Chapter Twenty #2
“That trying not to do something wrong often leads to not doing the right thing.” Martin kissed her fingertips again. “In this case, I know the right thing is confessing my love for you. From there, I have some ideas, but it does depend on what you want.”
Martha whispered, “I never asked for anything from you, Lord Preston.”
He reached for her chin, pulling her close. “Perhaps you should. Perhaps you should demand to call me Martin.”
“Let me call you anything I want,” she breathed in reply.
“Fine, you may call me by any name. What else? Would you like me to leave you in peace?”
She shook her head, touching the tip of her nose to his. “No, I want you to stay.”
“Would you like me to marry you?”
Her breath stopped for a moment. “What would people say if I were to be Lady Preston?”
“My children are very much in favor of the idea, and based on Boyle’s enthusiasm for helping me find you, I gather the rest of the neighborhood would make no complaints.”
He could hear hope in how she swallowed. “What of London society?”
“They will have opinions, as they always do, but theirs are easy for me to ignore.” Bringing her hands to press against his chest, Martin said, “I am not sure I deserve you, Martha Bellamy, but I love your character, I love your body, and I love the partnership we found with each other. If you so desire it, I beg you, will you make me the happiest man and marry me?”
Martha was almost smiling. “Yes, I shall.” She leaned in so her lips hovered beyond his. “It is, according to my son, what two people do when they fall in love.”
“I think Lucas had that right.” Martin cradled her cheeks, savoring this woman who was such a surprising gift, before taking the kiss he had longed for since the moment he reached the crossroads.
They walked back to Bath hand in hand. Lord Preston led the horse by its reins, and when the road narrowed, he let Martha step ahead so they could go single file.
Martha tried to accustom herself to calling him “Martin,” but he had been “Lord Preston” in her mind for so long that she wasn’t sure she could make the adjustment.
She supposed he would marry her either way.
Marriage. As they ambled down the hill, Martha turned the idea over in her head, a little afraid of how giddy it made her.
She had pictured marriage to Lord Martin Preston in her wildest moments at Northfield Hall—mostly in the aftermath of their lovemaking, when he curled around her for a snooze—but she had never considered it a practical possibility.
She was too common, too old, and still in mourning for her first husband.
Now here she was, holding his hand in public.
Every now and then, as they discussed the ruin of Northfield Hall, Martin’s words dried up so that he could smile at her, and then she couldn’t help but smile at him, and once they nearly walked off the road because they were so busy grinning about the future that lay ahead of them.
It would not be a simple future, and not just because they were of different classes.
The family home was reduced to ashes, and it was not as easy as rebuilding what had previously been there.
Lord Preston—Martin—faced a hundred decisions, big and small, in remaking Northfield Hall.
“They are our decisions to make together,” he said, smiling at her, as he summed up his main concerns.
“If they don’t scare you away, that is.”
“On the contrary. As you said, we make a good partnership.” Martha saw the opportunity for what it was: a chance for everyone to start anew.
The old Northfield Hall had been a relic, and the new one would reinvigorate Martin’s vision for the estate, for his family—and for their marriage, where Martha would no longer have to fit into the boxed rooms of Martin’s established life. “Is Benjamin staying on as steward?”
“He and Lydia and the boys will remain until the summer, but then he is determined to return to his property in Ireland. He says it needs him more than Northfield Hall needs him.” For once, Martin didn’t look pained as he talked about a child wandering away from him. “He is doing good work there.”
“He is following in his father’s footsteps.”
“Doing better than his father.” Martin smiled. “However, now, among everything else, I must hire a steward who knows enough to be useful but will not impede the mission of Northfield.”
“Perhaps you need look no farther than Northfield Hall to find such a person.”
He looked at her as if such an idea had never occurred to him—and as if it were instantly blossoming into a hundred new ideas. Martha couldn’t help but giggle at this man who was so dear and so brilliant.
And now hers!
Martin kissed her fingertips again. “Oh, I have been remiss in giving you a letter that arrived from your niece.” He gestured at his coat pocket, so Martha helped herself to the letter.
It was a small piece of paper with not too many words. Bracing herself, Martha opened it, prepared to hear that Georgina did not have the heart to take in her poor, widowed aunt.
Instead, it was an invitation to come stay for as long as she needed.
“She says she has set aside a room for me close enough to the hearth that I won’t get cold in the winter.”
Martin raised an eyebrow. “Then you needn’t marry me out of desperation.”
“Quite. I suppose I shall pack my bags for Battersea,” she teased.
He tugged her close. “I would follow you and beg you to marry me until you finally said yes.”
“My love for a niece can never be replaced by my love for a man.”
“I shall live in your room near the hearth so you are never torn asunder from dear Georgina.”
“Now that is true love.” Martha couldn’t bear teasing any longer. She just wanted to beam at him.
Martin beamed back. “How would you like to be married? I could arrange a special license so that we could marry here in Bath within the week. Or we could return to Thatcham and have the banns called.”
“I want to marry at Northfield, and I want all your children to be there, if they are willing.” She brushed the skirt of her stiff bombazine mourning gown. “However, it is still two months until I am done mourning Kenneth.”
Though Martin nodded to acknowledge the point, he said softly, “Mourning never truly ends.”
It was her turn to kiss his fingertips, for with that one sentence she knew they did not need a protracted conversation about whether part of their hearts would remain allied with their lost spouses. “All the same, I would prefer not to marry you in my widow’s weeds.”
“What do you propose?”
“Let me remain here in Bath for the winter. I shall finish my period of mourning, arrange a new wardrobe, and do all the other things a bride is supposed to do to prepare for her marriage. When the roads clear in the springtime, I shall return to Thatcham, and we can be married at Northfield.”
Even though they were approaching Bath proper now and there were more people around, Martin stopped where he was and pulled Martha close to his body. “That’s months apart from each other.”
“But then we’ll have the rest of our lives together. And we won’t have started our marriage in a cradle of gossip.”
There would still be some talk in Thatcham, of course, and the London papers would drum up all sorts of scandals to explain why a baron decided to marry a matronly widow.
But at least no one could say that Martha was disrespecting Kenneth; at least no one could point to an obvious sign that Lord Preston might have taken advantage of her.
“I shall miss you terribly,” he growled.
She smirked, her eyes on those lips of his that tantalized her so. “Is that a promise?”
“It is a certainty. I would kiss you right here on the street to prove it if you weren’t concerned about gossip.”
Martha took his lapels in either hand. “Gossip in Bath won’t hurt us.” Stretching onto her toes, she kissed him. Briefly—but deeply. She could feel his body stir and might have kept teasing him with her tongue if someone passing by hadn’t cried out,
“I say!”
Martin withdrew, his eyes hazy. “I suppose I should take you back to Seymour Street.”
She smirked again. “I would rather see your rooms.”
And so they guided the stallion back to York House.
Giving Martha directions to his room, Martin took the horse to its stable, and Martha slipped upstairs without earning so much as a second glance.
By the time Martin tapped on the door with their secret knock, she had undressed to just her petticoat, stays, and stockings, her hair let loose from its braid.
She lay down on the mattress before calling out, “Enter.”
He stood for a moment by the door, eyes sweeping over her, and she watched a deep pink work its way up his skin. “My dear Martha,” he said, breath shaking, and then he all but leapt upon her.
They had a lot of kissing to make up for.
For a long while, that was all they did.
Deep, languid kisses that could have lasted all afternoon.
Martin’s hands curled through her hair and strayed down to her waist, and Martha palmed the muscular arms and chest she had so missed these past weeks, but they remained in the fuzzy simplicity of the kiss for far longer than they had ever permitted themselves before.
By the time Martin leaned back, Martha’s body felt soft and warm and liquid.
He reached into his pocket—for he was still wearing all his clothes!—and withdrew a lace glove. “I found this under your bed after you left. I have to admit, I’ve grown very fond of it, but I suppose you might want it back.”
It was from her fancy set of gloves, which were made of lace and ended just before the tip of each finger, serving as adornment rather than providing warmth.
Martha had not mourned the lost glove deeply—though she had saved its forlorn mate in her sewing kit—but she was almost overwhelmed with joy at seeing it in Martin’s hand.
Taking it, she slipped it over her fingers and held it up for display.
“I thought the poor thing was lost forever.”
Martin seized her wrist, his eyes nearly black with desire. “I want to see you wearing nothing except this glove.”
Her body nearly rippled with a sensual thrill. She demanded more. “What will you do with me when this is all I wear?”
He knew what she wanted—and he gave it to her, curving over her to growl in her ear, “I am going to shag you so hard you won’t remember your name. I’m going to make your cunt as wet as a fountain. I’m going to fill you with my roger and rut you senseless.”
It was all Martha could do to see straight after that. She stripped naked, as requested. Martin removed his clothes in a rush, too. When his cock stood free and proud from his trousers, Martha pumped it with her gloved hand, just to see how deep a groan she could pull from him.
From the sound of it, he was either in mortal pain or the most excruciating pleasure of his life.
“Let me work your cunny the way it deserves,” he growled, taking her hips to position her on her knees.
Then, reaching from behind, he worked her quim with his fingers and thumb until she could feel the froth of desire threatening to drip from the mattress.
“No pomade required today,” he said, voice thick with satisfaction.
“Are you ready for me to take you as my betrothed?”
“I’ll tell you if we’re betrothed once you’ve proven you can swive me with your prick,” Martha teased back. He groaned again, this time almost directly into her ear. Then he thrust inside of her, his thighs against the backs of her legs, his thumb still teasing her quim’s peak.
It was all Martha had ever fantasized about.
A forbidden fuck riddled with forbidden words with the safest man in the world.
She had craved Martin for weeks, had been beside him for hours, had kissed him for minutes, and it took only the sweetest amount of time for her body to shatter into the deepest orgasm of her life.
Martin rode the wave with her, his torso curling over hers, and they fell, spent, to the mattress still joined at the hip.
“My Martha. My love,” Martin murmured into her ear.
And at last, she truly did believe she was his beloved. She smiled back at him. “Yes, I think I’ll marry you after all.”