Wedding the Widow

by Jenna Jaxon

  Even with the little acquaintance he’d had with Elizabeth’s youngest sister, he feared her words were nothing but the truth. The family must keep a close check on Miss Dorothea Worth during her coming Season, lest they have another problem on their hands the like of his and Elizabeth’s.

  “Your sister is correct, Bella.” Lord Wentworth entered with the Times tucked under his arm, his brows lowered to a severe level over his eyes. “We must keep Dotty’s mind focused on a respectable marriage this coming year, else I will never hear the end of it from your mother.”

  “Then I will hasten on my way and return with as little fuss as possible.” Jemmy swallowed an extraordinarily large mouthful of coffee, so large it hurt his throat.

  “Would you like some company, Brack?” Wentworth folded the paper and laid it on the sideboard. “I believe I could do with some fresh air before sitting to my breakfast.”

  “I’d planned to ride, my lord.”

  “Splendid. Just the thing, bracing air.” Lord Wentworth headed for the door. “Let me change, and I’ll be right back.”

  Jemmy clasped Elizabeth’s hand. “I will not be more than an hour, my love. Once I return, we may be married at any time, any place.”

  “Here and now would suit me fine.” She squeezed his hands, though it might as well have been his nether regions, the desire for her burned so bright.

  “Your wish, my dear, as well as mine.” He’d have to bring a clergyman back with him so they wouldn’t waste a single minute before they could wed. He kissed her hand, wanting to draw her closer, yet daring not with Isabella in the room. He shot a glance at his soon-to-be sister-in-law, who had the good grace to smile.

  “I should go see what is keeping Dotty with your reticule, Elizabeth. You don’t want to miss the morning post.” She rose, bringing Jemmy to his feet. “Excuse me, my lord,” she said, gaily tripping out of the breakfast room and pulling the door almost all the way shut.

  “Courtship is often made or sabotaged by one’s well-meaning relations.” He drew her up to him, slipping his arms around her waist, and nuzzling her neck in the tenderest spot.

  “I am very glad to have the former type of relation.” Elizabeth settled against him, and sighed. “Very glad indeed.”

  * * *

  Frantic knocking at the door woke Elizabeth from a much-needed nap. After two hours of waiting, she’d given up on Jemmy and Papa and retired to her chamber. She must not be such a lie-abed, even if she was carrying a child.

  “Come in.”

  “Oh, ma’am. Miss Elizabeth.” Clearly disturbed, as indicated by the unconscious slip with Elizabeth’s name, Weller wrung her hands. “You must come quick. His lordship is asking for you.”

  “Papa? Where is Lord Brack?” A trickle of icy fear slid down her back.

  “He is there as well, ma’am. They are in the family parlor.” Weller bobbed her way out, obviously sent somewhere else as well.

  What had happened? She slid out of bed and reached for the yellow sprigged gown, one of the simple ones that she could don herself. Quickly, she pulled it on, collecting herself so she could face whatever crisis awaited, and made her way to the family’s favorite room. No matter whether joy or sorry, the Worths faced it there.

  Chaos had erupted when she entered.

  Shouting and waving a fist at no one in particular, Papa was terribly red in the face. Bella and Dotty, wide-eyed, cowered on the gold sofa, Dotty also clutching a cup of tea and her sister. Jemmy stood at the sideboard, a tumbler brimful of brandy in his hand.

  “What is going on, Papa?” Elizabeth darted toward her father. “Why are you railing at no one?”

  “I will not brook this insult, Elizabeth.” He banged his fist on a table, toppling a china figurine onto the floor with a crash.

  “Oooh,” Dotty jumped and screamed, tea flying in an arch through the air, landing on her sister.

  “For heaven’s sake, Dotty.” Scrubbing at her ruined gown, Bella grabbed the cup from her and set it on the tea table. “Now see what you’ve done.”

  “Goodness, Papa!” Elizabeth stared at her father’s face and neck, now an alarming shade of red. “What has happened?”

  “We cannot get married, Elizabeth.” Jemmy took a large slug of the brandy, his eyes squinting closed at the burn as it made its way down his throat.

  “What?” She clutched her throat, her stomach sinking to her toes.

  “The Archbishop of Canterbury refuses to issue a special license for our marriage.”

  Peering first at Jemmy’s bleak countenance, then at her father’s livid one, Elizabeth gathered her wits and pursed her lips. She had had enough of waiting. “Why won’t he issue it?”

  “Because . . . because . . .” Papa couldn’t quite spit out the words.

  This inability to speak frightened her more than his blustering, which she’d dealt with all her life.

  “Because, apparently, His Grace the Archbishop is the cousin of Lady Maude Aston.” Jemmy stared at her, misery in his eyes. “He refuses to issue the license and has sent instructions to all the parishes under his diocese forbidding them from reading the banns for us.”

  “Why would he do such a thing? Cousin or not, he’s a man of God.” Elizabeth had to catch hold of the back of a chair, as her knees threatened to buckle.

  Jemmy leaped to her side and lowered her into the chair. “He must have received instructions from—”

  “Wentworth!” Lady Wentworth swept into the parlor, her eyes blazing like a demon. “What has Blackham done now?”

  Chapter 30

  Her mother strode over to her father, outrage and anger in every seething movement. All eyes followed her progress in silence until she stepped beside Papa, whose lips were firmly sealed.

  “Well? I was summoned from my nap by Weller, who hurried me into these most inappropriate clothes”—she waved her hand to indicate a serviceable, but plain, day gown of deep purple—“and insisted you must see me at once.” She narrowed her eyes. “I do not do anything ‘at once,’ unless I myself deem it necessary. So I ask again, Wentworth”—her gaze speared her husband—“what has Blackham done now? Only his didoes could cause this much to-do.”

  “You are very astute, my dear.” Papa’s face had returned to mostly a normal hue from the vivid scarlet of a few moments before. “Lord Blackham is indeed behind the latest outrage. Here, please sit.” He ushered his wife to her usual wing-backed chair, then downed his whiskey and returned to the sideboard for a refill. “You tell her, Brack. I am liable to break something else if I try to tell it.”

  “We went to obtain the special license from the Archbishop of Canterbury, who we discovered is the cousin of Lady Maude Aston, to whom my dear father is endeavoring to engage me. We were therefore sent away with a large flea in our ears.” Patting Elizabeth’s hand, Jemmy continued to try to sooth her. Unfortunately, it helped not at all.

  “I see the Archbishop is not above petty family loyalty. So unexpected in the highest clergyman in the land.” Mama sniffed and rang the bell. “His mother was Bridget Sutton, as I recall. Well, Wentworth, what is our next option?”

  “For tuppence, I’d go down to Blackham Castle and speak a word with his lordship.” Her father growled, beginning to pace like a tiger in a menagerie. “That he refuses to allow Elizabeth to wed his son is an undeserved disgrace on her and an insult to our entire family.”

  Choking back tears, Elizabeth sank further into the chaise. Would she and Jemmy ever be able to wed? Doors to their ultimate happiness kept slamming shut at every turn. There seemed few options left them. Time was running out before scandal overtook them.

  “I doubt that would have any effect at all, my lord.” Jemmy rose and went to refresh his glass. “Lady Wentworth, did you ring for tea? I fear Elizabeth needs something against this shock.”

  “Here is the footman now.”

  The man entered, tea service in hand, and set the tray down beside Mama.

  “Thank you.” Immediately, Mama
poured tea and dropped in five lumps of sugar. She passed that cup to Elizabeth, who took it without a murmur. “What are our other options?”

  “Well, we could attempt a common license.” But Jemmy shrugged almost before the words got out. “However, it needs to be in your home parish, and I am certain the vicar at Blackham would refuse us as well.”

  “And apparently all the parishes of London are closed to us as well.” Papa’s color had returned.

  “On what grounds?” Elizabeth raised her head. Surely the clergymen had to have a reason to deny them to wed.

  “Pre-contract with Lady Maude. My father was supposed to sign the settlements with the Duke of Buckleigh the day I escaped Blackham. The Archbishop would not let me marry one woman when I am contracted to another.” Jemmy sighed and seated himself next to Elizabeth. “I am so sorry for all of this, my love. You deserve none of it.”

  “No, she does not, Lord Brack.” Mama sipped her tea, her mouth pursed as though the tea had no sugar. “I was against this match from the beginning because of the machinations of your father, who I remember quite well. You take after your mother, thank the good Lord, or I would forbid it still.” She sniffed and sat back in her chair. “However, the current circumstances, plus the imminent possibility of scandal should Lady Locke return to Town soon, lead me to suggest a course of action I really cannot believe I am saying.”

  Grabbing Jemmy’s hand, Elizabeth sat up and took a deep breath. “What, Mama?”

  “Go to Gretna Green and marry in Scotland.” Mama’s head snapped with military precision toward the sofa, where Dotty and Bella sat, their mouths opened in perfect Os. “You did not hear that, girls, and if you did, you will forget the name at once.”

  “Yes, Mama,” they said together, looking askance at one another.

  Gretna Green. The Scottish border town that had seen hundreds of elopements since Lord Hardwicke’s Marriage Act had been put into law last century. Never in her life had she considered eloping to Gretna Green. Girls from nice families did not do that.

  “That would do the trick, my lady.” Jemmy gazed fondly at Mama. “We can be there in four or five days.”

  “If the weather holds,” her father put in as he moved to stand behind Mama’s chair. “If not, it may take longer.”

  “As I see it, Wentworth, it is our only option.” Mama reached up to take his hand. “All other avenues seem closed to them. We must think of Elizabeth’s reputation as well as the other girls. If everything comes to light, it will still be better if they are already married. Blackham will not be able to put aside a marriage.”

  “What about the—” Elizabeth cut her eyes toward her sisters, then sighed. It just hurt to say the words aloud, even if the girls already knew. “What about the child? Five days banging along in a cold carriage cannot be good for him.”

  “Have you decided it’s a boy?” Jemmy grinned at her.

  She smiled back and squeezed his hand. “I might as well dream I carry your heir until I find out differently.”

  “We will go slowly, my love. Take perhaps six days to travel the distance and stop to rest each night,” he said, trying to assure her. “I will keep you both safe.”

  “Yes, we certainly will.” Rattling her teacup into its saucer, Mama set a beady eye on Jemmy. “Wentworth and I will accompany you in the carriage so no new scandal will rear its head regarding your lodgings on the way.”

  “You will go with us, Mama?” Stranger things could happen than having one’s mother accompany one to be married at Gretna Green, but very few she’d wager. Especially as her mother hated traveling.

  “There seems absolutely no other way for you to be wed, and wed you must.” Mama raised an eyebrow at Papa. “You agree with me, don’t you, Wentworth?”

  “Uh, yes, yes, of course, my dear.” Papa’s face reddened as he tugged at his cravat, suddenly too tight, perhaps? “We should go to offer chaperonage and advice.”

  “It is settled then.” With an imperious air, Mama nodded so fiercely her coiffure toppled, bringing her hair down over one eye.

  “What about us?” Dotty, who had been silent up until now, suddenly found her tongue. “We want to go with you and see Elizabeth and Lord Brack married. I daresay it will be the closest thing I ever see to an elopement.”

  “Indeed, you will not go.” The words were snapped so quickly they could have cut like a knife. Mama’s glare fixed Dotty like a bug on a pin. “This family chamber is the closest you will ever come to Gretna Green if I have anything to say about it, Dotty. And Isabella”—quick as a March hare, Mama turned her attention to her second daughter, who sat calmly drinking tea on the corner of the chaise—“you will not accompany us either. I shall have Aunt Dorothea, your namesake, come and stay with you and the children while we are away.” A triumphant gleam appeared in her eye. “No one will find fault with my sister’s chaperonage. She will keep you company and out of mischief while your father and I are from home.”

  “But, Mama!” Both girls cried in unison, and Elizabeth’s heart went out to them. Aunt Dorothea’s ideas about strictness made Mama look positively lenient.

  Holding up her hand, Mama stopped them from saying another word. “I will not have you gadding about as unchaperoned girls. Else we shall have to take up permanent residence in Gretna Green. It simply is not done, no matter the circumstances.”

  Her sisters subsided back onto the chaise to mull the turn of events over with sober countenances.

  “Then it is settled?” Elizabeth gazed expectantly from Jemmy to her parents.

  “Yes, my love.” He kissed their entwined fingers. “It may take a week, but we will wed in the end. Then my father will have to cease with his infernal plotting. Perhaps, in time, he will come to accept you as my wife and this child as his grandchild.”

  “It will be a cold day in hell when Blackham gives up one of his schemes.” Mama rose, and Jemmy shot to his feet. “However, I will be glad of the chance to ruin this one. Come, Elizabeth. I shall oversee the packing for the journey. Weller will be awash in trunks if we are not careful. We must leave at first light.”

  Getting slowly to her feet, Elizabeth was overcome with weariness beyond belief. All this turmoil was wearing her out. Once she and Jemmy were married, she wouldn’t leave her bed for a week. Snickering, she shot a glance at her betrothed and caught a confused face. Perhaps Jemmy would feel the same way when the time came. A thoroughly pleasant prospect.

  * * *

  The morning dawned clear and cold, an icy gray sky giving way to brilliant pinks and oranges as the sun rose. It caught Elizabeth yawning as Jemmy helped her into the sleek family landau. She’d gotten very little sleep, for Weller’s lack of ability to pack silently could not be underestimated. Coupled with her own worries and fears, the stealthy noise of rustling linen and thumping chests had kept her tossing and turning in her bed. Pray God, she could nod off when they were safely out of London.

  “You do not look well, my love.” Jemmy seated her in the forward-facing seat, himself across from her.

  “Merely fatigued with the activities of the night. I scarcely slept a wink.” She settled down into the comfortable black leather seats, relaxing at once. As soon as Mama and Papa arrived, they could leave and perhaps she could nap.

  “I will try to persuade your parents that the haste can be spared a bit.” His worried frown was endearing. “If Lady Locke has not yet received my father’s letter, then we shall be married before the lady can slander you or me. Therefore, we must take the journey in easy, but quick, stages.

  “We must not alter our plans, Jemmy.” She nodded toward her parents, approaching the carriage.

  “Bricks, Wentworth. We must have hot bricks at our feet, else we will freeze, just as Lot’s wife did.” Mama cast a baleful glance at George, the footman. “Hot bricks, George. At once. I’m sure I don’t know why they are not already here.”

  Elizabeth shuddered at that particular tone of voice, always reserved for their journeys: to
visit relatives, to Papa’s northern estates, to his seat in Gloucester. Anywhere they had ever gone, the journeys began in the exact same way, no matter if they traveled in summer, winter, or fall: a call for hot bricks, followed by a virtual sermon upon the ministry of keeping your feet warm.

  “As you have been told for years, Mama, the bricks are kept heating until the last possible minute. That assures that they are comfortable for the duration of the journey or until they can be replaced at the first change of horses.”

  “Well,” Mama humphed as she sat heavily beside Elizabeth, “as we are now in the carriage, they had best send them out immediately if we are to be off in good time.” She patted Elizabeth’s hands. “We will not stop until we are quite outside of London, your father tells me. So the sooner we begin, the sooner we will end.”

  As she could scarcely argue with that statement, Elizabeth merely nodded and sent up a prayer of thanks as the bricks, wrapped in flannel, were tucked in at her feet, the heat drifting pleasantly up under her skirts to linger around her knees.

  “Place your feet on either side of mine, Jemmy. Then you will have some warmth as well.” She eagerly shifted her legs to give him room.

  “No touching of the limbs, Elizabeth.” Her mother’s voice cracked in the small enclosure.

  “Mama.” Elizabeth gave her parent what she hoped was a withering look. “I am on my way to my wedding. My second wedding, mind you. And I am already carrying his child. I do not think his touching my limbs will make the slightest bit of difference at this point. I would rather he not catch an ague.”

  “That’s as may be, my girl. You have not married him yet, however, so no inappropriate behavior, if you please.” A wag of Mama’s finger, a gesture of admonishment Elizabeth remembered well from her childhood, was interrupted as the carriage hit a rut that set Mama’s crimson bonnet to bouncing. She shrieked and clutched the brim.

  Elizabeth risked a glance at Jemmy, whose mouth twitched suspiciously. “You have nothing to say, my lord?”