Page 41 of Wedding the Widow

“Huh. Fine words, young woman.” Father harrumphed and nodded to a small, narrow sofa to the side of the room. “Sit. I have no intention to continue standing.” He plopped back down into his chair.

Jemmy and Elizabeth sank onto the well-oiled leather settee. “Father—”

“I am in the midst of negotiations for your marriage to the Duke of Buckleigh’s daughter. A much more advantageous match than Mrs. Easton, I presume.” His father cast a sharp eye at Elizabeth. “Unless you are also the daughter of a duke?”

“No, my lord, I fear not.” Elizabeth met his stare evenly. God, she was fearless. “Merely the daughter of a viscount and the widow of a man who gave his life for king and country.”

“Indeed.” The marquess leaned back. “He was . . . ?”

“Lieutenant Colonel Richard Easton, late of His Majesty’s Coldstream Regiment, under the command of Major General Lord John Byng. Killed in defense of the Château d’Hougoumont.”

“Commendable.” His father tapped a finger on the table. “Do you have children, Mrs. Easton?”

“Yes, my lord. Twins. A boy, Colin, and a girl, Katherine. They are six years old.” If his father’s questions disturbed Elizabeth, she did not show it. She sat calmly, her fingers rubbing the edge of her reticule.

“That speaks well of your ability to produce an heir for my son.”

“Father!” Outraged, Jemmy jumped to his feet. “That is totally uncalled for.”

“On the contrary, my boy”—his father speared him with a cold glance—“it is an issue very much to the point of marriage. In some ways, marriage to a widow with children gives a sense of security to the continuation of the line not possible with an innocent girl just out.” His face darkened. “I have firsthand knowledge of this.”

“Father.” God, his father was impossible. He could throttle the old man when he got off on this perpetual bee in his bonnet.

“No, my lord.” Elizabeth stayed him with a look, and he sat down. “Of what knowledge do you speak, Lord Blackham?”

“I was married for twelve years to a woman—sterling qualities, excellent bloodlines—who could not give me children. I spent twelve years thinking my line would die with me.” The old man’s eyes lit up. “Then God granted me grace and she died of influenza. I married Brack’s mother, who gave me five children in as many years before she died producing the last child.”

Elizabeth had paled a trifle during this tale, one Jemmy had heard all his life, but she only raised an eyebrow. What a perfect countess she would make and later a magnificent marchioness. If his father didn’t dissuade her, nothing ever would.

“So your ability to bear my son an heir speaks more highly of you than your pedigree, which I now come to.” Father leaned forward again, peering intently at Elizabeth.

Jemmy gripped the arm of the sofa. He’d be lucky if Elizabeth ever spoke to him again after being subjected to this inquisition.

“You have given me your late husband’s bona fides, at least his military ones.” His father laced his fingers together. “I assume he was a second or third son of the nobility? The daughter of a viscount would hardly settle for less.”

“I did not ‘settle’ at all, my lord.” Elizabeth’s jaw tightened, the first indication of displeasure Jemmy had seen since their arrival. “I chose to marry him because I loved him, not because of his family or connections.” She took a breath so deep he could see her chest expand. “However, yes, Lieutenant Colonel Easton was from Shropshire and of gentle birth. A younger son of the gentry who had to make his way in the world.”

“I see.” Nodding, his father continued to watch her as keenly as a cat at a mouse hole. “And your father? You are the daughter of . . . ?”

“Viscount Wentworth of Dorset.” Elizabeth tipped her head back, pride in every inch of her. And this beautiful woman was all his.

“Wentworth?”

At the sudden icy tone, Jemmy snapped his attention back to the figure behind the desk.

Elizabeth shifted uneasily on the seat, her eyes suddenly wary. She must have heard that change in tone as well, and for the first time, she seemed rattled. “Yes, my lord. John, Seventh Viscount Wentworth.”

Father’s face had paled. Now it flushed bright red, and his eyes narrowed to slits.

Jemmy leaned forward, and fear shot down his spine as he put an arm out instinctively to protect Elizabeth from the evil that now looked out of his father’s face.

“No.”

“I beg your pardon, my lord.” Elizabeth clutched her reticule to her, her fingers crushing the dark fabric.

“I forbid it.” The marquess rose to tower over the table, hatred, dark and hot, infusing the clipped words. “You will not marry my son, Mrs. Easton. Not now, not ever.”

Chapter 16