Page 11 of Wedding the Widow

“Well, you are welcome to try.” Georgie leaned her cheek on her hand, as though too weary to care. “I cannot think that living with Father would be any worse than with Mrs. Reynolds. I’m amazed the woman considers herself a Christian after the things she’s said to me. Always out of the hearing of the Kirkpatricks, of course. So by all means, ask him. He may say no.”

“But he might just as likely say yes.” Jemmy embraced her affectionately. “Although his terms might well make you think twice.”

“Why?”

“He will likely take you back only so he can marry you off to a man of his choosing.” Jemmy hesitated, then barreled ahead. “Perhaps you should have accepted Wrotham when you had the chance.”

Her tinkly little laugh filled the breakfast room. “Nash did not want to marry me. He was only being gallant, and I knew that. He would never have been happy with anyone other than Charlotte, so that’s as it should be.”

“Your life would have been much easier, Georgie.”

“My life is as I have made it, Jemmy.” She folded her napkin with trembling fingers and laid it on her plate. “I would not change it one jot. Well, I would have Mrs. Reynolds not be so nasty toward me, but other than that . . .” She smiled, and her green eyes twinkled. “I think you should write to Elizabeth and let her know when you will next be in London.”

“And why should I do that, Mrs. Meddler?” She knew how to change a subject, by God.

“If you have any affection for Elizabeth—and I’d wager any amount of money, if I had it, that you do—then you must pursue her. Don’t allow her to get wrapped up in the children and forget you. Strike while the iron is hot, as Aunt Fern says.” Georgie bounced up and kissed his forehead. “If you don’t, I will guarantee you will regret it.”

“Regret what?” Lord St. Just had entered the breakfast room on the tail end of Georgie’s declaration.

“Good morning, my lord.” Georgie bowed and threw a gay look at Jemmy. “My brother will regret his inactivity today if he does not mark my words.” With an irrepressible giggle, Georgie sped from the room.

“Does your sister always speak in riddles, Brack? She’s quite adorable, but a veritable Cassandra for making heads or tails of.” St. Just grabbed a plate and began to load it down with an enthusiasm that made Jemmy rather ill. “What do you say to a ride this morning?” he asked, piling sausages on top of a mound of potatoes. “Fresh air always does one good. And Lady Georgina seemed to think activity was what you wanted today.”

Sighing deeply, Jemmy nodded. “I believe you are right, Rob.” He eyed his friend’s heaping plate, now festooned with a ring of scones around the edge. “Good God, you’re not going to eat that whole lot?”

A grin split St. Just’s face. “A growing boy needs his strength.”

“You’re eight and twenty, Rob. Any growing you do will be outward.” He eyed his friend’s whipcord-thin frame. “Well, perhaps you could stand a bit of that.”

With a snort, St. Just slid into a chair across from him. “I’m in better shape than you, old chap. This,” he waved his hand over the huge mound of food, “will scarcely last me until luncheon.” He speared a sausage and deftly cut it into thirds, the final third disappearing into his mouth.

As his friend chewed with gusto, Jemmy rose.

“Thought we were riding, old chap.” St. Just cut into a slice of roast beef. The man’s appetite had been legendary at school.

“Not this morning, I’m afraid,” Jemmy said, eyeing the massive plate with distaste. “While you’re occupied with devouring enough food to feed Bristol, I’m going to change and have Fellowes pack a bag.” Georgie’s words still echoed in his head, and his heart was inclined to listen. He’d even do her one better. “I’m for London as fast as the carriage can take me.”

Chapter 5

Elizabeth drew a deep breath and mounted the steps to Worth House, her parents’ town house in fashionable St. James Square. She’d had a long day of relentless soul-searching as she traveled through the countryside from Kent to London and could have used a distraction from her thoughts. Even her maid, Weller, never a chatty person, would have been better company than not, but Elizabeth had been obliged to leave her at home to see to her sisters. Oh, well, now she had arrived, she’d have more than her share of conversation. Bella and Dotty would likely provide that in the three minutes it would take her to enter the house and find them.

“Madam.” Tawes opened the door as though he’d been expecting her today and not two days from now. “We are glad to have you home again.” He took her spencer, hat, and gloves.

She sighed in relief to be home at last, with all its familiar sights and sounds. The pendulum clock in the foyer chimed the hour—five o’clock, enough time to change for dinner and perhaps have a quick visit with the children. Hothouse roses in a huge porcelain vase, edged in gold, scented the air. The red blooms were always there, their particular sweet scent a welcoming fragrance of home. A much longed-for peace descended on her.

As she started up the staircase, doors above banged shut, and shrill female voices drifted down from the landing that housed her sisters’ chambers and their private sitting room, shattering the peace.

Still, it was good to be home. She continued up the stairs.

“Elizabeth, you are returned so soon?” Isabella called to her as she passed the second-floor parlor on her way to her own chamber. The dark-blond girl put down her book and rushed to the doorway. “How was the house party?” Then with an arch smile, “Was Lord Brack in attendance?”

Drat. Why had she made mention of his lordship to her sisters after the last house party at Lyttlefield Park in August? Nothing could remain a secret in the Worth household.

“Hello, Isabella. You are looking quite well this evening.” Her sister was very much in looks indeed. Her cheeks pink, her lips shiny, her skin—prized for its creamy hue—fairly glowed in the lamplight. A sparkle of life in her big brown eyes told Elizabeth something had changed. Isabella had been in the doldrums ever since the end of the Season. What had occurred in the few days since her departure to cause this change?

“Thank you.” Isabella preened, swishing her pale, pink-sprigged gown. “You look fagged to death.”

“I’ve been rattling around in a carriage since before breakfast. You’d hardly look like you stepped out of a bandbox either.” Elizabeth peered at her sister, giving her a more thorough scrutiny. The new pink gown, embellished with small tucks and pearls around the bottom, became her sister’s coloring excellently. The delicate lace at the sleeves and neck was demure—and costly, to judge by the tiny, intricate pattern. Isabella’s luxurious hair had been swept up into a stylish coiffure, quite like it had looked at assemblies during the Season. Elizabeth waved her hand, taking the girl in from top to toe. “Are you expecting someone to call this late?”