by Jenna Jaxon
“Father is seldom shocked by anything.” Jemmy busied himself tucking the carriage robe more securely around Elizabeth. “Although his youngest child defying him may have done so. Disowning her has hurt not only her, but the whole family as well. My brother and other sisters have felt it keenly that they’ve not been able to see Georgina for almost three years now. Longer, I believe, for our sisters, who live rather far from central England.”
“You have a brother and other sisters?” Elizabeth perked up. “Georgie didn’t tell me. I shall have to scold her for that.” She snuggled beneath the carriage blanket, looking at him with rapt attention. “Instead of dreading the meeting with your father, I can be your captive audience while you regale me with stories about your family. Georgie spoke only of her brief time with Isaac.” Elizabeth glanced down to the rough, chilly floor of the carriage. “I must confess I sympathized with her decision to do so. However, I would dearly love to hear more about your family.”
“One that you are soon to become a part of, my dear.” He could scarcely believe it, though he spoke the words. “Yes, Emma, Countess of Ainnes, is the elder of the twins by approximately five minutes. She’s that much older than Mary, Marchioness of Daverscombe, whose precedence now puts her several places higher than Emma, for which Emma has never forgiven her.” He couldn’t help chuckling. “They have ever been in competition.”
“My children are much the same,” Elizabeth sighed. “Both Colin and Kate have always wanted to win, no matter what the prize. An extra treat at dinner time or an outing to the park, each must be the one to win.” She eyed him inquisitively. “I wonder if all twins are the same in that respect.”
“Perhaps we will know in good time.” He cast a glance at her stomach, well-hidden by her coat and her plaid carriage shawl once more. Even though he could see nothing—nothing to see at this stage of the game—he wanted that assurance nonetheless. He’d be more than thrilled to have two babies in the household. With Elizabeth’s other two children, it would be quite the ready family. They must give some serious thought to where they would live.
“Since our family will be expanding quickly, would you rather live in Town this winter and remove to one of my father’s country estates after the baby is born or leave immediately after the wedding?” Best they get this settled so they weren’t at sixes and sevens when the time loomed large.
“There are merits to both schemes, my dear.” She patted his arm, and hot desire shot through his veins at that merest touch. This short ride might be interminable. “In Town, my mother would be near when my confinement begins. That was a comfort when the twins were born.”
The charming, perplexed look on her beautiful face made him ache to take her in his arms and smooth away her frowns. She should never feel distress at anything if he could find a way to remedy the problem. “As we have at least two weeks before the wedding, while the banns are read, why don’t we consult your mother as well before we come to a decision? I will leave it totally in your hands, my love.”
“Thank you.” Frown disappearing, she relaxed against him.
He must find a way to prevent her worrying a jot, lest it harm the child. “For now, let us concentrate on this audience with Father.”
“Audience?”
“Trust me, it will be an audience in all senses of the word.” He smiled, raising her hand for a kiss. “But do not be alarmed. He will love you as much as I do.”
“Really?” One well-shaped eyebrow rose.
“Actually, no.” He pulled her face to his, touching his mouth to her soft, pink lips. “No one could ever love you as much as I do.” Her mouth grew insistent, and his shaft sprang to attention. Perhaps he’d better purchase a special license instead. After such a long time, he wanted Elizabeth back in his bed as soon as humanly possible.
* * *
Sometime after noon, the carriage swept up the driveway of white crushed shells to the front door of Blackham Castle. Jemmy never failed to shiver at its imposing black stone façade, rising three stories from the ground. Half castle, half Tudor manor, Blackham had known William the Conqueror’s boots, Henry V’s footfalls, Henry VIII’s lumbering tread, and, most recently, the Prince Regent’s legs beneath his father’s table. The castle had seen its share of triumph and tragedy, although today’s entry had to be Jemmy’s most personal victory. Bringing his bride to the ancestral home ranked higher than anything he’d ever done to give him both pride and pleasure.
Excitement making him rash, he jumped out of the carriage before the horses had quite stopped, then waited until it settled to carefully hand Elizabeth down.
She craned her neck back, gazing up at the forbidding edifice, and her face paled.
Best get her inside before she took ill or changed her mind about marrying him. The day had begun cold and had become progressively chillier as they had stopped to change horses. He offered her his arm, and they proceeded up the two short steps of the portico and rapped on the door. The hollow sound had scarce begun before the massive black door—stained, his father had told him, with a mixture that included actual human blood—creaked open.
“My lord.” Quick, the butler who had been with his father since before Jemmy’s birth, inclined his silvery head. “His lordship will be delighted to see you.”
His father was never delighted to see anyone, but that was about to change. “Thank you, Quick. I believe that will be an understatement shortly. This is Mrs. Easton.” He shot a grin at the older man. “You may wish us happy, Quick. Mrs. Easton, a war widow, has consented to marry me and make me the happiest man alive.”
“My felicitations, my lord, Mrs. Easton.” Quick’s eyes had widened, but he seemed to recover. “His lordship is in his office.”
“Naturally.” Seldom did his father sit anywhere else, save the dining room table. “Please ready Lady Georgina’s old room for Mrs. Easton. I trust mine will do for me once more?”
“Of course, my lord.” They followed Quick down the familiar gray stone passageway, up to the first floor and into his father’s sanctuary.
The Marquess of Blackham sat behind the black walnut captain’s table—a spoil of war reportedly given to the Cross family by Sir Francis Drake in 1581—head bent as his pen scratched across the sheet of white paper.
“Lord Brack and Mrs. Easton, my lord.” Quick bowed and hurried out.
“Hello, Father.” Jemmy waited.
The marquess would naturally finish his business before greeting his son.
Jemmy patted Elizabeth’s hand, secured in the crook of his elbow, and shot her a smile of encouragement. He’d tried to prepare her for his father’s likely gruff reception. She seemed serene standing beside him, a small tilt to her lips. Her hand on his trembled, however, and he prayed Father would not upset her further. There was the welfare of the child to think about.
Some minutes later, his father straightened his shoulders. The pen that had been scratching across the paper continuously slowed. A final period, and the marquess stabbed the pen a final time into the inkpot. With a flourish, the old man signed his name, leaned back, and raised his head.
Father hadn’t changed much since he’d last seen him—in September, was it? The deeply grooved lines around his mouth were a bit more heavily shadowed than when last he’d been here. Had they gotten deeper? Thick gray eyebrows rose over dark brown eyes that scrutinized first him, then flickered to Elizabeth.
Dropping his arm, Elizabeth straightened, her mouth firming, though she still maintained a pleasant demeanor. Even though he could no longer feel her trembling, he knew it continued. Father often had that effect on people.
After some moments, Father rose and bowed, though his face retained its perpetual grim visage. “I wondered when you’d find it convenient to return home, Brack. To what emergency do I owe this visit?”
Sighing, Jemmy stepped forward, bringing Elizabeth with him to the foot of the table. “Mrs. Easton, may I present my father, Lord Blackham? Father, this is Mrs. Elizabeth Easton,
my betrothed.”
“Pah.” Drawing his lips in as though they had purse strings attached, his father spat out the word. “Knew it had to be something like this the moment I saw you had a woman with you.”
“Now, Father—”
“You are not betrothed until I say you are betrothed.” The wizened man glanced first at him, then at Elizabeth. “Thought to snare yourself a title, did you, Mrs. Easton? A marchioness, no less?”
Jemmy opened his mouth to protest, but Elizabeth leaned toward his red-faced father.
“I am pleased to meet you, my lord. And no, I have no thought for a title. I did not marry for one the first time. Why should I do so now? I love your son. That is the only consideration I had when I accepted him.”
Hearing those words sent a thrill of love coursing through Jemmy. She’d never professed it to him before. Now she had stated it boldly before his father. She loved him.
“Huh. Fine words, young woman.” Father harrumphed and nodded to a small, narrow sofa to the side of the room. “Sit. I have no intention to continue standing.” He plopped back down into his chair.
Jemmy and Elizabeth sank onto the well-oiled leather settee. “Father—”
“I am in the midst of negotiations for your marriage to the Duke of Buckleigh’s daughter. A much more advantageous match than Mrs. Easton, I presume.” His father cast a sharp eye at Elizabeth. “Unless you are also the daughter of a duke?”
“No, my lord, I fear not.” Elizabeth met his stare evenly. God, she was fearless. “Merely the daughter of a viscount and the widow of a man who gave his life for king and country.”
“Indeed.” The marquess leaned back. “He was . . . ?”
“Lieutenant Colonel Richard Easton, late of His Majesty’s Coldstream Regiment, under the command of Major General Lord John Byng. Killed in defense of the Château d’Hougoumont.”
“Commendable.” His father tapped a finger on the table. “Do you have children, Mrs. Easton?”
“Yes, my lord. Twins. A boy, Colin, and a girl, Katherine. They are six years old.” If his father’s questions disturbed Elizabeth, she did not show it. She sat calmly, her fingers rubbing the edge of her reticule.
“That speaks well of your ability to produce an heir for my son.”
“Father!” Outraged, Jemmy jumped to his feet. “That is totally uncalled for.”
“On the contrary, my boy”—his father speared him with a cold glance—“it is an issue very much to the point of marriage. In some ways, marriage to a widow with children gives a sense of security to the continuation of the line not possible with an innocent girl just out.” His face darkened. “I have firsthand knowledge of this.”
“Father.” God, his father was impossible. He could throttle the old man when he got off on this perpetual bee in his bonnet.
“No, my lord.” Elizabeth stayed him with a look, and he sat down. “Of what knowledge do you speak, Lord Blackham?”
“I was married for twelve years to a woman—sterling qualities, excellent bloodlines—who could not give me children. I spent twelve years thinking my line would die with me.” The old man’s eyes lit up. “Then God granted me grace and she died of influenza. I married Brack’s mother, who gave me five children in as many years before she died producing the last child.”
Elizabeth had paled a trifle during this tale, one Jemmy had heard all his life, but she only raised an eyebrow. What a perfect countess she would make and later a magnificent marchioness. If his father didn’t dissuade her, nothing ever would.
“So your ability to bear my son an heir speaks more highly of you than your pedigree, which I now come to.” Father leaned forward again, peering intently at Elizabeth.
Jemmy gripped the arm of the sofa. He’d be lucky if Elizabeth ever spoke to him again after being subjected to this inquisition.
“You have given me your late husband’s bona fides, at least his military ones.” His father laced his fingers together. “I assume he was a second or third son of the nobility? The daughter of a viscount would hardly settle for less.”
“I did not ‘settle’ at all, my lord.” Elizabeth’s jaw tightened, the first indication of displeasure Jemmy had seen since their arrival. “I chose to marry him because I loved him, not because of his family or connections.” She took a breath so deep he could see her chest expand. “However, yes, Lieutenant Colonel Easton was from Shropshire and of gentle birth. A younger son of the gentry who had to make his way in the world.”
“I see.” Nodding, his father continued to watch her as keenly as a cat at a mouse hole. “And your father? You are the daughter of . . . ?”
“Viscount Wentworth of Dorset.” Elizabeth tipped her head back, pride in every inch of her. And this beautiful woman was all his.
“Wentworth?”
At the sudden icy tone, Jemmy snapped his attention back to the figure behind the desk.
Elizabeth shifted uneasily on the seat, her eyes suddenly wary. She must have heard that change in tone as well, and for the first time, she seemed rattled. “Yes, my lord. John, Seventh Viscount Wentworth.”
Father’s face had paled. Now it flushed bright red, and his eyes narrowed to slits.
Jemmy leaned forward, and fear shot down his spine as he put an arm out instinctively to protect Elizabeth from the evil that now looked out of his father’s face.
“No.”
“I beg your pardon, my lord.” Elizabeth clutched her reticule to her, her fingers crushing the dark fabric.
“I forbid it.” The marquess rose to tower over the table, hatred, dark and hot, infusing the clipped words. “You will not marry my son, Mrs. Easton. Not now, not ever.”
Chapter 16
The floor melted beneath Jemmy’s feet. The odd sensation he sometimes had in dreams—of tumbling over and over down a long, dark hole—overwhelmed him now in broad daylight. He shifted his weight, and the firm gray stone floor arrested his headlong fall into madness. He hadn’t heard his father aright. “Father, did you actually just forbid us to wed?”
“You’re a quick one, Brack. Always knew you’d live up to my expectations of you.” His father glanced at him, a mirthless smile on his lips.
“I don’t understand, Lord Blackham.” Elizabeth stared straight ahead, eyes seemingly focused on the shiny mahogany desk. A pirate’s desk. “You say we cannot marry?”
“Well, you’ve certainly picked a good one, Brack. Next time, make sure she understands the King’s English. Of course, the next one will be a duke’s daughter and of my choosing.” His father sat and took up his pen, drew out a fresh sheet of paper and dipped the pen in the inkpot.
“The hell it will.” Jemmy clenched his hands into fists so tightly they ached. “How dare you dismiss Elizabeth out of hand? She’s done nothing to you.” Jemmy shoved his hands behind him to keep himself from throttling the old man. “Why would you do this?”
“I have forbidden this marriage, and you will obey me, Brack. You will cease connection with this young woman and marry Lady Maude Aston without further discussion.” Father started the pen skittering across the expanse of snowy white paper.
“I will do no such thing.” Straightening his shoulders, Jemmy threw back his head. Stubbornness ran in the family, straight from their sire. “What possible reason could you have to refuse to allow this marriage?”
“I will tell you nothing I don’t want you to know, boy. My reasons are none of your business.” His father finished writing his sentence in a hand so shaky it looked like a spider had crawled across the sheet on spindly legs.
“It is my business, Lord Blackham.” Elizabeth had managed to break the spell and now stared at his father with cold contempt. “If you are impugning my name or my family’s, my lord, I assure you, you will answer for it. I do not care what your age may be or whether this accusation comes from some illness or madness. If you will not tell me why you refuse to allow me to wed your son, I will inform my father. He or my brother will demand satisfaction of you.”<
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“Elizabeth.” Jemmy slipped his arm around her shoulders. She was trembling so hard he had to grip her tightly. “No one wants a duel,” he whispered. “I would likely end up having to meet your brother, and we don’t want that, do we?”
She shook her head. A tear dripped off her cheek, falling onto his hand as he clasped her closer.
He met his father’s eyes, and a wall of ice descended on him. “I do not care what you say or what slight you perceive Elizabeth or her family has made against you. I reached my majority years ago. Elizabeth is of age and a widow. You cannot force me to marry someone against my will, and I tell you now, this instant, I will never marry Lady Maude. I will marry Elizabeth, and there is nothing you can do to stop me.”
Father laid his pen down beside the paper, a dangerous smile on his lips. “Oh, but there is, Brack. There is indeed something that I can do to stop you from making this foolhardy decision.” He steepled the tips of his fingers.
“Don’t listen to him, Elizabeth.” Sending his father a defiant glare, Jemmy drew her tight against him. “I will marry you no matter what he says.” They turned for the door.
“If you do, I shall cut you off without a farthing.”
The sharp words arrested them as Jemmy grasped the latch. He whirled around to face his father.
“Every cent. You will not have a penny to light your way across the road.”
“I have Mother’s inheritance—”
“That is in a trust until you are thirty. And I am the guardian of that trust until that time. Had you forgotten that?”
The light in the study seemed to dim around the edges until all Jemmy could see was his father’s triumphant smile. Father would hold the purse strings of that account until August of next year. His mother’s settlement had come to him more than three years ago, to provide for him until his father died and he assumed the marquessate. But according to the terms, his father administered the funds as he saw fit. The very reason he had not been able to help Georgie.
