Chapter 5

CHAPTER FIVE

B y the afternoon, they were on first name terms. Jessica had been reluctant, at first. She did not want Lord Findlater—Martin—to think she was a loose woman, despite the rumours about her. But she hated being called “Lady Colyton”—hated the reminders of her marriage and of the way she had tried, and failed, to squeeze herself into the shape that Colyton and his mother thought appropriate.

Martin was correct, too, when he pointed out that no one would know, and therefore no one would care. He was not meant to be here. As far as the world knew, he wasn’t, and she was on her own. Edith knew, of course, and Martin’s friend, but they would not speak of it. The Wicked Widows were very protective of one another, and Martin said his friend was an idiot, but an honourable one.

So, Martin and Jessica it was, then, and somehow casting aside the formality of titles allowed her to relax. Indeed, being with him was almost as good as being alone. She didn’t feel any weight of concern or expectation when he looked at her. He wasn’t worried about her or critical of her. He was a chance-met nearly stranger, and neither of them had any feeling for the other.

In fact, it was better than being alone, for if she tired of her book or her embroidery, there was someone to talk to. To talk with. He was a fascinating conversationalist, and took an interest in many of the same things as her. He had a wry sense of humour that took her completely by surprise, for his sister’s description of him had led her to expect a dour, proper man. Someone a bit like Colyton, in fact.

While Martin had been bringing in firewood, Jessica had put a pot of soup on the back of the stove, using root vegetables and onions from the pantry and some ham bones she’d found in the meat safe, all seasoned with herbs and spices. If she kept adding vegetables and more water, it should last them for days.

They had a bowl shortly after noon, eating in the parlour with a tray each on their knees, rounding the simple meal out with more toast, this time cooked at the parlour fire.

“Do you happen to play chess, Jessica?” Martin asked, after they’d dealt with the dishes.

“I do.” Her brother Haverford had taught her—had taught all three sisters, back when he was the Marquis of Aldridge and their father’s heir. Jessica was the only one who could beat him, though admittedly not more than one game in four—one in three, more recently, since he had taken her back under his roof.

He was always so proud of her successes, teasing her that the win was his as much as hers, since he had taught her to play so well.

Colyton had also enjoyed the game, but he was nowhere near as good at it as Haverford. After his reaction to her winning the first time she played him, and then the second, she had soon learned to deliberately lose. It took all the pleasure out of the game.

Martin was setting up a chess set he must have found in the sideboard. So far, the man had proved to be good company, respectful, and even—in an understated sort of way—charming. What would happen when she won? Would he be like Colyton when he lost? Or Haverford?

As it turned out, they were more evenly matched than she expected. So well matched, indeed, that a mere two games occupied the entire afternoon. Martin eventually won the first.

They took a short break to see about adding some vegetables in the oven with the piece of beef she had put in to roast after lunch, and to make some more mulled cider, and then returned to the parlour for the second game.

It took even longer than the first. Towards the end, Jessica thought she was going to have to settle for a draw, but she saw an opportunity and managed to battle him to checkmate.

She waited for the explosion, or the sour cutting remarks.

“Brilliant!” he said. “Jessica, you shall have to promise me another match tomorrow. I don’t know when I have ever had a better opponent.”

A little shaken by his unexpected reaction, she still managed to return a polite answer. “Yes, I would love to play again tomorrow.”

She lowered her eyes, disturbed by the strange heat in his—and by the embarrassing way she reacted to that heat. “Shall we eat dinner in the kitchen, or bring it through here?”

“Let’s bring it through here,” Martin proposed. He stood to lean over the table and put the pieces into their box. Jessica bent to help. When the pair of them reached for the same pawn, their hands brushed. Jessica snatched hers back and their eyes met again.

“You feel it too, do you not?” Martin said.

If by ‘it’ he meant the confusing sensations rioting through her body, the true answer would be ‘yes,’ Jessica had no intention of making any such admission. She straightened. “You finish that, Martin,” she suggested, her voice not quite steady, “and I shall check on the dinner.”

She managed to walk from the room rather than fleeing as if hounds were at her heels. But it was a close-run thing.

That first touch might have been accidental, but as the evening wore on, Jessica became convinced that Martin was touching her on purpose. Fingers brushing hers when they both reached for the same object. A hand in the small of her back to usher her through a doorway. A swift touch of a finger on her hand to draw her attention.

By the time they had eaten dinner and cleaned up, she was a bundle of nerves and irritation. “Are you trying to seduce me, my lord?”

Martin’s grin was that of a rogue. She had seen it often enough on her brothers when they were up to mischief, had been caught, and were not at all repentant. “Is it working?” he asked hopefully. “I am attracted to you. I think you are attracted to me. And we are stuck here in the middle of a snowstorm, with nowhere to go until it is over. A dalliance would pass the time nicely.”

To Jessica’s surprise, her body was softening at his arguments, right up until the last sentence. Pass the time nicely? As if I am an entertainment, convenient to hand and easily replaceable . Her indignation allowed her to add a layer of ice to her voice. “Whatever you have heard,” she said, “I am not a woman of loose morals. You will have to think of another diversion to while away the hours.”

Her chest seized up with sudden panic at having spoken so sharply. He was a stranger, despite the family connection and the pleasant day they had spent together. He was a man, and her marriage had taught her how nasty men could be about lack of respect from a woman.

“I beg your pardon.” Far from being angry, Martin appeared both contrite and alarmed. “I did not mean to imply… I meant no offense, my lady. You are a widow. I am a bachelor. I saw no harm… meant no insult. I was thinking only of your pleasure and mine.”

The last comment incensed her all over again. “My pleasure? Hah! That is where you are wrong, Lord Findlater. I have never found the marital act pleasurable, and I see no reason why dalliance would be any different.” She clamped her lips shut, her cheeks, her neck, and even her chest heating in a blush as she realised what she had said.

It was not, in fact, entirely true. She had always found the act a rude invasion, but sometimes, especially on those rare occasions that Colyton caressed her a little before pushing himself inside, she found it… not unpleasant.

But true or not, she could not believe she had just blurted out to Martin something she had never told anyone. Not even Matilda, her almost-twin, or Cherry, the sister-in-law she loved. Of course, both those ladies were in happy marriages, with husbands who adored them. And both, she knew, thoroughly enjoyed the marital bed.

“Then Colyton was a selfish ass,” said Martin.

“It was not that,” Jessica protested, though Martin was certainly right that Colyton was selfish. Opinionated, rigid, selfish, and unkind. But what that had to do with the marital act, she had no idea. “I am naturally cold,” she explained to Martin. “Most ladies simply do not like… that.” Colyton had approved. He said her ladylike attitude to the marital act must be the aristocratic blood from her father.

“Utterly selfish, and stupid, too,” Martin said. “Jessica, I promise you, if a lady does not enjoy intimacy, the fault lies with the man who has failed to tend to her needs before he meets his own.”

Jessica stared at him. That couldn’t be true. Could it? She knew so many ladies who found the whole business distasteful, and who were only too glad when they had delivered the necessary heir and maybe a spare, and could leave their husband’s entertainment to someone else.

She also knew ladies who took lovers, and who claimed to enjoy coupling. Colyton said it proved they were not really ladies, but rather light-skirts who were traitors to their breeding.

“We should not be discussing this,” she told Martin. “It is unseemly. If you will excuse me, my lord, I shall go up to bed now.”

He bowed. “Good night, Jessica. I am sorry I distressed you.”

She fled before she found herself explaining her feelings, in so far as she understood them. She was not distressed. Not precisely. Confused was a better description.

Shutting her bedroom door, she sank onto the fireside chair, her mind racing. In the past year and a bit, since she had left Colyton, she had slowly let go of many of the beliefs he had hammered into her during their marriage—sometimes with words and sometimes with his hand or a whip.

Was this another?

Was Colyton to blame for her failure to enjoy the marital act?

The married ladies of her family all spoke of their bed sports as if they enjoyed them and looked forward to them. But they were all besotted with their husbands, and she had assumed that made all the difference, for she did not love Colyton. She had married him because he was the only one who asked, because she had fallen in love with his daughters and wanted to be their mother, and because he did not treat her as if she must be a whore, just because her mother had had the misfortune to catch the temporary attention of a duke.

It had not been a good enough set of reasons, in the end. After they were married, she did not come to love him, as she had hoped. Instead, she had stopped even liking him, long before the last incident that had caused her brother to scoop her up and carry her away home.

Being separated from her husband was bad enough, but rumours of her infidelity soon began to circulate—started, she was certain, by Colyton or his mother. That ruined what reputation she had, and only Haverford’s and Aunt Eleanor’s steadfast support kept her from being shunned by so-called Polite Society and besieged by those men who believed the rumours gave them a right to her intimate attention.

She had never been the least tempted to take a lover, and was glad that Haverford kept the tomcats of the ton away from her.

A knock on the door made her jump. She opened it to find Martin there with a jug. “For your evening ablutions,” he said.

He handed over the jug, which was three quarters full of water with steam rising off it. He must have filled it from the pot she’d set at the back of the hob for this very purpose. “Thank you, Martin,” she said.

“Sleep well, Jessica,” he told her, but he hesitated on the threshold, clearly deciding whether or not to say what was on his mind. “Jessica,” he blurted, after a moment. “You are safe with me. You do know that, do you not? I will never act on my attraction to you. Not without an invitation. Nor will I mention it again. The last thing I want is to make you uncomfortable. Good night. I will see you in the morning.”

“Good night,” Jessica said. She shut the door and leaned against it. What had just happened? Martin, if she understood him correctly, was promising to put her comfort ahead of his appetite. She shook her head in wonder. If he was sincere, he had completely confounded her. That was not how she expected a man to behave.

After a moment, she went to put the jug next to the wash basin.

She had never been tempted to take a lover. Until now.