Page 43 of The Widower Without a Will
He wore a dressing gown over the fine wool waistcoat, linen shirt, and black pantaloons of his formal suit, his hair tied back in a queue by a ribbon.Her heart might have skipped a double beat because of how handsome he was.Or perhaps it was the expression on his face: bereft, betrayed, bewildered.
She rushed to take his hands, if only to give him something to lean on.“Your daughters have upset you.”
Lord Preston looked at her, but his gaze was so distant that Martha wasn’t sure he saw her.“They accuse me of misusing you.”
“Why?We hardly even spoke tonight.”
“They think you are in love with me and that I am taking advantage of you.”
Now Martha’s heart hammered so loud she could barely think straight.She hadn’t planned to make her confession tonight.She thought she would have another week at least to practice what she would say—to find the courage.
But what was the point in being precious about it?Lord Preston needed to hear it from her now.“Iamin love with you.”
Saying the words aloud buoyed her with warmth like a summer breeze.She almost laughed to hear them from her own lips.
Had she ever said so wonderful a thing in all her life?
“I am in love with you,” she said again, grinning.
“Then I am taking advantage of you.”If Martha’s confession was summertime, then Lord Preston’s words came from the depths of winter.
It was not the response she had expected.“No, you are not.”
“This was never supposed to be a love affair.”
That did not mean he could not have fallen in love with her, in return.He needed time to consider it.He needed a chance to realize it did not mean he had done anything wrong.“You never misled me,” she assured him, trying desperately to keep control of her breath.“Aren’t I the one who said we need only be friends?”
He stepped backward.Martha was painfully aware that he was no longer looking at her.
“I meant to reassure you, but I can see it has been a long night,” she said.“We should discuss this another time.”
“It can’t go any farther.It was never supposed to go this far.”
Martha insisted, “Let’s discuss this tomorrow, or next week after your daughters have left.”
He opened a drawer in his armoire and withdrew a leather purse.Martha wanted to pull his hands away to stop him from whatever he was doing.He unfolded a banknote, looked at it in the candlelight for a long moment, and then handed it to her.“It would be best if you remove yourself to the Fox and Hound tomorrow.This should cover your expenses for the foreseeable future, and if ever you need more, I’ll arrange it.”
It was a note for one hundred pounds—more than Kenneth’s yearly tithes in Thatcham.Martha did not want Lord Preston’s money.She had never wanted it.She was neither whore nor courtesan nor mistress; she was only a woman who loved a man.
Yet shaking hands could not return it.“I never asked for anything from you.”
“It is the least of what I owe you.”
She shouldn’t have come into his apartment.If only she had left him to his inner sanctum—even though his daughters had broken his spirit—then she would not now be taking his money like a London courtesan.
She could have kept her love to herself.He need never have known.And then they could have continued, and she could still have had him, and she would not need to disappear to an inn in Theale or Georgina’s house in London.
“I don’t want your money,” she whispered.
“Mrs.Chow will assist you with the travel arrangements.You should take the carriage.Theale is far enough away that the gig would be an uncomfortable ride.”
At last, he looked at her again.His posture was rigid and cold, with all the hauteur of a peer of the realm.
Martha couldn’t tell if there was any emotion in his eyes, or if she only wanted there to be.
He said, “You mustn’t blame yourself.I should never have allowed this to happen.All the fault lies with me.”
“It was my idea to begin with.”And Martha suddenly remembered Lucas saying the same thing to her when she warned him off getting his head turned by Lady Imogen:Mother, you cannot blame her when I am the one courting her.
