Solo Weston, the sixth Baron Rothborn, took out his pocket watch and checked it against the mantel clock in his study. Ten minutes before five o’clock. Miss Fernside ought to have arrived some time midmorning. He limped to the window, cursing the cold, wet weather that made his blasted leg so damned painful. Outside a dismal day greeted him. Nothing but drizzle, a low misty cloud that clung to the treetops and offered a sodden outlook upon the ancient and beautiful gardens that surrounded the Priory. The view from every window of the building was picturesque in the worst of weather, and though Solo was biased, even now on such a miserable day, it was still the loveliest place in all of England. It was also inconvenient, draughty, horribly expensive and more demanding than any mistress. He went to the chair behind his desk and sat heavily, kneading the knotted muscles in his thigh with one hand, and wondering if it would be beyond the pale for him to call upon Miss Fernside today. Surely, he ought to give her a day or two to settle in?

  Yes. Two days, would be prudent.

  Except perhaps two days was too long. He did not wish to insult the lady, or for her to believe him indifferent to her arrival. So… tomorrow then.

  He reached for the book he’d been reading, taking out the bookmark and finding his place. It was less than five minutes before he gave up, realising he’d read the same paragraph three times without comprehending a word. The devil take it. He’d call on her today, now, before it got dark. Just briefly. Just to see she had everything she needed. He’d not stop. Not take up her time. He’d simply reassure himself all was as it ought to be and arrange a time to call again when she was settled. Decided upon this plan of action he headed for the front door.

  The staff who remained at the priory had worked there all their lives, as had their parents before them. Not that there were many. When the previous baron, Solo’s father, had died the house had been shut up whilst the son was away at war. On his return, half mad with grief and pain, it had been more than he could bear to have people around him. Only those he knew like his own kin had been asked to return, those who could be trusted not to gossip about the wreck of a man who had come home to lick his wounds in private. The most important of those was Mrs Norrell, the cook and housekeeper. Previously the Priory would have had an army of staff, the kitchens alone bristling with people, but Solo could not stand the scrutiny of strangers and with only him in residence it seemed pointless. So Mrs Norrell ruled the roost. She was tiny woman who barely reached higher than Solo’s elbow, she was as wide as she was tall and ruled the priory in a manner the Iron Duke would have approved of.

  She tsked and shook her head as she came across Solo in the great hall, shrugging into his heavy greatcoat and picking up his hat.

  “Twill do that leg of yours no good to be out in this cold, my lord. You’d do best to sit by the fire. The lady will still be there tomorrow when the rain has gone.”

  Solo turned an icy expression upon the woman which didn’t have the least effect, as he’d known it wouldn’t. Having once been his nurse, she well remembered changing his clouts and smacking his arse for cheeking her. It was hard to act the high and might lord of the manner before a woman who had tanned his hide and sung him to sleep as a snot nosed boy.

  “Mrs Norrell. I know you find this hard to remember, but I am a grown man and in complete charge of my own mind and person.”

  “Aye, and with less sense than you was born with,” she said, with an impatient huff. “Ah, well. Do as you will, you always did. I’ll have water heated and ready for when you get back and commence blustering about your poor leg.”

  Solo opened his mouth to object, he never blustered, let alone about his leg, confound the woman, but Mrs Norrell had stalked off back to her sacred domain in the kitchen.”

  “Interfering old termagant,” Solo muttered as he put his hat and headed for the door.

  “I heard that,” Mrs Norrell yelled, before the door that led to the kitchens banged shut.

  Hell and the devil, the blasted woman had the hearing of a bat! There was something supernatural about her, he was certain of it. Solo was not the least bit fanciful, he did not believe in ghosts, despite some of the odd things that happened about the priory. There was always a reasonable explanation for such things—even if he couldn’t think of one himself. Yet Mrs Norrell had an uncanny knack for knowing things, for knowing him. He’d never outmanoeuvred her as a boy, and it was a beyond humiliating to discover nothing had changed. As Lieutenant Colonel of the 15th King’s Dragoons, he was known for his brilliant military strategy and yet his blasted housekeeper ran rings around him.

  Still muttering, Solo pulled on his gloves, retrieved his cane from where he’d set it down, and headed out into the cold.

  Chapter 2

  Dear Robert,

  Please forgive me for all the trouble I have caused you. I must point out, however, that it is I alone who have caused the trouble. Prue knew nothing of my plans outside of the fact I was infatuated with Mr de Beauvoir, and poor Inigo—Mr de Beauvoir, did his very best to make me behave myself, but it was no good.

  I think perhaps I fell in love with him the very first time we met last summer, at least a little bit, and it’s been growing worse with every week that passes. I love him quite dreadfully you see, but I’m afraid I behaved very badly and pursued him despite his best efforts to dissuade me. That being the case, I cannot allow you to hold him responsible for what has happened.

  ―Excerpt of a letter from Miss Minerva Butler to His Grace, Robert Adolphus, Duke of Bedwin.

  25th January 1815. Briar Cottage, Mitcham Village, Sussex.

  By half past four the bulk of the unpacking had been done and the men who had accompanied the cart loaded with Mrs Attwood’s and Jemima’s belongings were thanked with tea and cakes and some extra coin, and sent on their way. Jemima was helping Bessie unpack the last of her own belongings when Mrs Attwood knocked and came in.

  “What a lovely room,” she said, looking around the pretty bedroom. “It will have a lovely sunny aspect, if ever the sun deigns to show itself again.”

  “Thank you,” Jemima replied, getting up from the floor and shaking out the wrinkles in her skirts. “I hope your own room is to your satisfaction?”

  “Satisfaction?” Mrs Attwood said with a tinkling laugh. “Good heavens, child. I never had such a beautiful room in my life. Grander perhaps,” she said with a naughty wink. “But never so beautiful. You have impeccable taste.”

  Jemima blushed with pleasure. She’d always loved choosing fabric and colours but never had she been able to indulge her love for pretty things, not when it had been a choice between paying the rent and putting food on the table for so long. Not that it had always been so, but the last years weighed heavy and seemed to diminish any lighter memories that had come before.

  “I’m so happy you are pleased.” She might have said more, except a knock at the door sounded and Jemima looked up in surprise. Surely the neighbours wouldn’t come calling on the very day she’d arrived. She glanced at Mrs Attwood who returned a knowing look.

  “That was the back door,” the woman said, smiling now. “So we know who it will be. I didn’t think he’d be able to wait until tomorrow to see you. Such a gent too, to wait to be seen in when the weather is so poor. Many a man in his position would barge in, as he does in fact own the place. I’ll see him settled in the parlour while you change your dress into something pretty. Hurry now.”

  Jemima stared at her, suddenly panic struck as Mrs Attwood hurried to the door.

  “B-but…” she stammered. All at once she wanted to be back in the miserable little flat she’d been struggling to keep hold of these past months as anxiety coiled in her stomach and twisted her guts into a knot.

  “Good heavens!” Mrs Attwood said, laughing as she came back and gave Jemima a swift hug. “He’s not going to ravish you in your front room, dear. I expect he’s just anxious to see you are well settled and eager to see you again. Stop looking like a virgin sacrifice or you’ll make the poor man feel like a monster.”

  With that, she bustled out and Jemima took herself in hand. Of course, Mrs Attwood was quite correct. She was being a complete ninny. It wasn’t like she didn’t understand the agreement she’d entered into. She must stop being so dreadfully silly. “Bessie, get me that blue and white striped gown, the last one we put away. Do hurry, we mustn’t keep the baron waiting.”

  Bessie paled and lunged for the wardrobe. “Oh, indeed not, Miss. A stickler for punctuality he is, what with being a military fellow. Can’t abide waiting for people, nor for his dinner neither.”

  “Oh. Is he bad tempered then?” Jemima asked fretfully as Bessie wrestled her out of the frock she was wearing with ruthless efficiency.

  “Oh, bellows like a lion he does, what and things don’t go how he likes ’em. Still, tis often his leg what pains him and puts him out o’ temper, so we don’t pay it no mind, what with him being such a war hero. My, the stories they tell of his heroics, tis a wonder he came home as whole as he did, not that it weren’t wretched bad when he first came back, but he’s a good master, kind an’ all, so we don’t mind a bit o’ bluster. Tis like a north wind, miss and soon blows itself out and then he’s meek as a kitten.”

  Bessie, who had hardly spoken two words to Jemima before this lengthy exposition suddenly realised her nerves had led her into chattering and blushed crimson.

  “Beg pardon, miss,” she said, casting Jemima nervous glances as she lifted the new gown. “I didn’t mean to rattle on so. Tongue like a fiddlestick Mrs Norrell says, not that I gossip, miss, for I don’t. Not never. Only as you’re to be… as you are… what with… well, I thought you’d like to know a bit about him,” she said desperately, before tugging the dress over Jemima’s head.

  Once Jemima was clear of the voluminous fabric, she let out a breath. Bessie hadn’t exactly soothed her nerves, but she wasn’t entirely surprised by her description of Lord Rothborn. Much of what she’d said had been apparent from their first meeting, and her estimation of his better nature had grown from the thought with which he had added touches to make the house welcoming to her. The baron was a good man at heart, tempers aside, and those Jemima would learn to manage.

  Bessie was just putting the finishing touches to her hair when Mrs Attwood came back.

  “He’s settled in the parlour, waiting for you,” she said, giving Jemima a critical once over. “Lovely,” she said, nodding her approval. “He’ll not know what hit him when he sees you in that frock. In fine twig I must say. Now, have a little nip of brandy, for your nerves.”

  She proffered a small silver hip flask and Jemima took it with a frown. “I’ve never…” she began, but Mrs Attwood waved away her protests.

  “Tis good for what ails you. Just a few sips and you’ll not blush and stammer quite so much, though I suspect he’ll not mind that. A gentleman likes to feel protective of a little innocent, but we don’t want him feeling like a brute for stealing your virtue or some such nonsense if you overdo it.”

  Jemima didn’t even blush this time, beginning to appreciate her companion’s rather forthright way of speaking. Far better that than some farcical pretence that everything was perfectly as it ought to be. She upended the flask, taking three good swallows and then choked as the liquor burned its way down her throat.

  “Good heavens!” she gasped, wide eyed.

  “Well, it’s not lemonade! I said sip it, not gulp it back.” Mrs Attwood laughed and tugged her to her feet. “Down you go then, and remember to smile.”

  Jemima almost tripped down the stairs in her haste, slowing at the last step as the brandy bloomed into a puddle of warmth in her belly and eased into her veins. Oh, yes, she could see what Mrs Attwood meant now. Taking a deep breath, she gave herself a moment to gather her nerve, and headed for the parlour.

  ***

  Solo stood by the fire. The room was exceptionally elegant, and he felt a flush of pride in Miss Fernside for having arranged it so beautifully. Not for the first time he wondered if his memory was playing tricks on him as he wondered at his good fortune. Surely, she could not have been so very beautiful as he remembered. It was perhaps a trick of the light that had given her skin that luminosity, the cold that made the blush of colour at her cheeks so sweet, and perhaps she’d used rouge to make her lips that inviting soft pink. He experienced a qualm as he considered she might have lulled him into a false sense of security. If she was beautiful, she was likely expensive and the restraint she’d shown in furnishing this house was the calm before the storm. Perhaps she’d demand diamonds and trips to the opera and the theatre. The diamonds he could manage perhaps, if he must, but the idea of the opera or the theatre made him hot and uncomfortable. The noise and the throngs of people would be more than his nerves could stand. Not to mention how awkward it would be, to be in the company of all those he used to spend time with when he was so changed… no. No, that would never do.

  He took out his pocket watch and scowled at it. What was taking so long? Was she having second thoughts? Perhaps she’d escaped out the back door whilst he was waiting.

  Anticipation made his heart hammer in his chest and he told himself to stop being such a damned fool. He shifted his position, taking the weight from his damaged leg as it protested at him standing for so long. Damn thing had a mind of its own, and a deranged mind at that, contrary article. It didn’t like it if he sat still, but complained if he walked about too much. It was bad tempered in wet weather, yet if he sat by the fire it wanted him to get up and move. Honestly, it was like being attached to a fractious child.

  He huffed, irritated, and glowered at the watch, willing the hands to move and tempted to give it a little shake. The door opened and he glanced up, and almost dropped the watch as his gaze fell upon Miss Fernside.

  Good God.

  His memory had been at fault. She was far more beautiful than he’d been prepared for. He clutched the watch in his hand so tight it was a wonder he didn’t crush it and watched as she closed the door gently behind her and curtseyed. As she rose, as elegant as a dancer, she noted the watch in his hand and his heart kicked in his chest at the fierce blush that bloomed over her skin. By heavens, he’d never seen anything so lovely in all his days. His mouth went dry and any sensible thought vanished, likely never to be seen again. He was hot and unsettled and out of sorts. He’d wanted a comfortable companion, a woman to converse with and to bed and he’d… he’d… How would he ever hold on to her? If any man of higher rank or fortune discovered this exquisite creature was his, they’d give her a far better offer and he’d lose her. The idea made him feel ill.

  “I do b-beg your pardon, my lord,” she said in her soft, musical voice. “I wanted to look my best for you but I ought not have kept you waiting for so long.”

  Waiting? Had he been waiting? Time had suspended and he was trapped in some world in between one heartbeat and the next. He couldn’t speak and saw the anxiety in her gaze as she stared at him with growing concern.

  “P-please forgive me. It won’t happen again. I promise.”

  Solo tried to put the watch away and almost dropped the wretched thing, concentrating on fumbling it into his pocket and adjusting the chain to give himself a moment.

  “I didn’t mind,” he said, his voice sounding too loud, too strident in this elegant room, with this woman who was all delicate limbs, so very fragile, like a fairy queen. Lines from a Shakespeare sonnet came to mind and he had to bite his tongue to stop the words from tumbling out like he was some lovesick swain.

  If I could write the beauty of your eyes

  and in fresh numbers number all your graces,

  The age to come would say, 'This poet lies;

  Such heavenly touches ne'er touch'd earthly faces.

  “Waiting,” he added, before realising he’d paused too long to add the clarification. “I didn’t mind waiting,” he repeated, cursing himself. God, what a damned buffoon.

  “May I offer you some tea?” she asked, daring to come a few steps closer.

  “No,” he said, with a brisk shake of his head, and then wanted to take it back. If he took tea with her, he could draw the visit out and stay longer. Too late now. Blasted idiot. He dared look at her again, to see her hands were knotted together, the slender fingers white. Poor little creature was scared witless. Damn his eyes, he was a mannerless brute.

  He cleared his throat, making a concerted effort to keep his voice gentle. “I hope that everything is to your satisfaction, Miss Fernside.”

  At that her soft lips curved into a dazzling smile, and the air was knocked from his lungs. It was like falling from a great height and hitting the ground with a thud and he felt dazed, disorientated. Good grief, a smile like that should have a five minute warning go off ahead of time so a fellow could prepare himself for the impact.

  “Oh, my lord,” she said, the warmth of her words soothing him like a cleansing balm. “It is quite perfect. I’ve never… My goodness, I feel the need to pinch myself whenever I look about me for I cannot believe I shall truly live here. Your kindness as well, in taking such care to make it a home for me. I… I am so very grateful to you, for everything.”

  “Kindness?” he queried, unable to look away, trying desperately not to stare at her mouth.

  “Why yes,” she said, moving a few steps closer. If she came any nearer he’d be able to reach out and touch her, to pull her into his arms and kiss that soft mouth, to feel her warmth through her gown, to put his hands upon that tiny waist. “The watercolour paintings, and the books and ornaments, and oh, a dozen little touches that have made such a difference. It was so good of you.”

  Solo swallowed, trying to hold onto the thread of the conversation with difficulty. “Nothing of consequence,” he muttered, frowning a little. “You must remove anything that doesn’t suit. You have turned a this rather humble abode into something of refinement and elegance and I should hate to be responsible for spoiling it.”

 

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