Page 26 of Wedding the Widow

“What do you mean? Lord Wilton—”

“Lord Wilton is a rake and a rogue, even if he does stand to inherit the third-largest estate in England. You should steer clear of him.”

“Mama said—”

“I’m sure Aunt Augusta has said many fine things about Wilton. Your papa, however, would want to avoid the scandal if the scoundrel ruined you. He’s done that to young girls before, so the rumor goes. Now”—he stopped and turned his back to Elizabeth and her sister—“I am going to introduce you to Mrs. Easton, her sister, and her sister’s betrothed. You will be pleasant and cordial, and I will not tell your parents you were flirting shamelessly with a known rakehell.”

“I was not flirting with him,” Catherine protested. “He was flirting with me, and I was quite enjoying it!”

“Then we will find a less dangerous gentleman to flirt with you. Now, come and be introduced.” Jemmy wound her arm through his and boldly stepped toward Elizabeth, a genuine smile spreading across his face. Lord, but she looked magnificent.

Laughing at something her sister said, Elizabeth looked up, straight into his face. Her eyes widened, two deep blue circles swimming in a sea of white for just a moment before she lowered her eyelids against the sight of him. Her neck flushed a deep pink that spread upward to darken her cheeks.

Miss Worth turned toward him, joy lighting her face. “Lord Brack. How do you do? I asked my sister about you just the other day.”

“It was kind of you to think of me, Miss Worth.” Jemmy tried to focus on the woman he was speaking to, but his attention kept straying to Elizabeth, like a magnet to its true north. “May I present Lady Catherine Buckminster, my cousin? This is Mrs. Elizabeth Easton, Miss Worth, and Lord Haxton.”

They all murmured “how do you dos” as Jemmy held his breath, gazing at Elizabeth, who seemed even more lovely than he remembered, though her face had paled at the sight of him. The skin of her long neck had a creamy glow at least, her beautiful blond hair piled on top of her head, careless ringlets framing her face. When his gaze shifted to her full, red lips—he might never breathe again. Christ, he must find some way to make this stunning woman his.

“So pleased, Lady Catherine.” Elizabeth threw one agonized glare at him. “But you must excuse me.” She bowed and began to turn away, her mouth in a rigid line that broke the spell.

“Mrs. Easton.” Jemmy dropped Catherine’s arm, stepped toward the retreating woman, and boldly took her hand. He couldn’t allow her to slip away. “I am particularly pleased to see you this evening.”

“Thank you, my lord.” With a glance around the company, she drew herself up, giving her wrist enough of a shake to signal her displeasure at his action.

Sighing, he released her, praying she would not bolt across the floor where the dancers were in the midst of “Maiden Alley.” “I had hoped you might allow me to partner you in the next set.”

Her lips thinned, though her cheeks had gained a spot of color. “I had not planned to dance tonight, Lord Brack.”

“But plans may change, may they not, Mrs. Easton?” He smiled his most beguiling smile. “Surely one comes to a ball because one wants to dance.” God, but he wanted to grab her and kiss her senseless.

“Then rather let me say I had not planned to dance with you, Lord Brack.” Her blue eyes were cold as icicles and twice as hard.

“Elizabeth.” This might be his only chance to plead his case. Catherine was chatting with Miss Worth. Haxton had carried himself off, most likely in search of a drink. Jemmy could certainly use one about now as well.

“I have not asked you to call me so familiarly, Lord Brack.” Her nose flared, but deep in her eyes, a quiet pain lurked.

“I know you have not; however, I believe we are close enough in acquaintance to be termed intimates.”

The color in her cheeks deepened to red, and she grudgingly nodded, though her jaw firmed. “Very well, in private you may call me Elizabeth, Lord Brack.”

Stubborn woman. He forced a smile. “Thank you, Elizabeth. And I beg you to call me Jemmy.”

A laughing couple bumped into him, almost throwing him into Elizabeth.

Lord, he could not do this in the middle of the room. “Come with me, please.” He grasped her arm and steered her toward a quiet corner. “Elizabeth, I truly beg your pardon for not writing to you after I left London.”

“That was quite all right, Lord—”

He glared at her, not wavering, until she sighed.

“Very, well. That was quite all right, Jemmy.” The name came out grudgingly but landed sweetly on his ears. “I made it quite obvious I did not wish to see you. You were under no obligation to write.”

“You know very well what I was obliged to do. And I did write, the very day I returned to Lyttlefield Park, but I tore it up.” What a caper-witted lump he’d been. He should never have left. “I tore up a hundred letters in the past weeks, too cowardly to tell you what I feel. What I have felt since that night in October.”

“I prefer not to speak of that, my lord.” She tensed, glanced about, then slumped. “If that is all, my lord?”

“Devil take it, that is not all, and you know it.” The last thing he wanted was to quarrel with her. A gentler road might make for a smoother ride. “May I have the next dance, Elizabeth? I would very much like to dance with you tonight.”