Wedding the Widow

by Jenna Jaxon

  “So you believe Lord Stephen is smiling down upon you and the Earl of Lathbury?” Elizabeth couldn’t help her arch tone. Fanny and Lathbury’s affair had been the subject of many of the ton’s on-dits since Lady Beaumont’s masquerade ball last June.

  “Stephen lost all rights to complain about my behavior with Lathbury—or any other man, come to that—long before he died.” Fanny squeezed the white napkin in her lap until her knuckles looked as though the bones would break through the skin. “I hope he looks down on Ella, and me, and Lathbury quite often.”

  “How has Ella coped with her father’s death?” Fanny seldom spoke of her daughter. So much so that Elizabeth often forgot her friend had a child at all.

  “As well as can be expected when she scarcely knew she had a father.” The bitter words set Elizabeth’s teeth on edge.

  “Oh, Fanny.”

  “Stephen was a neglectful husband and father. Everyone knew that. However, Ella was quite taken with Lord Lathbury when he came to call. So perhaps she is capable of affection toward a . . . father figure.” An odd, worried frown creased Fanny’s brow.

  “That’s a good thing, isn’t it, my dear?” Elizabeth paused to sip her tea and contemplate Fanny’s puzzling expression. “If, of course, you are serious about his lordship. It is good that she seems ready to accept another man in her father’s place.”

  Fanny shook herself, as if coming out of a reverie. “Yes, of course it is.” Her face settled into pleasant lines once more. “Have you spoken to the twins about the possibility of your marrying again?”

  With a sigh, Elizabeth poured another cup of tea and selected one of the pink sugar cakes. “Yes, and they were not happy with the suggestion.” Their pinched, woebegone faces came instantly to mind. “They don’t want another papa.”

  Her friend waved the objection away with a careless hand. “They are about the same age as Ella, are they not?”

  “Maybe some months younger.”

  “Then they will come to accept it.” Fanny shrugged. “They need not love the man, but if they respect him as a father, that should suffice. And if they see you are happier with him than without, they will be content. Losing a father at such a young age means they will remember little as they grow older. Another man in the house will seem natural and give them the stability they need.” She gave Elizabeth a long look. “It will also give you a firmer place in society from which to launch them when they are older.”

  Sipping thoughtfully, Elizabeth pondered Fanny’s words. It might sound like good advice when spoken of fleetingly in a tea shop, but she feared her friend simplified the very serious matter of bringing a new man into their lives. Then of course, there were her particular circumstances with Lord Brack. Would she ever be able to forget that horribly embarrassing scene? “I suppose I will simply wait and see what happens when and if we meet at Charlotte’s wedding.”

  “I suppose so.” Fanny finished her cup and leaned forward, a twinkle in her blue eyes. “Now, shall we return to Wilding’s and purchase that delectable gold cloth and lace? You will need to look ravishing if you want Lord Brack to ravish you.”

  “Fanny.” Elizabeth smiled ruefully and shook her head. Her friend acted like a dog with a bone, and was not going to let it go under any circumstances. “We will see when the time comes. However, I believe you are correct about the gold gown. It will be perfect for Charlotte’s wedding, whoever sees me in it.”

  They rose, and Fanny shook out the umbrella and stepped out into the now misting rain. “I think three yards will be quite enough if you—”

  “Fanny! Dear God. Turn around.” Elizabeth dragged her friend to stand in front of her, facing her, shielding her from the few people hurrying their way down the sidewalk.

  “Elizabeth, what is wrong?” Twisting her head to and fro, Fanny gazed about.

  “Lord Brack!” Elizabeth nodded violently to her left, behind Fanny, where a tall gentleman, who could be taken for no one else but Lord Brack, had stopped to speak to an acquaintance. If only he hadn’t seen her yet.

  “Where?” Fanny turned all the way around. “Aha. I told you he would seek you out.”

  “Oh, do hush, Fanny. I cannot meet him.”

  “Why ever not?” Fanny peered at her suspiciously. “Is there something you’re not telling me, Elizabeth?”

  “Yes, but there’s no time for it now.” Elizabeth cast her gaze up and down the crowded street, searching for their carriage. Panic such as she had never known choked her throat. “I am going to run for the carriage. If he sees me and tries to pursue, please, I beg of you, detain him. I simply cannot speak with him.”

  “Very well.” With a piercing look at her, Fanny nodded. “But I shall call tomorrow, and you will tell me everything.”

  Sighing deeply, Elizabeth nodded. “I promise. I shall send the carriage back for you directly I am home.”

  “I will return to Wilding & Kent; send Markson there.” Her friend gave her a shove. “Now hurry. He just glanced our way.”

  Without a thought for the rain, Elizabeth darted down the street, dodging her way between pedestrians, praying her ankle wouldn’t turn in the slippery mud that had washed up onto the pavement in patches. Why had Lord Brack turned up in pursuit of her against her wishes? And how was she going to avoid him?

  Elizabeth spied the carriage in the next street and quickly clambered in as soon as the footman opened the door.

  “Home and quickly, Markson. Lady Stephen has remained to finish her shopping. You must take me home, then return for her.” Breathless, Elizabeth fell back against the familiar seats of the family landau.

  “Are you ill, Mrs. Easton?” Markson peered down at her through the trap.

  “A sudden megrim only. I will be fine once I’m at home.” And out of sight of Lord Brack. Oh, pray he had not seen her. Though she assumed he knew quite well where she lived.

  “Very good, madam.” Markson dropped the trap, and immediately they began to move out into the traffic.

  Elizabeth breathed a sigh of relief as Markson wound their way homeward through the busy London streets, though her thoughts spun from one subject to the next and back again. Lord Brack had arrived in London. Sooner or later, he would surely appear at a ball or a dinner party or call on her at Worth House. She simply could not see him, not when the moment she looked in his face she’d remember last Saturday night. No. She’d simply plead illness and refuse all invitations. Eventually, he’d understand she’d meant every word of her letter.

  That decision made, her traitorous mind spun back, and her friend’s words in the tearoom buzzed in her brain, like a swarm of busy bees. People had noticed her and Lord Brack’s mutual attraction. Such a match would be perfectly acceptable to the ton, even though they were rather close in age.

  She shifted uncomfortably on the black leather seat, crossing her ankles, wanting to cross her legs. Their slight gap in age might have had something to do with the intensity of the passion they had shared in bed the other night. Why would her thoughts bend that way? More chilling to ask, had she ever experienced that deep a connection with Dickon? A disloyal question, perhaps, but her core throbbed even now at the memory of Lord Brack filling her so intently over and over.

  The mere thought almost set her body on fire, and she leaned one cheek against the cool glass to try and calm herself. Lord, how could she have such wanton thoughts about a man to whom she was not married? In the middle of the day and in public? Did these wild fancies mean she wished to marry him?

  While she tried to wrap her mind around the absurdity of that last question, Markson stopped the carriage and opened the door. The cold air helped with her blazing cheeks as she climbed down, although images of Lord Brack’s smiling face at dinner, at the Bull, and most of all, in her bed whirled around her head in a dizzying array. His kindness to his sister and her obvious adoration of him spoke candidly about his nature. No one since Dickon had ever been so attentive toward her in all ways. He was simply the perfect gentleman, if
not for that one moment between them.

  “Thank you, Markson. If you would return for Lady Stephen, please?” A shame she’d had to abandon Fanny, but it could not have been helped. Fanny would undoubtedly get her revenge when next they met.

  “Yes, Mrs. Easton.” The coachman touched the horses, and they trotted away once more.

  Entering Worth House, she handed her pelisse to the butler. “Where is Mama, Tawes?” She stripped off her gloves and handed them to him as well.

  “In the small drawing room, Mrs. Easton.”

  Elizabeth nodded as she started up the stairs to the first floor. A cup of tea would refresh and calm her jangled nerves.

  “Mama, Mama!” Shrieks from the landing overhead rent the quiet air. The twins raced pell-mell down the staircase, hurtling toward her.

  “Children! What is going on?” She made a grab for the banister just in time.

  Colin seized her about the waist, while Kate flung herself at her left arm.

  Elizabeth barely caught the child, pulling her body toward the banister, clinging to it for dear life. “Gracious, Kate.” She set the girl down, automatically straightening her pale blue gown. “You could have knocked me down the stairs. We’d all have gone over like ninepins.” Colin wasn’t about to escape her censure either. “I will not have you running about like an ill-bred ruffian. Where is Nanny? You must never do that again, do you understand me?”

  Colin’s eyes brimmed with tears. “But I was so happy to see you, Mama. You haven’t come to see us for ages and ages. I wanted you to play with us today, but Grandmama said you had gone out. You only come to kiss us good night sometimes.” Two large tears rolled down his sweet face and plopped onto her hand. “Don’t you love us anymore?”

  Her heart lurched, as though a giant hand had squeezed it. “Oh, Colin.” She sat right down on the stairs, pulling him into her arms. “Of course, I love you, my dear.”

  “You never tuck us in or read to us or tell us stories,” Kate whimpered, clutching her closer. “When Papa was here, you did that every night.”

  “I’m so sorry, my loves.” She rocked them from side to side, trying to stifle her own tears, which threatened to pour down any second. Since moving into her parents’ home, she’d let her mother persuade her to spend less time with the children. A family tradition, to be sure, and the way she and her brother and sisters had been raised. But it had not been the way she and the twins’ father had wanted it. They had been a true family while Dickon had been alive. With God’s help, they would be so again.

  “Well, my dears, I will remedy that, I promise you. Beginning tonight.” She would too, so help her. Hugging both children close, Elizabeth sighed, imagining the fierce battle to come with her mother. Lady Wentworth always expected to get her way. Either she found a way to stand up to her mother, or she would need to marry again and set up her own household. Neither choice filled her with confidence, but the children had to be her greatest concern. She must be resolute for them.

  Chapter 7

  Plucking up his courage, Jemmy rapped smartly with the brass lion’s-head door knocker at Worth House. He’d nearly turned back twice on his way from his lodgings, but faint heart never won fair lady, so he’d continued on today, despite yesterday’s disappointment.

  When he’d impulsively decided to follow Elizabeth to London, he hadn’t formed any sort of plan of what to do; he’d just known it to be right that he pursue her. Arriving in London late at night, he’d taken up his old lodgings in Grenier’s Hotel. The following day, he’d gone to Jackson’s Saloon with an old friend, Lord Fendrick, whom he’d met at breakfast, and had emerged from that establishment to see Lady Stephen Tarkington standing in front of Fitzroy’s. He’d hailed her, and when she turned toward him, he’d had the barest glimpse of a female figure running for a carriage, in a blue spencer with gold braid across the back that looked suspiciously like Elizabeth’s.

  By the time he’d caught up to Lady Stephen, the woman had gone. It had been on the tip of his tongue to inquire if the fleeing lady had been Elizabeth; however, the idea that she would run from him was so distasteful he instead turned the conversation toward Lady Cavendish’s coming nuptials. After a few minutes’ chat, he’d said good afternoon and left, determined to call on Elizabeth the very next morning.

  After three sharp raps, he let the knocker fall, and immediately the door opened to reveal a thin, elderly butler with a ruddy face. “My lord?”

  “Is Mrs. Easton at home this morning?”

  “I am sorry, my lord. She is not.”

  Damn. So much for dithering. She’d likely gone out to pay calls already. With a sigh, Jemmy seized his card case, plucked out one of the smooth white cards, and handed it to the servant. “Please make certain she knows I called.”

  “Of course, my lord.” The butler bowed and retreated, then shut the door.

  As Jemmy turned to go, a movement of the drapes at a second-story window drew his attention. The poor light of the overcast day didn’t allow him more than the glimpse of a figure; there was no way to tell who had watched his exchange with the butler. Nothing for it now but to return to Grenier’s or perhaps his club. There’d be chaps at White’s who could tell him what entertainments he should beg invitations to if he wanted to pursue Elizabeth. And he intended to pursue his widow until he could press his suit face-to-face.

  * * *

  Hemmed in on his right by two elderly dowagers and buffeted on his left by a bevy of young ladies giggling together, Jemmy peered around Lady Dalrymple’s elegant town house in search of Elizabeth. To gauge by the crush of people present, the lady’s rout was a stunning success. From the drawing room, where strains of harp music and a burble of conversation emanated, to the morning room, where card tables filled with players dotted the deep blue Aubusson carpet, to the glittering dining room he’d just slipped into, filled with delicious aromas, the ton had certainly turned out in force.

  White’s had indeed borne fruit. His friend, Lord Bolton, had informed him of Lady Dalrymple’s rout this evening and had insisted he accompany him to the party. Bolton had assured him that most of the ton had been invited and would likely be in attendance at one time or another during the evening. Enough encouragement to keep Jemmy’s hopes alive.

  Now, having made his way to into the final room without catching sight of his quarry, Jemmy shrugged and picked up a plate from the sideboard. Might as well keep up his strength. The hunt for Elizabeth might take quite some time. He filled his plate with a smattering of route cakes, lobster patties, tongue, sliced ham, and a seed cake. No places being vacant at any of the tables in the room, he made his way to a corner, next to a pillar with a bust of Athena where he could rest his glass of wine, and set himself to eating the lot.

  “Good evening, Lord Brack.” Miss Smythe-Herringford smiled up at him from the tiny table in front of him. “How wonderful to see you back in London. We had quite given you up, hadn’t we, Charles?” She nodded to her brother, Lord Penthorpe, also an acquaintance.

  “Indeed, Brack. Where have you been keeping yourself?” Penthorpe forked an entire lobster patty into his mouth.

  “Good evening, Miss Smythe-Herringford, Penthorpe. I didn’t think I’d been away that long. I did go to Brighton for a time at the end of the Season and to a house party in Kent this past week.” Jemmy glanced around, but no one new had entered the dining room. “I suppose I have neglected my duty here in London. My apologies, Miss Smythe-Herringford.” He smiled at the young lady and took a bite of ham.

  “I am so glad to know you are back. I’ll be sending out invitations to my evening of cards next week. You will promise to come, won’t you, my lord?” The lady’s deep brown eyes widened, her pink bowed lips in a seductive smile. Miss Smythe-Herringford had made no secret of her admiration for him earlier in the Season. Apparently, nothing had changed in that regard.

  “I will be delighted to attend if I am still in Town.” Jemmy bit into a lobster patty, savoring the sweet, creamy lobst
er and the flaky pastry as a way to curtail his conversation.

  “I shall count upon it, then, my lord.” A smug smile spread across Miss Smythe-Herringford’s pretty face. “You must sit down to whist with me and Charles first thing. Who can we ask to make up a fourth, Charles?” The young woman tried to catch her brother’s eye, though he continued to be distracted by the rapidly disappearing contents of his plate.

  Popping the final bite of the luscious lobster patty into his mouth, Jemmy glanced up at the doorway just as Elizabeth Easton stepped through, a beautiful smile on her lips. Gasping at the sudden manner in which his most earnest wish had come true, Jemmy promptly choked on the flaky crust. “Mrs. Easton,” he croaked, coughing to dislodge the bits of pastry stuck in his throat.

  Elizabeth raised her head, searching the room, then her eyes met his. Her face paled, her eyes widened, and she whirled around, fleeing the room in a swish of bronze taffeta.

  “Mrs. Elizabeth Easton, do you mean?” Miss Smythe-Herringford asked, head cocked to the side. “I’m not certain she is on the guest list. Do you know, Charles?”

  Jemmy lurched forward, thumping his plate on the table in front of the startled Penthorpe, and bolted from the room. Or tried to bolt. The crush of people seemed to have all gotten hungry at once and moved en masse into the dining room, blocking his access to the door. He twisted and turned, trying to press against the flow of guests. Grasping the doorjamb, he pulled himself into the card room in time to see Elizabeth, now in the music room, speak to an older woman, her mother perhaps.

  The elder woman shook her head, and Jemmy took heart. Perhaps she would detain Elizabeth long enough for him to speak to her. He renewed his struggles against the horde of attendees. Buffeted to and fro, he at last gained the music room, where he peered about, looking for Elizabeth, but without success. He had lost her again. With forlorn hope, he made his way to the front door on the chance that she waited there for her carriage.

  “Do you know if Mrs. Easton has left the party? The Worth family carriage?” he asked the footman on duty just outside on the porch.