Page 7 of Wedding the Widow

Sorry as she might be, she couldn’t help that. He needed to leave, so she could cry alone. A sudden chill made her shiver and draw the covers more tightly around her neck.

After pulling on his boots, he stomped his feet, too loud in the accusing silence. When he turned toward her again, his shirt was tucked, his cravat in place around his neck, but not tied. A stray shaft of light lit his face—it reminded her of the statuary in her father’s garden at home, frozen in harsh, stony lines.

Guilt flooded her again. He looked angry and miserable, like an eager puppy that had been shoved aside. “Jemmy—”

“No, my dear. I am simply very sorry for misunderstanding you.”

“Please, Jemmy, I am truly sorry.” She couldn’t bear the hurt on his face. He had been a boon companion this past summer as well as this weekend. Kind, friendly, attentive, and so handsome. He should be the perfect man to help lead her out of her grief for her husband. If only it were the proper time. If only she hadn’t ruined everything. He could never really forgive her calling him by another man’s name. And having done so once, she would not risk lying with him a second time, even to try and dispel the lapse.

He watched her, his eyes still hungry. “I take my leave of you, Mrs. Easton.”

The formality cut like a knife to her heart.

Before she could say a word, he swept her a bow and strode to the door. Opening it a crack, he first listened to the corridor, then eased it open enough to look up and down the hall. He slipped out without a backward glance. The door clicked shut, leaving her alone at last.

Hand flung over her eyes, Elizabeth lay completely still, unable to keep from seeing images of her and Jemmy entwined in her bed. She rolled over, staring into the dying embers of the fire, willing herself to sleep. The tick tick of the clock on the mantle told her time continued to pass, still she felt frozen, reliving in her mind that one horrifying moment when she’d called Jemmy “Dickon.” She curled up as her stomach threatened to cast up its contents. She could never look Jemmy—no, Lord Brack, much better to think of him as that once more—in the face again, knowing that.

Flopping onto her back, Elizabeth stared at the frilly white canopy overhead, still unable to sleep, despite her exhaustion. Marital relations with Dickon had always left them both panting and sated, ready to talk quietly as they lay in each other’s arms, drowsing off to sleep.

The very same activity with Jemmy—no, Lord Brack—seemed to have the opposite effect. She was wide awake and might be until the sun came up. She should have slept like the dead after such a strenuous—

Her whole face flushed with heat at the image of him over top of her, thrusting vigorously into her over and over.

By God, but she had enjoyed it.

“I did not.” Speaking the words aloud, she sat up in the darkened room, ready to deny it to anyone except herself. “I did not enjoy it like I did with Dickon.” But she had enjoyed it nonetheless.

It was different, of course. Jemmy was quite a bit younger than her late husband, more her own age. That youth had shown in his vigor and stamina, and the forceful way he’d swept her off her feet, literally, and into the bed.

Her husband had been slow and steady. Nothing wrong with that during their almost seven years together. But—

How could she lie here and compare them? She sat up and punched her pillow. It was indecent. No nice woman would dream of doing such a thing. Of course, most women didn’t have the experience to make a comparison between two men. Two very different men, yet each called to her.

Dickon had been a gallant soldier, yet tender and kind when they closed off the rest of the world in the bedchamber they always shared.

Tonight had been all wild passion, as if another Elizabeth had taken over her body and allowed a secret part of her to be free. It must have been that dreadful scene at the festival. So pagan it had stirred her blood to a fever pitch. Lord Brack’s as well.

“Jemmy.”

The name on her tongue set her body to throbbing, especially her core at the apex of her thighs. What was wrong with her? Was she truly so wanton a woman she already thought of bedroom pleasures a second time in one night? After almost a year and a half without such urges, to now crave such intimacies said little for her delicacy or her loyalty. She should still be mourning her husband, not taking a new lover between her sheets.

Still, the memory of Jemmy’s hard body over her, in her, driving her to the heights of ecstasy would not be denied. Even now, her body tingled with the anticipation of his touch. She wanted to experience it again and again. She strained upward with longing for him, but it could never be. Not with Jemmy.

Despite his words, he could scarcely overlook such a breach of propriety as she had committed, much less forgive it. If she’d rather die than look him in the face again, how was she to be intimate with him? Blow out the candles? As if he’d expose himself to the possibility of such a thing happening again.

Not that she’d make a habit of falling into bed with a man to whom she wasn’t married. If she married Jemmy, oh my, but the nights would never be cold or lonely. Hot, passionate, tender. Yes, that would be a life to live to the fullest. Jemmy would be the perfect man to warm her bed.

Impossible. She flopped over on her other side. Not that he’d likely make an offer after tonight’s wretched performance. No. Better to remain true to the memory of her dead husband. A cold bed was a small price to pay for the appearance of loyalty.

The final ember in the fireplace broke apart, and the darkness closed around her. As she began to sink into sleep at last, another disconcerting question raised itself. Was she more disturbed that she had shown disloyalty to Dickon, or that she had so easily abandoned herself to passion in Jemmy’s arms?

* * *

Jemmy snicked the door closed, alert for any sound that might indicate someone else lurked in the corridor. He moved away from Elizabeth’s door with a brisk step that quickly took him toward the landing. He crossed it, noting no activity downstairs. Good. He’d have time to make himself presentable before appearing later.

He hurried to his chamber before someone saw him so disheveled and started asking questions—he’d thrown on his clothes so quickly he’d slipped his shirt on backward and he’d missed a few buttonholes in his breeches. This dishabille could indicate a dalliance on his part, though he was close enough to his own room now that no one would necessarily suspect a particular person. Clawing at his neck, he stopped at his door. He’d simply wound his cravat around his throat, where it currently threatened to choke him. At the moment, death was far less alarming than his anger at Elizabeth Easton.

“Fellowes,” he bellowed as soon as he’d shut his chamber door. His valet would put him to rights in good time with no questions asked.