Page 1 of Wedding the Widow

Chapter 1

Village of Wrotham, Kent, England

October 1816

“Here you go, Mrs. Easton.” James, Lord Brack, handed her a pint glass of Wrotham ale.

“Thank you, my lord.” Shivers of delight coursed through Elizabeth Easton as she accepted the dripping libation and took a long sip, cool and nutty with a pleasant bite. She’d initially encountered the brew this past summer during her friend Charlotte’s first house party, at the insistence of her neighbor, Lord Wrotham. Even though ladies weren’t supposed to drink it, she’d enjoyed it, and Lord Brack had remembered.

This weekend party had held more pleasurable sensation for her than she’d known since she’d lost her husband over a year before. Much of it because of the Harvest Festival, here in the village of Wrotham. Some of it was sparked by her best friend’s announcement an hour ago that she and Lord Wrotham were to marry before the New Year.

The bulk of it, she suspected, however, came from the handsome young man dancing attendance on her, whose arm she now clasped. Lord Brack, or Jemmy, as his sister Georgina called him, had escorted her about the county festival all day, seemingly to their mutual satisfaction. They had enjoyed shopping among stalls—he’d insisted on buying her one of the sweet little dolls made of stalks of wheat—had a delicious tea, and laughed themselves giddy at the antics of the participants during the various games. With their sizable party, he could easily have changed partners several times during the festivities. Lord Brack, however, had remained at Elizabeth’s side all day long. Quite flattering for a widow of six and twenty.

Now they were enjoying a quick pint of ale before the final and, as some had said, most important activity of the day: the crowning of the Corn Maiden.

She wrinkled her nose at the sharp smell of hops. “I wonder why ladies are not supposed to drink ale. Gentlemen should not be allowed to have all the fun.”

“We cannot give up all of our best secret pleasures, Mrs. Easton.” Lord Brack’s sky-blue eyes crinkled as he grinned. He was certainly one of the best-natured gentlemen of her acquaintance.

They strolled away from Mr. Micklefield’s temporary stall toward the center of the field where the games had been played earlier. Even though she’d been sensible and worn her sturdy half boots, the newly mown stubble made her wobble. She clutched Lord Brack’s strong arm tighter, the startling warmth of him seeping through his green superfine coat.

“Careful there, Mrs. Easton. We don’t want you to come to grief.”

Lord, don’t let her spill the ale on either one of them.

Lord Brack led them to the edge of the circle that had formed around the hulking Michael Thorne, the Harvest Lord, and four young women—local girls vying for the honor of being crowned Wrotham’s Corn Maiden.

“They do look pretty,” Elizabeth said, motioning to the figures obviously decked out in their finest, most colorful garb, their hair unbound, flowing around their shoulders and spilling over their breasts.

“Yes, they are a bevy of country beauties, aren’t they? Mr. Thorne’s going to have a difficult time choosing his Corn Maiden.” Lord Brack’s eyes sparkled as he sipped more ale. “The three not chosen will be quite disappointed, I fear. Michael Thorne’s a very handsome lad.”

“Does he choose a girl to marry him?” How scandalous that would be, to be chosen—or not chosen—before all the assembled tenants and members of the village.

“Oh, no. Nothing quite so permanent.” Brack’s smile flashed again. “He claims a kiss only, said to keep the fields fertile through the winter and into the spring.”

“That must be some kiss.” The four girls preened and giggled as Mr. Thorne walked around them, looking them over with a keen eye.

Lord Brack took another pull at his ale, the torchlight throwing his features into sharp relief. “According to Lord Wrotham, it used to be quite a bit more than just a kiss.” He gazed into her face, the gleam in his eyes transforming suddenly into hunger.

“More?” she squeaked. Heat blasted her face, as though she stood too close to the flickering torches. The chilly night became hot as midday.

“Long ago, the Harvest Lord chose his Corn Maiden as his Bride of the Fields. After the toasts and celebration ended, the Lord took his Bride into the fields, and the two spent the night together in a makeshift bridal tent. The next spring, if the Corn Maiden was increasing, it was considered an auspicious sign for a good crop, and the two married.”

“And if there was no child?”

“Then no wedding.”

“Oh, dear.” Elizabeth clutched her glass of ale, her heart beating furiously. “How . . . pagan.” Aware now of her arm through his, she slipped it out and transferred her glass to that hand. “How could the girl’s parents allow such a thing?”

Brack shrugged. “It was the custom, Wrotham said. Pagan perhaps,” his voice deepened, “but it was considered a great honor for the girl to be chosen.” He nodded toward the Harvest Lord, busy inspecting a harvest bouquet of stalks of wheat and field flowers offered by a very pretty dark-haired maiden on the end. The offering was supposed to be the measure by which the girl was judged, and this one certainly showed hers off to best advantage by holding it in front of her ample bosom. Michael Thorne was getting an eyeful of more than flowers.

Infectious excitement blazed across the girls’ faces. Elizabeth’s pulse beat faster as Mr. Thorne bent his tall frame to sniff the bouquet. From the tented look of the man’s breeches, he was interested in much more than a kiss. A sheer animal heat seemed to leap from him to the girl, their gazes now locked. The power that emanated from them wafted over Elizabeth, making her want to loosen her spencer to cool her body. Lord, she should never drink Wrotham ale again if it made her this fanciful and uncomfortable.

Had the display affected Lord Brack? She sneaked a look at her escort. His cheeks had taken on a reddish hue. He stared at the couple, as enthralled as she.

Too scandalous for their modern time, this pagan performance should be stopped. Yet even in her censure, her gaze inexorably strayed back to the scene unfolding before them inside the ring of torches.

“Has the Harvest Lord chosen his Corn Maiden?” Mr. Smith, the unofficial master of the festival, called from the edge of the circle.