Page 12 of The Baroness of Sin
“My Lady, I…” James began to stutter and searched for the right words to form an apology, yanking his hand away. He began to move down the bench in a panic.
“Lord Barristen, I speak in jest,” Martha said with a laugh and tapped the bench again for him to slide closer.
“Oh, of… of course,” James said with an uncertain nod which made Martha laugh all over again. She made up for her slightly mean joke by waiting for him to place his hand by her leg again before she began playing.
That same hand would eventually find its way to her knee and then her thigh. James, still unsure of the boundaries of this style of relationship, moved no further. Instead, he simply enjoyed the sensation of squeezing her thigh, pressing into to the fabric of her dress with his strong hand.
It was a good thing he went no further, but not because Martha found his touch unwelcome. She did, however, find it distracting, and if he had been too forward it would have made playing very difficult.
Playing the piano, that is.
Chapter Ten
Despite the agreement that the Lord and Lady had come to, not much more happened that evening. They were able to find that comfortable ease that often accompanied their socializing. That was one of the things that Martha enjoyed right away about Lord Barristen, talking to him was surprisingly easy, even as the tension mounted between them.
She was surprised at how content she was at the end of the night of piano music. A simple night but pleasant. She had chosen to dress rather risqué in the hopes that it would encourage him. Encourage him to do what, she wasn’t exactly sure. She didn’t know what a passionate and loving gentleman did differently from the admittedly unskilled advances of her former husband. The feeling she got from the Earl’s simple touches on her leg already demonstrated a world of difference in sensation.
James really had been a perfect gentleman all night considering she had all but thrown herself at him. He did touch her, true, and he also allowed his gaze to linger over her exposed flesh as she played the piano. She could feel him looking at her each time he thought she wouldn’t notice. In any other circumstances, the scandal would have left her repulsed. But for the first time in her life the idea of a gentleman looking at her with possibly carnal interest was exciting.
She desperately wanted to reach out and touch him, to grasp his larger hands in hers and to feel his arms pull her closer. More than that, even if she wasn’t exactly sure what “more” meant. But no matter how forward she had managed to push herself with this Lord, she couldn't bring herself to initiate anything physical that night. It went against everything she was taught as ladylike, even more so than the rules she had already flaunted.
So instead, much to her own chagrin, she spent the rest of their wonderful evening in agony. She sat and silently wished as hard as she could that each touch would linger longer and go farther. She didn’t have any particular touch in mind, just wanted to simply feel the strength of his fingers grasp her or even their touch on her skin. It got so unbearable her breath would hitch in her throat every time his hand would shift. It seemed like each time his hand would begin to slide somewhere more intriguing, it would stop and move in another direction.
The next day, after her heart had slowed and her mind had cleared, she felt so foolish. To wish for something so scandalous, and to wish for it so desperately, she was ashamed. Martha couldn’t believe all the things she had said to Lord Barristen. More than once, she forced herself to stop writing a letter to try and explain things as a terrible misunderstanding, and she tore up more than one copy of the letter. She refused to let herself sabotage her chances with the Earl, no matter how embarrassed she felt now.
After some time, Martha instead started to draft plans for their next engagement. It was true that it was far too soon, but who else would be in their company to judge them? She knew enough of Lord Barristen’s reputation to know he was reclusive in his social habits, and the only member of society she saw with any regularity was her sister, who she hoped wouldn’t judge her harshly.
She paused, the scratching of her pencil slowing as she thought. Would it be possible for Lord Barristen to think of her as too forward in this regard? After all, as far as she knew, he had not chosen to pursue any sort of courtship for years since his wife had passed. Perhaps she was after something he wasn’t interested in sharing, and he was too polite to say otherwise. Perhaps that was why he was slow to warm to her advances.
She chewed her lip in concern. Was this what infatuation was like? Rapid movement between highs and lows? She felt desperate, almost feverish. Questions fired rapidly through her head. Wouldn’t he have said something if he wasn’t interested? How could someone as handsome as him be interested in her?
After another moment of indecision, she pressed onward with the letter. She may not have been brave enough to initiate touch on her own, but she had been the one managing the conversation they were having. If that meant she would have to ask him directly about his thoughts on the matter, then so be it. Clearly, accepting his passive silence was something that she could not reconcile within herself. She was done with staying silent; she had enough of that in her old life.
Martha closed her eyes and let the anger pass. She wasn’t mad at the Earl. He was probably just as uncertain in all of this as she was, and she knew he wasn’t the source of her anger. Far from it. With a deep breath, she folded the letter and rose to deliver it to Letty so the maid could pass it on.
What would be would be, and she would have to accept that. This thought was soothing, but it didn’t stop the butterflies from flitting around in her stomach for the rest of the day.
* * *
There were few people in James’ life who had ever called him foolish. The stable master had when he was nine, and he had almost gotten his head caved in while standing behind a particularly skittish workhorse. His first solicitor had when he made some risky, if profitable, moves early in his career of financial independence. That was all James could pull to memory.
But now, as he sat in the bathtub the morning after his lovely evening with Lady Carrington and watched the mirror slowly defog as the water grew cooler around him, he felt like the biggest fool in all of England. The look he saw on his face said it all.
The Lady had told him what they could have in each other, asked him to sit next to her, and dressed so that her bare and exposed neck was only a hair's breadth away. And what had he done in response? Absolutely nothing. Acted like a perfect gentleman the entire evening. And he could tell himself, again and again, that was what he was supposed to do, but he knew that was a lie. The lady had been very vulnerable to him, exposed a want, a need that he could understand more than anyone else in the world, and he had held back.
Was he not ready? This was the question that pulled and prodded in his mind as the water went from lukewarm to barely tolerable. He knew that he had abandoned the possibility of love; he could accept that. It wasn’t in the cards for him. But socializing with an attractive lady? Was that something that his heart would allow?
She was more than desirable; there was no doubt about that in James’ mind. Just thinking about her made his heartbeat quicken and his blood feel overly warm beneath his skin. He thought the image of her in that low cut dress would stay with him for a very long time. In fact, it was only the growing chill of the bathwater that kept it from having more of an effect on him now.
Then he felt like a fool all over again. He had wanted to touch her more. All night, he felt his hand straying, wanting to do more than simply feel the fabric of her skirt over the lovely softness of her thigh. To even caress the bare bend of her wrist as she played would have delighted him so much more. Had his cowardice simply beaten him?
“Is it cowardice to hesitate to climb on a horse when one hasn’t ridden several seasons? Is it fear that causes a scholar to hesitate to put his pen to paper on a subject he hasn’t studied in many a year?” he reasoned with himself aloud. He found speaking his thoughts helped him a great deal but was often too embarrassed to do it anywhere but private.
“No, to be uncertain due to a lack of practice is natural. You haven’t... socialized with a lady in a long time. A very long time. Hesitation isn’t weakness; it's pragmatism.” he told himself.
Hearing him tell himself this out loud did soothe his worries, at least for a time and even bolstered him to feel as if nothing were wrong. All of that, the pride and the determination, was immediately shattered when the letter from Lady Carrington arrived later that day. It was another invitation.
Chapter Eleven
