by Jenna Jaxon
“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.”
“The devil you say, Brack.” Wrotham sat up so quickly his tea slopped out of the cup, missed the saucer completely, and landed on his trousers. “I’d planned for us to do some shooting while the ladies were away.” He frowned as he wiped at the mess with his napkin.
“They’ll need escorts while they are there.” Jemmy paused, thinking furiously. “And the clubs in London will provide entertainment for us to rival any shooting expedition.”
“Yes, do, Nash.” Charlotte clapped her hands and beamed at him.
The man’s firm will melted like one of Gunter’s ices left in the sun. “Well . . .”
“It would be lovely if you would come with us. We can see some of London’s sights. And the Little Season continues, so we will have entertainments to attend in the evenings. That is when we will need our escorts.” Lady Cavendish took the cloth from him and continued to scrub the wet spot on his breeches. “Please, Nash?”
Wrotham swallowed hard and grasped her hand. “I think I am sufficiently tidied for the moment, my dear.” His eyes burned into hers, and she blushed. “I blame you for this, Brack. As your penance, you must attend every ball and party with us. No shirking. I refuse to be left alone with all those women. There are never enough men, and I refuse to be danced to death by myself.”
“Please do, Jemmy,” Georgie squealed. “It will be so much fun to have y
ou attend with us. Both you and Nash.”
“Thank you, Georgie.” Wrotham grinned at her and rose. “It is settled then, Brack?”
“Yes, of course.” Jemmy nodded absently. Elizabeth would likely be attending at least some of the parties. It was the Little Season, after all, and she had one sister still out. Surely, she’d be accompanying her to some entertainments. Perhaps this time he could meet her at a ball, quite naturally, and then beg a dance of her and thus renew her acquaintance.
He’d written to her almost every day since he’d returned—and torn up every letter before he could post it, afraid it would be returned unopened. Her actions had made it pointedly clear that she did not want to see him, but if he could just meet her, face-to-face, perhaps they could get past the embarrassment she obviously still felt about their intimate encounter. Would she spurn his company again? Had she allowed another man to court her? He could find these things out if he went to London.
“If that is completely settled, I believe I will say good night, Charlotte.” Wrotham slid his arm around Lady Cavendish’s waist. “Good evening, Georgina, Brack.” With a nod and a smile for Georgie, Wrotham ushered his betrothed from the chamber.
“Thank you, Jemmy.” Georgie slid over the long sofa to sit beside him. “London will be much more fun with you there.”
“I suppose, as your brother and escort, I shall have to look sternly down my nose at all the young bloods who will want to dance with you.” Actually, he was rather looking forward to being her protector. He’d not been able to do so at her come-out for he’d been out of the country until just before she married. “I trust you’ll want to attend several parties while we’re in Town.”
“Yes, thank you.” She smiled, though her expression quickly drooped. “I haven’t wanted to put myself forward in society, because of Isaac’s memory. It seemed wrong of me to make merry when he was . . .” Her lips firmed, and her jaw set. “However, Charlotte’s utter happiness with Nash has given me the will to continue on with my life, given me hope of finding another gentleman with whom I shall not mind sharing my life.” Her smile returned, her eyes teasing. “You must promise me not to frighten away the good gentlemen.”
“Am I to be the judge of who is good and who is not, or are you?”
Giggling, she patted his arm. “We must concur on that, dear brother, although I suspect there will be some differences of opinion there.”
“Better me to concur with than Father.” Jemmy stopped, the specter of their father glimmering in the light of the dying fire.
“Goodness, Jemmy. You can’t be seen with me in London.” Stricken, Georgie clutched his arm. “Father would cut off your funds and inflict who knows what other punishments on you for consorting with me.” Fighting back tears, Georgie slumped back against the sofa cushion, all happiness fled.
Damn, he hadn’t thought about their father when he’d proposed that trip to London. The Marquess of Blackham had decreed that no one in the family was to have any contact with Georgina after he disowned her. And with all the gossips in London, such as the notorious Lady Locke and Mrs. Stapleton-Worthy, his father would find out by the next post. He grasped the arm of the sofa, squeezing it as he fought to bring his anger under control. It just wasn’t fair. He slid his arm around her shoulders and pulled her bright head onto his shoulder. “I’m sorry, Georgie.”
“It’s all right. I know you cannot afford to anger him.” Hot tears streaked down her face, dropping onto his bare hand.
“I wish we could find some way to get you back into Father’s good graces.” Jemmy bit his lip. The older man had a steely will. Once he turned against someone, he seldom recanted.
Father’s youngest brother had gambled away a family estate, long before Jemmy had been born. His father had broken with Uncle Roland to such an extent that Jemmy had discovered the man’s existence only last year when he read a death notice in the Morning Chronicle.
“I wouldn’t know how to even begin going about it, Jemmy. He hated my marriage to Isaac, although I’m not certain if it was Isaac himself or my defiance of Father’s orders that caused it.” Georgie dashed the tears away. “I’m still not sorry I did it.”
Lord, but she was a fighter. He patted her arm. “I’m not either. I know how happy he made you.” Still, his sister’s life had been hellish, to say the least, since her husband’s death. If only they could entreat the marquess to forgive Georgina, her life would be a deal easier. “But you have the future to think of. And Father had no quarrel with you until you married against his wishes. If you could make a brilliant match, someone Father couldn’t help but approve of, I suspect he’d welcome you back. Pity you turned down Wrotham. He’d likely approve of him.”
“I told you I could never have married Nash.” Georgie sat up, searching for a handkerchief in her pocket. She pulled out a button and a recipe for brandied peaches before she secured the scrap of white linen, edged in delicate pink lace, and dabbed at her nose. “As soon as I spoke with him, I knew he was in love with Charlotte. I could no more have married him than I could have shot him.”
“Well, thank goodness you didn’t do that.” Jemmy chuckled. Georgie had a flair for the dramatic. Her acting skills had always impressed him. She’d regularly been able to fool their old governess with much more success than he ever had. “You need to give it some thought, Georgie.”
“There is one vital flaw in your scheme, though.” She tugged at the fabric of the handkerchief, tearing it a little. “If I made this brilliant match to please Father, to enable me to return to the family, I wouldn’t need to.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean I’d be married and under my husband’s protection. I’d have no real need for Father’s blessing.” Georgie smiled, smoothing the handkerchief flat on her lap.
A good point. Still, until she found someone to marry, she needed her place at home. “Think about it, Georgie. I will write to Father and tell him I will be watching out for you in London.”
“Jemmy, don’t. What if he cuts you off?” Georgie’s face had shifted into its stubborn lines.
“I will word it so he thinks I do it only to ensure that the family’s honor and reputation are preserved. I’ll suggest to him that I should try to guide you into making a better match than before.” If he wrote the letter just so, it might work. If not, he could find himself as destitute as Georgie. At least until he gained control of his inheritance when he turned thirty, in less than a year.
“There can be no better match for me than Isaac.”
She was changeable as a March wind and twice as stubborn.
“I can also steer you away from some of the more notorious rakes who may still be lurking about. Introduce you to some capital chaps, like Lord St. Just. You seemed to get on with him rather well.” That would be a brilliant match for Georgie. If he could arrange for her to become the Marchioness St. Just, his father would have to welcome her back to the family. Rob’s wealth came close to his own father’s. His friend was quite the eligible parti, though. It might be difficult to convince him to take his sister without some kind of settlement or dowry. At least he had an in with Rob. They’d been friends since school, so it was worth a try.
“Lord St. Just seemed very cordial at the Harvest Festival. He’s amusing, but then he tries hard to be amusing.”
The undertone of reproof sent a frisson of warning. For his scheme to work, Georgie must be amenable to it. He’d thought her quite appreciative of the marquess. “Did you not like him?”
“Yes, he was frightfully entertaining.” Georgie nodded enthusiastically. “But he smiles a great deal. And I suspect he has a truly wild streak in him.”
“Why on earth would you say that?” He’d always thought Rob the steadiest of chaps.
Georgie giggled. “Have you never really listened to the tales he tells, Jemmy? He grew up on the coast of Cornwall, near all kinds of smuggling activities, and seems very envious of their adventures.”
“He grew up
around tales of smugglers, that’s all.” Waving her concerns away, he rose to investigate his hostess’s decanter, perched temptingly on a Queen Anne butler’s desk. “I seriously doubt he wants to be one himself.”
“I wouldn’t be too sure of that.” She shook her head, making her red curls dance. “The gentleman has more than a touch of the pirate in him. He may surprise you yet.” Her eyes crinkled as she smiled, a sure sign she knew more than she was telling him. “But what else do you have planned to do in London? You won’t need to chaperone me constantly.” A sudden, but deliberate tilt of her head. “Do you plan to see Elizabeth?”
Caught in the midst of pouring whiskey into a glass, Jemmy jerked his arm, sending an arch of the pungent spirit cascading over the carpet. “Damn it, Georgina.” He set down the dripping glass, inspecting his outfit to see if any had spilled on him. Leave it to Georgie to change the subject so violently. “Can you call for one of the maids to clean this up?”
Laughing softly, Georgie strolled to the wide strip of tapestry and pulled. “You didn’t answer my question.” Idly, she played with the tassel on the end, staring at him, waiting for an answer, damn her.
“Just pull the bell.” Jemmy sipped the spirits left in the sticky glass, hoping it would settle him. He’d not discussed Elizabeth with Georgie since the day he’d returned. “I suppose I shall see her if she attends the same entertainments we do.”
“You don’t plan to call on her?” His sister’s gaze speared him like the shaft of an arrow.
“I told you I tried that with no success.” The bitter words were out before he could stop his mouth.
“So you should try again.” She gave the pull a sharp tug. “Because if you don’t continue to pursue her, you’re a fool.” Sauntering back to the sofa, his sister wore the deeply satisfied expression of a cat who has killed an especially juicy mouse. “I am surprised you didn’t return to London sooner. At least, you have written to her since your return, haven’t you? You cannot take for granted that she understands the depth of your attachment to her.”