Page 19 of Wedding the Widow

“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.

“Yes, my lord. It did leave not two minutes ago. The lady must have been taken ill quickly. We hadn’t even had a chance to move the carriage to the back mews.”

The footman’s elaboration gave Jemmy no joy. Elizabeth seemed determined not to see him, no matter the circumstances. Fleeing a party when she’d just arrived sent an eloquent message. She had meant every word of her letter.

“Will you have my carriage fetched as well, please?” Jemmy gripped the bannister as the servant motioned a young boy toward him. Perhaps he had been over hasty following Elizabeth to Town. The best course might be to give her some time to begin to miss him. He could remain in London, but not call upon her or try to meet her in the evenings. If she heard of his doings, perhaps even of his interest in other young ladies, might it cause a change of heart?

“Your carriage, my lord.” The footman opened the door, and Jemmy climbed in. Doyle started the team, and Jemmy called, “Home, please.”

A few minutes musing about the situation told him such a plan would never do. Not because it was not a good plan, but because he had grave doubts he could ever carry out such a scheme. If he continued to reside in London, someone would have to put him in irons to keep him from trying to meet with Elizabeth. And if he actually saw her at a ball or party, he would never be able to feign interest in another lady. At least, he knew himself well enough to admit such shortcomings. No, he must go back to Kent. Remove himself from temptation and let his absence begin to affect her. He hoped it would affect her as much as her continued absence affected him, both in body and in mind.

Chapter 8

“I daresay you will miss your comfortable home here once you marry, Lady Cavendish.” Jemmy gazed around the beautifully appointed drawing room. He and Wrotham had just joined the ladies after dinner. His voice held more than a tinge of regret. He would miss the cozy room as well. The rich reds and golds in the Chippendale chairs set off the brilliant Turkey carpet but harmonized perfectly with the celadon-green walls. The elegant Robert Adams marble mantelpiece lent an elegance to the room, as did the delicate Queen Anne escritoire.

He had retreated to Lyttlefield Park after less than a week in London to lick his wounds and plan another strategy for wooing Elizabeth. He’d thought to return there before this, but dread of further rejection, coupled with his pleasant surroundings, excellent shooting, and the agreeable company, had persuaded him to lengthen his stay into a three-weeks sojourn in the blink of an eye. Not to mention that his sister had begged, pleaded, and wheedled him until he couldn’t bring himself to leave.

“Not at all.” Lady Cavendish produced a smile, turning toward Wrotham before it had reached the corners of her mouth. “I will make Wrotham Park even more comfortable for us when I arrive. We have agreed that I may decorate the entire house, save for the study, which is Lord Wrotham’s sole domain.” She laughed and grasped Wrotham’s arm.

“That was the stipulation, my dear.” Her betrothed’s gaze never left her face. “I trust it is not too great a burden to bear, for I’ll not change my mind on that point. Not a jot.”

Laughing, she waved away his comment. “It is a small price to pay to be your wife and have the keeping of all of the Park, save that one square patch of it.” Lady Cavendish rose. “I promise I will restrain myself in that room.”

“And nowhere else, I trust?” Wrotham’s mischievous tone made his bride-to-be blush, a sweet, deep pink brushing her cheeks. “Not if I have any say about it.”

She rapped him sharply on his shoulder with her fan. “Wretch. What will dear Georgina think of us?”

“Just that you are the perfect couple, Charlotte.” Georgie set her tea down and sat back on the sofa. “When you travel to London together, you will be the talk of the ton.”

“Huh.” Charlotte made for the teapot next to Georgie. “At least they cannot call me the ‘Wicked Widow’ any more. Not after we are married at any rate, do you think, Nash?”

“Quite likely, my dear. But one look at us together and the next on-dit will have you the ‘Wicked Wife’ instead.” Wrotham laughed loudly and followed his lady to the tea tray.

“It is not amusing, Nash.” She shook her head and poured more tea into new cups.

Not for the first time, Jemmy wished that he and Elizabeth could be so easy together. He supposed it must take time for such camaraderie to develop between a man and a woman. Still, Lady Cavendish had only met Wrotham for the first time at the August house party, the same time he’d met Elizabeth. Of course, Georgie had related the trials and tribulations the couple had to work through before arriving at this blissful state. Wrotham’s courtship of Lady Cavendish had been largely unsuccessful for most of the autumn. Then, suddenly, at the Harvest Festival, they came to an accord and decided to marry that very night.

That very memorable night had affected more than one couple. Last week, Michael Thorne had married Nora Burns, his chosen Corn Maiden. That festival had proved as potent as a love charm.

“Will you be staying on for the wedding, my lord?” His hostess broke in on his daydream.

“I believe I shall run up to London and return for the wedding, Lady Cavendish. You will have so many details to attend to, I think you hardly need to worry about a guest.” Jemmy sipped his tea, wishing it was more of the fine whiskey he’d downed in the dining room.

“Nonsense.” Lady Cavendish shot him a no-nonsense look, eyebrows arched, nose flaring. “You must stay and be company for Nash while Georgie and I shop in London for wedding clothes.” She settled next to his sister. “I thought we could go next week. Perhaps we might call upon Fanny and Elizabeth while we are there.”

Elizabeth. Desire surged below, and he glanced away before his thoughts could be seen on his face.

“That would be lovely, Charlotte. I would enjoy seeing them again very much. I don’t need to go shopping myself, but I will be happy to be company for you.” The wistful sound of her voice pulled his attention back to Georgie, whose face wore a brave smile that smote his conscience.

Anger at their father welled within him, and he gripped the teacup, wishing he could fling cup and tea at the marquess. Georgie’s estrangement from her family had taken its toll on his sister, both in her living arrangements and in her wardrobe. Elizabeth had confided to him that she’d made over several gowns of her own for Georgie for the first house party. Now here she was looking forward to going shopping for clothes, knowing she would be a bystander only.

Damn, but he would see to it that she was turned out as befit the daughter of a marquess. And to do that—“I think Wrotham and I should accompany you ladies to London.”