She found it impossible to believe that he was really as unaffected by what his parents had done as he claimed to be. There was too much anger for that, as much as he was trying to hide it. She needed to know what was driving it. Her instincts said it was important, too important to be left alone like he wanted.
But not right now. If I push now, I’ll get nowhere.
The silence stretched between them, awkward except for the food. It was simple, hearty food — more ham, a good sharp cheddar with fresh, crusty bread, and there were apples and lemonade to go with it. The ride had given her an appetite and Teresa was hard pressed to eat in the small, polite bites expected of a female.
Finally finishing her bread and ham, she began to carefully slice an apple, occasionally glancing up at Martin from underneath her lashes. Despite the hat he had worn for the rides, his hair was slightly disheveled and his cravat was less neat than it had been at breakfast that morning. Ruth had said that Martin was more than willing to help out physically in the village if it was needed and she wondered if that had been the case this morning.
Ruth had certainly given her a lot to think about. Aside from the effect of the wind on his appearance, he didn’t look any different than he had at the breakfast table and yet Teresa couldn’t shake the feeling that he had changed in that hour. No, that’s not fair. He hasn’t changed, my understanding of him has.
He’d been aloof in London, but no more arrogant than any of the other gentlemen she’d met in the ton. That hadn’t stopped her from wanting to slap him when that arrogance had been turned in her direction, but honesty forced her to admit that she was equally unlikely to back down when she thought she was right.
Seeing him here on the estate was an entirely different experience. He still carried himself with the unmistakable confidence of the lord of the manor but the arrogance was missing, tempered instead by the willingness to listen and consider. Her father would have let his estate manager handle the roof leak, rather than going out to see to it himself, and yet Martin had been right there, rolling up his shirt sleeves in order to look into the matter.
He was cutting his own apple now, his hands steady as he neatly sliced it into quarters. She hadn’t noticed his hands in London, although that was understandable given the custom of wearing gloves everywhere. He wasn’t wearing gloves now though. His fingers were long, the nails neatly trimmed, but she was surprised to see that his skin was not the lily-white expected of a gentleman but instead slightly tan. Apparently he might wear gloves while out in Society but he spent some time outdoors without them.
“Like what you see?” Startled, Teresa looked up to realize he’d caught her staring at his hands like a girl straight out of the schoolroom.
Flushing, she held her ground. “I was thinking that your hands aren’t what I would have expected of a nobleman.”
He looked down at them. “I’ll thank you not to tell my valet that. He does his best from October until I leave for London to try to restore them to a ‘state appropriate to my station,’ as he puts it. He would be distressed to learn his efforts were unsuccessful.”
“I promise not to mention it to him.” Teresa thought back to the pristine white hands she had seen on some of the town beaus and found them hard to picture in this setting. “How do you keep anyone from noticing?”
“Gloves, typically.” He offered a sheepish grin and her stomach fluttered. “I’m convinced I single-handedly support at least one glovemaker in London and possibly more. He argues it is required for me to maintain my position as good ton, since I refuse to keep my hands out of the sun here. It’s easy enough to keep them covered when out in public.”
“Still,” his voice softened, “I refuse to wear gloves all the time. Some things are best done with skin contact.”
His eyes sought hers and Teresa felt her mouth go dry. Surely he didn’t mean what she thought he meant. But his hand was reaching towards her and she sat frozen, unable to move. Her heart thundered in her ears as he traced the outline of her lips with one index finger, a touch so light she half-convinced herself that she was imagining it.
Her eyes shut as a low heat began to uncoil in her stomach, seeping into her arms and legs. She was sure her fingers were trembling. Her body felt completely outside her control, focused entirely on the sensations he was creating inside her. It was nearly impossible to think through the desire coursing through her veins.
And then the sensations stopped. Opening her eyes, she saw Martin had withdrawn his hand and was staring at her, his eyes unreadable. She could hear his breathing, a steady in and out, and felt a sudden flush of anger that he was so unaffected by what he was doing to her. The anger helped her burn through the haze of desire, letting her think again.
Martin pushed his chair back
The warmth in her stomach faded, replaced by a tight feeling in her chest as he stood. “I lost track of the time. I have some business to go over with Allsworth this afternoon and he’ll be waiting for me. I’ll see you at dinner tonight?”
Teresa stiffened in her seat. Her body’s naive reactions might have gotten her into this mess to start with, she knew, but for Martin to casually toy with them while maintaining his distance stung.
Even worse, he had done it to distract her from the questions he hadn’t wanted to answer. He didn’t realize yet that only made her more determined. If he wanted her to trust him with her body’s physical responses, he needed to learn to trust her in return. She offered him a smile, using her anger to shield the hurt and maintain the mask. “Certainly. I look forward to it.”
Martin offered a half-bow and then turned and strode out of the room, fast enough that Teresa almost believed he might really be late. As if his manager wouldn’t wait for him, she told herself. If he wanted to spend time with me, he would make the time for it. It’s just another reminder of where I stand.
The room seemed smaller without Martin there, despite the view through the windows. It made Teresa feel small too, aware of the world outside in a way she hadn’t been since moving to London. Martin might be irritating and arrogant, but at least when he was around, she was less aware of just how alone she was.
For a moment, the anger faded and she had to fight the urge to go find him. She was a grown woman and if she had any hope of convincing Martin to let her be involved in his life beyond the physical, it wouldn’t be by running after him because she felt lonely. Besides, his opinion of her role as a wife seemed clear: she was a glorified mistress, expected to provide him with children and occasional pleasant company, and otherwise to stay out of his way.
No. I am more than that. Teresa narrowed her eyes. She couldn’t change what he expected, but she could keep it from defining her.
The best thing for her to do next was to find Mrs. Watts and begin to define her own role here in the house. She finished her lemonade and stood, straightening her skirts. A quick change out of her riding habit and into something more suitable for a tour of the house and she would be ready to start.
*
Teresa considered her appearance in the mirror as Miriam worked to tidy the dressing room. The aftermath of some uncharacteristic indecision when it came to dressing for dinner hung from several doors, but she was pleased with the final product. The servants said that Martin preferred not to dress for dinner unless there was a specific reason to do so, but Teresa wanted to make a statement. It was, after all, her first official dinner as lady of the estate.
Besides, if clothing was the armor she presented to the world, she now felt armed and ready to do battle. Anger had given her the courage she’d never had before to wear this dress. The deep red color had been all wrong for a debutante and her aunt had insisted that the bodice was cut much lower than was proper.
Teresa rather thought that protest had had more to do with jealousy and less with any sense of propriety, given the number of dresses cut lower at every ton function she attended, but she hadn’t argued with her aunt about it. The dress was years out of fashion, having
been her mother’s, and she’d held onto it more for sentimental reasons than anything else. Miriam had unpacked it with the rest of her things though and she’d been unable to resist the temptation to try it on.
Seeing how it clung to her curves before falling gracefully to her feet, she now understood why her father had always called the dress his favorite. Her hair was piled high with a few tendrils left free to curl around her neck, as it turned out Miriam had plenty of experience with fashionable hairdos. Her cosmetics sat on the table in the dressing room, unused — partly for time, and partly because Teresa had never cared for the practice of powdering one’s face or rouging one’s lips.
She felt more at ease in her own skin and it was more than just the dress or the hair. The two hours she had spent with Mrs. Watts had been productive. She’d toured the kitchen, selected a room overlooking the conservatory for her parlor, and found her initial impression of the woman from the night before to be accurate — Mrs. Watts ran the household as efficiently as any general could hope to run the army and with an equal amount of authority.
Teresa had no intention of disrupting that. One of the central tenets of her mother’s lessons on running a home was that a good housekeeper was beyond price. Her mother had insisted she learn the basics of managing a household, saying that those skills would be expected of her once she was a married lady. Her father always laughed when she said that and pointed out he hadn’t married her for her skills at managing a household, to which her mother would flush and fuss and the lesson might be shorter than planned — but she had mastered the basics.
When she demonstrated that after the funeral, her aunt had sniffed and remarked that at least her mother hadn’t completely neglected her education. She still bristled at the memory of that snide judgment, both of her skills and of her parents’ efforts. She hadn’t wanted to spend any time with Charlotte after that, but her aunt had insisted that it was necessary to bring her skills to the level the ton would expect. Teresa had learned, grudgingly, but nothing had convinced her that the refinements Society expected were any better than the simpler style her mother had preferred.
That Mrs. Watts expressed approval of her philosophy had been a relief — and it was genuine approval, she judged. Certainly the comment about how nice it was to find that “the misses in London are still taught what they need to know to make my job a little easier” had left her feeling confident in her skills again — a boost she sorely needed after the exchange in the conservatory.
She took one last glance in the mirror and decided she was pleased. Turning, she made her way down to the dining room. It was an elegant room, recently redone according to Mrs. Watts. The walls were a simple creamy white over dark wood wainscoting, with the expected large stone fireplace set in one wall. The room was dominated by the long table, which could easily seat sixteen but only had two places set. She was pleased to see that her directions had been followed and the places had been set across from each other at the foot of the table, closer to the fire. Protocol dictated that they should sit at opposite ends of the table but Teresa would much rather have a dinner conversation that didn’t require them to shout to each other.
The door swung open again and Martin stepped inside as she turned to face him. One of the servants had clearly informed him that she had chosen to dress for dinner as he had also changed. His evening dress was impeccable, as it had been every time she had ever seen him in town. Tonight his coat and breeches were a deep blue, dark enough to appear black in the candlelight except for when the light hit it just right. The unrelenting color was relieved only by a simple white waistcoat and a snowy white cravat, tied in one of the simpler styles that she was beginning to realize he favored.
Simple clothes and yet they served only to emphasize the strength in his shoulders and power in his legs. Unlike some of the gentlemen of the ton, no padding was required to achieve that silhouette. She flushed as she remembered the feeling of those shoulders underneath her hands as they had waltzed. She wanted to run her hands along his chest and see if it was as solid as his shoulders had been.
No. Focus. She wanted more out of this relationship than only the physical. That would only happen if she could show Martin what he would be missing.
He offered her a bow. “Teresa.” For a moment, she thought she could hear something beneath the formality in his voice. She gave herself a mental shake. Wishful thinking was not going to help impress him with her ability to be a partner. She had to respond to the world as it was.
She dropped into a return curtsy. “Thank you for dressing for dinner tonight, Martin.”
Chapter 18
Martin couldn’t tear his eyes away from Teresa as she sank gracefully into the curtsy, a vision in deep red. The last rays of the setting sun combined with the candles and the fire to caress her skin, drawing out the color in her cheeks and the golden highlights in her hair. Every inch of exposed skin glowed against the deep red of her gown and he wanted to pull her into his arms, to see if it felt as soft as it looked.
None of their previous encounters had prepared him for this siren standing before him. From the cascade of honey-gold curls to the gentle swell of her breasts and her wide, clear eyes, she easily ranked as one of the most beautiful women he’d ever seen — and yet somehow, the ton had missed her when declaring the ranks of the Incomparables.
Hell, he’d missed it and he’d danced with her. The transformation was stunning.
It also did an excellent job of undoing what little progress he’d made that afternoon in focusing on something other than how desperately he wanted to bed his wife. It had taken all of his willpower to pull back in the conservatory — her lips had been soft and warm under his fingers, just like he remembered from the night on the terrace, and he had wanted nothing more than to pull her into his arms and kiss her.
Only his awareness of how out of proportion his reaction was in comparison to the other women he’d slept with had kept him from doing so. He needed to sleep with her, yes, but every time he got close to her he found himself aware of far more than just her body — her smile, her eyes, what she was paying attention to, even what she might be feeling.
He wasn’t sure that was a good thing. He needed to bed her, soon, in the hopes that this obsession would fade. He’d tried to put distance between them for both their sakes — it was only gentlemanly to give her time and space as an innocent to understand what she was feeling — but there were limits.
Time for a new approach. He took her hand and raised it up to his mouth, placing a kiss on her knuckles. “The pleasure is mine, my lady.” Stepping back, he took a moment again to take in the full effect of her gown. “I hope I haven’t kept you waiting long. My meeting with Allsworth took longer than expected. Seeing you now, I wish I’d cut the meeting short.”
Teresa’s cheeks flushed and she looked away, her bashfulness a sharp and enticing contrast to the bold statement her gown made. Martin watched the color creep down her neck. Part of him wanted to follow it down, to discover how far it would reach. Instead, he stepped forward and extended his arm to escort her to the dinner table, acting the gentleman that she expected. Once she was seated, he settled into the seat opposite her.
Teresa motioned to the settings and cleared her throat. “I know Society dictates that we should sit at opposite ends of the table, but it seems rather silly to sit so far apart that we can’t have a conversation at a reasonable volume.”
“Sensible, if shockingly forward.”
She raised an eyebrow at him. “I didn’t think you cared what Society thinks. Or would think, if they heard of this.”
“I don’t.” Not that word of this was likely to filter back to London in the first place. “But being willing to disregard their opinion is not the same thing as being ignorant of what it would be.”
The door swung open, forestalling any response Teresa might have made as Russell appeared to direct the footmen carrying serving dishes. Once the dishes were on the table the servants withdrew.<
br />
The dinner was equal to any of the spreads he had encountered in London over the past several years, a clear sign that his cook had risen to the occasion of the first formal dinner for the lady of the house. Although Martin might prefer the simpler fare that normally came out of the kitchen, he could appreciate the work that had gone into this and found that despite being trapped inside his office all afternoon, his appetite was in fine form. Teresa seemed to be of a similar mind, despite her comments about conversation, as for several minutes the only break in the silence came from the sound of silverware on the plates and the movement of the footmen as they carried away empty dishes and presented new ones.
Finally Martin leaned back, his stomach pleasantly full. Looking across the table, he saw Teresa was toying with her wine glass, her plate likewise mostly empty. “The kitchen pays you tribute, I think. My return home rarely inspires such culinary efforts.”
She flushed again. “Your cook would have me believe otherwise. I think he merely appreciates an opportunity to test some of the recipes he reads about from London. He did seem relieved when I told him how much I enjoyed dinner and breakfast, so I think he’s happy to limit things like this to experiments and the occasional formal meal when we entertain.” She realized she was toying with her fork and set it down firmly on her plate. “I will be sure to tell him it was an exceptional meal, though. Much better than many I’ve had in London.”
“I agree.” Martin leaned forward, a conspiratorial smile on his face. “It’s not an accident that he’s here. I may choose which parties to attend during the Season based in part on who hired the best chefs for the year.”
Teresa tried to look stern, but her eyes were dancing with laughter. “For shame!”
“Admit it, you would too if you thought you could.” He lowered his voice. “I went to Lady Stiltwick’s dinner party to start the Season this year. I thought the food couldn’t possibly be as bad as I had remembered it, it had been so long since I’d been to one. I didn’t think it could possibly be worse.”
Entangled with the Earl (Tangled Threads Book 1) Page 16