Wedding the Widow

Book 2: Widows' Club

by Jenna Jaxon

Genres: Historical Fiction; Women's Fiction; Regency Romance

Synopsis

Of all the widows of Lyttlefield Park, Elizabeth Easton seems least likely to remarry. Although many gentlemen would love to get to know the charming Mrs. Easton better, she is devoted to the memory of her late husband—which is why she’s so shocked to be overtaken by passion during a harvest festival, succumbing to an unforgettable interlude with the handsome Lord Brack.

After enduring years of war, Jemmy, Lord Brack, plans to defer matrimony in favor of carefree pleasure. But who could resist a lifetime with Elizabeth Easton, a woman as marvelously sensual as she is sweet? Yet despite their mutual desire, she refuses to consider his proposal. With scandal looming and their families bitterly opposed to the match, Jemmy must find a way to convince Elizabeth to risk her wary heart on him—and turn one infamous night into forever.

Release date: July 31, 2018

Publisher: Lyrical Press

Print pages: 336

Sample

“Here you go, Mrs. Easton.” James, Lord Brack, handed her a pint glass of Wrotham ale.

“Thank you, my lord.” Shivers of delight coursed through Elizabeth Easton as she accepted the dripping libation and took a long sip, cool and nutty with a pleasant bite. She’d initially encountered the brew this past summer during her friend Charlotte’s first house party, at the insistence of her neighbor, Lord Wrotham. Even though ladies weren’t supposed to drink it, she’d enjoyed it, and Lord Brack had remembered.

This weekend party had held more pleasurable sensation for her than she’d known since she’d lost her husband over a year before. Much of it because of the Harvest Festival, here in the village of Wrotham. Some of it was sparked by her best friend’s announcement an hour ago that she and Lord Wrotham were to marry before the New Year.

The bulk of it, she suspected, however, came from the handsome young man dancing attendance on her, whose arm she now clasped. Lord Brack, or Jemmy, as his sister Georgina called him, had escorted her about the county festival all day, seemingly to their mutual satisfaction. They had enjoyed shopping among stalls—he’d insisted on buying her one of the sweet little dolls made of stalks of wheat—had a delicious tea, and laughed themselves giddy at the antics of the participants during the various games. With their sizable party, he could easily have changed partners several times during the festivities. Lord Brack, however, had remained at Elizabeth’s side all day long. Quite flattering for a widow of six and twenty.

Now they were enjoying a quick pint of ale before the final and, as some had said, most important activity of the day: the crowning of the Corn Maiden.

She wrinkled her nose at the sharp smell of hops. “I wonder why ladies are not supposed to drink ale. Gentlemen should not be allowed to have all the fun.”

“We cannot give up all of our best secret pleasures, Mrs. Easton.” Lord Brack’s sky-blue eyes crinkled as he grinned. He was certainly one of the best-natured gentlemen of her acquaintance.

They strolled away from Mr. Micklefield’s temporary stall toward the center of the field where the games had been played earlier. Even though she’d been sensible and worn her sturdy half boots, the newly mown stubble made her wobble. She clutched Lord Brack’s strong arm tighter, the startling warmth of him seeping through his green superfine coat.

“Careful there, Mrs. Easton. We don’t want you to come to grief.”

Lord, don’t let her spill the ale on either one of them.

Lord Brack led them to the edge of the circle that had formed around the hulking Michael Thorne, the Harvest Lord, and four young women—local girls vying for the honor of being crowned Wrotham’s Corn Maiden.

“They do look pretty,” Elizabeth said, motioning to the figures obviously decked out in their finest, most colorful garb, their hair unbound, flowing around their shoulders and spilling over their breasts.

“Yes, they are a bevy of country beauties, aren’t they? Mr. Thorne’s going to have a difficult time choosing his Corn Maiden.” Lord Brack’s eyes sparkled as he sipped more ale. “The three not chosen will be quite disappointed, I fear. Michael Thorne’s a very handsome lad.”

“Does he choose a girl to marry him?” How scandalous that would be, to be chosen—or not chosen—before all the assembled tenants and members of the village.

“Oh, no. Nothing quite so permanent.” Brack’s smile flashed again. “He claims a kiss only, said to keep the fields fertile through the winter and into the spring.”

“That must be some kiss.” The four girls preened and giggled as Mr. Thorne walked around them, looking them over with a keen eye.

Lord Brack took another pull at his ale, the torchlight throwing his features into sharp relief. “According to Lord Wrotham, it used to be quite a bit more than just a kiss.” He gazed into her face, the gleam in his eyes transforming suddenly into hunger.

“More?” she squeaked. Heat blasted her face, as though she stood too close to the flickering torches. The chilly night became hot as midday.

“Long ago, the Harvest Lord chose his Corn Maiden as his Bride of the Fields. After the toasts and celebration ended, the Lord took his Bride into the fields, and the two spent the night together in a makeshift bridal tent. The next spring, if the Corn Maiden was increasing, it was considered an auspicious sign for a good crop, and the two married.”

“And if there was no child?”

“Then no wedding.”

“Oh, dear.” Elizabeth clutched her glass of ale, her heart beating furiously. “How . . . pagan.” Aware now of her arm through his, she slipped it out and transferred her glass to that hand. “How could the girl’s parents allow such a thing?”

Brack shrugged. “It was the custom, Wrotham said. Pagan perhaps,” his voice deepened, “but it was considered a great honor for the girl to be chosen.” He nodded toward the Harvest Lord, busy inspecting a harvest bouquet of stalks of wheat and field flowers offered by a very pretty dark-haired maiden on the end. The offering was supposed to be the measure by which the girl was judged, and this one certainly showed hers off to best advantage by holding it in front of her ample bosom. Michael Thorne was getting an eyeful of more than flowers.

Infectious excitement blazed across the girls’ faces. Elizabeth’s pulse beat faster as Mr. Thorne bent his tall frame to sniff the bouquet. From the tented look of the man’s breeches, he was interested in much more than a kiss. A sheer animal heat seemed to leap from him to the girl, their gazes now locked. The power that emanated from them wafted over Elizabeth, making her want to loosen her spencer to cool her body. Lord, she should never drink Wrotham ale again if it made her this fanciful and uncomfortable.

Had the display affected Lord Brack? She sneaked a look at her escort. His cheeks had taken on a reddish hue. He stared at the couple, as enthralled as she.

Too scandalous for their modern time, this pagan performance should be stopped. Yet even in her censure, her gaze inexorably strayed back to the scene unfolding before them inside the ring of torches.

“Has the Harvest Lord chosen his Corn Maiden?” Mr. Smith, the unofficial master of the festival, called from the edge of the circle.

“He has.” Michael Thorne spoke, his deep bass voice echoing down Elizabeth’s spine.

The power in that voice had her grabbing Lord Brack’s arm once more. She needed an anchor if she was to hear this pronouncement.

Lord Brack seemed just as affected as she. Scarcely taking his eyes off the couple, he tossed back the last of his ale, then dropped the thick glass to the ground. His big hand came down and covered hers, heat streaming through her gloves.

She wanted to grasp his hand as well but couldn’t think what to do with her own glass. It still contained some ale, which she could not drink, though she loathed to spill it on the ground. It somehow seemed sacrilegious. Still, she wanted more contact with the strong male protection next to her. So she stepped closer toward him, almost leaning against him.

He plucked the glass from her hands, swallowed almost half in one gulp, then deliberately poured what remained on the ground around their feet.

Protection against the pagan gods or sacrifice to them? Where had these fanciful notions sprung from all of a sudden?

Again, the raw animal power of the moment washed over her, and she grasped his hand, pressing it to his arm. If she got much hotter, she’d likely steam in the cold air.

“As the seed goes to the fertile ground, so goes the Harvest Lord to his Maiden . . . Nora Burns.” Michael Thorne intoned the ages-old chant, then seized the dark-haired Nora, her face alight with joy and triumph, by the hand and pulled her to him.

A jubilant cry went up from the crowd, a wail of lament from the three would-be Corn Maidens. They scurried out of the circle, arms around each other.

Elizabeth’s heart thumped so hard she gasped for breath. Could Lord Brack feel her pulse pounding in the hand he held so tightly?

The Harvest Lord led his Maiden into the center of the circle, grabbed her around the waist, and lifted her above his head, spinning them around. After making a complete circle, he lowered her inch by inch to the ground. As soon as her feet touched the field stubble, he grasped her face—her cheeks red, her eyes snapping with excitement—and lowered his mouth to hers.

A stab of desire jolted Elizabeth, tearing through her like a lightning bolt straight to the apex of her thighs. Her breasts tingled as the Harvest Lord claimed his Corn Maiden.

As Thorne deepened the kiss, Nora threw her arms around his neck, pressing herself against the powerful body before her.

Panting, Elizabeth strained forward as well, her hands clasped, viselike, around Lord Brack’s arm. A moan of need began in her throat, but she bit it back. What was happening to her?

She’d not been this aroused in over a year, not since her husband Richard—or Dickon, as she’d called him—had gone away to war. She’d felt his death so sharply she’d not even thought about love or desire for another man. Not until Charlotte had dragged her to the house party in August. There she’d met Lord Brack, who she’d found very amiable but hadn’t thought of as desirable. Well, not exactly. Nor had she paid much attention to his obvious interest in her. Until now.

His arm tensed as he watched the crowning of the Corn Maiden. From the corner of her eye, she marked his Grecian profile as it stood stark against the flickering torchlight, his gaze fixed on the couple before them. His jaw clenched so tightly she could almost hear it creak. He turned his head to peer down at her, his eyes dark with a desire of his own.

Slipping his arm around her shoulders, he turned them away from the sight of Michael and Nora as applause from the surrounding crowd crashed around them. He led her from the lighted circle, toward a stand of trees at the edge of the field.

Elizabeth had expected her senses would return once she no longer bore witness to the incredible raw sexual power of that kiss. Her body, however, continued to throb, then to ache with the need to feel a man’s touch once more.

Lord Brack stopped just at the tree line, well out of the light. He loosed her hands from their grip on his arm, then cupped her face, just as Michael Thorne had done to Nora, and sank his mouth onto hers.

A bolt of fire shot through her, down her arms and legs, through her fingers and toes. Her core heated as though a sun burned at the center, and the ache deep inside her, begun while they had watched the Harvest couple, became a demand she could not ignore.

Brack deepened the kiss, his tongue stealing warm and welcome into her mouth. She arched her neck back, opening herself fully. Let him take her here and now.

As if reading her mind, he wrapped his arms around her, pulling her so tightly to him that every muscle in his chest pressed into her, hard as granite, yet comforting as a safe harbor against her hurts and fears. Ah, but she had missed that sense of safety so very much.

Still his tongue explored, now her mouth, now her ear, where his rough, panting breath sent new shivers down her spine. His lips traveled lower, down her neck. She couldn’t repress the moan this time. Her whole body trembled, ached for Dickon to lay her down here on the ground and take her, as he had so many times before.

This wasn’t Dickon.

Like a spray of cold water shaken from a rowan tree onto her naked body, Elizabeth jumped back from Lord Brack, suddenly very aware of who he was and where they were.

He too stepped back, blinking as if roused from a dream. “Elizabeth?”

Covering her face with one hand, she held the other out as if to fend him off. What had come over her?

He didn’t move toward her but looked away, toward the still-lighted circle where Michael and Nora danced wildly with several other couples. “Please forgive me, Mrs. Easton. I’m not sure what just came over me.”

“No, my lord, I must beg your pardon.” Elizabeth didn’t quite know where to look. Not at him, not at the dancing couples. She settled for the ground at her feet. It was probably best he didn’t see her fiery cheeks.

“I am afraid the spectacle of the Harvest Lord claiming the Corn Maiden quite carried me away.” He sighed deeply. “I think you may have been affected by it as well?”

Elizabeth risked raising her head. “It was . . . most powerful. I believe many pagan rituals are.”

“Yes, well, I am sorry I took advantage of you in the moment.” He shook his head. “Most unforgivable.”

“I forgive you, my lord.” She leaned forward, putting a hand on his arm to reassure him. “I was as much to blame.” Heat stole through her palm where she touched his arm, and she snatched it back. “One wonders if it is the ritual or the very place itself that channels these feelings.”

“You felt it as well?” His eager voice touched that ache deep inside her.

“I must confess I did.” She almost whispered the admission. Could she actually be standing here in a field, in the middle of the night, saying these indelicate things to a man? A particularly nice gentleman too. What must he think of her?

He seized her hands, startling her afresh. “Do not be ashamed, Mrs. Easton, I beg of you. I hope you have noticed these last few days of the house party—no, even before that, when first we met—that I have come to have the greatest respect and admiration for you. Gratitude as well for your friendship with Georgina.”

“Lady Georgina is a dear, dear friend. I would do anything within my power for her.” The pleasurable tingles where he held her hands had begun anew.

“You are one of the kindest spirits I have ever known.” He pulled her a step closer. “I have been waiting for the right moment to tell you just how much I admire you.”

His gaze warmed her as much as his words. She could fall into those big blue eyes and be lost forever. Willingly. Oh, dear, was she doing it again?

“Lord Brack.” She leaned back, pulling her hands from his and winding them firmly around her reticule. “I fear a headache has come upon me suddenly. Likely brought on by that potent Wrotham ale.”

“Mrs. Easton—”

She started toward the area where the horses and carriages waited. “Perhaps that is why ladies are seldom supposed to indulge in it.” She must get away from this place, before she was truly lost. “Will you please see me to the carriage? I believe it is time I returned to Lyttlefield Park.”

“Allow me to escort you back.” He fell in step beside her but didn’t offer his arm.

Perceptive man. If she touched him again she would completely lose control and quite likely abandon herself to him here and now. And while that prospect had a wild appeal to her at the moment and in this place, in the light of day it simply would not do. “Thank you, my lord, for the offer, but I cannot allow you to leave the festivities on my account.” The short drive back to Wrotham Park alone would give her time to cool this unusual desire for him. If she remained here, in the wild sensuality of the night, she might ravish Lord Brack on the spot.

“I believe it has concluded.” He swept his hand toward the now-ragged circle where the locals were milling about.

Indeed, the festival seemed at an end.

“It would be my greatest pleasure to see you home safely.” He chuckled. “Even though the robbers in the area have been apprehended, a lady at night alone is never a wise choice.”

Although this might be the one exception to that rule. “Very well then.” Elizabeth resisted a sigh. He’d got what she called a “stubborn man face” on—Dickon had shown it to her enough times that she recognized it on other gentlemen. She would simply have to keep a vigilant distance from this most attractive man. “I thank you for your kind offer.”

His joyful smile did nothing to buoy her confidence.

She steeled herself for the touch of his hand. “Should we wait for the others, perhaps? They will be needing the carriage as well.” If others accompanied them, surely she’d be less inclined to think heated thoughts about the gentleman seated across from her.

“The distance is less than half a mile. We will send it back directly we arrive.” He tapped on the roof, and the coachman started the team. “If you are in distress, we must get you home so you can have some tea as quickly as possible.”

“You are truly kind, my lord.” Elizabeth relaxed against the soft leather seat and smiled at the personable young man. He would make any woman an excellent husband in due time. It might even be her, if only she were ready to give up her love for Dickon.

She firmed her lips into a pleasant smile. Even though Charlotte and Georgie had been actively advocating a match between her and Lord Brack, that didn’t mean she was ready for it. Such a major change in her life must take more sober consideration than a few days’ acquaintance, delightful though the gentleman might be. She had Dickon’s children, Colin and Kate, to think of, after all. There was no need to rush into marriage.

Not even to satisfy the hollow ache deep in her core that suddenly yearned to be filled by the man in the carriage.

Jemmy leaned back in the carriage, wishing for more light. He’d give anything to know what Mrs. Easton—Elizabeth, as he already called her to himself—was thinking right now. But the shadows fell across her lovely face, masking any inner thoughts that might help him to gauge her reactions.

The leather seat creaked as he eased his position. Perhaps the darkness was a blessing. While it shielded Elizabeth’s face, it also very effectively hid the lingering effects their passionate encounter had caused in his groin. His breeches had tented as soon as that indecent pagan kiss had taken place in the circle. Not from desire for Nora Burns—God, no—but from his fantasy that he was the Harvest Lord and Elizabeth his Corn Maiden.

Best not think along those lines at the moment. At least not until he was safely away from Elizabeth. Mrs. Easton. Damn it. He thought of her as Elizabeth. His Elizabeth, although after rushing his fences like that tonight he’d surely set himself back in his campaign to make her his wife. Perhaps some simple solicitude would help offset his blunder.

“Are you cold, Mrs. Easton? There’s a carriage blanket here.” She looked pale whenever the moonlight flashed in through the window, illuminating the sweet, heart-shaped face that so often wore a worried frown.

“No, thank you, my lord. I am fine. And we are almost at Lyttlefield Park.” She smiled, and his member leaped afresh.

Earlier in the year, Jemmy’d had no notion of wanting a wife. At just twenty-nine, he’d returned from a grand tour, not only of the normal places in France, Italy, and Germany; he’d also taken excursions to Egypt and Greece as well. He’d waited years for the war to be over, and he’d insisted on a complete tour before coming back home. Just arrived in London in May, he’d come to Town this Season to sow his final wild oats. Of course, he’d managed his share of that in various places across Europe and now throughout London as well, with several delectable birds-of-paradise.

Lady Cavendish’s house party had been one more stop in a summer dedicated to passion and frolic, a way to see his sister again with his father none the wiser—until he had met Elizabeth Easton. When Georgie had introduced her as a widow, he’d immediately assumed the woman desired a casual romp. To say he’d been grossly mistaken was to put it lightly.

“Here we are, Mrs. Easton.”

The carriage rolled up to the manor house door, and Jemmy jumped down, waving away the groom and handing Elizabeth down as gently as if she were a porcelain doll.

“Thank you so much, my lord.” She smiled, a dimple appearing in her right cheek.

Oh, to have that dimple to kiss at will.

Jemmy offered his arm, not at all certain she’d take it. Although their kiss earlier had steamed with passion, she’d broken from it and him rather abruptly.

Elizabeth placed her hand lightly through the crook of his arm, and he thrilled to the delicate touch. Heat curled around his cock as though she’d gripped it instead.

From the moment he’d been introduced to her, the woman had entranced him. Her beautiful face, lush figure, and pleasing voice had attractions of their own. Her sweet nature, however, had enchanted him. A very womanly lady who had been someone’s perfect wife.

She’d mentioned both her husband and children that first evening in August, dispelling any idea she’d come to the party with a mere dalliance in mind. Despite the initial disappointment, he’d discovered he didn’t care. He’d been drawn to her as a cold man is drawn to a roaring fire. Even when she’d hinted she still grieved for her late husband, a war hero, Jemmy had found hope. A woman who had once loved so deeply would likely need that physical love once more.

Tonight, he’d been sure of it. Her passionate response to him had given him even greater hope that she was at last ready to forget the past and think about a future with him. Unfortunately, he had to admit, accepting his arm didn’t necessarily indicate she would accept further advances. His body simmered with the memory of her mouth, craving more.

As they entered Lyttlefield Hall, the butler claimed their wraps.

“Can you fetch tea for us, Fisk? Mrs. Easton and I are chilled to the bone.” Jemmy steered Elizabeth into the drawing room, where earlier so much excitement had occurred. Perhaps a quiet cup of tea would put them both back into a more affable mood.

“I am afraid I am too tired even for tea, Lord Brack.” She still gripped her reticule tightly, her gaze darting repeatedly toward the door. Seeking escape. “I will give you good night and thank you for a lovely day.”

“I am sorry your headache is no better, my dear.” He might as well sneak that endearment in while he could. “Don’t you think hot tea would make a world of difference?” Desperation made him grasp any straw that presented itself to keep her here.

To his dismay, she shook her head and smiled sadly. “I think the only thing that will rid me of this pain is an early night.”

“Then let me come with you.”

Eyes widening, she stumbled back a step. “What do you mean?”

Putting every ounce of charm into his smile, Jemmy offered his arm once more. “Only that I beg to be allowed to escort you to your chamber. I would have this day and your company last as long as possible.”

The tension in her shoulders melted away as she relaxed toward him. “You are very kind. Thank you so much for your excellent company all day.” She cast her gaze down, then back up at him through long, golden lashes. “It would be lovely to extend it a little more.”

Grinning at his victory, Jenny enjoyed the thrill of her small hand as it perched, light as a hummingbird, in the crook of his arm. Oh, that they were bound for the same chamber.

“Do you stay long here at Lyttlefield? I believe the party is scheduled to last through Monday.” He’d accepted an invitation to Braeton’s Hunt Ball next week but might stay on here if Elizabeth elected to remain. “Have you other engagements, or do you return to your parents in London?”

“I will leave for London on Tuesday. I suspect Charlotte will have much more to do now to accomplish another move and plan her wedding by December. Such a pity she will have to repack nearly everything to move only a mile or so down the road.” Elizabeth shook her head at the daunting task. They mounted the steps, and she tightened her grip on his arm.

The slight pressure filled him with desire once more. Desire to seize her lips, devour that red, luscious mouth, and more. If only they’d had more time out at the festival. “I will be truly sorry to see you leave.” He laid his hand over hers as they neared the landing. “I fear I can never have enough of your company.”

A nearby sconce threw light on her cheek, revealing a blush. “Lord Brack—”

“Why did you break our kiss?” He stopped her, needing to know. “I have waited for months for that kiss, and then it was over before I even knew it had begun.” He stroked her cheek, soft as a flower petal, with the back of his hand. “Did you not enjoy it?”

A quick gasp, and she released his arm. “Of course, I enjoyed it.” One stricken look at him, and she turned away, striding quickly toward her room with short, jerky steps.

“Then why did you end it?”

He caught her at her chamber door, the last one at the end of the corridor.

“I . . . I was thinking about my husband.” Her voice had lowered to a whisper. “That wasn’t fair to you.”

A pang of jealousy shot through his breast, but he dismissed it. It had likely been her first kiss since the man’s death, therefore a normal reaction. “Let me see if I can make you forget him this time.” He grasped her face, ignored her startled blue eyes, and brought their lips together again.

Elizabeth didn’t protest, couldn’t protest when Lord Brack’s gentle but firm hands took control of her for the second time that night. Secretly, she’d wanted another kiss and had been appalled by that desire. She still loved Dickon, didn’t she? How could she want another man’s lips on her? Want to feel his hands all over her body? It was a betrayal of Dickon, of the memory of his love.

At the touch of Lord Brack’s lips, however, her struggle melted like snow in the sunlight. Passion ignited earlier out in the dark field flamed anew throughout her being, licking into all the little recesses of her body, starved for attention these long months. Every inch of her quivered, longing for his touch. Her breasts swelled, her core ached with new intensity. What was it about this man that drove her into such a frenzy of need? Had the pagan god of the festival followed them back to work his powers of lust on them once more?

She moaned into his mouth, searching greedily for his tongue. In her urgency, she leaned into him, rubbing her breasts against his rock-hard chest with even more insistence than before. Madness descended, as her hips thrust wildly, seeking a different hardness.

Sliding his hands down her back, he cupped her bottom with firm fingers, and pulled her right into him before slamming them both into the door. The stiffness in his trousers prodded her mound in perfect placement, drawing a groan from deep within his throat. He thrust his tongue in and out of her mouth, the invitation clear as a summer’s day. He wanted her.

And heaven help her, she wanted him as well. Desperately. She felt for the handle, pushing it down with such force the door popped inward and they staggered into the room. Still locked in their frantic embrace, she fought to stay upright.

He tried to put her from him, but she clung closer, sending her hands into his curly hair, closing her fingers around the short strands. Disengaging their mouths for a moment, he rasped, “Let me shut the door.”

She nodded but wouldn’t let go, forcing him to walk them both back to the door to give it a shove. It crashed into the frame with a force that made the painting on the wall jump and the lone candle in the room waver. Then he was back, his lips on her mouth, her throat, the swell of her heaving breast as it spilled over the neckline of her dress. Lord, she wanted more of him. Her nipples drew into points, aching to be freed from their confinement. She guided his hands to them.

He needed no further urging. With a flick of his wrists, her breasts popped free, his hot mouth engulfing first one nipple, then the other. Moa. . .