Page 12 of Never Tempt a Widow

Chapter Six

What a fool Fina had been, demanding that Rowland Cavendish marry her! Of course, he was bound to refuse—anyone in their right mind would have done. Right now, he didn’t want her because she couldn’t tell him her story. Yet if she did, he’d want her even less.

It had been a dangerous mistake. If she were to be wed to Cavendish, she’d be moving in elevated circles once again. Even though she was in far-distant Norfolk, someone might recognise her, someone might trace her back to her family. The last thing she wanted was for them, or Dundas, to find her. Far better to return to her lowly occupation and the obscurity of her peasant cottage.

By the time supper was brought in, Edgar was asleep in his cradle. She rocked it absently with her foot as she ate. The meal was varied and plentiful, such as she hadn’t eaten in almost a year. There was crabmeat in aspic, a blanched loaf, pickled mushrooms, honey, carrot pudding, and pease pottage. He meant to feed her up, did Sir Rowland Cavendish, but for the child’s sake, no doubt, rather than her own.

She blushed to think what she’d asked of him. But she knew what men were like—a devilishly attractive widower with an unmarried female under his roof was bound to take advantage. She’d learned a hard lesson after Dundas, but she’d learned it well. Marriage first, physical pleasure after. Despite the risks, what she’d asked of her employer was the only safe and comfortable future that she could envisage.

Replete after her generous meal, she glanced down and discovered Edgar was deeply asleep. Ceasing her rocking, she knelt by the cot and gazed at him. His features were evenly spaced, and his skin was purity itself—which was fortunate for him, considering his previous wetnurse was a drunkard. One tiny fist rested on the counterpane like a tightly curled rosebud. Unable to resist, she opened it carefully and let it wrap around her finger.

Ah, this child was not unblemished! There was a slight bend in the smallest of his fingers, angling the digit inwards. An accident soon after birth? Curious, she gently unfurled his other hand, and found the same peculiarity.

Adelina had suffered from flaky skin, but she’d had no birth defects. Edgar would have to deal with his bent little fingers throughout his entire life, but it shouldn’t be too much of a disadvantage—she hoped.

Brushing aside the painful memory of her daughter, Fina rose and went to the window. It was now pitch-black outside, hers the only window not yet shuttered. Shivering, she drew her cloak around her and watched as the lamplight turned the billowing flakes of snow to droplets of copper, like sparks flying out of a fire. The edges of the drive were already indistinct.

It looked like she’d be going nowhere for the next day or so, no matter how much she needed to escape this place and the two hot-blooded men sharing the same roof. If they were all to spend the next few days snowed in, she must be vigilant.

This would be less of a problem if she were no longer attractive, which seemed highly likely, after what she’d been through. But she didn’t know what she looked like anymore—she’d sold her tiny mirror months ago, and any vanity that remained to her had been quashed in the excitement of Adelina’s birth.

The door opened, and a man slipped inside.

A shudder ran through her at the sight of Cavendish, but she stayed where she was. At a pinch, she could escape through the window if he became amorous. But only if desperate.

He closed the door but barely glanced at her. Instead, he knelt by Edgar’s cradle and gently rocked his sleeping son.

Fina’s muscles relaxed but she neither moved, nor spoke. She was too distracted by the sight of him. He was dressed for bed, with silk slippers on his feet, an embroidered banyan wrapped around him, and a fashionable turban over his loosened hair. He’d been in a hurry— the banyan was unbuttoned above the waist, and his nightshirt hung open, revealing the powerful chest muscles beneath.

Her pulse skittered.

He stood and caught her staring at him. “If one could invent a device for rocking a cradle, it would save a good deal of effort, would it not?”

Her thoughts scudded to a halt. That was not at all what she’d expected him to say.

“This is an odd time of night for such a conversation, sir.”

He tossed his head back. “There’s no one else to talk to. Felix never listens to me when I spout ideas at him. I don’t expect you to, either, but I have to express them all the same. It’s a bad habit of mine, continuing to talk long after my audience has lost interest.”

She’d expected him to still be angry with her. This calm indifference was unsettling.

“Your shutters are still open.” He frowned and pushed past her, slamming them shut and dropping the bar into place. “And you should be in bed.”

He cocked his head towards the truckle bed in the corner. “Edgar will wake you soon enough when he needs you. You’ve not been treated to his bellow yet.”

Adelina had squealed rather than bellowed. Until her illness, when all she could do was whimper.

Cavendish stood just inches away from Fina and lifted her chin with a gloved finger.

“Such sadness in your eyes.” His voice was soft. “You have sinned and been punished, I take it.”

Why was he wearing gloves when he was in his nightclothes? “I won’t be offended by your bent little fingers, sir.”

His hand was swiftly removed, as she’d meant it to be, and he took a backward step. Then his scowl cleared. “Ah. You noticed it on Edgar. It can be easily proved that he’s my heir, at any rate.”

“Let me see. They can’t be so deformed that you need to hide them.” Why had she asked that? She needed this man to keep his hands to himself.

He shook his head. “It’s become a habit. Why do you keep staring at my chest? Perhaps you’d rather I kept that covered, too.”