulled tight once more, and the kiss became far more than the press of lips she had intended. Not that she minded, wicked girl that she was.
He let her go at last, and she found his hat and coat. It was late, and she’d told Bessie not to wait up for her.
To Bed the Baron (Girls Who Dare Book 9) Page 5