Wedding the Widow

by Jenna Jaxon

  “Will it matter very much? Dickon is gone, my dear. Are you afraid his spirit will haunt you if you are happy once more?”

  A shudder rippled down Elizabeth’s spine. “You have no idea. Perhaps it has already been haunting me.”

  “Nonsense.” Rising from the bed, Charlotte released Elizabeth’s hand. “Dickon would want you to be happy, not to pine for him for all the rest of your days. He was not a selfish man.”

  “No, he was not.” She hadn’t looked at it that way before. “And I don’t believe he would want me to be sad and mourn him forever.”

  “Good. I hope that is settled in your mind.” Charlotte nodded and made for the door. “Why don’t you remain in bed this evening? I’ll send a tray up and make your excuses.” She turned back, her hand on the door handle.

  “That may be best.” Elizabeth slid her hand over her stomach, flat for now, but not for long. “I will have the evening to practice how I’m going to tell him that I’m carrying his child.”

  The door bounded inward, pushing Charlotte and making her stumble backward.

  Georgie fell into the room, her face red, her eyes round and wild. “I came to see how you were doing, Elizabeth. Jemmy sent me because he’s been going mad with worry ever since you swooned, but . . .” Georgie halted mid-sentence and stared at Elizabeth’s nightgown clad midsection. “I . . . I . . .”

  “Georgie, it is all right.” Charlotte put her arm around the distraught girl. “Elizabeth has just been telling me of her situation. She should tell you as well.”

  “I don’t think I want to know, Charlotte. Not if it will break Jemmy’s heart.” Burrowing into Charlotte’s shoulder, Georgie sniffed loudly.

  “I truly hope it will not break his heart, Georgie.” Trying not to smile at her friend’s mistaken assumption, Elizabeth eased out of the bed. “Not if I tell him I am almost sure I am carrying his child.”

  “Jemmy’s child?” Georgie’s head popped up off Charlotte’s shoulder, her mouth a large O. “But that is impossible. Jemmy told me you and he had had a falling out, that he didn’t know if you’d ever speak to him again.”

  “That is only partly true.” Elizabeth took her friend’s arm and led her back to the bed, motioning her to sit. “We did fall out several months ago; however, this happened before that, when we had grown very . . . close.” She eased over toward Georgie, who still stared at her with accusing eyes. “I would never dissemble about such a thing either to you or to Jemmy. I swear to you, I am increasing, and it is Jemmy’s child.”

  “Elizabeth!” Georgie launched herself into her friend’s arms. “I am so, so very happy for you. For Jemmy. I knew you couldn’t stay mad at him. He’s too wonderful for anyone to dislike for long.” She continued to hold her in a stranglehold.

  “I think I must agree with you, dear.” Disengaging the enthusiastic Georgie and standing her on her feet, Charlotte came to the rescue before Elizabeth came to harm. “Lord Brack has been most charming to me and to Elizabeth all through our acquaintance.”

  “Shall I go fetch him, Elizabeth?” Georgie bounded over to the door. “You’ll want to tell him straightaway. He’s downstairs drinking with Lord Lathbury, and neither one looks particularly happy.”

  “I am not sure Elizabeth is up to any more excitement this afternoon.” Charlotte put out a restraining hand. “She’s had a most exciting day.”

  “As have you, Charlotte. It’s your wedding day, don’t forget.” Elizabeth laughed as she slid back under the covers, thankful she could put off her meeting with Lord Brack just a little while longer.

  “I suspect Nash will not let me forget that for one second once I return to Wrotham Park.” Charlotte smiled and blushed. “I have vowed I shall have breakfast in bed tomorrow, as a proper married lady should.”

  “I suspect you will need your rest, Charlotte,” Georgie piped up.

  “Georgie!” Elizabeth laughed as the girl turned crimson-faced.

  “Well, I have been married too, you remember.” Poking the carpet with the toe of her green silk slipper, Georgie seemed to trace the blue and white pattern. “I know what men are like on their wedding night.”

  “I, however, do not, although I can make a guess.” Charlotte laughed and opened the door. “Thank you for the warning, Lady Georgina.” She winked at Elizabeth. “In any case, I am quite certain my husband will enlighten me shortly. Good night, Elizabeth. Georgie, I will see you at dinner at Wrotham Park.” Charlotte left, still laughing.

  “Do let Jemmy come see you, Elizabeth. He will be so thrilled. And you both will live happily ever after, just like in the fairy stories.” Georgie sighed contentedly, her smile and shining eyes making her look like a character from a fairy tale herself. “I hope I will get another chance at one.”

  “If I can, you certainly can, my dear.” Elizabeth hoped that was true. “However, I think I should let my news wait until the morrow. I would not want to overdo and have anything go amiss.”

  “Goodness no.” Georgie flew to the bedside. “I agree, you must rest.” Tucking the covers around Elizabeth, she continued to fuss over her. “I’ll make sure they send your tray up immediately. You must keep up your strength. And I’ll insist they send up hot soup. Nanny always gave us hot soup when we were under the weather. It was actually quite nasty stuff, but I daresay Charlotte’s cooks are better than ours.”

  Suppressing a grin, Elizabeth bit her lip before replying, “Thank you, Georgie. You are a true friend and a comfort.” She relaxed into the warm sheets. A good long sleep would do her worlds of good.

  “Will you write a note to Jemmy before you sleep? He is truly worried about you.” Georgie rummaged in the small writing desk in the corner and withdrew pen, ink, and paper, and returned to the bed looking like a hopeful puppy.

  “All right. If I cannot see him, I can write, but only to say I am not ill, only fatigued, and he is not to worry.” She took up the pen, using The Monk as a makeshift writing desk. “And I will ask to see him first thing in the morning,” she said, scratching quickly across the creamy paper. “However, you must promise me you will tell him nothing of what I have confided to you. This news must come from me and no one else.” She wafted the notepaper to and fro, then folded it in quarters.

  “I promise, on my honor, not to say a word, even though it will be direst torture for me to do so.” Georgie took the letter, that dreamy look coming over her face once more. “How peculiar that I know I am to be an aunt before Jemmy knows he is to be a father.” Beaming at Elizabeth, she fluttered her hand and hurried out the door.

  Elizabeth fell back on the pillows, quite as exhausted as if she’d danced every set at a ball. Something told her that feeling would not disappear for a very long time to come.

  * * *

  Staring into the amber swirls of his third whiskey since the wedding, Jemmy had to close his eyes against the dizzying speed. He’d be too foxed to go to Elizabeth if she did ask for him. Where the hell was Georgie? The clock ticking on the library’s mantel piece read just after four o’clock. His sister had been gone at least an hour. He couldn’t take much more of this waiting. The towering shelves of tomes that lined the room’s walls seemed to be closing in on him.

  His companion, Lord Lathbury, stared into the fire from the tall-backed leather chair across the room, a similar libation clutched in his hand. Probably his fourth of the afternoon. Lathbury hadn’t said a word after the ceremony, although beforehand he’d been quite jovial. Jemmy had seen him talking very animatedly to Lady Stephen after they’d put Elizabeth into the carriage. He’d been distracted by Elizabeth’s illness, but not so much that he didn’t recognize an argument when he saw one.

  Now the tall, square-shouldered earl sat in morose silence, drowning his sorrows, whatever they were, much like Jemmy. At least Wrotham had looked happy today, as a groom should. Jemmy only hoped he’d get the chance to find out himself.

  Glancing at the clock again—only five minutes had passed, which had to be wrong—he swore
he’d throttle Georgie if she ever made an appearance. At least those thoughts kept him from dwelling on what might be happening with Elizabeth.

  His heart must have actually stopped when she collapsed into the aisle at St. George’s. Wrotham had gotten to her first, sweeping her up into his arms and carrying her into the vicarage just behind the church.

  Jemmy’d waited an hour in the cold until she emerged, pale but walking on her own, with Lady George Tarkington at her side. He’d tried to get to her, but Georgie had restrained him. Irritation had mounted when he had arrived at Lyttlefield Park, only to be banished to the library to drink and wait. He took another sip. At this rate, he’d be bedding down here in the library, unable to make it to his room, much less Wrotham Park for dinner.

  The patter of running feet brought him to attention a moment before Georgina burst into the room waving a piece of paper.

  “Jemmy, Jemmy, oh, Jemmy.” She skidded to a stop in front of him. “I beg your pardon, Lord Lathbury. I didn’t know you were still here.” She curtsied to the brooding man, then looked to him expectantly.

  Lathbury rose to his full six-foot, three-inch height, bowed to them, and stalked out of the room, glass still clutched in his hand.

  Georgie’s eyebrows rose to new heights.

  “Don’t pay him any mind. Love trouble, if I don’t miss my guess. A hazard for this particular party, it seems.” Jemmy shook his head. Mistake. He set the glass down on the mantle. “Is that for me?”

  She nodded, eyes twinkling a fetching shade of green. “Do you want to know what it says?”

  He held his breath and nodded, his heart in this throat.

  “Well, I can’t tell you.”

  “What? Why not?” Was Elizabeth playing games with him with Georgie as a go-between?

  “Because I don’t know what she wrote, silly.” She held out the letter, and he snatched it, like it was a burning raisin in a game of Snapdragon.

  “Brat. You should be sent to bed without your supper.” He unfolded the note, trying to steady it enough to read.

  “You had best go change if you want to dine, brother. Besides,” her eyes twinkled mischievously, “I know more than what’s in that note.”

  “You said you didn’t know what was in it.”

  “I don’t know the exact words, but I know the gist of it and more.”

  “You do?” Jemmy read the note, drinking in the words like a man dying of thirst, only to stop short of the first sip. “She says she cannot see me tonight.” He had known she had not been well ever since that swoon.

  “She needs her rest, Jemmy.”

  No, she needed to see him, dammit. Unwillingly, he came back to earth. “I suppose she does need that. Did Putnam see to her? Did you learn anything else about how she does?” He stopped reading, only now realizing his sister’s earlier boast.

  “No and yes.” She put her hands behind her back, as though she was reciting in the schoolroom.

  “Georgina Celeste Abigail Cross Kirkpatrick, I will take a birch to you if you don’t tell me this minute—”

  “Really, Jemmy, you are too easily baited.” She laughed and plucked the letter from his fingers. “Did you see she asks to meet you in the morning? At breakfast.”

  “Yes, I saw that.” Jemmy sighed and unclenched his hands. He must remain calm. “But what else have you heard, Georgie? You must know I am on tenterhooks. Did you speak with her? Is she truly ill?” Why would no one reassure him of her good health? Fear gripped him at the thought she had fallen gravely ill.

  “I did talk with her, Jemmy.” The teasing look vanished from his sister’s face. “And I can assure you she had no illness. She is very tired and is taking dinner in her room, but that is all.” She gripped his arm. “You can rest easy on that score, my dear.”

  The tension easing all through him, Jemmy suddenly found himself seated in the chair Lathbury had vacated. “Then why did she swoon in church?” There must be something more to it than that.

  “Women swoon all the time.”

  “They do not.” He thought back. Had he seen many women faint? Or had he paid no attention? “Do they? I don’t recall ever having seen one do so. Have you ever swooned?”

  “Oh, yes, lots of times.” Plopping onto the chair across from him, Georgie nodded enthusiastically. “Sometimes for real, but quite often just for effect.”

  “For effect?” Deuced odd. “Whatever do you mean?”

  “Ladies pretend to swoon sometimes to assure gentlemen that they are fragile flowers.” She wrinkled her nose. “But then other ladies give you smelling salts, which are not nice to smell at all.”

  “They pretend?” Why had he never known this?

  “Yes, but there is no harm in it.” She shook her head, her face sober. “However, sometimes a lady’s clothing will become too warm, or a day is hot, or you walk too fast and get out of breath and just, well, faint. It truly is a quite common occurrence.” She cocked her head, slightly frowning. “You really have not seen a woman faint before?”

  “Not that I recall.” Perhaps he’d not paid attention to such things, or else . . . “Are you telling me the truth, Georgie?”

  “Did you not see every woman in the church pull out her vinaigrette?”

  That he remembered. He’d thought it odd at the time as well. Apparently, he’d been lucky up until now not to have seen a woman so indisposed. He hoped Elizabeth was not one to swoon often. Her collapse had frightened him as nothing else ever had. “Yes, I did see that. How interesting. I hadn’t noticed ladies doing that before this either.”

  “There is a lot you need to learn about ladies, Jemmy.” Georgie smiled and stood, bringing Jemmy to his feet. She rose on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. “Starting tomorrow morning.” A swift embrace, then she ran nimbly out of the room.

  With a sigh, Jemmy retrieved his drink and refreshed it from the library’s cut-glass decanter. This might be the only way he would make it through tonight in order to face Elizabeth in the morning.

  Chapter 14

  For at least the twentieth time, Elizabeth turned over in the bed, trying to get comfortable. The clock on the mantle softly chimed the hour, the second time it had done so since she’d awakened from a curious dream about Dickon.

  She’d dreamed about her late husband many times since the tragic day she’d learned of his death. Dreams where he acted courageously on the battlefield, dreams in which they’d danced at their first ball, shared their first kiss. In all the dreams she’d had, however, she’d never heard his voice. He would smile at her, and she could almost feel the touch of his hand, his lips. Every time, she’d awaken with tears trickling down her cheeks or discover her pillow cold and damp where they’d fallen.

  This dream had been very different.

  She stared up into the still blackness, her heart beating loudly in her ears, remembering. This dream had begun as many of her dreams did, on the battlefield at Waterloo. The acrid smoke of gunfire and artillery hung low, like a smudge, over the gouged and torn field, almost as thick as soup. Glimpses of men fighting appeared as though vignettes in a play, revealed by the capricious swirling fog. She was tramping across the battleground, clutching a dark red shawl about her shoulders, searching for Dickon. She’d had no fear for her own death—she was invincible in this dream—only of not finding her husband before it was too late. Directly ahead of her, the smoke cleared momentarily, and she saw Dickon, his red officer’s uniform smudged with dirt and soot, standing amid a circle of blue-clad French soldiers, all dead. He turned to her, his sword bright with blood. With a crisp wave of his sabre, he saluted her, gave her the boyish grin she loved so much, then returned his attention to the next wave of blue-clad men attacking up the hill.

  Even in the dream, she had feared she would see him wounded, struck in the head with the bullet that took his life. But the swirling mist covered the scene as the dream changed and a hand on her shoulder shook her awake.

  She opened her eyes on the small rose garden she’d
tended so lovingly in Russell Square. She was seated on the small stone bench under the trellis by the rear door, roses of all description riotously in bloom. Pinks, whites, reds, yellows—some roses she’d never planted there—were blooming everywhere.

  The hand on her shoulder tightened, and she turned her head to find the warm, familiar gaze of adoration from Dickon’s deep blue eyes. “Elizabeth, my love. Were you asleep?”

  A thrill of hope surged through her. She had been asleep, been dreaming this whole time that Dickon had been killed. But now she must be awake, for she could hear him, hear the beloved voice, so deep and tender. Clasping his hand, she gave joyful thanks to God that her nightmare was finally over.

  Her gaze shifted from his dear face to his uniform, torn here and there with cuts, stained with blood and dirt. She glanced down to her own ragged appearance, the blood-red shawl she had never possessed covering the black crepe gown of her early widowhood.

  “Yes, my love. I have been asleep for a long time, it seems.” Tenderly, she cupped the beloved face, so strong and handsome, even streaked with sweat and grime and the hideous red. “But I am awake now. Oh, Dickon.” She leaned her forehead on his, all her sorrow and hurt pressing against him. “I have missed you so much. Please don’t leave me, my love.”

  He raised his head, his kind eyes crinkling at the corners as he smiled. “I am yours forever, my darling. I will be with you always. For as long as you continue to love, my love for you can never truly die.”

  He tried to lean away from her, but she pulled him back. “One kiss, my love. One kiss, I beg of you.” The pain in her chest from unshed tears might crush her.

  Dickon laughed and pulled her full against him. “You were ever greedy of our kisses. How can I resist you now?”

  Lips, soft and warm, met hers. The spicy familiar scent he always wore assailed her as she urged his mouth open. Yes, she had ever been greedy of his kisses. Why would that change now? She drank him in, like an elixir of life, taking strength from him one last time.