Chapter 4

CHAPTER FOUR

M artin had a restless night. That was not the fault of the bed, which was comfortable enough, and which he had made with fresh sheets before retiring for the night. Apparently, the co-conspirators had believed he and Lady Colyton would be happy to share a bed.

He was a little disgusted with himself to admit that they were quite right, at least as far as he was concerned. However, the lady had shown no signs of being receptive to the idea. Except when she had first seen him, and had for that one moment stared at what she saw, and particularly at the part that was stirring at the memory. And when she reached out a hand towards him in the kitchen.

Though he was no rake, neither was he an innocent. His uncle had been a puritan in most ways, and rigidly faithful to Aunt Swithin, but he had also believed that a gentleman should never be at a loss, and so had included the etiquette of dalliance in Martin’s education, commissioning the assistance of a local widow for the practical lessons. Martin had briefly kept a mistress, but preferred a lover of his own class whose choice to be with him was not motivated by the money he paid.

He didn’t have a lover at the moment—had, in fact, been celibate since his last friendship of that nature had ended. Perhaps that was why he was fantasising about bedding Lady Colyton. However, it would be the act of a cad to pressure the lady when circumstances had trapped them together. His body, though, was by no means convinced, and he woke several times in the night from feverish dreams in which Lady Colyton played a starring role.

By the time he gave up on sleep altogether, dressed, and went downstairs, he had convinced himself that the real Lady Colyton could not possibly be as delectable as the houri that had haunted his night hours. No such luck. The lady who glanced at him as he entered the kitchen was even more attractive than his memory and imagination had painted her, but not nearly as available. More’s the pity.

“Good morning, Lord Tavistock,” she said. “Would toast and eggs be acceptable? And would you mind if we have it in the kitchen? It will save using up the firewood on heating the dining room.”

“Good morning to you, Lady Colyton. There should be a wood shed close by. Shall I see how well stocked it is? And yes, toast and eggs sound delightful. I’m a dab hand with a toasting fork if you know how to cook eggs.”

She raised her eyebrows in surprise, but she handed over the toasting fork and pointed to the loaf she had been cutting at the kitchen table. “There is the bread, my lord. I do know how to cook eggs, as it happens, and just as well, for it is still snowing heavily. Boiled, scrambled, poached, or fried?”

They decided on poached. Lady Colyton already had a pot of water simmering on the stove. Martin fixed two slices of bread into the toasting fork and opened the fire box door so he could hold it in front of the flames.

She had set two places at the table. Plates, cups, and cutlery waited, and a teapot with a cosy. “I’ve just made the tea,” she said, “so it will be perfect by the time the rest is ready. I’m afraid I did not see any chocolate or coffee, Lord Tavistock. But there is ale, if you prefer it.”

Martin quite liked tea, especially in the morning. “I will enjoy a cup of tea, my lady,” he said.

He enjoyed his tea and the rest of his breakfast. The eggs were poached to perfection—the whites firm and the yolks runny. The toast was, if he said it himself, browned just enough. Above all, it was delightful to have company, and the company of a pretty woman, at that.

Over the meal, they compared acquaintances, discovering that they knew a few of the same people, quite apart from Chloe and Dom. No surprise in that. The families of peers comprised only a few thousand people, after all, and had been marrying one another for hundreds of years. Through her father the duke, Lady Colyton had relatives throughout the aristocracy, both regular and irregular.

“I am closest to my sisters,” Lady Colyton said. “Half-sisters, really. We all had different mothers. Frances is younger than Matilda and I, but all three of us were raised in Aunt Eleanor’s nursery. Haverford and Jon—Lord Jonathan—too, but years before us. Haverford was fourteen and Jon seven when Aunt Eleanor first opened her doors to me and Matilda.”

Martin’s uncle had been most upset by what he called the Duchess of Haverford’s misstep. She should never have acknowledged the existence of her husband’s bastards, according to Uncle Swithin, let alone raised three of them.

“I have other half-brothers and half-sisters, too, of course,” Jessica said, as matter-of-fact as if nothing she said was scandalous in the eyes of many. “The old duke was a terrible man, and I am sure even Haverford has no idea how many children our father engendered. Perhaps the duke himself did not know. Some, like Dom, are willing to acknowledge the relationship, and some are not.”

“My own immediate family is small,” Martin admitted. “On my father’s side, there is a third or fourth cousin who is my heir until I marry and get one of my own. On my mother’s, I have a full sister and two half-sisters. My mother’s brother, who raised me, has been gone these ten years, and his wife for the last four. There may be other distant cousins somewhere. I don’t know them, though. But my mother married a second time when I was three. As well as the two half-sisters I have from that marriage, I have nine step-sisters! I do not know whether the earl her second husband had mistresses, but he did have five wives.”

Lady Colyton had clearly heard of the Earl of Seahaven and his wives. Well, no doubt Chloe had told her. “One after another,” she pointed out. “Not five at once.”

They smiled at one another, and then Lady Colyton stood and began to gather the used dishes.

Martin stood when she did. “I’ll just check the firewood,” he said. He put on his own muffler plus a heavy coat and a woollen hat that were hanging on hooks by the back door, and went out to see what he could find.

The snow was coming down thick and fast. Martin decided not to go looking for a shed. He did not want to go beyond touching distance of the house lest he got turned around in the snow and lost his way.

But perhaps a store of wood had been stacked against the house, where it would be close at hand when the weather made a journey across the kitchen courtyard unpleasant. Martin soon found a covered woodpile that had been invisible from the back door, even though it was no more than a dozen paces away along the outside wall.

He made several trips to carry armloads to stack by the back door. Even close to the house, semi-sheltered by the eaves, he was covered with snow and chilled to the bone by the time he thought they had enough. There was no way he wanted to go out again today or—worse—tonight.

One armload at a time, he built up the supplies in the kitchen, where the smell of something delicious was wafting from the oven. “I’ve more,” he told Lady Colyton, who was tidying up the evidence of baking from the table. “If it acceptable to you, I will put more wood in both bedrooms, and also in the front parlour, but I won’t bother with the dining room.”

“Of course,” she agreed. “We can take our meals in here or from trays in the parlour.”

He replenished the wood basket by the fire in the front half of the parlour and closed the dividing doors to the back half. They didn’t need all the space, and the smaller room would be easier to heat.

Then he trudged up and down the stairs, filling the baskets in the bedrooms. He moved the remaining wood, stacking it along the passage inside the back door, removed his outdoor garments for the last time, washed his hands, and went upstairs to change into clean dry clothes. Lady Colyton was no longer in the kitchen, so he went through to the parlour.

He stopped in the doorway for a moment. The fire burned brightly. On a low table in front of it were tea makings, a tray of tarts, and waiting cups and plates. A chair flanked either side of the fireplace, one of them already occupied by Lady Colyton, who had her head bent of a piece of embroidery on a frame.

Had he once seen his mother in such a posture? He could not bring such a memory to mind, but what else could explain the sweet pain of the domestic scene before him? His heart yearned to have a lovely woman by his own fire, making him tea and treats before he had time to realise he wanted them. His heart said “this lovely woman,” but that was surely his lust talking.

Of course, no wife of his would need to make tarts. But then Lady Colyton had been the wife of an earl, and he was very grateful she knew her way around a kitchen.

He must have made a noise, for she looked up and smiled when she saw him. “I found some dried fruit, my lord, and made tarts,” she said.

“I cannot thank you enough,” he told her. “A hot cup of tea is just what I need, and the tarts look delicious.”

“It is the least I can do,” she said, “when you have ensured that we shall not freeze.”

She really was very lovely. Martin accepted the cup of tea she poured for him, and the plate with a couple of delicious tarts. All very welcome, but what he really wanted, at least while the blizzard lasted, was Lady Colyton.