Page 87 of Wedding the Widow

Jemmy chuckled, sotto voce. “You do not know the half of it, my dear.” He rubbed his face and glanced at his father; he and Papa were squaring off like two roosters in a hen coop. “I think we must tell him about the child. It may be the only thing that will change his mind.”

“Blackham, this is outrageous.” Papa had drawn himself up and puffed out his chest. “How dare you abduct my wife and daughter? How dare you interfere with the children’s plans to marry? If you won’t allow them to wed in London, then, by God, we’ll see them all the way to Gretna Green, if we have to fight off your men at every tollgate.”

“We have friends, Father. Perhaps not as influential as yours, but people who will stand beside us and help us do what is right.” Jemmy drew Elizabeth toward the dark desk. “No matter what you do, we will find a way to marry.”

“After a quarter of a century, can you not let this go?” Papa implored him.

Lord Blackham glared at all of them, face like a stone gargoyle.

“My lord,” Elizabeth spoke up quickly before the marquess could begin. “Your son and I will marry. Not only because we love each other, but because we must.” Squeezing Jemmy’s hand, she raised her chin and continued. “I am carrying his child. Perhaps his heir. Your heir. Is that precious commodity something you would destroy by preventing our marriage?”

Lord Blackham’s face twisted with the shock of disbelief, eyes opened wide, then instantly narrowed. “You lie.”

Jemmy surged toward his father, mayhem in his eyes.

Grabbing his arm, Elizabeth hauled him back. “Wait.” She turned to Blackham. “It could be a lie, though it is not.”

“You would have told me when you came to Blackham Castle.”

“Your son wanted to. I pressed for his silence so you could not use my condition against me,” she said carefully, staring full into his eyes. “As, I am told, you have in fact already done.”

“Lady Locke is from home this winter, Blackham.” Mama looked up long enough to throw the words at him. “This pair will be long wed before she reads your slanderous words.”

A glint in his eye, the marquess opened a drawer in the desk and fished around. “I withheld this after Brack escaped the castle.” He tossed a letter onto the desk, the direction clearly for Lady Locke’s home in London. “Once he left, the duke withdrew his daughter’s acceptance. If Brack felt so strongly about you, young woman, I’d likely get no cooperation from him, letter or no. And I wanted no stigma attached to an heir on the off chance there would be one sometime.” He stared at Elizabeth with the unblinking gaze of a snake ready to strike. “Do you vow that you are carrying Brack’s child? My grandchild.”

“I do, my lord. Almost three months now. He, or she, will be born sometime in July.” Elizabeth gave Jemmy’s hand a squeeze as her heart dared to hope for the first time that all would be right. “Are you willing to let the past go? If my mother wronged you in any way, let that old feud be laid to rest. Let this new life, a new generation, bring our families together. You and my mother will share grandchildren, just as you might have in other circumstances. Let that legacy of hate turn to one filled with love, for the child’s sake.”

“For all our sakes,” Jemmy added, then sucked in a breath. “May we have your blessing, Father?”

The marquess’s face had undergone a transformation as soon as Elizabeth spoke of the child to come. The brooding eyes, the lowered brows had relaxed into an almost pleasant countenance. “I will give my consent to the marriage on one condition,” he pronounced, sitting back in his chair.

“Name it,” she and Jemmy shouted together and laughed.

“The condition is that you will name this child after me if it is my heir. If it is not, then whenever the heir is produced, he will carry my name.”

“That’s all?” Incredulous at this simple request, Elizabeth looked from Jemmy to her parents, all of whom seemed equally stunned.

“Yes. Your mother would never let me name any of the children after me.” Lord Blackham’s mouth pursed as if peeved. “I always wanted my heir named after me, but that was the one thing she ever refused me.”

“But the heir will bear your title, my lord. Is that not enough?” Not that she was protesting; however, if the marquess’s wife had denied this to him, Elizabeth could only imagine what that name might be.

“No. His full name will be my name.” Blackham stared them down.

“Is it truly that dreadful?” What was the worst name she could think of? Marmaduke? That was rather hideous. Octavius? But he wasn’t an eighth son.

“It is distinguished, madam. I don’t know why the marchioness didn’t see it that way,” he snorted.

Giving up, Elizabeth shrugged and asked Jemmy, “So what is it?”

“Deuce if I know,” Jemmy returned her shrug. “I always thought I was named for Father. This is news to me.”

“Mama?” Her parents were fidgeting, not a good sign.

“Well, I believe his first name is Dionysus.” Mama wrung her hands. “I have heard that name accepted in ton circles. Once.”

“Hah.” Blackham scoffed, his eyes filled with glee. “I told you that, Amelia, but I wanted to surprise you at our wedding. I will assure you, Dionysus is not my first name. And you must agree to the name to get my blessing.” He looked expectantly at the pair of them.

“Oh, dear.” Dionysus. That was dreadful. And it wasn’t even the correct one. Elizabeth’s stomach began to roil. She would love the baby, no matter what they named it.