Wedding the Widow

by Jenna Jaxon

  “If Lord Brack is not chasing you, why are you fleeing him?” Fanny cocked her head and gave her a smug smile. “I saw him leave you just now, reluctance in every line of him. Did he write you that he was back in Town?”

  “No, he never wrote at all.” The bitterness in her voice surprised her. Had she truly wished Lord Brack to continue his pursuit of her? Time and her family circumstances may have shifted her desires, although the humiliation of that night still had her tied in knots. “You know I gave him to believe I didn’t want him to continue his attentions to me.”

  “Then why are you upset that he abided by your wishes?” Fanny peered into her face, then grabbed her arm. “Let us go to the ladies’ retiring room. I believe there is more to this tale than you have told me, and therefore not something that should be spoken where it might be overheard.”

  They strolled into the room set aside for the ladies, fortunate to find only two young girls there, just out and whispering together in a corner. They giggled, dipped a curtsy, and scampered out to the ballroom.

  Fanny led Elizabeth to a bronze silk chaise and dropped gracefully down onto it. “Now, what exactly has been going on between you and Lord Brack?”

  “Well . . .” Elizabeth gnawed at her lip. Could she admit to Fanny something so embarrassing? Truly, she needed guidance from someone, and if any of her friends could give her advice about something so intimate, it was Fanny. “Lord Brack . . .”

  “Yes?” Fanny leaned toward her, eyes intent.

  “Lord Brack and I . . .” She couldn’t say it, not even to Fanny.

  “Lord Brack did what, for heaven’s sake? Kiss you and slip in his tongue? Is that what has given you an attack of the vapors?” Fanny laughed.

  Elizabeth pursed her lips. “Something more than that, although that certainly happened as well.” It had been a part of their encounter she had actually liked. The trouble was she had liked all of it—up until the very end.

  “Something more?” Fanny’s eyes bulged. “You don’t mean you . . .” She fanned herself briskly as though it were a hot summer’s night, her mouth hanging open. “Are you telling me you ended up in bed with him?”

  “Hush, for God’s sake!” Elizabeth grabbed her peacock fan and plied it faster than Fanny. Her cheeks burned like they’d been seared by the sun. “Yes, if you must know. The night of the Harvest Festival. It was a very strange evening.”

  “Strange does not begin to describe it, Elizabeth, if you ended up in bed with a man.” Fanny looked at her wild-eyed, as though she had grown two heads. “I’d have wagered a hefty sum you would be the last of our group to wed again. The thought you’d go to bed with a man without marriage never even crossed my mind.”

  What would she say to the next part of the confession?

  “That’s not the worst part of it.” Elizabeth hung her head. “There’s more.”

  “I am afraid to ask.” Fanny gazed out into the empty room and clenched her fist. “Was he rough with you? Did he hurt you?”

  “No, it was my fault.” How on earth could she confess this to Fanny?

  “Don’t let him make you think it is your fault, my dear, no matter what it was.” Grasping Elizabeth’s shoulders, she shook her until Elizabeth finally met her eyes. “It was not your fault.”

  “But it was! I called him Dickon. How is that not my fault?” Elizabeth hid her face in her hands, too mortified to hold her head up any longer. How could she face Lord Brack for this dance? Perhaps she should try to slip out the servants’ entrance and go home.

  “You called him Dickon?”

  Face still concealed, Elizabeth nodded, not daring to look up. “At the end,” she whispered.

  The silence lengthened until Elizabeth could no longer repress her sobs.

  Fanny’s hand touched her shoulder. “He’s forgiven you.”

  She jerked her head up, tears still falling. “I’m sure he cannot.”

  “Then why is he still pursuing you?”

  That question brought Elizabeth up short. She hadn’t thought of that. He should have been angry at her for that slip, but that didn’t explain why he pursued her to London last month, nor his behavior this afternoon or his insistence that they dance tonight. He could easily avoid her if he chose. Apparently, he did not.

  “I forgave Stephen a similar transgression the first time.” Hands clenched in her lap, Fanny gazed at a small, damasked sofa across the room. “And the second time. Not the third.”

  Cold chills raced down Elizabeth’s back. “My dear, I am so sorry for you.”

  “It doesn’t matter now.” Arching her neck, her friend smiled, a chilling sight. “I’ve gotten my revenge.” She shrugged and rose. “We must get you back to the ballroom so Lord Brack can claim his dance.”

  “Are men so truly forgiving?” Elizabeth stood, shook out her gown, and gripped her fan for courage.

  “Usually more so than women in these matters. Follow me.”

  * * *

  “What luck, my dear, to have drawn a waltz for our set.” Lord Brack’s twinkling blue eyes caught Elizabeth’s attention. He used that distraction to pull her close to him and lay his hand flat on her back.

  What had this roguish young man been up to while she’d been pouring out her troubles to Fanny?

  “Indeed, I did not believe Lady Braeton one to court scandal.” The intimacy of the waltz was said to be suited only to married couples. She now agreed wholeheartedly.

  “Not scandal, surely?” Brack took the opportunity of a whirling step to draw her body closer to him, tightening his arm around her.

  “Lord Brack!” How dare he?

  “Jemmy, if you remember.” Effortlessly, he steered them around the circle of dancers. Whatever he was, he was skilled on the dance floor.

  “Jemmy, then. You are holding me much too tightly.” Secretly, she found his nearness thrilling, though she couldn’t let him know that.

  “Nowhere near as tightly as I want to hold you.” He inched her even closer. “As I have done in the past.” He pressed his mouth close to her ear. “I remember holding you against me, all of you against all of me. Don’t you remember how lovely that felt, Elizabeth? Don’t you want to feel that again?”

  Gasping for breath, Elizabeth fought the surge of passion that threatened to overwhelm her merely by his closeness. She vividly remembered their bodies entwined on her bed, kisses raining down all over her neck and breasts. Heat exploded at her core, and she fought to continue dancing as though her body had not suddenly been engulfed in those flames once more. If she was to continue the charade, she must steer the conversation into safer waters.

  “I believe the past should remain in the past, Lord—”

  His eyes threatened to cut her like a finely honed blade.

  “Jemmy.” She eased away from him a trifle. Enough room to let her take a deep breath. “Could we please walk about the room? I am not used to dancing so much nor so fast.” She managed a cajoling tone and fluttered her fan before her face, both to conceal her eyes and to cool her as much as possible. The room itself seemed to exude heat.

  “Of course, my dear.” He immediately broke off the waltz and offered his arm. “Even though it took ten minutes of negotiating and a gold sovereign to arrange this dance with the orchestra leader.”

  “You didn’t?”

  “I most certainly did. How else could I guarantee I’d end up with you in my arms this evening?” He chuckled low in his throat and drew her arm through his.

  “You are much more devious than I imagined. At Lyttlefield Park, I would have said you were the perfect gentleman.” Instead, Lord Brack was turning out to be one of those gentlemen Mama had warned her about. The trouble was, she was no longer a young, inexperienced girl. Maybe she no longer needed to travel the safe path.

  “I can be your perfect gentleman, Elizabeth. A knight in shining armor who rescues you from an uneventful life—”

  “My life is not uneventful, I will have you know.” She rapped his arm with
her fan so sharply feathers flew.

  “I can guarantee I will make it more meaningful, more exciting than you ever dreamed.” He stopped at the far end of the ballroom near a set of closed French doors. “I wish the night was not so cool. We could take the air out on the balcony,” his voice became huskier, “and I could kiss you again.”

  “Lower your voice.” Thrilled and panicked at the same time, Elizabeth drew him further into the shadow of a huge potted plant. “You should not say such things.”

  “Perhaps I should just do them, then.” He grasped her head and pressed his lips to hers.

  For a confused moment, she leaned against him, stunned by his boldness. His lips were as she remembered them, incredibly soft, yet firm. Commanding. Caring. Then she pulled away, heart racing, unable to speak a word.

  “You do remember that night, by God.” Jemmy all but crowed.

  “Of course, I remember it, you fool.” Trembling, Elizabeth stepped back, her hands automatically going to her hair. If he’d mussed it, she would have to go home. She couldn’t spend the rest of the evening looking like a hoyden. “That doesn’t mean I wish to reenact it in the middle of a Harvest Ball.”

  “Does it mean you would you reenact it with me somewhere else?”

  The hope in his raspy voice touched a chord deep inside her, a need she’d been trying to deny ever since it had happened. But she couldn’t speak of such things in a public place. She could scarcely do so in the privacy of her boudoir. So switch to a safer subject and hope for the best. “Are you planning to attend Charlotte’s wedding next month, my lord? Surely, they wish to have you present, along with all the house party, save only Lord Fernly, Maria, and Lord Kersey.”

  “Yes, I suspect they would be personae non gratae after that scandalous performance at the last party.” He chuckled. “A very interesting evening for all concerned, don’t you think?”

  Drat. Here they were, right back onto the topic she wished fervently to avoid. She pushed on. “So you will be attending the wedding?”

  “I believe so.” He wove his fingers through hers. “Nash has asked me to stand as best man for him. I am proud to do it.”

  “I see.” Elizabeth wasn’t quite sure if that pleased her or not. “Georgina and Jane are to be Charlotte’s attendants.”

  “Yes, Georgie told me. But you will outshine the bride, my dear.” He squeezed her fingers, sending tingles up her arm.

  “You mustn’t say such things.” Danger lurked in his eyes. She untangled her fingers and stepped away.

  “What if it were true?”

  “What?”

  “What if you were a bride as well?” He grasped her hands and drew her back behind the plant. “If you married me, we could share Charlotte’s and Nash’s happiness, or be happy on our own day.”

  Elizabeth blinked, her voice caught in her throat. The room spun a little, and she clutched at him with numb fingers. “Jemmy, you can’t mean it,” she said, when she could finally draw breath.

  “But I do, my love.”

  “What about . . .” She clutched the fan so tightly the quills cracked. “What about Dickon?” It came out so low he had to lean forward to catch the word.

  “Your late husband?”

  She hung her head, blushing furiously. He had to know of what she spoke.

  “I believe I told you at the time I understood these things. You loved your husband.” He grasped her chin and raised her face to him. “I suppose that sort of thing must be expected sometimes when one marries a widow.” He chuckled softly. “A hazard of the widow’s bed, so to speak, but one I’m willing to risk if it means I can love you and be with you for the rest of my life.”

  “Jemmy.” The sweetness of his voice, the warmth of his hands, the pleading in his eyes overwhelmed her until she feared she might swoon.

  “Will you not even consider my proposal?”

  “I would.” Suddenly, she wanted to consider it with all her heart. But the niggling fear still rode her. “I would consider your suit if I didn’t believe that my . . . lapse”—an-other furious blush set her cheeks on fire—“means I am not done with grieving for my late husband yet.”

  What she actually feared most was not that she still grieved, but that she was ready to let go of that grief. She didn’t want to move on from Dickon, so kind, so loving, so familiar. Was she ready to leave him behind and step out into vast, uncharted territory of another man?

  He sighed, as though the weight of the world had descended on his shoulders, but looked her clearly in the eyes. “Then I pray you, do not give me an answer yet. Think about me, think about us, think that I only wish to make you happy, and give me your answer when we meet again for Charlotte’s wedding. Do you think you may be ready to give it by then?”

  Elizabeth ducked her head and nodded. In the four weeks between now and then, she would search her soul and give him an answer. “Do you remain in London? Might we see you at tea tomorrow?”

  Grinning, he wound her arm in his. “I was to return to Kent to shepherd Georgie here with Charlotte and Nash next week for a short shopping excursion. But I will arrange to meet them here instead, in order to avail myself of your excellent company at tea and perhaps another entertainment, before they arrive?” His countenance grew sober. “After the wedding, I hope to persuade my father to allow Georgie to return to Blackham. We’ve quite run out of options for her.”

  “I do wish my circumstances were different.” A wish she’d made time and again. “I would love to have Georgie come to me.”

  “Perhaps one day it will be possible to have her in our home.”

  Always kicking up a lark, this one. She flashed him a rueful smile. “Perhaps one day.”

  They had reached the entrance to the ballroom. His gaze lingered on her face, as if memorizing every feature. “I shall hope and pray for your answer. Remember our night together, but also the other times as well. Our dinner conversations, our dances, our trip into the village, and the Wrotham ale.”

  She laughed, almost tasting that nutty brew.

  “Remember all the times we have laughed together, and decide to live your life with me.” With a kiss on her hand, he bowed and strode quickly away, leaving Elizabeth to look after his retreating figure, speechless and as uncertain of her answer as ever before.

  Chapter 12

  St. George’s Church in Wrotham appeared vastly different to Elizabeth than it had that seemingly long-ago afternoon in August when she had first seen it. Then it had been a quaint empty stone building with lovely stained-glass windows and polished pews. Now it teemed with people from Wrotham village and the tenant farms, those pews tightly packed with faces eager to share in the joining of their beloved master and mistress as Charlotte and Nash wed.

  Masses of hothouse flowers from Wrotham adorned the altar in a colorful display of bright reds, deep golds, and purest white. Candles in every window sent a glow throughout the sanctuary. Elizabeth took her seat next to Fanny at the end of the front pew, spots reserved especially for them. Both of them, as well as Georgina and Jane, who stood at the altar as bridesmaids, would be right there to support Charlotte as she took her first steps into her new life with Nash as the Countess of Wrotham.

  It truly took a lot of courage to start life again, although Charlotte’s life as a widow had been much better than as the wife of Sir Archibald Cavendish. To give up her newfound independence—after years of being under the thumb of first her tyrannical father, then an odious husband—had been her friend’s hardest struggle. Her deep love for Nash, however, had finally won the day.

  Everyone stood as Charlotte entered the church on the arm of her father. No small miracle that. The two had been at odds for years. This concession, to make him a part of her wedding, had been another struggle for Charlotte. Having decided that she owed him some little credit for making her match with Nash, she had finally acquiesced and invited him to the ceremony. As she neared Elizabeth, she smiled brilliantly at her friend, then snapped her attention back to
the man who stood beside the vicar, waiting to make her happy at last.

  Elizabeth feared her own problem would be the opposite of Charlotte’s. Supposing Lord Brack could convince her that he had forgiven her disgraceful utterance and did indeed want to marry her, she worried that they could never achieve the stunning happiness she had known with Dickon. The radiant joy on Charlotte’s face as she approached her soon-to-be husband spoke of the strong bond that already existed between them.

  Her gaze strayed, naturally, from her friend to the man standing beside Nash. Lord Brack looked so elegant and dashing in his black morning coat, cut in excellent lines to show off his broad shoulders and lean build. The riotous mass of curly, honey-blond hair always made her want to smile. They made him seem so much a little boy, though in all other ways he was very much a man.

  She must have been smiling then because he sent her a dazzling smile in return, just as Charlotte reached the foot of the altar, and he turned, with Nash, toward the vicar, Mr. Moore. Her cheeks heated, but she continued to smile as she sat and the service began.

  “Dearly beloved, we have come together in the presence of God . . .”

  The words transported Elizabeth back to her own wedding to Dickon, almost eight years before. An affair much different than this one.

  He’d been Major Easton then, quite the dashing officer in his regimentals. Not that she’d fallen for a uniform, but he’d cut such a splendid figure the first time she’d seen him, she couldn’t help thinking him the handsomest of men. It hadn’t happened in a ballroom either, but on the parade grounds in Brighton, during an exhibition, where her family had gone immediately after her come-out Season. One look at him—sitting his horse like he’d been born in the saddle, chiseled features tanned by the bright sun, an air of dedication that bordered on a passion for a duty he loved—and her heart had been lost.

  She’d managed to discover his name from an old family friend who had military connections, had begged an introduction from this same friend, and made her interest in Major Richard Easton known to him during the first dance he had asked for. His deep blue eyes had widened when she had squeezed his hand and told him he must ask her for a second dance, and then a third, for she never wished to partner with anyone other than him ever again.