Love Regency Style

by Samantha Holt

  for a poor maid to pick up, she was a tireless worker when it came to her other favorite charities. And she never pitched a fit.

  Until now.

  “How can I put off marriage another year, Hannah?” Eliza­beth nearly shouted. “I am one-and-twenty! Look at Penelope Winstead! She was … what? Three-and-twenty when she finally married? She held off marriage because she thought some son of a viscount was going to propose.”

  “You are not anything like Penelope,” Charlotte put in, hoping to help calm the marquess’ daughter. “And Penelope ended up married to the son of an earl, so it perfectly accept­able to wait. Hannah is just concerned that you might not be getting the best husband in Gabriel Wellingham.”

  “He’s an earl!” Elizabeth countered, as if the rank had everything to do with how to choose a husband. “There are currently no sons of marquesses of an age to marry …”

  “I hear Leonard Blakely is considering marriage,” Hannah said helpfully.

  The sound of a gasp was as loud as it could be. “Blakely is a pimply-faced bounder!” Charlotte exclaimed in shock, earn­ing her a point in Elizabeth’s estimation. The boy in question, a notorious gambler since the age of fifteen, was no doubt plan­ning to marry in order to gain any dowry involved. Who knew what his debts would be before he reached his majority? “And I think he’s only eighteen.”

  “… and as for dukes, I believe our fair Charlotte has claim to the only one to whom I would ever consider marriage,” Eliz­abeth stated, continuing her rant despite her friend’s helpful suggestions.

  “I hear the Earl of Trenton employs a mistress,” Hannah whispered, her face taking on a look of pain. It was her sincere belief that men only married for convenience and only ever really loved their mistresses. Despite having married friends who could readily dispute her belief and a father who insisted that her late mother was the only woman he had ever truly loved, Hannah held fast to her belief. When her mother died two years earlier, Hannah decided then that when she mar­ried, it would be for the sole purpose of having children. She was sure a husband would never love her for who she was, but would only marry her to gain her substantial dowry and a mother for his children.

  Better that she accept that suit now than be disappointed once she was married.

  Charlotte sighed, the sound as loud as her earlier gasp in the quiet parlor where they were gathered. “I believe nearly every man in the ton has a mistress, Hannah,” Charlotte coun­tered patiently, wondering if her duke would ever employ one given his situation. Would any woman besides herself ever want to share a bed with a man who was so badly scarred? She doubted any of the high-priced courtesans employed by the rich men of London would do so. Would a more desperate whore, though? She had heard tales of prostitutes who would bed men infected with the French pox, their cases so advanced their faces displayed the ravages of the disease. She shivered at the thought.

  “I overheard Father saying he has several,” Elizabeth said in a quiet voice. Her comment was met with audible gasps from both of her friends. “But I do not know from where he learned of it.”

  Cocking her head to one side, Charlotte took a deep breath. “At least you two seem to suit one another,” she allowed, a tooth catching her lower lip, thinking it wasn’t necessarily reason enough to marry the man.

  “And that matters most, I suppose,” Hannah said then, folding her hands together in her lap. From her perspective, it was reason enough to marry the man.

  “Yes,” Elizabeth agreed with a nod, as if she were reassuring herself. “Yes, it does matter. And if he or someone else doesn’t ask for my hand this Season, I shall ask someone myself. I sim­ply do not wish to be a burden to my parents any longer.”

  There was stunned silence for several seconds as Han­nah and Charlotte shared expressions of disbelief. And when Elizabeth allowed a self-deprecating smirk to appear, all three women burst into laughter that could be heard throughout the entire house.

  Chapter 19

  Confessions of a Man in Love

  “Well?”

  George looked up to find Josephine standing over him, her hands clasped together as if she were trying to keep them still. His mistress had been in her bedchamber, just about to retire for the night, when she had seen George’s town coach from her window. She watched as it rumbled around the cor­ner and made its way down the alley behind her townhouse, as if it were heading for the mews at one end of the block. Given his penchant for discretion, Josephine wasn’t surprised when George entered her house through the back door, letting himself in with a key he kept hidden somewhere in the garden statuary.

  Somewhat amused at her increasing impatience, George leaned back in the overstuffed chair in Josephine’s parlor and took a slow sip of brandy. He was tempted to make her wait a good deal longer before he regaled her with stories from that evening’s ball, but he wanted desperately to tell someone of his success. His friend Teddy was no doubt abed at this time of the night, given his need to be at the bank at an ungodly hour in the morning. And he knew Josephine wanted to hear about the ball from someone other than a Cyprian who might have been in attendance.

  “I danced with Lady Elizabeth,” he stated with a curt nod. At Josephine’s expression of surprise, he added, “The second half of a waltz. The supper dance, no less. I owe the Duke of Somerset a huge favor in helping arrange the situation to my benefit.”

  Josephine blinked, the curve of her lip slowly lifting into a tentative smile. “And?” she encouraged, wanting to know more.

  “I escorted her to the supper.” He wasn’t disappointed when Josephine’s face brightened even more. “I brought her a plate of nibbles and conversed with her and Lady Charlotte until the orchestra resumed their play.” He took another sip of brandy, rather enjoying his mistress’ reaction to his descrip­tion of the evening’s highlights.

  “Go on!” Josephine nearly shouted.

  George smiled, the expression making his eyes light up and his face lift into its most handsome visage. “I asked for a dance at Lady Worthington’s ball and have been assured I will have two saved for me.” He watched as Josephine took a seat in the settee directly across from his chair. “And I have reason to believe that one of those dances will not be for dancing, but rather for me to demonstrate the art of kissing.” With that last comment, George finished off his brandy, giving Josephine a look of satisfaction that suggested he was a cat who had just been given a rather large bowl of cream.

  Josephine’s gasp filled the suddenly quiet parlor. “Indeed?” she replied, her smile quite broad. “Oh, well done, George,” she said, quickly standing up and moving to place her hands on either side of his face. She kissed him on the forehead. “And do you think the two of you will suit?” she asked carefully.

  Perhaps it was too early for George to decide if the daugh­ter of David Carlington would make a suitable wife. If not her, though, Josephine was at a loss as to who else might. The other eligible debutantes of the Little Season were a collection of simpering idiots and three older chits who were clearly blue­stockings. Although George would probably do fine with a bluestocking, Josephine would prefer he marry a woman with

  better political connections in the ton.

  “I think I may be in love with her.”

  The comment had been made in such a quiet voice, Jose­phine wasn’t quite sure she had heard correctly. “Oh,” she replied with a quick nod. “Well, that was … this is … a bit …”

  “Unexpected, I know,” George finished for her, a sigh escaping as he leaned forward in the chair. The smile he had displayed only moments before was replaced with a look of sadness. “Teddy warned me, you know. He said I would like her.”

  Catching her lip with a tooth, Josephine regarded George in surprise. “Did he now?” She took a breath and glanced off to one side. “I saw him today. At … At the bank. He looked … he looked as if he had never lost his arm,” she stammered sud­denly. “How can that be, George? And how does Mr. Streater know Lady Elizabeth?” s
he wondered suddenly, turning to face him again.

  George leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes, won­dering at Josephine’s discomfiture. He had never known her to stammer, never known her to seem unsure of herself, never known her to be anything other than a confident, proud con­sort. “He was her first … client, I suppose you would call him. For her charity. ‘Lady E’s Finding Work for the Wounded’. She negotiated with Whittaker for Teddy’s position at the bank. And it sounds as if his arm, which Lady E arranged to have made, is a success.”

  Josephine cocked her head to one side. “So, there is more to Lady Elizabeth than just a pretty face?” she commented lightly, wondering if the chit’s father was behind the charity. As she gave it some thought, though, she rather doubted it; David Carlington had complained on more than one occasion that supporting his wife’s charities were a drain on his finances. Josephine made a mental note to ask the marquess when she next paid him a visit. A frown suddenly replaced her smile.

  “What of Trenton? Was he there?”

  The look of satisfaction on George’s face was replaced with one of disgust. Rolling his eyes, he pinched the top of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. “Yes, he was there.”

  “Did he kiss her?” Josephine wondered, her own expres­sion one of worry. “Did anyone witness ..?”

  “Yes, and no. At least, not if you don’t count me,” George replied with a self-deprecating smile. At Josephine’s worried look, he smiled quite broadly. “Lady Elizabeth said his kiss was horrible.” He watched in delight as Josephine’s expression changed.

  “Say it again?” she whispered.

  “It was horrible. And he apparently licked her. Which only made it worse for him.”

  When he heard his mistress giggle, he blinked.

  He had never heard Josephine giggle before.

  She sounded like a young schoolgirl who had just been chased by the ducks on the Serpentine. The musical sound continued for several more seconds before Josephine covered her mouth with a hand. “Oh, George. You really must warn me before you tell me such stories,” Josephine admonished him, one of her arms wrapped in front of her waist as if she had to hold herself up.

  George regarded her with a tightly controlled grin. “Which is why I’ll be demonstrating the art of kissing at Lady Worthington’s ball,” he stated as seriously as he could given Josephine’s reaction. “Lady Elizabeth will be my subject. I’m thinking the library will be a suitable setting.”

  He rather enjoyed watching Josephine then. Seeing her facial expression change from one of amusement to one of astonishment. Seeing her eyes suddenly regard him with new­found respect.

  “Well done, George,” she whispered, a grin still on her face.

  Everyone thought they could trust George Bennett-Jones, Viscount Bostwick. It was past time he made his honorable trait work in his favor.

  Getting up from the chair, George took Josephine’s hand and kissed the back of it. “Thank you,” he said before he kissed her cheek. “You made this evening possible, you must know.” For a moment, he thought he might ask if he could spend the night, but the image of Lady Elizabeth appeared his mind’s eye and he thought better of it.

  Giving Josephine a quick hug, George took his leave of her and headed to his townhouse in Park Lane.

  Chapter 20

  A Marquess and a Viscount Discuss a Certain Charity

  “Lord Morganfield,” George called out, hurrying down the steps to join the elder peer outside the House of Lords. When David Carlington slowed his descent to allow George to join him, George added, “A word if I may?”

  Morganfield regarded the new viscount with a cocked eye­brow, the expression exaggerated due to the wig he still wore. “Bostwick,” he acknowledged George with a nod. “You look well. Becoming a member of the ton seems to agree with you.”

  George was careful to still his features; he had been ner­vous since the moment he decided he would ask the marquess for permission to court his daughter. Morganfield’s comment was meant to draw a smile, but George would not allow one until he was sure he had something about which to smile. “As it always has with you, I am sure,” George responded, allowing his lips to curve a bit.

  They reached the last step and headed down the wide hall­way toward one of the entrances to Parliament.

  “It was noble of you to have escorted my daughter to the supper last night,” Morganfield responded, wondering if George’s request for a moment of his time might have some­thing to do with her. Ever since Josephine Wentworth’s last visit, he had been wondering if the viscount would approach him about his intentions with respect to Elizabeth.

  George smiled then. “There was nothing noble about accompanying a beautiful woman to a supper, my lord,” George replied with a shake of his head. They passed through the wide entry doors, opened for them by liveried footman who stood at attention on either side of the entrance. Bright sunshine washed over them. “It was my pleasure, I assure you. She is an interesting woman …”

  “Who is spoiled rotten,” Morganfield interjected.

  “Who knows her mind and is quite determined to accom­plish something important,” George continued, as if he hadn’t heard the marquess. He was referring to her charity, of course, but wanted to discover how much Morganfield was contribut­ing toward its goal.

  Morganfield paused and then stopped walking. “You are sure … are we talking about my daughter?” he asked, as if George’s comment could not have been about Elizabeth Carlington.

  “Indeed,” George answered, his brows furrowing and a wave of nervousness suddenly engulfing him. “Lady Eliza­beth,” he clarified with a nod. “I have a very good friend, a man who was badly wounded at Quatre Bras. Due to your daughter’s contacts and money from her charity’s coffers, he has been able to return to his old clerking position,” George stated, watching Morganfield’s face for evidence that he knew something of Elizabeth’s charity. At the blank look the mar­quess displayed, George shook his own head quickly. “Never mind, my lord. I only asked for a moment of your time because I wished to request your permission to court Lady Elizabeth.”

  But David Carlington’s curiosity was suddenly acute. “What did you say?”

  Suddenly more nervous, George glanced around, wanting to be sure no one was eavesdropping on their conversation. “I wish to court your daughter,” he said in a lowered voice, aware a flush of red was slowly rising to cover his face. He hoped the brim of his top hat was hiding the worst of it.

  “Of course, fine, fine,” Morganfield said with a dismis­sive wave of his hand. “What did you say about her charity’s coffers?”

  Stunned, George stared at the marquess. He had expected Morganfield to scoff at him. He had expected him to claim his daughter could marry no lower than an earl. Then he had expected an inquisition in response to his rebuttal, one he had carefully rehearsed, outlining how it was he would make a good and faithful protector, extolling the virtues of the newly remodeled Bostwick Place, enumerating the profits of his three coal mines, describing the new town coach in the renovated carriage house, explaining that he would take on the patronage of Lady E’s charity …

  “Which charity?” Morganfield asked then, apparently for the second time. “I’m aware she is involved with a few of Lady Morganfield’s charities, of course,” he added quickly, not want­ing to seem ignorant of his daughter’s activities.

  George straightened, realizing just then that David Car­lington knew nothing of Lady E and Associates’ ‘Finding Work for the Wounded.’ So, he’s not an associate.

  But if that were the case, where had the money come from to pay the bribe?

  “May I ask, my lord. Do you provide Lady Elizabeth with an allowance? Or some amount of pin money on a regular basis?” George wondered then, hoping the question wasn’t too personal.

  The marquess blinked once, twice before his brows fur­rowed together. “I give her an allowance, of course. She gets twenty guinea or so every month during the Season,
but I only do that because I require she pay for all her own purchases. She’s not allowed to have any bills sent to me,” he explained with a pointed finger that bobbed up and down to drive home his point. He seemed annoyed at having to explain himself. “Now, what is this about her charity?”

  George debated with himself for a very long time before reaching into his waistcoat pocket. He drew out the calling card he had taken from Teddy and held it out to the marquess.

  Morganfield gave him a suspicious glance before turning his attention to the white pasteboard. “Lady E and Associ­ates. Finding work for the wounded,” he read aloud, his eyes widening as he noticed the address at the bottom of the card. “Good God, she’s got an office!” the marquess exclaimed when he realized where in Oxford Street the address was located. He stared at the card for a bit longer, shaking his head as he did so. Finally looking at George, he asked, “How long as she been … Lady E?”

  Shrugging, George replied, “Not long, I think. I believe my friend was her first placement.” He debated with himself as to whether or not he should mention the bribe. “I gather from your reaction that Lady Elizabeth has not approached you about … funding her venture.”

  The marquess seemed surprised by the query and then remembered George’s earlier question about an allowance. “You gather correctly,” Morganfield replied, his attention on something far away, as if he were just realizing something. “No wonder she didn’t wear a new gown for last night’s ball,” he murmured absently, his attention still not entirely on George. “She had her mother quite vexed when she wore one from two Seasons ago. I, of course, didn’t notice, but Lady Morganfield was quite sure some old biddy would, and then there would be a scandalous mention of it in the society pages of The Times. Can’t have that, I suppose,” he added with a hint of a scowl that soon turned up at the corners of his mouth.