Page 8 of Wedding the Widow

“My lord?” The short, thin man with graying hair bounded out of his dressing room.

“I require some attention.”

Fellowes took in his master’s rumpled appearance and, with a long-suffering sigh, replied, “Of course, my lord.” The valet began to strip him methodically, if somewhat distastefully. Fellowes took inordinate pride in turning Jemmy out impeccably every time he set foot outside his room. Jemmy’s current state would have set a blot on his valet’s internal copybook had he been seen by anyone.

Relaxing in Fellowes capable hands, Jemmy gave himself over to calm, cool inner reflection.

What the deuce had happened tonight between him and Elizabeth? He forced himself to relax and groaned with the effort as the valet continued his adjustments. The sheer power of the Harvest Festival’s ritual crowning had affected them both more than he’d ever expected. The claiming of the Corn Maiden, Wrotham had called it. Fertility rite indeed. The utter sexual frenzy that had come upon him as he watched the Harvest Lord kiss the Corn Maiden had shaken him to his soul. Truth to tell, he’d had to restrain himself from laying Elizabeth down on the newly spaded earth and taking her within yards of the festival revelers.

Fellowes began his efficient removal of Jemmy’s linen shirt.

Elizabeth had felt the power as well. Her passionate response to his kiss had told him that. His cock had ached all the way back to Lyttlefield, much as he tried to hide it. And he would swear on a Bible, as he stood on his mother’s grave, that Elizabeth had wanted him as deeply as he had wanted her.

If he’d had doubts about the appetite that burned beneath the cool, dignified veneer that was the world’s view of Elizabeth Easton, they’d been put forever to rest in the last hour. Actually, Jemmy’d had few doubts about Mrs. Easton’s true nature even before the festival. From the moment he’d met her, he’d sensed that although she might appear prim and proper, deep within her burned an impassioned soul. That, as much as her comely face, had drawn him to her last summer. How satisfying to have been proved right.

He groaned quietly, trying to hold still as Fellowes straightened his trousers. His unruly flesh strained embarrassingly as the memory of his recent satisfaction in Elizabeth’s bed fanned the flames of hunger and lust yet again. Not even the sound of her rich, husky voice crying out her husband’s name had been able to stifle his desire for her. He’d been shocked by that slip of course, but understood it better than Elizabeth likely gave him credit for.

Georgie had told him early on of the deep love and regard Elizabeth had had for her husband, and of her terrible grief over his death at the Battle of Waterloo. His sister had professed a similar love and grief for her own husband, Isaac Kirkpatrick. So he understood that such a profound and abiding attachment could not be overcome even after a year of mourning. He could not fault Elizabeth for being carried away during the moment of completion, calling out the name of the only man who had excited such pleasure in her before. What he did regret was that her inability to move past her natural embarrassment had prevented him from making love to her once more, from the chance to bring his own name to her lips at that sweet ultimate surrender of herself.

Handing Jemmy a fresh shirt, Fellowes assisted him in dropping it over his head, the correct way this time.

Would she ever allow him to become close to her again? He feared she’d allow that one lapse to keep them from another intimate encounter. She said she still grieved for her husband, which he suspected was true. However, he’d wager she now intended to keep him at arm’s length because of her embarrassment, not her grief.

Finally, the valet draped a new cravat around his neck almost lovingly.

As a matter of habit, Jemmy raised his hands to begin tying the knot, then paused, shooting a frantic look at the little man still fussing with his clothing. “Was it in a Napoleon tie earlier, or a Ball Room, Fellowes?”

“I believe a Napoleon, my lord; however—”

“Be certain, for God’s sake. If it was in a Napoleon, then it must be tied in a Napoleon once again. I must not look as though I have changed clothes.” Jemmy began adjusting the length of the long silk cloth, trying to remember which way he had tied it earlier.

“But gentlemen are not looked down upon for changing such things, my lord.” Fellowes brushed at the shoulder and back of his jacket. The valet’s pride in his master’s looks was usually an endearing quality, but this was not the time.

“Tonight, Fellowes, I wish to give the impression that I have not changed since the company dined and returned to the festival. Let us say it is a point of honor—a lady’s honor, mind you—that I appear so.” Adjusting the dents in the cravat, Jemmy finished tying it and looked at his appearance critically in the mirror.

“Ah, I see, my lord.” Fellowes nodded so quickly his head bobbed. “Indeed, I do. May I suggest you adjust the cloth slightly? If you loosen it somewhat, it will suggest that it has been worn for some hours, and assist with your deception.”

“Thank you, Fellowes.” Jemmy’s fingers flew as he retied the snowy white cravat more loosely until he could swallow with relative freedom. “What would I ever do without you?”

“I am pleased to ever be at your lordship’s service.”

Jemmy gazed at his reflection, taking in point after point of his dress, remembering how he’d looked before he’d escorted Elizabeth to the festival. Before the madness had descended upon him.

Fellowes had worked another miracle. His suit approached the crisp look of earlier, only slightly relaxed. The cravat, however, was the masterpiece. Draped with exactly the correct degree of looseness, it suggested several hours of wear, not the frantic untying that had occurred in Elizabeth’s bedchamber. He must remember to raise Fellowes’s wages ten shillings in the next quarter. This was not the first time the valet had saved him, and it likely would not be the last.

“This will do nicely.” Jemmy turned this way and that, judging the exact dishevelment of his appearance and finding it most satisfactory. “You are to be commended, Fellowes.”

“Thank you, my lord.” The man bowed, took the soiled shirt, and disappeared into the dressing room once more.

Now for the hardest part of the evening—acting unconcerned about Elizabeth’s disappearance without seeming too incurious or too interested. Perhaps he could help by volunteering the information that she’d retired with a headache. No one could fault her for that after the strenuous nature of the day they had all had.

He took one last look in the mirror and headed downstairs, determined to shield Elizabeth, in her absence, from the prying questions of the other guests. Tomorrow he would find a way to speak with her alone and query her about their future. As a gentleman, he would help hide her from everyone but himself.

Chapter 4

Next morning, dressed as though he expected to meet Beau Brummel himself, Jemmy straightened his shoulders and fixed a pleasant smile on his face before entering the breakfast room. From experience, he knew Elizabeth came down early, and he hoped to begin his campaign to woo her afresh over tea and toast. Disappointment wiped the smile from his face when he found the bright yellow room inhabited only by his sister, Georgina, seated at the table, peeling an orange.

“Jemmy.” Georgie’s eyes lit up, and her cheeks flushed. She patted the seat beside her. “Come sit by me. I must get my fill of you while I can. There’s no telling when we shall be able to meet again.” She frowned, her nose wrinkling comically as she turned the orange in her hands.