Page 18 of Never Tempt a Widow

Chapter Nine

Rowland rolled up the map he’d been examining and steeled himself for another night spent not touching Fina. He had now endured almost four weeks without making love to his new wife and was driven mad with the effort. He fully expected to be confined in Bedlam by the end of the month.

The nights had been the worst. On their wedding night, he’d teased her by placing his sword between them. He hadn’t done it since, and she hadn’t asked—they both knew she cared too much about Edgar to draw his father’s blood. Every night, though, he’d offered to hold her, just to warm her when she came back to bed with her teeth chattering.

And every night, she’d refused his offer. Even when Edgar had had her out of bed so long that she must feel like an icicle. It was probably just as well—if she had any idea how brutally his body was assaulted with need for her, she’d put the sword right back again. Lust stalked his nights, stealing his sleep.

But she wasn’t ready for him. She’d been taken by force, and that must have left deep scars. He’d tricked her into sharing his bed, but he couldn’t trick her into accepting his body. He would need to work up to that gradually. Very gradually, employing infinite patience and sensitivity. It was a continuous struggle, especially as Fina seemed to grow more beautiful by the day, but he must curb his desires as best he could, lest he frighten her away. And he couldn’t bear the thought of that.

Now that he and she were lawfully united, he made sure they were seen together. It salved his pride to have the world believe theirs was a genuine love match, for why else would a nobleman wed an apparent nobody unless he were besotted with her? He squired her around the village when the weather permitted and took her and Edgar on perambulations of the grounds. He ate every meal with her and joined her each evening after dinner to converse about the news, discuss the latest books, and show her some of his designs for drainage machinery.

To please her, he had designed a memorial tablet for her daughter, Adelina, and ordered Hadham’s stone mason to make it up as fast as possible. Fina and Rowland had stood side by side as the tablet was built into the east wall of the church—and he’d been permitted to hold her hand. She had reserved her tears of gratitude for the privacy of their home, and he’d held her gently, comforting her and hoping he wasn’t betraying Lavinia’s memory.

He’d given Saxon back to Fina as a bride gift, and in return for his efforts, she’d become a dutiful wife and housekeeper. She actually seemed to enjoy her various tasks and showed a particular interest in the gardens. He had gloomy expectations of “improvements” come spring.

What had truly melted his heart was her obvious love for Edgar. He saw it shining in her eyes whenever she looked at the child and saw it in her expression every time that she held him. No painting of a doting Madonna and Child could equal the devotion that blazed in Fina’s eyes.

If she were ever to look at him like that, it would not be unacceptable.

Of Felix, he’d heard nothing. The young man was doubtless still sulking about the wedding, hating the idea of a mysterious stranger nurturing his nephew and replacing his dead sister. Was he pursuing his discreet enquiries into Fina’s background? Rowland rather hoped he wasn’t. An uncomfortable scandal lay hidden in his wife’s past, and he wasn’t ready to face it. He was content, for now, to enjoy the Fina he knew, not the one that he didn’t.

It had been cold this morning—despite it being mid-March—when he and Fina had ridden out to inspect the watermill on his land. Through a haze of early mosquitoes, they’d watched the miller and his sons tapping the wheel with wooden mallets to free it. They’d stayed a long time because he was trying to think of a better way to keep the waterwheel moving—Fina’s nose had been red with cold by the time they returned, and she’d been bitten several times by the mosquitoes. Assaulted by guilt, he’d made a fuss of her, ordered a hot brick for her feet, a warming posset from the kitchen, and had the fire made up in the parlour—a small room and therefore easier to heat. Its tapestried walls dispelled draughts, and new shutters had been added the previous year—they were the best fitting ones in the entire house.

Fina had suffered a fit of coughing, complained of being tired, and after an early dinner—of which she ate but little, had sought their bed. He’d sat awhile in his study, unrolling maps and rolling them up again, drawing meaningless circles with a pair of compasses, and generally failing to do anything useful toward progressing his land drainage scheme. Giving up the unequal struggle, he opted to retire early, too.

When he entered their dimly illuminated bedchamber, he found Edgar slumbering in his cradle. He kissed him gently, anxious not to wake him. Then he approached the bed and stared at Fina. She lay on her back, her face as pale as the pillows, and her lustrous golden locks tucked away in her nightcap. One day, maybe, he’d be permitted to give his wife a goodnight kiss.

He’d always planned to do far more, as he’d warned her before they wed, but despite the trauma of his restless nights and urgent desires, he’d made no move. She was afraid of men. He’d seen it in her skittishness when they’d been in Hadham village and when they’d ventured into town. She examined every stranger they met from the anonymity of her fur-lined hood—she didn’t know he’d noticed, and they hadn’t spoken of it. Yet.

Was it the male sex as a whole that she despised? Were they all worthless beings to her? Mayhap it was only the touch of a man that terrified her—she’d been used and abused, then discarded. Did she feel that she’d no longer be whole if she gave herself to him? She would no longer feel clean?

Fina’s eyes flickered open, and colour stained her cheeks. “You’re staring at me.” Her voice sounded hoarse.

“Just concerned for your health. Is looking not permitted?”

Her mouth quirked up at the corners. He liked it.

“I can’t stop you looking at me. Especially if you do it while I’m asleep. How is Edgar?”

She shifted up to her elbows, but he pushed her gently back again, his fingers tingling where he’d touched her. “He’s fine. I checked.”

“May we have another quilt? It’s so cold tonight.”

She had asked for an additional quilt many times, and he’d always offered his body as an alternative—and far better—way of warming her. He’d always been met with a polite refusal and had, with a fake show of ire, trudged off to fetch the extra bedclothes.

Hearing the chatter of her teeth, he didn’t bother making his usual offer. He just went and got the quilt, adding his caped coat and banyan on top, for good measure.

“That ought to be enough to warm you up.”

She smiled her thanks and averted her head as he undressed and slid into bed.

“Good night, Husband.”

“Good night, Wife. Until the baby wakes.” This had become their regular nightly exchange, soothing in its familiarity.

He lay, eyes closed, ready for his regular battle with temptation, fighting the primal lure of female flesh and the fundamental urges of the male. He ought to apply for sainthood, lying here wakeful every night, overcoming the demon lust, giving Fina the time she said she needed. Sometimes, he felt the effort was killing him.

“Husband—I’m still cold.”