The Pleasure of Bedding a Baroness (6 page)

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Authors: Tamara Lejeune

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“Of course we will,” Patience said. “Or is it ‘shall’?”
“I haven’t the slightest idea,” Pru admitted.
Patience hugged her. “Bring me your bills, and we’ll figure something out.”
Pru drew back. “You won’t make me send my new dresses back?”
Patience smiled ruefully. “I doubt they can be sent back. But why don’t I buy the dresses you had made in Philadelphia? You don’t want them anymore, do you? Some of them I quite liked, and you know I don’t mind being two years behind the rest of the world.”
“I knew I could count on you! And the hack?” Pru went on anxiously. “You won’t really send me to St. James’s Palace in a hack?”
Patience sighed. “No. I’ll speak to Mr. Bracegirdle about a carriage. If it makes sense to buy one, I will. But I’m fairly certain it will be cheaper to hire the thing.”
Pru recognized that this was the best offer she was going to get from her frugal sister. “Thank you, Pay,” she said humbly, kissing her cheek.
Within the hour, Pru had delivered both her entire American wardrobe and her entire collection of London bills to her sister’s room. Once they were safely in Patience’s hands, Pru thought no more about them.
Chapter 4
 
The Honorable Mr. Frederick Broome, faultlessly turned out in evening dress, sidled up to his cousin, who was watching the dancers in the ballroom at Breckinridge with a marked lack of interest. “Nothing like your little entertainments, eh, Max?”
Max glanced at his slim, boyishly handsome cousin, envying him the easy elegance with which he wore formal dress. “There is nothing little about my entertainments,” he replied. “We missed you at my birth-night,” he added.
“Forgive me. I was visiting a sick relative,” Freddie replied, smiling as he told the obvious lie. “But no matter! I have had a full account of the orgy from the tenant. The lady doth not mince words. I’m surprised the letter didn’t combust as I read it. She seems to think she is owed some recompense. She wants half her rent returned to her.”
“Return all of it,” said Max. “I’ll give you a banknote for the full amount.”
Freddie hid a smile. “Was it as bad as all that? I’m sorry I missed it.”
“It was not an orgy,” Max said defensively. “It was a harmless costume ball.”
“How original,” drawled Freddie. “And the lady wearing only black shoes and gloves? What was she meant to be?”
Max frowned. “The shoes and gloves were red. It was Miss Sally Sugar, as the five of hearts. Rather clever, I thought.”
Freddie’s brows rose. “Have we established, then, that Miss Sugar is indeed a natural redhead?”
Max shrugged. “It could have been a red merkin, I suppose. I don’t know.”
Freddie sighed. “Then I suppose we’ll never know. As for Lady Waverly—”
“I neither know nor care. A most unattractive female.”
“Indeed? And her ladyship’s sister? Also unattractive?”
Max stirred uncomfortably.
Freddie grinned broadly. “May one assume at least that
she
is the Miss W——upon whom Mr. P——has lately been lavishing his attentions?”
“I may be in some trouble there,” Max admitted sheepishly.
“Oh, dear.”
“It was all very innocent,” Max protested. “The circumstances were extraordinary. Miss Waverly’s sister was ill—injured by me. I only meant to be kind. I was sure she regarded me as nothing more than a friend, looked up to me as an elder brother, almost. But it seems she was in love with me the whole time. She has sent me a letter ... and, Freddie? Freddie, there was a lock of hair in the envelope.”
Freddie’s long, elegant nose wrinkled in disgust. “Not from her monosyllable?”
“No, thank God,” Max said violently. “From her head. But that is quite vile enough.”
“Oh, yes. Perfectly vile. What did you do with it?”
“Do with it? I was so shocked, I threw it on the fire.”
Freddie shook his head. “Idiot! Now you’ll never be rid of her. She’ll always think you’ve got her revolting lock of hair hidden away somewhere as a treasure. You should have sent it back to her. Now you have a problem.”
“I paid too much attention to her.”
“Indeed you did, Mr. P——! I shouldn’t be surprised if Miss W——thinks you are engaged.”
“But I never made love to her,” Max protested. “She has nothing to accuse me of. I treated her as a kindly elder brother treats a younger sister, that is all. If I had known her true feelings—which, believe me, she hid quite well!—I should never have made her so many promises.”
Freddie pricked up his ears. “Promises? Oh, dear! Is Max ensnared at last?”
Max shook his head impatiently. “I promised her my assistance in society, that is all. I promised to give a ball for her and her sister at Sunderland House.”
“How dreadful. You might as well marry the girl. As it is, everyone will think you are engaged. Ah, well!” Freddie yawned. “I shouldn’t worry about it too much. If it gets too thorny for you, we can always take the necessary precautions.”
“It won’t come to that, I hope,” said Max.
“We can all hope,” Freddie replied. Excusing himself, he went to ask a very pretty young lady in sea green satin to dance.
Left behind, Max resumed leaning against one of the marble pillars. For the first time in his life, he was not looking forward to the new year.
 
 
For Patience, the new year began with the loss of Mrs. Drabble, of whom she had grown quite fond. But she had not gone very far, and Patience, now perfectly restored to health, found she could walk to Mrs. Drabble’s house in quiet, respectable Wimpole Street very easily. While she very properly had refused to engage in any familiarities with Lady Waverly in Clarges Street, Mrs. Drabble was only too happy to receive Patience in her own parlor.
Pru hardly noticed her sister’s frequent absences. The carriage had been hired! At Pru’s insistence, the Waverly coat of arms had been painted on the doors. Every afternoon, she and Lady Jemima made a slow progress through Hyde Park. As London began to fill up, in preparation for the social Season, these afternoon drives became increasingly important. And no matter how strong the winds of January, the top was always down. For what is the point of driving in the park if one cannot see and be seen? Only on the most inclement days would Pru consent to forego her drive in the park.
Invitations arrived from St. James’s Palace. Snatching them up from Briggs’s tray, Pru ran to find her sister poring over her accounts in the drawing room. Together, they opened the large, cream-colored envelopes. Pru’s face fell immediately. “The fourth drawing room!” she said plaintively, tossing the card away. “Did you get the fourth also?” she asked her sister.
Patience hastily stuffed her invitation into a drawer. “It doesn’t matter.”
“You got the first, didn’t you?” Pru accused her. “Didn’t you?”
“You’re perfectly welcome to come with me to the American reception,” said Patience, going back to her balance sheet. “Mrs. Adams will be delighted to present us.”
“No, thank you!” Pru retorted, thoroughly out of temper.
“Then, perhaps Lady Jemima can help you,” Patience suggested. “It’s what you’re paying her for, isn’t it?”
To her relief, Pru hurried off to Lady Jemima’s room. “You can get me an invitation to the first drawing room, can’t you, Lady Jemima?” she said, her hand on the door handle.
Lady Jemima was at her escritoire writing letters. “What, my dear?”
Pru frowned. “I have been invited to the fourth drawing room,” she complained. “I want to go to the first drawing room. You are always boasting about your friends at court. Can’t you do something? It’s what you’re paid for, after all!”
Lady Jemima blinked at her. “I have many friends at court,” she said, “but none as powerful as your Mr. Purefoy.”
“Max!” Pru exclaimed. “Yes, he did promise to help me. I’ll write to him at once.”
“Heavens, no!” cried Lady Jemima. “That would be most improper!”
“Improper?” Pru echoed.
“Well-mannered young ladies do not write letters to gentlemen,” Lady Jemima said firmly. “At best it would be seen as an insufferable presumption. At worst, the gentleman may think you are
fast
. Either way, it will give him a disgust for you.”
“What?” Pru gasped, pale with horror. “Why didn’t you tell me that before?”
“I did not think it necessary. Do not say you have written him a letter?” Lady Jemima’s eyes were round, and her thin, painted brows had risen to the middle of her powdered forehead.
Pru hung her head.
“Did he write back? Or did he return the letter?”
“No,” said Pru.
Lady Jemima heaved a sigh of relief. “Then he has decided to pretend he never received it.
We
shall pretend you never wrote it. And perhaps it really did go astray. We must hope so.”
Pru was not one to linger over the mistakes of the past. “How am I to ask for his help if I cannot write to him?” she inquired.
“As your chaperone, I shall write to Mr. Purefoy on your behalf,” said Lady Jemima, taking out a fresh page of cold-pressed paper.
“He promised me a ball,” said Pru. “And tickets to Almack’s.”
“Vouchers,” Lady Jemima corrected her gently.
Pru frowned over the letter when it was finished. “You don’t even mention the ball or Almack’s,” she pointed out.
“A gentleman does not forget his promises,” Lady Jemima assured her. “It would be impertinent to remind him.”
Pru trusted her to know her business. Her faith was rewarded when, in less than a week’s time, the invitation to the first drawing room had been secured. Moving a china shepherdess out of the way, Pru set the card on the mantel in the drawing room, where she could admire it every day.
 
 
Max returned to London with his uncle a week before the opening of Parliament.
In his early sixties, the Duke of Sunderland suffered from crippling rheumatism, and his digestive system was notoriously delicate. Needless to say, his grace was not a good traveler. Upon arriving at his London house, his grace went straight to bed, leaving Max at leisure. Max’s digestive system was as notoriously robust as his uncle’s was delicate, and the hour was ideal for a late luncheon, but, as the servants had plenty to do already, he decided to go out. Resisting the lure of his club in St. James’s Street, and yearning for nothing more elegant than gooseberry tarts, he left his uncle’s mansion and walked to a quiet little house in Wimpole Street.
Mrs. Drabble received him in her sitting room upstairs.
“How well you do look, my dear Max,” she greeted him, swelling with pride. “The last time I saw you, I confess you were looking a bit seedy. But that is what happens when a young man drinks to excess. You’ll have gout before you’re thirty, I shouldn’t wonder!”
Max bristled. “I’m as fit as ever I was.
This
is all muscle,” he added, slapping his belly in an angry demonstration.
“You certainly do look fit now,” she congratulated him. “You should spend more time at Breckinridge. Clearly, country life agrees with you.”
Max sighed. “As you know, his grace is on a very restricted diet ... which means that, when I am with him, I too am on a very restricted diet! And, of course, when one is in the country, one gets so much exercise, what with all the hunting, shooting, riding, walking, and dancing.”
“Dancing?” said Mrs. Drabble, pricking up her ears.
“We had three balls. The Hunt Ball. The Christmas Ball. And, of course, New Year’s Eve Ball. My uncle threw every girl in Christendom at me in the hope I might marry one of them,” he added. “I think he is becoming rather anxious on that score.”
“Dancing, you know, is very dangerous exercise. It often leads to marriage.”
“Marriage, then, represents the end to dancing?” he teased her. “But I like dancing.”
She snorted. “You like changing partners.”
“If I do
not
change partners, I am reliably informed, I shall be
obliged
to marry.”
“Was there no one at Breckinridge to tempt you?”
“No one. I wish you would come back to us,” he added. “Breckinridge is not the same without you.”
“I like my little house,” she said firmly. “I like my friends. I like my independence. And, anyway,” she added, “it is my gooseberry tarts you miss, not me.”
“That is not true, and you know it. You have been like a mother to me.”
Mrs. Drabble blushed with pleasure, but said gruffly, “If I
had
been like a mother to you, I would have spanked you. The Lord knows you needed it. You do not regret giving me a pension?” she added, with a touch of anxiety.
“No, of course not!” he said, horrified. “I regret not having you with us. I don’t like the new nurse, and I’m quite sure my uncle doesn’t either. She lacks your warmth.”
“I’m sure Miss Steele is very efficient.”
“He’s very sorry, you know, that he pinched your bottom,” Max added softly. “He has given me his word that he will never, ever do anything like that again, if you will just come back.”
Mrs. Drabble was scarlet to the roots of her gray hair. “He dared to tell you that? Oh!”
“Was it really so terrible? I often pinch your bottom.”
“It is one thing,” she said, shaking with anger, “for
you
to pinch my bottom, sir! It is quite another matter when the Duke of Sunderland pinches my bottom! He ought to know better. I am a respectable widow! What would Mr. Drabble say if he were here? There was nothing to do but resign my post at once. He would not pinch Miss Steele’s bottom,” she sniffed.
“No, indeed,” Max agreed. “Nor would I. Miss Steele is not a woman to be trifled with.”
“Nor am I!” she flashed.
“Very well,” Max said hastily. “We will say no more about it.”

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