Chapter 12

CHAPTER TWELVE

“T he roads will be cleared today, I imagine,” Martin said to Jessica at breakfast. From his bedroom window, they had been able to see that the snow was slowly melting.

Jessica’s heart sank, but she managed to reply calmly. “I daresay you will need to be on your way, then, Martin.”

“I suppose,” he said, sounding as unenthusiastic as she. “You won’t want me here if the ladies at the manor take it into their heads to come visiting.”

She supposed he meant that he did not want to be caught alone with the scandalous Lady Colyton. She could not blame him. She nodded.

“I shall pack, then,” he said.

“I shall make you a package of food to eat on your journey,” said she.

They were being exquisitely polite to one another. Was this really the lover of the last few days? The man with whom she had laughed, cried, swived? The man she had told things she’d never shared with another human being?

She assured Martin that she could do the dishes on her own, and he went upstairs, leaving her to drop a few tears in the washing water. By the time he came down again, carrying his bag, she had pasted on a bright smile.

“So, this is goodbye,” she said, trying to sound cheerful.

“I suppose it is,” he agreed. He sounded morose, which perversely cheered her. Good. She hoped he missed her, for she was certainly going to miss him.

She pronounced the speech that she had been practicing as she washed and dried the breakfast dishes. “Thank you, Martin,” she said. “Thank you for showing me what swiving can be with the right man. Thank you for being so kind, and such a good listener.”

He made an impatient gesture. “You owe me no thanks,” he insisted. “What we’ve done…” He grimaced. “I am not good with words about this sort of thing. It was… We are friends, are we not? No need for thanks between friends.”

His broken off sentences left her wild with curiosity. It was what? For her, it had been amazing, incredible, life-changing, but she couldn’t say that, of course. At best, he would look at her with pity. He was a man. He had swived before. She didn’t want to believe that she was not different to all the lovers before her, but she’d be a fool to think he found it as special as she did.

At worst, he’d know her for the wanton she’d spent her entire life trying not to be. He offered his friendship. That would have to be enough for her.

“We are friends,” she confirmed.

Marton let out an oath, dropped his bag, seized her in his arms and gave her a kiss to make her toes curl. “I’ll never forget this Christmas,” he told her. Then he scooped up his bag and walked away down the path that was just showing in patches through the snow.

Jessica watched him out of sight, but he never looked back.

The cottage without Martin in it was lonely. Jessica, who had so longed to be alone, itched to be surrounded by people. The servants came, but their presence did nothing to ease her sense that something precious had been given to her and taken away, leaving emptiness in its wake. When they left, Frank promised to take a message to Mr Hodge at the inn, asking him to fetch her the following day, if it was safe to travel.

Perhaps, in the noise and bustle of a Haverford and Winshire family Christmastide house party, she wouldn’t feel so lonely. At least at Hollystone Hall she would not keep turning to tell Martin something, to be confronted with the emptiness he had left. She would not serve two cups of tea or two glasses of wine before remembering he was not there to share it with her. She would not, later, turn to him in bed, only to find no one was there.

“You fool, Jessica Colyton,” she scolded herself. “You have gone and fallen in love.”

* * *

M artin picked up his horse from the inn, being vague about where he had been staying. He set off on the road north, feeling as a part of him had gone missing. He had not been three hours on the road before he realised that he had left his heart with Jessica. He should never have left. Be damned to what people thought. He loved Jessica Lady Colyton, and he did not want to be without her. If she would agree to marry him, he would make her his viscountess.

And if not? Then he’d camp on her doorstep until she changed her mind, dammit. She felt the same way as he did, he was certain of it. But whether she would take the risk of marrying again, he couldn’t tell. He didn’t blame her for being wary, but he would do his best to convince her that they belonged together.

He would stop at the village he could see up ahead for a mulled wine or something else warming, and then return and tell her how he felt.

The innkeeper found him a table in a corner, a hot cider punch, a plate full of hot stew, and fresh bread to sop up the gravy. “Just village fare” he said, apologetically, “but we didn’t expect the quality to be out in this weather, my lord.”

“It is delicious, and very welcome, innkeeper,” Martin assured him.

After that, he was left alone in his corner, trying to imagine Jessica’s face when he arrived back. Surprised? Pleased? Horrified? From there, his mind drifted to their future together, if she would only have him. Perhaps he would give her babies—none of this nonsense of separate beds, and visits in the dark a couple of times a week.

If the babies didn’t come, well, no matter. They would have a good life, and when the end came, he wouldn’t care who had the estate.

And if they were blessed with children, then she would be a wonderful mother. Despite something he half remembered hearing about her. What was it? It didn’t matter. He knew better. She still missed her step children. She had tried to be a mother to them for four years, though the Dowager Lady Colyton had refused to give up control of the nursery, or the house, and Colyton would not counter his mother’s orders.

Words from the next table impinged on his mind, sneaking into his consciousness because they echoed his own thoughts. “She won’t leave her children, and the man’s bastard enough to keep them from her if she did.”

A few more comments sufficed to tell Martin that one of his neighbours wanted to rescue an abused wife, but the woman had refused his help. “She’s a good mother,” another of the men acknowledged. “What sort of mother leaves her children?”

As if it was a key, a door opened in his mind and what he had been trying to remember moved into view. A conversation he had overheard at Whites, while he’d been sitting much like this over dinner, pretending to read a newspaper to discourage interruptions.

“What sort of mother leaves her children? I should make Lady Colyton take them back.” It had been the new Lord Colyton, a distant relative of Jessica’s husband. He had been complaining about inheriting a parcel of females. A sour old bat who could turn milk with a look, and four children. Martin had not been that interested at the time, which was why it had slipped from his conscious mind.

He was certain Lord Colyton had said four children. He was nearly certain. Yes, he said three that would be debutantes in a couple of years, and one that was still a squalling brat. Perhaps Colyton’s mistress had left a child—for the vicious cur surely had a mistress. But if there was any chance that Jessica’s baby still lived… No. Haverford had checked.

But even Haverford was not infallible, though he acted as if he thought he was. Martin had to see for himself. He paid his shot and collected his horse. Instead of spending tonight in the cottage, and hopefully in Jessica’s arms, he had a long cold ride ahead of him.