Chapter 6

CHAPTER SIX

M artin had put his foot in it with his suggestion of a dalliance. Her hints about Colyton’s careless treatment of her had temporarily damped down his desire for her, which was good, under the circumstances, but the effect had not lasted, and he spent another night of uncomfortable dreams.

None of which were likely to be fulfilled, more was the pity, though a glance out of his window in the morning confirmed it was still snowing heavily. They would be stuck here for at least another day.

He went down to the kitchen determined to treat Jessica like another sister. Polite, friendly, casual. He was, after all, a gentleman. He could manage his unfortunate physical reaction, or at the very least, keep it from her notice.

With that in mind, he put on his banyan after he’d tied his cravat and donned his waistcoat. It might be slightly disreputable to wear a garment reserved for domestic use when he was sharing the house with a lady who was not a relative, but better that than his cutaway frock coat, which would be his usual morning wear.

The cutaway allowed the front of his trousers no privacy whatever, and there was less room in the fabric every time he thought of Jessica.

Again, she was up before him, in a neat but not flashy gown, humming as she cooked something on the hob. Merciful heavens, she was delectable. His desire rushed back full force, and he was grateful for the banyan. He forced his face to assume a pleasant, non-threatening smile. “Good morning, Jessica,” he said, cheerfully.

She returned his greeting, but he could tell how discomposed she was. She was blushing like a maiden who had just received her first compliment—or her first kiss. Damn his impertinence in suggesting a dalliance to her last night!

All he could do now was treat her with matter-of-fact courtesy and hope that reassured her. “I trust you slept well,” he said, and regretted it, for he did not need to be thinking of Jessica in bed.

Her blush deepened. “Not particularly,” she answered. Then her words came out in a rush, as if they had been jammed behind her teeth, waiting for them to complete the courtesies. “I could not stop thinking about what you said last night. Is it true? Is it a man’s fault if a woman does not find pleasure?”

Her question does not mean she is considering changing her answer , Martin warned his rioting appetites. “Yes, my lady. That is what my uncle taught me, and that is what I have heard from women who…” He trailed off and his own face heated. He should not be talking to a lady like Jessica about former lovers.

Jessica’s hands clenched around handfuls of her apron. Clenched and relaxed. Clenched and relaxed. Her face flaming, she said, “If your offer is still open, I would like…” Her eyes were turned down, fixed firmly on the flagstone at her feet.

His trousers had felt tight a couple of times already this morning, but they filled even more in reaction to that hesitant embarrassed statement. Still, he had to be certain. “Jessica, are you inviting me to make love to you, and to bed you if you like the results?”

He could no longer see her face. Only the crown of her head. He had never before been aroused by the neat centre part of a woman’s hair. He yearned to put it in disarray, to pull out the pins that fastened the snood at the base of her neck and release the rest of her hair from the confines of the net bag. How long was it? The snood was large and full—he would wager her hair reached her waist, at least.

The nod she gave in reply to his question was miniscule, and the noise she made not much more than a high-pitched hum. “Hmmm.”

Her obvious nervousness helped him wrestle back control of his appetite. She needed him to be calm. “I am honoured,” he told her. “Shall we discuss the particulars as we break our fast?”

Her head came up at that and he found himself gazing into hazel eyes wide with—what? Fear? Anxiety? Uncertainty? “Breakfast? Now? I thought…”

“We have plenty of time,” he told her. “Let us eat, play another game of chess, perhaps kiss a little, and see how things develop. And Jessica? Just to be clear, you can stop me at any time. At any time at all.” A thought occurred to him—a set of words she could use to make her feel more comfortable. “You can say stop, or slow down, or wait, or no. And I will listen. I promise.”

Some of the small lines around her eyes relaxed and smoothed away. “Stop. Slow down. Wait. No.” She repeated the words in an undertone, as if memorising them. Then, in a sudden transformation, she said, “Breakfast. Martin, I made griddle cakes.” She was in motion again, all crisp housewife, as she picked up a jug containing a smooth cream batter. We can eat them with bacon and eggs, if you wish, or with butter and jam. Also, I have mashed some of the vegetables left from last night. I can fry the mash, if you choose the savoury option.

“Bacon, eggs, and fried mash,” he agreed. “Do you want ale or tea, Jessica?” And he cupped her cheek and bent to press a tender kiss to her lips. Closed-mouthed, short, and gentle, but his head reeled as he straightened again.

It was because she was so vulnerable. How could their first kiss not be important, innocent though it had been? She gazed up at him, her eyes wide again, this time with wonder, unless he was much mistaken.

He could not resist a second kiss, this time slightly less innocent, since he swiped his tongue along her lips. “Mmm,” he said. “Sweet.”

She blushed again. “I had a spoonful of the jam, just to be sure it was tasty. Raspberry.”

“Raspberry and Jessica,” he commented, and risked a wink. “Yum.”

Her blush deepened, but he saw her lips curve in a smile as she turned back to the stove, saying, “Rogue.”

“Did you like it, though?” he asked, and waited anxiously for her answer.

Her smile reassured when she glanced at him over her shoulder. “You must know you kiss very well,” she said, her voice sharp but her eyes soft and warm.

“That was barely anything,” he told her. “There is more. Much more.”