Page 9 of Wedding the Widow

He made his way around the table, glancing about for any sign that Elizabeth had already come down. The tablecloth lay smooth, pristinely fresh, everywhere save the place occupied by his sister. Good. Elizabeth had not yet appeared. After nonchalantly brushing a kiss on Georgie’s brow, he rounded the table and headed for the sideboard, loaded with gleaming silver warming pans.

Last evening’s mix of wild passions, the stresses of mingling sociably with the house party company afterward, and tossing and turning in his suddenly empty-seeming bed had resulted in a voracious appetite this morning. Before he realized it, he’d heaped his plate high with smoked herring, cold veal pie, sausages with mashed potatoes, rolls, and marmalade.

“Are you expecting a famine, Jemmy?”

He turned to find Georgie eyeing his plate before returning her attention to her orange.

“Can a man not be hungry in the morning without family censure falling on his head?” Jemmy shot back, a little more crisply than usual. He loved the banter he and his sister often shared, but found himself too distracted this morning to continue it. “Have you had the table to yourself this whole while?” He grabbed an orange for himself from the bowl at the end of the sideboard.

“Yes, alas. No one has seen fit to come down and eat this morning.” Georgie dropped the orange peel, which she’d managed to remove in one long piece, onto her plate. “I suppose all the excitement of the festival, with the drama that unfolded with poor Sir Edgar, and Charlotte and Nash’s announcement of their engagement last night has worn everyone completely out.” Carefully, she dissected the orange segments onto her plate, ringing the rim in bright color.

“It was quite an eventful night, I’ll grant you.” Jemmy chuckled as he pulled out the high-backed chair beside her. “I’ll be surprised if the any of the company rises before noon.” He eased into his chair, the overly full plate balanced neatly on one hand.

“Except for us and Elizabeth.”

Jemmy froze, the plate now wobbling precariously. “You said she hadn’t been down.”

Georgie shook her head. “I said she hadn’t breakfasted. She bid me farewell as I came down the stairs.”

“Farewell?” The plate slipped from his hand and rattled onto the table, spilling a little of the potatoes onto the clean white tablecloth. “She’s left Lyttlefield Park?”

Staring at him warily, Georgie nodded. “At least half an hour ago. She said she needed to go home. Oh.” She reached underneath her plate and produced a letter. “She left this for you.”

Stomach twisting, Jemmy plucked it from her fingers. Feigning an air of indifference, he calmly broke the seal and slowly unfolded the sheet of cream notepaper. “Did she say why she needed to go home so suddenly?” She could have received a message from home in the middle of the night or early this morning, but a sinking suspicion told him his actions—or hers—had precipitated her flight.

“No, which is odd.” Georgie frowned. “I asked if something had happened, and she said ‘yes,’ then paled and said ‘no.’ I couldn’t get out another question before she thrust that into my hands and said to give it to you.” His sister narrowed her eyes. “Did you quarrel with her last night, Jemmy? Don’t tell me you have done something stupid.”

“I . . . no, nothing I can think of.” He hated lying through his teeth, especially to Georgie, for whom he’d always felt a special fondness. “She said she had a headache when I left her last night. That’s all.” Fearing the worst, he unfolded the piece of stationery.

“So you told us.” Georgie picked up an orange section and bit it in half. “However, I did mark that the tips of your ears turned bright pink at the time.”

“What?” He’d been staring at the letter, admiring the elegant swirls of Elizabeth’s handwriting. His sister’s words brought him back to the present with a jolt. “What does the color of my ears have to do with anything?”

“Oh, come now, Jemmy.” Georgie gave him a withering look. “As if you didn’t know that your ears turn the exact shade of the Rose de Meux in the gardens at Blackham Castle every time you lie about something.”

“Leave my ears out of this, bran face. I was likely too close to the fireplace.” He busied himself with the letter, refusing to meet Georgie’s eyes for fear his ears would betray him yet again. Drawing in a sobering breath, he forced his attention to the looping letters that sprawled thickly across the page.

Dear Lord Brack,

Christ. If she referred to him as Lord Brack after that wildly passionate interlude in her chamber last night, he was lost for sure.

By the time you receive this letter I shall be on my way back to my parents’ home in London. I beg of you, do not follow me there.

Hell and damnation.

As I warned you last evening, I am not yet done with grieving my late husband. He is almost constantly in my thoughts, as you have become well aware.

A large blob of ink had pooled on the period of that sentence. Perhaps Elizabeth’s pen had rested there over long as she reflected on the moment of which she wrote. He could certainly recall that scene vividly—her face pale, save for her cheeks flushed rosy in passion’s grip as he gloriously spilled himself inside her, her one word marring the moment.

I find I am unwilling to consider such intimacies with another man while I am still constrained by my dear husband’s memory. I am therefore removing myself from you, the company, and from society in general for an undetermined length of time, until my deep feelings for my late husband can be laid to rest. I feel it would be unfair to you to give you hope that I will change my mind soon. You should consider yourself free of any obligation to me that you might construe from our encounter last evening.

An icy hand gripped his heart. She meant to end their connection once and for all, without even giving him a chance to declare himself. He clutched the paper so tightly it tore. Had that impassioned interlude meant nothing to her, save the betrayal of a dead man? She had been embarrassed, true, but surely she knew he would never reproach her for that cry? He’d told her as much then and there. Perhaps she hadn’t believed him. Should he have tried harder to allay her fears on that point?

Forcing himself to relax, he shot a glance at Georgie, who sat calmly eating another section of orange. Her gaze fixed firmly on the fruit, she nevertheless radiated a tension that would soon explode in a bevy of questions. If he knew Georgie, she’d demand to hear the contents of this letter, so he had better create a respectable version of it post haste. There remained but two lines left to read.

I truly wish you well, my lord, and hope for you nothing but the happiness which you so richly deserve. Thank you for all your many kindnesses to me during our brief acquaintance.

Sincerely,