The Pleasure of Bedding a Baroness (8 page)

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Authors: Tamara Lejeune

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“Very commendable, I’m sure,” Max said. “One should always aspire to achieve perfection, I suppose.” Rising, he quickly took his leave of Isabella, saluted her brother, and quit the house.
No sooner had he gone than Isabella turned on her brother with cold fury. “
Why
did you have to come in at just that moment, pray?” she demanded.
Unconcerned, Milford picked up a goosberry tart, then flung it down in disgust. “Gooseberry! You know I loathe gooseberry tarts!”
“As do I,” she snapped. “But
he
likes them. That is what matters.”
He snorted. “You think he will marry you if you feed him gooseberry tarts? You’re a damn fool!”
She glared at him. “We were just beginning to discuss marriage when you interrupted us! He was just about to speak. Did the servants not tell you who was with me?”
Milford snorted. “You told me Purefoy would marry you if I took you to Breckinridge for Christmas, but nothing came of it. I spent a fortune on your wardrobe, and he scarcely looked at you!”
“He danced with me twice!” she protested.
“Danced with you twice,” he mimicked. “For the amount I spent, that is quite a handsome result, I must say! Only five hundred pounds per dance! Let me tell you, Izzy, this is your last chance. If you can’t get Purefoy this time—and I don’t see how you can with that long nose of yours and no fortune to speak of—then you will have to take Sir Charles Stanhope—
if
he will still have you, that is! You’ll take anyone who asks you, in fact. You won’t get a third Season.”
“It is your fault we are poor,” Isabella said bitterly. “You gamble too much! You should have married Miss Cruikshanks!”
His lip curled. “I? Marry the daughter of a draper?”
“A very rich draper!”
“I am the Earl of Milford,” he informed her loftily. “I do not marry with tradesmen’s ugly daughters. I care not how rich they are.”
Isabella’s eyes glinted. “What lady of birth, beauty, and breeding would
stoop
to take you?” she sneered. “Let’s face it, Brother, you will always come up short.”
Lord Milford glared at her. “Was that, perhaps, a reference to my height?”
“No, Brother,” she answered. “It was a reference to your lack of height!”
“Napoleon was not a tall man,” Milford said coldly, “and yet the Princess of Austria married him.”
She laughed. “Depend on it, Brother! When you have conquered all of Europe, you may have your pick of the royal ladies.”
“You were a fool to refuse Sir Charles,” he shouted at her, red in the face. “Who are you to turn up your nose at a rich baronet? You may never receive another offer of marriage. You are on the shelf! Stale goods!”
“I
shall
marry Mr. Purefoy,” she said quietly. “I
shall
be a duchess. Have a care how you speak to me, sir.”
“You?” he sniggered. “A duchess? You have nothing but your name to recommend you! Do you think you are handsome enough to tempt
him
? He has bedded the most beautiful women in Europe.”
“And has married none of them,” she replied. “The Duchess of Sunderland must be a lady above reproach. Beauties, however virtuous they may be, always attract gossip. I would be a credit to him. I tell you, he was on the verge of proposing to me.”
“Nonsense. You have no dowry.”
“It isn’t necessary for
him
to marry for money,” she said. “He wants a well-bred, quiet wife. Is that so strange? I shall be expected to nurse the old duke, of course, but I won’t mind that.”
“Nurse him? Help him into his grave, you mean!” he snorted.
Isabella quietly and firmly changed the subject. “Miss Waverly is rich and beautiful and well bred,” she said.
“Well bred?” he scoffed. “She is American!”
“Her grandfather was a baron.”
He snorted. “And so was her uncle! I have an IOU from his lordship, but when I presented it to the attorney, he said there was no money to pay it. ‘Speak to the baroness,’ he said.”
“If you were clever, Brother, you would call on her ladyship and forgive the debt.”
“Forgive the debt! Are you mad? Lord Waverly owed me a monkey.”
“You would be a simpleton indeed to let a mere five hundred pounds stand between you and a fortune,” said Isabella. “You heard Mr. Purefoy! A hundred thousand pounds!”
“I heard him say she was not pretty,” he said, after a brief silence.
“I have never set eyes on the baroness,” Isabella answered. “But her younger sister is a remarkably beautiful young lady. The blackest hair, the greenest eyes. She also has a hundred thousand pounds.”
“Two heiresses? In one family? And neither is married?”
“It does seem rather unfair,” said Isabella. “But shall we not call on them? They are in Clarges Street. No one knows about them yet. If you could get to them first ...”
He jumped up. “Don’t just sit there! Get your bonnet on!”
 
 
Patience sat at her desk studying the latest installment of Pru’s bills. “What is it, Mr. Briggs?” she called over her shoulder as the butler slid into the room.
“Your Ladyship has a visitor,” he said, gliding toward her with a single card on his large silver tray.
Patience sighed. “Mr. Briggs, how many times have I asked you not to call me ‘Your Ladyship’?”
“More than once, my lady. What shall I tell the gentleman?”
“I suppose that depends on who it is,” said Patience.
He stood silently before her with his tray.
Impatiently, Patience picked up the card. “Sir Charles Stanhope,” she read, frowning. “He called yesterday while I was out, didn’t he?”
“I believe so, my lady.”
She sighed. “Persistent! I suppose I’d better see what he wants. Send him in.”
Rising from her desk, she turned to face her visitor, a portly, red-faced gentleman, well past middle age, with yellow teeth and more hair growing out of his ears than he had on his head. He stared at her as if he had never seen a woman before.
“Sir Charles Stanhope?” she said politely.
“Are
you
Lord Waverly’s niece?” he demanded in astonishment.
“Yes, sir,” Patience answered, extending her hand to him. “I am Patience Waverly.”
“My lady!” he said gruffly. Seizing her hand, he planted his wet mouth on the back of it. “You don’t look a thing like him, your uncle. Lucky for you,” he added, with a coarse laugh. “You have the look of your father, Arthur Waverly. Now
he
was a handsome devil. Black-haired with eyes as green as glass. The ladies loved him.”
Patience quickly drew back her hand. “Were you acquainted with my father? Do please sit down,” she added. “I’ll ring for some refreshments.”
“Thank you,” he said, settling into a chair.
“I have not had the pleasure of meeting any of my father’s friends,” she went on, seating herself on the sofa. “Did you know him well, sir?”
“I belonged more to the older set, Miss Waverly,” he told her. “But I knew your uncle very well.” Taking out his quizzing glass, he put it up and looked at her hungrily. “I must say, you are a monstrous pretty girl—though a bit on the thin side, if you don’t mind my saying so.”
Patience minded a good deal, but said nothing.
“I’ll come straight to the heart of the matter,” said Sir Charles. “Your uncle, God rest him, died owing me five thousand pounds.”
“I’m afraid you must take that up with the attorney,” said Patience.
He scowled. “I’ve seen Bracegirdle already. Impertinent wretch! He says I haven’t any proof of the debt. He sent me away with a flea in my ear!”
“I’m very sorry to hear that,” said Patience. “I have never had a flea in my ear, but I imagine it’s quite a nuisance.”
“You mock me?” he growled.
“Sir, if Mr. Bracegirdle refuses to acknowledge the debt, I see no reason why
I
should honor it.”
He stared at her in disbelief. “But your uncle and me had a wager! He lost, so he did, but, before I could get his IOU, the dirty rotten scoundrel threw himself off Westminster Bridge! When they pulled him out of the Thames, the fish had eaten his face. There was nothing to identify him but his watch and chain. Serves him right, too.”
Patience was on her feet. “How dare you! You should be ashamed to come here asking me for money! You led me to believe you were a friend of my uncle.”
His eyes popped and a vein pulsed in his greasy forehead. “I don’t want money!” he said. “I want Wildings. I want the land. And I want you, too.”
“Excuse me?” she gasped.
“Sit down, girl,” he said impatiently. “I am asking you to be my wife, not my mistress, if that’s what you think. I’m a rich man. It’s a good offer.”
“Get out!” she said, almost choking.
“Don’t be missish,” he told her. “It’s the only way you have of canceling the debt. I admit, I did not come here with marriage in mind. But now that I have seen you, my dear—!”
He bounded up to her with shocking speed, and would have taken her into his arms, but Patience forestalled him by slapping him hard across the face. A white handprint appeared on his red cheek.
“You are not very civil,” he complained. “Is this the only answer I am to receive?”
“I have another hand, sir, if you would like another answer!”
His eyes narrowed. “You shall marry me,” he said. “The debt must be paid. I have no IOU, madam, but I do have witnesses.”
Patience was seething. “Get out, before I have my servants throw you out!”
“Take care, my lady,” he huffed. “If you persist in insulting me, I may be tempted to withdraw my offer of marriage. I will leave you to think about
that
.” Shaking his fist at her, he added, “If I were your husband at this moment, I would beat you.”
“If you were my husband, sir, I’d throw myself into the river like my poor uncle!”
Running to the door, she tore it open. Briggs stood there, this time with two cards on his tray. “Lord Milford and his sister to see you, my lady.”
“Show them in, Mr. Briggs,” Patience said quickly.
A handsome young lady swept into the room, dressed in a smart emerald green costume. Black cockerel feathers decorated her bonnet, framing her long, patrician face. Looking at her, Patience, who normally gave little thought to the style of her clothes, was suddenly very glad that she was wearing one of Pru’s old gowns, a dotted muslin trimmed with blue ribbons.
“Lady Isabella!” Sir Charles exclaimed, bowing. “I did not expect to see you here.”
“Sir Charles,” she replied coolly, sketching a curtsy. “How do you do? You remember my brother, of course.”
Lord Milford, hat in hand, stood behind his much taller sister, staring at Patience.
“Of course, my lord,” Sir Charles gushed. “Come in, my lady! Do come in! I’ll send for some tea. And plum cake! That is your favorite, I know. How good of you to call on me! It is indeed an honor!”
In his enthusiasm, he seemed to forget that he was not in his own home.
Isabella quickly reminded him. “We have not come to see you, Sir Charles. We have come to see Miss Waverly.” She smiled warmly at Patience, whom she, naturally, had mistaken for her twin sister.
“I shall return, Lady Waverly,” Sir Charles snarled at Patience.
“You will not be admitted,” Patience answered. For emphasis, she tore up the gentleman’s card and flung the pieces at him.
Sir Charles stalked from the room, his face as red as a turkey’s neck, but he did not forget to bend over Isabella’s hand. “My lady! May I call on you tomorrow?”
“Certainly not,” she said coldly, snatching away her hand.
Lord Milford returned the baronet’s bow with a cool nod, and Sir Charles passed out of the room. Presently, they heard the front door bang shut.
Isabella smiled at Patience. “How do you do, Miss Waverly?” she said, sinking into a graceful curtsy.
“I beg your pardon,” Patience said quickly. “I am not Prudence. I am Patience Waverly.”
“You are Baroness Waverly?” said Isabella, staring. Mr. Purefoy had said the baroness was not as pretty as her sister. She could not understand it. Why would he lie? Perhaps the young lady was playing a joke.
“I am the baroness, but only because I was born twenty-seven minutes before my sister,” Patience explained. “We’re twins.”
“Good heavens!” Isabella exclaimed. “I had no idea.”
“I’m afraid my sister is not here at the moment. She is at her dancing lesson. Or is it her French lesson? I forget. She will be back soon, if you would care to wait, Miss ... ?”

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