Chapter 3

CHAPTER THREE

J essica was still steaming as she laid a place for Lord Findlater and brought through the food. She had met Edith after the Dowager Countess of Wyndam had befriended her and invited her to join a group of widows who offered one another mutual support. Edith was one of those widows, and a pattern card for the concept of merry widow. Edith was certain that all of Jessica’s problems would be solved if Jessica would only take a lover. According to Edith, discrete affairs were one of the privileges and compensations of widowhood.

A lover was almost the last thing Jessica wanted. A husband was the very last. Her marriage had been a disaster. Nor had the marriage bed offered any compensation. From what she’d heard when listening to other widows, Colyton had been as selfish and controlling in bed as out of it, so perhaps another man would not be so disappointing. He would still be a man, however. Jessica had had quite enough of men.

Fortunately, Lord Findlater seemed as disinclined to dalliance as she was. Just as well. Being alone with an amorous male and trapped by the weather was the stuff of her nightmares.

Bother Edith! Jessica had been so looking forward to the time alone, and now she was forced to play hostess. To a man, furthermore, and one who made her uncomfortable. Because he was so attractive—she could it admit it, if only in the privacy of her thoughts.

Fortunately, he was not of the same mind. She should be pleased about that, and not disappointed. Her brother Haverford had the instincts of a pater familias , and liked to draw all his relatives together—both regular and irregular. How would she ever look Chloe in the eye again if she had had an affair with Chloe’s brother?

She was still blushing at the direction her thoughts had taken her when Lord Findlater joined her, thankfully fully dressed. He had taken her suggestion and wore half dress rather than evening attire—buff trousers rather than breeches, a coat that was cut for comfort rather than so tight it needed a valet to help fit it, and a simply knotted cravat.

He was still a magnificent figure of a man. The heat in her cheeks was not helped by her memory of what he looked like in no clothes at all

“Is that your trunk in the front hall, my lady?” he asked. “I will carry it up after dinner.”

“Thank you,” she said, the courtesy that had been drummed into her all her life coming to her rescue. “I would appreciate that. Please, my lord, take a seat. I have put everything on the table within reach, so we can serve ourselves.”

It was simple fare, but delicious. The stew was fragrant, hot, and succulent, and went beautifully with the fresh crusty bread. The meat melted in the mouth. Jessica had not realised how hungry she was until she began eating.

Lord Findlater must have been equally famished, for they ate in silence for a few minutes. After a while, Lord Findlater broke the silence. “May I pour you a glass of cider, my lady?”

“Thank you. That would be pleasant.” She should make an effort at dinner table conversation. “Your estate is in Yorkshire, my lord, I believe.”

“Yes, it is. Do you know Yorkshire at all, Lady Colyton?”

“I’ve not been that far north, my lord, but I believe it is very beautiful.”

“My estate is in the Vale of Mowbray, on the southern edge of the Yorkshire Moors. It is pretty country, yes. Good farming country.”

“What is your main crop?” Jessica asked. It was pitifully easy to amuse a man. Just let him talk about what interested him, and she had the advantage of knowing, from Chloe, that Lord Findlater was a keen landowner, and a student of modern farming practice.

He talked for the rest of the meal. She had to give him credit for stopping twice to ask her if she was really interested. She was, much to her surprise. The viscount was a good speaker, full of interesting facts and amusing anecdotes, and willing to explain the reasons behind the changes he was slowly introducing on his land.

When they had eaten finished their meal, he further impressed her by helping clear the evidence of their meal onto the tray and then insisting on carrying the tray to the kitchen.

Jessica had left a kettle on the side of the stove, and now she moved it closer to the heat to boil. “I shall wash these few dishes,” she said, “for we cannot be certain that the servants will be able to attend to them in the morning.”

“I shall dry them,” Lord Findlater proposed. “I am a dab hand at drying dishes.”

A viscount who dried dishes! Which was, Jessica supposed, not much more peculiar than a duke’s daughter with the same skill, but her great aunt had been the housekeeper at Haverford Castle. As a child, Jessica had spent at least part of her time in the kitchen.

“After that, I am making a pot of tea, my lord. Would you like one? Or would you prefer a port?”

“A mulled cider sounds appealing, if the pantry can provide the appropriate spices. I’m happy to make one for you, too, if you prefer it to tea,” he offered.

He carried the heavy kettle to the scullery to half fill the sink. He then refilled it from the indoor pump they found there, and returned it to the kitchen stove to be ready for the morning. They soon had the few dishes washed, dried, and put away in the china closet.

The pantry proved to be equal to the task of providing the needed spices, and it didn’t take long for Lord Findlater to prepare them both a tankard of hot spiced cider. “We can light the fire in the parlour,” Jessica said, “or have it here by the kitchen stove.”

“I do not plan a late night,” said Lord Findlater. “It is not worth lighting the fire for my sake, but if you intend to sit up, Lady Colyton, let us by all means move through to the parlour.”

“I shall also be early to bed,” she assured him. “I am very happy with sitting at the kitchen table. Where were you travelling to, Lord Findlater, if it is not impertinent of me to ask?”

“I have no objection, my lady,” he assured her. “I was heading back home to Yorkshire after visiting London for business.”

“This snow will delay your arrival, I’m afraid. I hope your family does not worry.”

“No one expects me,” he said. “I was going to spend Christmas in London, but…” He took another sip of his cider, his eyes staring into some private scene of his own, before he confessed. “Those of my friends who are currently in London would have welcomed me, but either they intend to spend Christmas drunk and dissolute, which did not appeal to me, or they are happily married, and eager to see me in the same state. Even those who are not determined to matchmake are uncomfortable to be with. I feel as if I am a nuisance.” He made an impatient and frustrated gesture. “That is not quite it,” he said. “They don’t treat me as a nuisance, but…” he trailed off, frowning.

She knew exactly what he meant. “Everyone else is in pairs, billing and cooing like turtle doves, and they suddenly realise that you are there, too, and politely stop mumbling sweet nothings and comparing notes with other couples to ask if you would like to walk in the garden, or take a trip to the shops, or show them your embroidery. And all is said with great affection and sincerity, but you just know that a single person on her own is like a pebble in their marital shoes—rather uncomfortable but impossible to ignore.”

His smile was relieved. “Exactly! It is the same for you?”

“Oh, yes. My brother Haverford has an instinct for gathering family around him, especially at this time of year. I have quite a few irregular brothers and sisters, but to Haverford, the circumstances of our birth are irrelevant. Blood matters. And all love matches, would you believe. They have all gathered at Hollystone Hall, in Buckinghamshire, along with Aunt Eleanor’s—the former Duchess of Haverford’s—new family, the Duke of Winshire’s children and other relatives.”

Jessica shuddered at the thought of all those happy couples, much though she loved them. “I had to have a few days on my own before I joined them,” she explained. “If I am not there by New Year’s Day, I daresay Haverford will send out a search party, but that gives me more than a week to gather my fortitude.”

“I’m sorry,” Lord Tavistock said, frowning. “I am destroying your solitude.”

“It was not you, but our stupid friends,” Jessica assured him. Perhaps the cider was stronger than she realised, for she found herself impulsively reaching out a hand. She stopped it before she touched him. Even so, a tingle seemed to jump from his skin to hers, and she snatched the hand back.

To hide her confusion at the sensation, she made a joke. “My quarrel, my lord, is with lovers. Unless you have a sweetheart hidden somewhere, we shall brush along together quite cheerfully until the storm is over.”

“I am sweetheart-free, my lady, here and everywhere else. We shall form a temporary coalition, shall we?” Lord Tavistock raised his tankard in a salute. “To the Cheerfully Uncommitted.”

“The CU Coalition,” Jessica said, pronouncing the acronym as “coo”. She raised her own tankard and copied him when he tipped his tankard back and draining it. She heard herself giggle.

Yes. She had definitely had too much cider. “It has been a long day, my lord. I shall wish you a good night.”

“I shall carry the candle upstairs for you, my lady,” he offered. “An early night sounds just the thing.”

Jessica could not help comparing the man to Colyton. She could not imagine Colyton drying dishes in the scullery or drinking cider at the kitchen table. For that matter, she was certain that Colyton would not have accepted the situation with such grace. No. Her former husband would have spent the entire evening complaining about his kidnapping and finding a way to blame it on Jessica.

Lord Tavistock, on the other hand… As she slipped in between the fresh sheets on the bed, she realised she had not checked to see if the other bed was made up! She should check… But no. She could not walk around the house in her nightrail and robe. She would give Lord Tavistock quite the wrong idea. They had found the linen closet when exploring the house, and Lord Tavistock was surely capable of spreading a sheet over a mattress.

She blew out the candle, settled back against the pillow and composed herself for sleep, unable to avoid thinking of this very mattress, with Lord Tavistock spread eagled over it in all his glory. She had gaped at him for a long moment before she averted her eyes and covered him, but apparently, she had seen more than enough, for now the image replayed itself in her mind.

Such shoulders! And that chest! His thighs! Her cheeks heated as her mind enumerated the man’s physical attributes, including the one that had stirred at her appearance. No. Lord Tavistock was nothing like Colyton.