Page 15 of The Widower Without a Will
She could not kiss him.She was a widow; he was a baron.This was the devil trying to tempt them into something that could never be.
But she could wallow in its gloriousness as it hovered between them like a possibility.
“I find myself afraid of saying the wrong thing,” Lord Preston confessed.
Martha slid her hand a little closer to him on the cushion.“Perhaps we can count ourselves lucky for such a connection, sir.”
“Lucky.”He smiled.“Yes.”
“And call ourselves friends,” Martha dared add.
“Friends.Yes.”
“And need not question it beyond that.”
“Yes.”At last, he took her hand in his.A soft grip, not unlike what any friend would offer another, except his touch made her whole body come alive.Lord Preston smiled.“Friends.”
Martha wasn’t sure she could have been more satisfied even if they had kissed.
Chapter Six
Embarrassedbylosingcontrolof his emotions, Martin excused himself from Mrs.Bellamy, claiming that after the excitement, he needed rest.It was not a lie: he did feel exhausted to the bone, and when he shut the door of his drawing room on the rest of the world, he almost collapsed right there on the old sofa.
Even more than rest—which he took properly in his bed for half an hour—Martin needed solitude to compose himself.
He was disappointed in the way he had behaved with Caroline.Mrs.Bellamy was correct that he was wounded by his daughter trying so hard to disrupt their peace.But battles with Caroline were nothing new to Martin.This was, unfortunately, how it had been for almost three years now.
What disquieted Martin more was the exchange with Mrs.Bellamy.
The way his thoughts, in the aftermath of Caroline’s departure, had caught in a loop of worrying what his guest must think.
The way her hand on his back had felt so perfectly comforting.
The way that, when she sank beside him on the settee, a part of Martin had yearned to pull her body against his.To touch her.To know her.To kiss her.
He had not felt such things since Lolly had died.Oh, he had noticed beautiful women who crossed his path—but with all the same distance as noticing a finely executed painting.And of course his body felt lust, yet never towards a specific person.He cared for himself with memories from his twenty years of bliss with Lolly.
He did not fixate on poor widows.Mrs.Bellamy would no doubt be horrified if she knew the fantasy that had flashed across his skin when their hands touched.
It was only because she was his first female confidante since Lolly.Martin had shared his worries about his children with Maulvi—and occasionally the Widow Croft, but only in Maulvi’s presence, and she was too cheerful a woman to do anything except assure him a father knows best.True, when he and Caroline had first warred over Eddie, he had turned to Lolly’s sister Charlotte for help—but Charlotte was like a well-meaning, overbearing, spoiled cousin to him.And while he supposed Caroline would point out that he had often relied on Mrs.Chow to care for the children, never had he confided in Mrs.Chow more than concerns for their physical health.
Mrs.Bellamy was the first friend with whom he had shared his deepest regretsandwho was a woman.That was why he had for a moment been tempted to rip open that black cotton dress and sink his lips into her flesh.Not because it was what heshoulddo, not even because it was what he actuallywanted, but because it was instinct, like ducking when hearing a gunshot.
If he cultivated more women in his life to give him parenting advice, no doubt he would become immune to Mrs.Bellamy.
Alone in his bedroom, he saw to that terrible organ of his, fixing his mind on the memory ofLolly’sbreasts andLolly’squim instead of thinking again of Mrs.Bellamy’s breathless declaration that they were friends.When he was done—his body trembling with success, yet frustration still lingering—Martin washed his hands and face and changed into his old, patchy waistcoat.Had the servants not had their half day, he would have rung for leftovers from the failed dinner to be brought to his room and hidden the rest of the afternoon with a book.
As it was, he wasforcedto venture downstairs again.Not, as a lurid gossip columnist might imagine, because he sought out Mrs.Bellamy but because he was hungry.
He needed—wanted—space from her, not to find out if she still sat in the study, where he could still pin her to the couch to discover what her kiss tasted like.
He made it out to the kitchen and back into the rear corridor of the Hall without indulging his curiosity about Mrs.Bellamy’s whereabouts.He told himself he would go straight upstairs—after all, she was likely resting in her own room.
Except, instead of going up the stairs, he found himself ducking into the study.To collect the committee report on revising the Corn Laws, which he still had to finish reading.That he happened to discover Mrs.Bellamy was, indeed, still sitting by the bookshelves was neither here nor there.
She had moved into a chair so that her back was to the door, and she did not stir at the sound of Martin’s entrance.From the tilt of her head, Martin thought at first that she was asleep, and he told himself to retreat quietly so as not to wake her.
He crept forward instead.
