Page 21 of The Widower Without a Will
Of course, she couldn’t sleep.Alone in her room, she shut the door—but did not lock it, in case Lord Preston miraculously decided he needed to enter.She left the curtains open, too, though he would have to climb a tree to look in.She didn’t care about reason or reality; her body was alive like a young bride’s, and she wanted to put it to use.
She washed her face, hands, and thighs in the basin by the window.Unbuttoning her sturdy gown, she exchanged it for her linen dressing robe, tied at the waist over corset and petticoats.She unpinned her hair so it fell in silver waves down her back.She even dabbed on the London perfume she saved for special occasions—though she knew her bed partner would never come.
Lord Preston had kissed her, and that was enough fuel for her to imagine him coming to her after his errand in the stables.She pictured him staring up at the roof with a cock stand, waiting desperately for his chance to get away, only the stable master was talking his ear off and dear Lord Preston couldn’t very well sayMrs.Bellamy is waiting for me to fuck her.
Martha had always delighted in the dirty words when unwrapped in the privacy of her boudoir.In company, they were vulgar; in an embrace with Kenneth, they were aphrodisiacs.She wanted to be fucked, she wanted her cunny to be toyed with, she wanted to fill the room with tits and pricks and bawdels.Just thinking of the words kept Martha’s lust alive.Laying back on her mattress, she spread her legs wide and murmured them to herself as she licked her fingers and flicked her own pussy back and forth.“Fuck me like a whore, Lord Preston,” she whispered—and pretended he was walking through the door to find her ready for him.“Put that big cock inside me, sir.”And imagined a girth and length like never before filling her.“Rut me as fast and hard as you can.”
The words in the air, even though she said them to herself, carried her to ecstasy.Martha muffled her cry with her pillow.
A wise woman would let that be the end of it.Nothing good came of a sixty-two-year-old widow chasing after a baron.
You are someone spectacular.
Martha found it difficult not to be a fool.The next morning, after taking both supper and breakfast in her room, she reported to the study in her widow’s weeds with her hair braided too tightly as a reminder to herself to behave.Lord Preston stood from his desk to greet her but did not meet her eyes, instead handing her a stack of correspondence.“If you are willing, would you please decline these invitations for me?”
Of course, a small part of her had hoped he would sweep her into his arms once more, but she could not blame him for trying to put the kiss behind them.Hewas no fool.Martha schooled her body not to react as she took the letters from him, and she successfully avoided grazing her thumb against his.
Her breath still shortened, her heart racing, just from being near him.
A woman couldn’t help being a fool; she could only endure it until her body released her from its daydreams at last.Martha endured by writing out the rejections Lord Preston requested; by trimming her pens and organizing her desk; by not complaining when he excused himself to review crop plans with the farmers.If she found herself analyzing the looks he gave her, she pinched her thigh and refocused on the task at hand.If she indulged herself by making a witty comment to catch his attention, she paid penance by noticing the excuses he foundnotto take luncheon with her.
The kiss would fade into a memory—no, a dream!—if she only bided her time.
It was the afternoon of her third day of enduring when Lord Preston groaned from behind his desk.Martha whirled around, expecting to find he had sliced his hand open with a penknife, to see that he had pushed away from his desk and stalked to the bay window, frustration lining his face.
“Is something the matter?”she asked.
He exhaled in a slow hiss through his teeth.“Reality frustrates me.”
It was far too philosophical an answer for his agitation.If Martha wanted to overcome her infatuation, she knew she should turn away now and let him soothe himself.But what if he meant the reality ofherfrustrated him?And if he did, was it that she was present and he could not have her that frustrated him, or that she remained present when he had made it clear he did not want her?
She asked, “To which reality do you object at the moment?”
“Financial reality.”He glared back at his desk, as if it were the devil himself.At the same time, he ran a hand through his thick hair—and Martha had to remind herself not to let lust levitate her away from the conversation.“The Ladies’ Society for the Relief of African Slaves has lost their major funder, and they have asked me to make up the difference so they may continue operating.But the only funds I have available are required here to expand the living quarters.”
It wasn’t fair of her, but Martha couldn’t help smiling.He wasn’t frustrated with her at all.“We common folk like to imagine that you peers do not have any financial woes, but you’re just like the rest of us, balancing your budget between what you need and what you want.”
Lord Preston echoed her smile with a shy quirk of his lips.“Money is, unfortunately, a universal evil.”
It was the fact that he was looking at her again without any of the polite shields he had used these past few days that spurred Martha to hold out her hand for the letter in question.“Then a little commonsense budgeting must surely be a universal skill.Let me see if there isn’t a solution available for you.”
He handed her the letter.In fact, he did more than hand it to her: he walked over to place it in her hand and remained by her side while she read it.
His presence made her mind flutter, so she had to read the letter a few times before it made sense.
“They need five thousand pounds to keep operating through next year,” Lord Preston said, “and I haven’t five thousand pounds to spare.”
Martha got to the end of the letter, where she found the writer had predicted this problem.“No, you haven’t, but you have a following of good people who are willing to take your direction.”She pointed out the relevant paragraph to him.“Mrs.Brockway suggests you ask some of your friends to help raise the necessary funds.Do you have a hundred pounds available to start a pool of donations?”
“And fifty friends?”
She raised an eyebrow.“Surely some of your friends are even wealthier than you.”
Now his smile was unadulterated.“You have turned my mountain back into a molehill.”
“As you did for me with Mr.Sebright.It is what friends do.”She said it to remind herself that they were nothing more than friends—not so that this interchange would lead to another kiss.
But when he stared into her eyes and said, “You are incomparable, Mrs.Bellamy,” she found she didn’t have the strength to endure it.
