Chapter 11
A Bonnet Becomes a Mystery
Lady Elizabeth bid farewell to Lady Charlotte as her friend and maid took their leave of the Carlington town coach. Once the women were safely inside the Ellsworth townhouse, Elizabeth knocked on the trap door in the ceiling of the coach. The groom opened the door and peered down. “Where to next, milady?” he wondered.
“Back to New Bond Street, Jackson. I’m afraid I’ve forgotten to buy a gift for a dear friend,” she lied. She needed to get back to the hat shop where she had purchased the bonnet and pay Mr. Peabody before he sent the bill to her father.
Her father had been giving her a monthly allowance for the very purpose of paying for frippery such as bonnets. And he had done so to prevent—how had be put it?—“being inundated with bills from merchants all over town.”
Unlike most members of the ton, David Carlington did not like credit, which meant he did not like having purchases put onto bills of sales for payment at a later date. It also meant he had to carry some blunt and provide his wife and daughter with pin money to pay for their purchases.
Wanting to ensure she paid the bill before Mr. Peabody had a chance to send it by post or courier, Elizabeth’s intention was to return to the shop and offer cash payment immediately in return for the receipt. When she reached the shop, however,
Mr. Peabody was quite surprised to see her.
“I ain’t got the receipt, Lady Elizabeth,” he said with a shake of his head when she asked to pay the bill.
Confused by the shopkeeper’s reply, Elizabeth took a small step back. “You’ve already sent it to my father?” she asked in disbelief. Oh, dear! If she hurried home, she might arrive before the postman. Perhaps she could intercept the bill at the house before her father saw it.
“No, milady,” Mr. Peabody replied, shaking his head. At her expression of confusion, he leaned over the counter. “The bill has already been paid, Lady Elizabeth,” he said sotto voce, as if he was afraid of being overheard, despite the fact that there were no other customers in the store at that moment.
“Paid?” she repeated, her disbelief even more so. “Paid by whom?” She was sure Charlotte hadn’t done so; her friend rarely carried money. And her maid had been outside during the purchase and otherwise with her the entire time she wasn’t in the shop.
Mr. Peabody straightened and gave her a shrug. “I couldn’t say.”
Elizabeth stared at the shopkeeper for several moments, her eyes becoming slits when she realized Mr. Peabody knew exactly who had paid the bill. “Couldn’t say? Or won’t say?” she queried, suddenly suspicious of the shopkeeper and his motive for not telling her what she wanted to know. What she needed to know. Someone had paid for her peacock feather bonnet!
The man took a deep breath and rolled his eyes. “Won’t say who. But I will tell you that he said it was a thank you gift. For helping his friend.”
Her mouth forming a perfect ‘o’, Elizabeth struggled to maintain her composure. Someone who was a friend of someone paid for my bonnet as a thank you gift? Then she remembered that the only person she had helped in any way recently was Theodore Streater. So a friend of Mr. Streater paid for my bonnet. But who? She hadn’t been gone from the shop more than forty-five minutes. They would have had to …
She remembered the well-dressed man who held the door for her and Lady Charlotte as they took their leave of the shop. He had been tall, well-built with manicured hands, his tapered fingers on the long side. His face had been hidden by the brim of his hat, though. Perhaps he had been the owner of the brand new town coach parked in front, the employer of the groom and tiger who waited curbside while flirting with the maids. Perhaps Anna knows the groom …
“Did you help someone recently?” Mr. Peabody asked, his tone suggesting he didn’t necessarily believe the comment made by George Bennett-Jones, which meant he had jumped to a conclusion that was not only incorrect but could be very scandalous.
Elizabeth nodded her head in response, deciding to admit to what she had done in order to prevent the man from imagining something salacious. “I did, indeed. I was able to convince a banker to rehire a man for his old position.”
The shopkeeper’s eyes widened. “Well, the gentleman seemed to think it was worth a half a crown, milady,” he said with a shrug, apparently disappointed there wasn’t a bit of scandal attached to the gift.
Half a crown?! It was just velvet and peacock feathers! “Was he … a gentleman?” Elizabeth asked then, hoping to narrow down who it could have been from among the half-million men of London.
“Yes, but I ain’t telling you his name,” Mr. Peabody stated as he crossed his arms. “Now, be off wi’ ye,” he said, waving one hand as if he was dismissing her from the shop. “I’m not answering any more of your questions.”
Elizabeth’s mouth formed a rather large ‘O’ as she regarded the shopkeeper. “Well, I never!” she countered, one hand on her hip as she whirled around and headed for the door.
“Well, I ain’t neither,” she heard him call out as she headed through the door in a huff. But despite her sudden bluster— the shopkeeper’s refusal to divulge the identity of the man who had paid for her bonnet was most vexing—Elizabeth couldn’t help but smile to herself.
She had never been given a ‘thank you’ gift before.
Once she was back in the carriage, her skirts spread out on the leather seat, Elizabeth leveled her gaze on her maid, Anna. “Tell me, Anna. Do you remember the groom and tiger you were speaking with in front of the hat shop?” She kept her voice light, not wanting the maid to suspect she was fishing for information.
Anna stiffened in her seat, her posture suddenly erect and her face pinking up. “Yes, milady,” she answered nervously.
Damnation! Elizabeth cocked her head to one side, not intending the query to make her maid uncomfortable. “Oh, it’s quite alright, Anna. Do you know who owns the town coach, by chance?”
Her maid seemed surprised by the question. “No, milady. But it was very new. So new, it didn’t yet have a crest painted on the door! Groom was a bit proud, if you ask me, though. Like he was something special, he being able to drive a coach-and-four like that.” She relaxed a bit into her seat. “I think he said his name was Forsham. The tiger was very … right proper, though,” she added, her face taking on that pink blush again. “James, his name is. Said they live in a carriage house behind a townhouse in Park Lane.”
Elizabeth nodded and settled into her seat, just a bit disappointed. “Park Lane?” she repeated with a nod. My bonnet was paid for by a gentleman living in Park Lane.
Well, that narrowed it down a bit.
Chapter 12
A Stolen Kiss at Lord Weatherstone’s Ball
September 1815
Despite Lady Charlotte’s assurances that the Earl of Trenton would offer for her hand, Lady Elizabeth was still a bit surprised when Gabriel Wellingham sought her out at Lord Weatherstone’s ball. Just as he had done at the last ball of the Season, he met her before she’d even stepped onto the ballroom floor, reminding her of her promise to grant him the first waltz. His mood was one of merriment. While they danced, his conversation included compliments for her gown as well as her dancing skills. And he asked about taking her on another ride in the park. “I was thinking we could go riding at eleven o’clock tomorrow morning,” he said as a way to introduce the topic. “But seeing as how I must meet with my solicitors in the morning, I am wondering if my lady would accompany me for a ride later in the day? I have heard it’s only fashionable to ride in Hyde Park in the late afternoon. Say at five o’clock?” he wondered, his blond brow cocked up so his expression appeared especially quizzical.
Elizabeth found his expression a delight as it made her think he was waiting with bated breath for her to give him an answer. If he intended to take her in his new phaeton, there would likely not be room for a third person on the bench seat, though. “I will have to bring my maid, of course,” she finally respond
ed with an eyebrow that suggested she was daring him to withdraw the invitation. She caught the slight change in his expression before it was quickly restored and wondered if he was disappointed in her response.
“Of course,” he replied quickly, acting as if the condition of her company was expected. “I was considering taking out the curricle. I have a new grey Thoroughbred I’d like to try in the harness.”
Elizabeth widened her eyes to make it seem as if she was impressed. “You’ve been to Tattersall’s, then?”
His expression faltered again, but was soon back to its pleasant state when he replied, “I was there just yesterday, in fact,” he confirmed with a nod, the dance just about to end. “You know of it?” he asked then. He seemed troubled that she would know of London’s premier source of horseflesh.
The music ended and Elizabeth stepped backward to curtsy. “Of course, my lord. I believe all the horses in our stables came from there.”
Gabriel finished his bow but did not let go of her hand. “Your stables must be the envy of all,” he stated, a hint of a grin appearing.
Not believing his comment to warrant a response, Elizabeth shrugged one satin-clad shoulder. She followed his lead as he pulled her toward him and then turned to lead them to the French doors on one side of the ballroom. Beyond was a stone covered patio off of which were the extensive gardens of the Weatherstone estate. Placing her hand on his arm, Elizabeth walked alongside Gabriel as he escorted her outdoors and along the flagstone path. Never once did he ask me if I would accompany him! A sense of excitement gripped her as she realized why he might be taking her to the gardens.
He intended to kiss her, of course.
As to whether or not she would allow the impropriety, Elizabeth was still contemplating what she would do when they passed behind an especially tall hedgerow. Gabriel gave no warning as he suddenly turned around, moved his body in front of hers and lowered his face to hers. Pausing just a moment to alter the angle of his head, his lips came down over hers so quickly, Elizabeth was unable to prepare herself. Startled by the hard pressure and the sudden wetness of his mouth on her lips, she recoiled a bit. Gabriel was quick to reposition himself and the kiss softened, but the wetness seemed to get worse. Just as Elizabeth thought she might get used to the sensation, she felt his tongue attempting to separate her lips and she stepped back in surprise, nearly colliding with the branches of the hedge. Gabriel’s hand moved to the back of her waist to provide support and then pulled her body towards him. “I apologize, I … I was overcome by your beauty,” he breathed, his eyelids so heavy they nearly covered his eyes. He leaned down and slid his tongue along her cheek, finally pulling away when the sound of something moving in the bushes behind them caught his attention.
Elizabeth swallowed hard and dared to meet his gaze. “Apology accepted, of course, my lord,” she replied, surprised she could get the words out so they made any kind of sense. She was glad for the darkness as she felt a flush creep up her chest and face.
The earl had just kissed her.
And he had attempted to slide his tongue into her mouth!
And then he had licked her!
Yuck!
The rustling in the bushes behind Elizabeth gave them both a start, and Elizabeth gasped softly. The beginning strains of music for the next dance made their way to her ears.
The next dance!
“Forgive me, my lord, but I have promised this dance to Lord Nesbitt,” she said, still breathless and feeling a bit pan
icked. If she did not appear in the ballroom for the dance, the baron might attempt to find her in the gardens. Her exit from the ballroom on the arm of the earl was no doubt seen by someone. And if that someone should say something … scandal was not something she could abide. Not this Season.
Even if it was due to the Earl of Trenton.
Stunned she was about to take her leave of him, Gabriel straightened, his stance a bit awkward. “Oh. Um. Of course. Tomorrow at five, then,” he said, his voice making it sound as if he was experiencing some discomfort.
Elizabeth murmured her ascent and curtsied before hurrying off to the ballroom, dabbing at her mouth with her handkerchief as she did so. Coming up to the French doors, she slowed her steps and entered the brightly lit room. She glanced to the left and right, appearing to look for her next dance partner. When she did not immediately see Lord Nesbitt, she strode quite purposely to where her friends stood in wait to be claimed for the dance.
George Bennett-Jones kept very still where he stood on the other side of the hedgerow. Secretly pleased his intervention had prevented the Earl of Trenton from getting more than a stolen kiss with the daughter of the Marquess of Morganfield, he emitted a sigh of relief. He watched Lady Elizabeth Carlington hurry past. Did her manner suggest that she was as relieved as he was that she had escaped the clutches of the Earl of Trenton? Or was it just her need to be present in the ballroom for the next dance?
Perhaps there is hope for me, he thought with a smile.
Chapter 13
Love at First Sight
If there was such a thing as love at first sight, then George Bennett-Jones would have to admit he had experienced it first hand. Aggravating, exciting, painful, unexpected, frightening and quite delightful, the sensation of being in love was so new to him, he hardly knew how to behave. He glanced around at his bewigged peers in the House of Lords and wondered if it was apparent to anyone who looked at him that he was undoubtedly, unbelievably, unquestionably and hopelessly in love.
In a word, he was doomed.
Elizabeth Carlington. He spoke her name in his mind, allowing the shape of the words to form on his tongue and lips. And he remembered how she had said his name. Gee-orge, as if the word was made up of two syllables instead of just the one, so that from her lips, the name was almost … exotic. And her lips when she said his name, well, when she said anything, they were positively … He was glad for the long robes that covered the suddenly uncomfortable bulge in his breeches.
The Lord Chancellor cleared his throat, apparently in an attempt to wake up several peers who had drifted off to sleep, their tiredness no doubt due to the late night spent at Lord Weatherstone’s annual ball. George, along with several other lords, returned their attention to the proceedings.
Having inherited the title of Viscount Bostwick from his uncle only nine months before, George was still learning about the workings of Parliament. He had managed to be present for nearly every session, but he would have preferred to be managing the Bostwick estate lands in Sussex. He tried to take an interest in the matter at hand, but found he could not. The sound of a droning voice espousing something supposedly important was simply background noise as he remembered the sound of Elizabeth Carlington’s voice when she introduced herself.
A vision of Lady Elizabeth came to him again, the sight of her in his mind’s eye a welcome wake-up call. How can a woman have such glorious auburn hair? he wondered, remembering how the reds and golds shone under the candlelight of the massive chandeliers that lit Lord Weatherstone’s ballroom the night before. It was her hair that made him glance in her direction the very first time he noticed her there. He hadn’t had the chance to see her clearly the day he had discovered her shopping with Lady Charlotte. Her bonnet had completely hidden her gorgeous features while he held the door for her. And that to learn it was Lady Elizabeth beneath that bonnet had been a happy accident. Her maid had been flirting with his tiger, unaware of George listening to their banter from inside the town coach.
The early autumn Weatherstone ball was the first of the Little Season, a diversion for the members of the ton who had returned to town for the beginning of Parliament. And, although it wasn’t supposed to be a Marriage Mart, there were plenty in attendance who were either looking or being looked at for the purposes of matrimony. Those debutantes who hadn’t snared a husband during the spring Season were paraded in front of the likes of him, who, although he wouldn’t admit to being in the market for
a wife, at least could look and not feel like a rake ogling them from the bow window at White’s.
But Elizabeth Carlington hadn’t been paraded in front of him. At least not by a desperate mother looking to get her dear daughter betrothed to a nobleman. No, he realized with a sudden sourness, she had been put on display by the man with whom she was dancing the first waltz of the evening.
Gabriel Wellingham, damn him. The Earl of Trenton, double damn him.
Every Season seemed to feature a few like Wellingham. Men who were impossibly handsome, impossibly rich and impossibly perfect. Men like Wellingham, who drew the young ladies to their countenance like bees to honey, their colorful satin evening clothes surrounded by the bright white gowns of young ladies of quality.
George considered his own choice of garments for the ball. He had worn black satin breeches that fit him quite well, snug around well-developed thighs made so from fencing and horseback riding. His silver embroidered waistcoat was almost too conservative—he had considered wearing the red one with the gold embroidery but thought it better suited to an evening at a gaming hell. The tailcoat, in black satin, was tailored by Weston to fit his athletic body and yet allow him to dance. His valet, Elkins, had tied a perfect mail coach knot in his snowy white cravat before adding a diamond-tipped pin that matched the diamond cuff links at the end of his sleeves. Buckled dancing shoes over silver knit stockings completed his ensemble. He had dressed correctly, he knew, but without Wellingham’s handsome features, he was sure he would not be given a second look by the likes of Elizabeth Carlington.
But, because of a duke with two supposed left feet, he was.
For it was the second waltz of the evening, the supper dance, when she was deposited—there could be no other word to describe how her dance partner spun her—directly into George’s arms.
The man had apparently tripped.
Watching the spectacle as it happened, George was quite sure it all occurred in slow motion, a kind of whirling dream
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