Love Regency Style

by Samantha Holt

  “No,” he replied rather quickly. “I am rather proud of you, in fact. But you simply must tell me why, because I’m sure I’ll be asked at least a dozen times at White’s tonight,” he paused and glanced at his still prone wife. “Or the theatre, and I should like to have the answer straight from your lips so that I might provide a suitable response.”

  Sighing, Elizabeth stared at him for several seconds, trying to decide if she could tell him the real reason. But she couldn’t tell him about George. Not yet, anyway. “I don’t think you can tell the gentlemen at White’s why I turned down the earl,” she responded finally. At her father’s suddenly serious expression, she added, “It was mostly because he kisses like Lady Hannah’s dog.”

  Morganfield’s eyebrows shot up, and up some more when he realized she was serious. “You truly turned down Trenton because he kisses like an Alpenmastiff?” he asked in astonish­ment, his amusement growing by the moment.

  Not able to help herself, Elizabeth smiled, putting a hand over her mouth to hide it. “It was quite … wet and slobbery, and then he licked my cheek …” Her body shuddered as she remembered the experience. A sound of disgust escaped her, causing her to shake even more.

  Her father was grinning like she had never seen him grin before. “And this all happened during Weatherstone’s ball?” he asked with an eyebrow so cocked it nearly disappeared into his hairline. At Elizabeth’s nod and an expression that made her look as if she had swallowed the cook’s concoction for coughs, Morganfield slowly nodded. “That wasn’t the only reason you turned him down, though,” he stated quite emphatically.

  Sighing, Elizabeth rolled her eyes. “When I asked if he was agitated because one of his mistresses quit him, which I have on good authority she did, he got quite upset. He still has two of them! He must have to pay them buckets of blunt for them to put up with his awful kisses. It’s a wonder he’s still rich!”

  Lord Morganfield stared at his daughter, his mood sud­denly serious again. “You asked him about his mistress?” he repeated, his head suddenly shaking from side to side. A look of … was it disappointment? Astonishment? Or pain, perhaps, crossed his features. “You cannot …” He paused and took a breath, sitting up a bit straighter in the chair. “It’s not done, Elizabeth,” he spoke quietly. “It’s simply not done.”

  Worrying the edge of his thumbnail between his teeth, he considered what a mistress had cost him early in his career, both politically, because she had been a spy of sorts, and pri­vately, because Adeline remained so emotionally distant those first few years. He had felt as if he had no one to turn to when his world had come down around him. He had had no one to blame but himself—well, he could blame the courtesan who relayed his pillow talk to a political enemy, but it was he who shared information with her he had no business sharing with anyone outside of chambers. “But, I see your point,” he added, his attitude softening a bit as he pulled his thoughts to the present. He sighed rather loudly. “You must know, if had you accepted the earl’s suit, I would have had to disown you,” he said without a hint of humor. The idea of Trenton as his son-in-law had been so abhorrent, he could barely tolerate the thought of his daughter dancing with the man, let alone kiss­ing him!

  Her eyes wide again and wet with tears, Elizabeth sniffled and stared at her father. “What did you say?”

  The marquess took a deep breath. “Gabriel Wellingham is a threat to this country, my dear child.”

  Her mouth forming that perfect ‘o’ again, she considered her father’s pronouncement. “Oh. I do hope you mean … polit­ically, and not because he is a spy for the French or an assassin out to kill Prinny or some such.”

  “Wouldn’t surprise me in the least if he were,” her father retorted, his manner still suggesting he was serious. “Wouldn’t necessarily oppose the assassination, though,” he added under his breath.

  Elizabeth pretended not to hear her father’s last comment. “Then, I suppose I am … rather glad I did what I had to do.” She paused a moment. “Mother will not be, though.” Eliza­beth regarded her father for a moment more, feeling not the least bit chastised by his words about mistresses. Lady Hannah might be able to abide them when she married, but Elizabeth had decided that whomever she married would not employ one. “Politics aside, Father, why did you want me to turn him down?” she wondered then, realizing there was more to his dislike of the earl than to what he had just admitted.

  Morganfield leaned back into the chair and took a deep breath. “A matter of honor, I suppose,” he answered with a sigh. “He didn’t ask my permission to court you, and he didn’t tell me he was planning to ask for your hand.”

  Her eyebrows shooting up at this bit of information, Eliza­beth gasped. “He … He didn’t? Then … how did you know he would do so? You said so at breakfast!”

  Her father shook his head. “Gossip, my girl. I heard the gossip,” he murmured, disgust still evident in his voice. He took a deep breath. “So, do you feel better?” he asked, his own mood lightening. “Because I certainly do.”

  “Oh, much,” she replied with a nod, grinning as she wiped away the remains of her tears. Elizabeth thought a moment, a sob racking her body and causing her to hiccup. She regarded her father, saw that he seemed … happy. “When you first came in, you said you had news,” she remembered suddenly. “Was … that your news? That you were going to disown me?”

  Her father smiled. Noticing hers had become a bit drippy, he held out his own handkerchief. “No, Elizabeth. Actually, I was going to let you know about another suitor for your hand,” he stated, leaning back in his chair. “In the event you needed a choice, although it’s apparent you didn’t. I don’t suppose he’s kissed you?” he asked rhetorically.

  “He who?” Elizabeth wondered, her curiosity getting the better of her. There had been only one other man who had ever kissed her.

  Kissed her senseless. Kissed her everywhere.

  The troublesome frisson shot through her again, and she chastised herself for allowing herself to remember just how delicious those kisses had been. Especially with her father sit­ting directly in front of her. Her face took on the pink shade that obviously displayed her embarrassment.

  “Bostwick,” the marquess stated simply.

  Elizabeth blinked and regarded her father for a moment, not immediately recognizing the name. “Bostwick?” she repeated, thinking she had heard the name at some point in her life. Wasn’t he an old viscount, perhaps? The one who was a molly?

  “Yes. Lord Bostwick,” he clarified, realizing he needed to be more clear since his daughter’s expression wasn’t indicating any recognition. At her expectant look, he straightened in his chair. “The viscount?” he added, thinking that would clear up any confusion.

  Elizabeth merely shook her head. “I haven’t made his acquaintance, … have I?” she countered, suddenly concerned that some old fart of a viscount had taken an interest in her and had neglected to let her in on his attraction but had already cleared his intention to court her with her father. The bastard!

  David Carlington stared at his daughter for a very long time. “You had supper with him at Weatherstone’s ball,” he stated rather loudly. “He took you for a ride in the park. You danced with him at Lady Worthington’s ball. Twice, if I remember correctly. And you went to the museum with him yesterday,” he added, his expression suggesting that if she was trying to deny her association with the man, he wasn’t going to have any of it.

  Elizabeth’s mouth opened into a rather large ‘O.’ “George?” she replied in disbelief, drawing out the word into the two syl­lables that made the name sound like so much more than it was, her mouth ending in the shape of a rather small ‘o’.

  “Bennett-Jones, yes,” her father insisted, his brows furrow­ing into a single line. Under different circumstances, he might have thought his daughter’s imitation of one of Lord Everly’s tropical fish was rather amusing. At his moment, he did not.

  Elizabeth blinked once. Twice. “George … Geo
rge Bennett-Jones is a … is a viscount?” she questioned, a look of utter disbelief on her face. Then she remembered Gabriel’s com­ment about the viscount’s nephew. Well, he’s certainly not good ton. And George’s comment about having inherited his house from his uncle. George is a viscount?

  David Carlington’s eyebrows now shot back up to their previous record heights. “Indeed, he is,” he stated emphati­cally. “Rather new to the title since his uncle died earlier this year, but, yes,” he explained quickly. Then it dawned on him why she might not know he was a titled gentleman. “I take it his original introduction didn’t include that little snippet of a title?”

  Elizabeth stared at her father. It certainly had not! George had never given her a hint he was a member of the ton! Never once had he said anything about being a viscount! Or being related to one. But then, none of those around the man had said any honorifics to suggest he was, either. Everyone called him ‘George.’ In Lady Worthington’s library, when Lady Fletcher had caught them kissing, she had called him ‘George.’ As had several gentlemen they had come in contact with dur­ing the ball.

  Elizabeth cast a glance at her father and shook her head, not sure how she felt about learning the man she had been naked with the night before was a titled gentleman—not some well-to-do cit as she suspected. “It did not,” she finally said, her teeth catching her lower lip.

  Lord Morganfield nodded. “Well, the man has always been a most honorable gentleman. He asked for my permission to court you a couple of days ago. After a session of Parliament,” he stated evenly. “He’s not nearly as rich as Trenton, of course, but still worth about a third of that, I should think.”

  “Oh,” Elizabeth answered, her head spinning with the news. She found herself wondering if it was truly honorable of a man to omit his title when introducing himself to a lady, though. And, as she gave the rest of his comment more consid­eration, she wondered if a third of ‘very rich’ was still … rich.

  “Especially since he owns some coal mines down in Sus­sex. Most of his lands are down there.”

  “Lands?” Elizabeth repeated in disbelief. “Not ‘land’?” She swallowed, took a deep breath and swallowed again, her head spinning just a bit too quickly.

  A third of ‘very rich’ was indeed rich.

  Her father smiled then. “You look as if you might swoon.” To have both his wife and daughter out cold at the same time would be a first.

  Elizabeth stared back at him then, her mouth finally open­ing to speak, but nothing came out.

  David Carlington regarded his daughter for another moment, wondering at her odd reaction. She had done some­thing, he knew, he just couldn’t quite figure out what it was. “Did he kiss you?” he asked then, the tone of his voice almost hopeful.

  Elizabeth swallowed, realizing she needed to admit that she had, indeed, been kissed by George Bennett-Jones. And kissed him back. “Yes. Yes, he did,” she answered slowly, as if she were reliving the entire moment in the library when he had bestowed that very first kiss on her. “Well, I asked him to kiss me, actually.” I didn’t have to admit to that, she thought absently, wondering what kind of admonishment her father would have in store for her.

  When she didn’t elaborate, her father leaned forward. “And?”

  “Oh. He’s very good … at kissing,” she replied, her face tak­ing on a pink glow. She was sure her father had already deter­mined that. Honorable man that he was, George had probably asked her father’s permission to kiss her. And her father prob­ably allowed it so someone in his sphere of influence could attest to being better at something than Butter Blond. But that’s just ridiculous, she realized and returned her attention to her father.

  “And?”

  Elizabeth blinked at her father, not sure what he wanted to her to say. “And?” she countered carefully. She was not about to admit she had been naked with him, too!

  Suddenly alarmed, the marquess leaned forward in his chair. “Did Lord Bostwick take your virtue?” he whispered hoarsely, his eyebrows drawn together in a manner Elizabeth found most threatening.

  “He most absolutely did not!” she nearly shouted, forcing her father to sit back in the chair and regard her with a bit of shock. “It isn’t his … or anyone else’s … to take.” Even when I begged him to take it. “At least, … not yet,” she said in a quieter voice, suddenly wondering when George might come to ask for her hand.

  George!

  He said he would come ask for her hand if he discovered she wasn’t betrothed to Butter Blond. How long would that take? Gossip seemed to travel fast in London, but apparently not fast enough.

  Her father nodded his head then and settled back into the chair, not particularly satisfied with her response. “What else?” he asked then, knowing if he kept at it, she would admit to the something.

  Elizabeth sighed, realizing she needed to tell her father more. “He paid for my bonnet. The one with the peacock feathers,” she admitted finally, as if that would help her father to remember a bonnet he had never actually seen. Her tear-stained cheeks colored up at the confession.

  Her father regarded her for a moment, his expression not changing. “Was he … with you when he paid for the peacock?” he wondered, his brows furrowing suddenly. If so, a shop­keeper had seen them together and witnessed an improper purchase.

  Elizabeth shook her head. “Of course not! He wasn’t even in the shop!”

  The marquess struggled to maintain decorum as he tried to figure out how George Bennett-Jones would have paid for his daughter’s bonnet without actually being in the shop. “I suppose you can guess my next question,” he stated, his face taking on a rather stern appearance. As frustrating as it was to have a conversation with Elizabeth, he usually found it more fun to pretend he couldn’t follow so she would have to over-explain herself. Unfortunately, at the moment, he really couldn’t follow her train of thought. I’ve been derailed, he thought suddenly, wondering how it was he could sit in chambers day after day and comprehend everything that was said when he rarely dedicated more than half an ear to it, but spending a few minutes with his daughter required all of his concentration and powers of deduction beyond those of a Bow Street Runner.

  Elizabeth blinked once. Twice. “Oh,” she said with a gasp. “Well, he had to go into the shop to pay, of course, but he wasn’t there when I bought the bonnet. But I think it must have been him who went in as Lady Charlotte and I were tak­ing our leave of the place. And when I went back to pay for the bonnet, because I didn’t pay for it when Lady Charlotte was with me because I’m always a bit embarrassed about paying for fripperies when Charlotte is with me because she always just puts it on her father’s account, and I cannot do that because you give me an allowance so that I can pay for things directly,” she paused to take a breath while David Carlington fought the impulse to growl at her expense. “So, once I dropped her at Ellsworth House, I had the driver take me back to the shop ..,” she paused when she noticed her father’s increasingly strained expression as he followed her explanation.

  “Well, don’t stop now,” the marquess insisted. “This is all starting to make sense in some twisted, torturous way.”

  Thinking she should feel a bit offended, Elizabeth straight­ened on the ottoman. “When I spoke with Mr. Neville about the bill, he said it was already paid. And when I asked who would do such a thing, he said he was sworn to secrecy and would not reveal the person’s identity.”

  Her father’s eyebrows became one. “So … how is it you know that Bostwick paid for it?”

  Elizabeth took a deep breath and let it out slowly, realizing she would need to divulge certain secrets if she was to answer that question.

  Or she could parry.

  “Mr. Neville said it was purchased as a ‘thank you’ gift.”

  When she hesitated to say more, her father cocked an eyebrow. “And why would Bostwick have need to thank my daughter, I wonder?” he said sotto voce. His gaze on her hard­ened. “Enlighten me, daughter.”


  Elizabeth’s eyes widened. This isn’t going well. “I helped a friend of his gain suitable employment at the Bank of Eng­land,” she blurted out. At least she didn’t have to admit to hav­ing spent the evening in the presence of George. Naked.

  Ah, now we’re getting somewhere, the marquess thought as he settled back into his chair. “Through your charity, per­haps?” he half-asked, a smirk replacing his threatening look from a moment ago.

  “Yes,” Elizabeth breathed, her eyes widening again. “How … how did you know?”

  Even before she had the words out, her father had retrieved her calling card from his waistcoat pocket. He held it up by one corner. “Lady E, I presume?” he countered, the expression on his face not giving away whether he was pleased or not at having identified the owner of the moniker.

  Stunned that he had one of her cards in his possession, the air seemed to go out of Elizabeth. She slumped on the otto­man. Closing her eyes, she nodded. “I discovered the only way some soldiers can get back their old positions of employment—the ones they had before they went off to war and got wounded—is through bribery.”

  David straightened in his chair at this tidbit, his eyebrows once again becoming one. Bribery?

  “I thought to use my allowance to pay for everything. And it was enough to let an office and cover some initial expenses, but the bribe I had to pay Mr. Whittaker at the bank took most of the rest of my funds.”

  “How much?” her father asked, his hands clasping between his knees as he hid his growing alarm at her comments.

  “Twenty guineas,” Elizabeth replied, thinking she was pre­pared to argue it was necessary.

  David Carlington resisted the urge to growl again. Twenty guineas! How dare someone demand a bribe in exchange for hiring a war veteran! “Whatever possessed you to think you could …?” Her father stopped and lowered his gaze to the floor between them. When he looked back up, he found Elizabeth staring at him, her wide eyes again wet with tears, her lips sealed together into a straight line. “Why did you … find it nec­essary to even start this charity?” he wondered then. His ini­tial perturbation seemed to evaporate with the question. How could he find fault with her for possessing the wherewithal to actually start such a venture? Without his help? Without ben­efit of his name and his financial assistance? He had been quite helpful with Lady Morganfield’s charities, even if they were essentially duplicates of other ton ladies’ approaches to helping war widows and orphans. As far as he knew, someone benefit­ted from the money he gave his wife to use for her causes. He never asked for an accounting of how the funds were spent.