Page 40 of Wedding the Widow

“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.