Love Regency Style

by Samantha Holt

  Moving to stand by the earl’s side, George nodded to his wife. “I know you two are dying to gossip,” he whispered, giv­ing her a peck on the temple as permission for her to take her leave of him. When the women were out of earshot, having moved off to join a group of other young matrons forming in one corner, George returned his attention to Henry. “Truth be told, the Earl of Ellsworth is in quite good health, although he does have a bump on his noggin,” George said sotto voce.

  Henry’s eyes widened, wondering at George’s need to keep the news quiet. “That is certainly good news,” he replied, although there was a part of him that thought the man deserved to die for what he had done to Charlotte. How could a father horsewhip his daughter, even if he was in his cups when he did so?

  “News that must be kept under wraps for at least a few more days,” George intoned, his voice still low. “According to my sources, Lady Charlotte’s cousin is to be charged with attempted murder and embezzlement, but until he has been dealt his sentence, he must believe the earl is on his deathbed.”

  Noting the man’s seriousness, Henry nodded. “I under­stand. I … I just came from Sussex yesterday,” he said, decid­ing to share his knowledge of the situation with George. “Lady Charlotte was in good health and,” he paused, wishing Char­lotte was truly in good health—the stitches along her whip scar were still in place just yesterday—“If the Duke of Chich­ester did not lose his nerve, the two of them will be saying their wedding vows in a couple of days.” The words tripped off his tongue, sounding somehow right despite how he had felt about the situation just a day ago. My, how things have changed in only a day, he considered.

  A slow smile spread over George’s face. “Your news is the best I’ve heard in days,” the viscount claimed. He glanced to where his wife stood with the cluster of friends, a look of obvi­ous adoration on his face. Turning his attention back to the earl, he said, “If I may say so, it seems to me our uncles were men of a similar mind.”

  Henry wasn’t familiar with George’s predecessor, so he gave George a cocked eyebrow. “How so?” he wondered, not­ing George’s sudden interest in him instead of the wife that was still gossiping with her friends.

  “My uncle was a miser,” he whispered, leaning in toward Henry so he could be heard over the growing din of the ball­room. He thought of adding, “and a molly,” but decided he didn’t know enough about Randolph Forster to make the com­ment inclusive.

  His head angling a bit, Henry finally nodded, deciding it wasn’t treasonous to admit his uncle had been tight-fisted. “Mine, as well,” he murmured. “These past two years have been a struggle just to return the Gisborn lands and buildings to some semblance of normalcy.” He frowned. “When did you inherit?” he asked, wondering if George’s viscountcy had suf­fered the same lack of oversight and care.

  “Just over a year ago,” George answered. “I, too, have been spending a good deal of blunt trying to right the wrongs of so many years of deferred maintenance.” This last was delivered with a definite hint of disgust.

  “Oh, I like that terminology,” Henry said in admiration, taking a drink of his champagne. “May I inquire as to how you have handled your tenants’ cottages?”

  George nodded to the earl’s compliment and helped him­self to a glass of champagne from a footman’s tray. “Since I don’t have much in the way of farmland, I don’t have many tenants, but all ten families have new cottages as of last month,” he said, not intending for the pride he felt to come through in his statement.

  Good grief! “You must have an estate manager very differ­ent from mine,” Henry spoke quietly, not wanting to be over­heard. The Gisborn earldom could claim at least twenty cot­tages in all—at one time, there might have been nearly thirty. But, as far as Henry was concerned, every one of them required major work or complete replacement. He had directed his estate manager to see to the rebuilding of one when he first inherited. The man had argued that the tenant had allowed the cottage to deteriorate through lack of regular maintenance, but time and weather had been the true culprits in its disinte­gration. It was only after Henry had threatened to replace the manager when the matter was finally resolved. Nineteen to go, he thought, and another ten to build from scratch, wondering if he would still have to replace Edward Grainger. The man was downright stubborn when it came to expenditures of the maintenance sort, as if he thought his compensation was tied to how much of the earldom’s coffers he saved.

  “If you are suggesting that your man of business is as miserly as our uncles were in life, then I must admit, mine was as well,” George retorted, taking a drink and holding the bubbly liquid on his tongue as if he was truly appreciating the sensation.

  Surprised by the comment, Henry regarded the viscount with a cocked eyebrow. “What did you say to change his mind?” he asked, his curiosity piqued.

  Laughter bubbled up from George, the sound making his wife turn from where she stood to give him a wink. “There was nothing I could say, so I didn’t. I fired him and hired one who was a bit more … accommodating,” he admitted with a good deal of amusement, his gaze returning to meet his wife’s for a moment. “I found the danger from poorly maintained coal mines a far greater problem than cottages that were on the verge of collapse,” he added, his countenance suddenly turn­ing serious.

  Still fighting to hold down a blush at the couple’s outra­geous behavior, Henry considered George’s words. Christ! The man owned coal mines in addition to farmland! But the idea of replacing his estate manager was suddenly at the top of his mind. The man rarely spent time out of doors and could barely ride a horse, a necessity given where his lands were in Oxfordshire. It wasn’t as if you could drive a curricle over the farmland. And lately, Henry had been the one overseeing any work being done in the fields, riding out at first light to check on his foremen and laborers and sometimes staying out until almost dark. Why pay a man who couldn’t do the job to his satisfaction?

  Henry remembered the Marquess of Devonville’s com­ment about Aldenwood’s prediction for a colder summer and wondered what George might think. “Tell me, Bostwick, are you familiar with an adventurer named Aldenwood?” he asked then, hoping George wouldn’t be too surprised by the change of topic.

  “Of course.” He turned from having winked at his wife to regard Henry, his brows furrowing. “Why do you ask?” he wondered, his curiosity piqued.

  “The Marquess of Devonville claims Aldenwood is pre­dicting a colder than usual growing season …”

  “Because?” George drained his champagne, his manner even more serious.

  Suddenly embarrassed at having brought up the topic, Henry was about to ask the viscount to forget he query when he realized George really wanted to know.

  “He paid witness to a volcano erupting somewhere near Australia. Apparently, the … volcanic ash and … debris, dust, whatnot … from that explosion and some others that hap­pened before that one … it’s all still in the air, blocking some of the sun’s heat from reaching land. Aldenwood has said the summer won’t be warm enough for crops to grow and there will likely be a famine as a result.”

  “Jesus,” George breathed, his eyes focused internally. He shook his head. “You would think, that as an owner of three coal mines, I might welcome the opportunity to sell more coal in the summer,” he commented with a hint of wonder in his voice. “But if there is a famine as a result of crop failures, no one will be able to afford coal, much less any food that is avail­able. The prices will be too high.” He rolled his eyes before turning them onto Henry. He studied the earl’s face. “Do you … believe the prediction?” he asked, his brows furrowing.

  Henry shrugged, not wanting to seem gullible. What if Aldenwood was wrong and the growing season was like any other? He would look like a fool if he spent too much prepar­ing for a possible shortage of food for his tenants.

  But what if Aldenwood wasn’t wrong?

  “I think I must,” Henry said with a sigh. “At least, I must prepare as if the growi
ng season will be poor. To do other­wise condemns my tenants to possible hardship in the fall and winter.”

  Nodding, George seemed to agree. “What will you do?”

  Pressing his lips into a thin line, Henry took a deep breath. “I have already planned irrigation ditches to drain excess water from the fields and provide a means to irrigate when it is dry. I have two large fields scheduled to be fallow. If I build greenhouses on them, at least there will be a way to ensure some food.”

  Biting his lower lip, George raised his gaze to one of the chandeliers overhead. “A capital idea,” he said with a bit of awe. “I believe I shall do the same. If it comes to pass that the weather is fine, then I shall always have a greenhouse in which to grow flowers for my wife,” he reasoned, his attention once again on the auburn-haired beauty who stood with Lady Hannah.

  Henry’s eyes followed George’s, but his gaze rested on Han­nah. “You have a very beautiful wife,” Henry remarked as they helped themselves to more drinks from a passing footman.

  “Thank you,” George replied, his attention finally return­ing to Henry when he had caught Lady Bostwick’s eye and winked in her direction. “I fell in love with her six months, two weeks and four days ago,” he spoke in reverent tones. “And I thank my lucky star every day. She almost ended up married to a pompous ass of an earl hell-bent on ruining her father,” he spoke as his eyebrow cocked up in a manner suggesting he was not the woman’s first choice for a husband.

  A bit surprised by George’s comment, Henry wondered how the man had managed to usurp an earl in Lady Elizabeth’s estimation. He was a viscount, after all, and Henry rather doubted he was due to inherit an earldom. “If I may say so, she seems to show a great deal of affection toward you,” Henry commented, his own gaze turning to Hannah’s figure. When she bent over just a bit to hear something another chit was say­ing, the shape of her bottom was suddenly silhouetted in the fabric of her gown. Henry had to suppress a groan and bite the inside of his cheek to tamp down what was about to come up.

  “You may say so,” George replied happily. “There is much to be said for marrying for love. We of the ton seem to have it all wrong, sometimes. Unions of convenience must be … unsatisfying in so many ways. And the children born from them cannot be happy knowing their parents are spending their lives bed hopping. No, I am quite happy with my wife.”

  The lifted eyebrow as he mentioned this last bit made it quite clear to Henry that Lady Bostwick’s beauty was not the only reason George was happy.

  He thought of Sarah and how strained their relationship had become over the past few months. “May I ask as to … how it is you stay happy with one another?” he ventured, casting another quick glance in the direction of Lady Hannah, as if to make sure he was keeping track of her whereabouts. The orchestra had started to play another tune, but it was a prelude to the dancing music, so no couples yet formed on the dance floor.

  George smiled. He had seen Henry look after Hannah sev­eral times during their conversation. “We share a bed. Every night,” he replied quietly. “We make love as often as possible and wherever we wish. I bring her a gift every fortnight or so, although she does not ask for baubles or gold. We take a drive in a park once a day, even if it’s raining. And I allow her to run her charity, although I have seen to it she has trustworthy men on her staff and protection on the days when she is in the office and I cannot not be with her.” After a moment, he added, “Oh, and we tell one another of our love and adoration at least once a day.”

  The viscount’s prescription for a happy marriage was both a surprise and a source of embarrassment for Henry. The earl struggled to prevent the color he knew was suffusing his face. “So obvious and yet …” He tried to find a suitable word to use to indicate the rarity of what George described. He felt suddenly emboldened by the information, knowing he could probably renew his relationship with Sarah if he were to employ the same approach with her.

  “Unfamiliar to so many,” the viscount finished for him. He nodded toward where the women were still conversing with friends. “When will you be marrying Lady Hannah?”

  Henry blinked at the bold question, surprised enough that he thought to admonish George. He was suddenly embar­rassed by his thoughts of Sarah when the young woman he intended to ask to be his wife stood so near. But the man had been blunt enough with him that he should not have been sur­prised by the question. “I only asked permission to court her this morning,” Henry answered with a shrug. At George’s imp­ish grin, he added, “I was considering as soon as this evening,” he admitted then, wondering if it was entirely too early. “Is that entirely too early?” he asked in a teasing voice.

  Smiling, George shook his head. “Her father wants to see her settled so he can see to his own life,” he said as he motioned for them to retrieve the women. “He has been calling on a widow for a fortnight,” he added, a glint of humor reaching his eyes, as if the idea of the marquess calling on a widow was somehow scandalous.

  “Lady Winslow?” Henry guessed, remembering how the marquess had hurried to the woman’s side when they first arrived.

  George was smiling. “Yes.” He sidled up to his wife and placed a kiss on her ear. “My love, it is time to dance,” he said in a voice loud enough for the young matrons in the group to hear. A round of embarrassed titters erupted from the women. Henry took the opportunity to offer his arm to Hannah. After a startled pause, she put her own on it, said her pardons to those whose eyes had lit up with curiosity, and left the group with her escort.

  “Take a turn with me?” Henry suggested, deciding he would ask for Hannah’s hand once they were beyond the ballroom.

  “Of course,” Hannah said with a smile, her dimple appear­ing briefly. They walked in silence for several moments as the orchestra completed its prelude and began tuning for the dance music. “It appeared as if you had an opportunity to speak with Lord Bostwick,” she half-questioned, noting the crowd had increased to nearly fill the ballroom. Lady Atten­borough had every right to be proud of hosting a crush this early in the Season.

  “I did. He is a very interesting man,” Henry commented. The viscount had given him much to consider. Despite not having asked for advice, Henry was secretly thankful George Bennett-Jones had been so forthcoming with his opinions. As a result, Henry was quite sure of what he had to do when he returned to Oxfordshire.

  Henry motioned toward a set of open French doors. “Would you like to take a turn in the gardens?”

  Hannah regarded him with a lifted eyebrow. Did he intend to kiss her so early in the evening? The ball had barely begun! “Certainly,” she agreed, allowing him to lead her onto the flag­stone terrace. The pace he had set in the ballroom remained the same once they were out of doors. Despite the days being chillier than usual, the night air felt comfortable enough for a walk.

  “Are you warm enough?” Henry asked, glad there were paper lanterns to light the path from the terrace into the gar­dens below and off to the side of the estate.

  “Yes, thank you,” Hannah replied, her nostrils filling with the scent of newly turned earth and the few flowers that had managed to bloom in the cooler weather.

  Henry glanced about, certain no one else had taken their leave of the house. “I wish to thank you for securing an invita­tion for me to attend this evening,” he managed to get out, his nervousness increasing with each step they took.

  “It was no trouble,” Hannah replied, sensing his growing unease. “I was surprised the Attenboroughs knew you. Why didn’t you mention it earlier?” she wondered, curious as to why he would keep his history with the elderly couple a secret.

  “I didn’t know. I … I didn’t recognize the name when you mentioned it, and it wasn’t until Lady Attenborough looked at me with such delight that I figured out she must have known me when I was a child.” The path continued around some dormant rose bushes and under an arched trellis. Within moments, they were out of sight of the ballroom. “George was quite right when he mentioned you looked
like Sleeping Beauty this evening.” He felt more than heard Hannah’s gasp of surprise. “From the moment I first saw you, I thought you looked like a fairy princess.”

  Hannah gave him a tentative smile, her gaze on his profile quickly turning away when he glanced over at her. “Just so you are aware, I am not endowed with any magical powers,” she said, hoping to deflect whatever platitudes he was about to say regarding her appearance.

  “Oh, I disagree.”

  Hannah paused in midstep, forcing Henry to turn and stand in front of her. “Indeed?” she replied uncertainly. She couldn’t decide whether to offer him a smile at his tease or keep her face impassive. Whatever did he mean by such a com­ment? The flutterbies had suddenly returned to her belly. She could feel her breasts swelling against her corset, her nipples responding as if his fingers had delved past the edge of her bodice and touched them.

  “You have bewitched me since our time in the parlor this morning,” he countered quietly, not wanting to admit she had done so the night before while playing with her giant dog. “I … I know I only just asked you if I might court you, but now I wish to ask you for your hand in marriage. Lady Hannah, will you do me the honor of being my wife?” He lowered himself to one knee during his question while he removed his new ruby signet ring from a waistcoat pocket. Holding up the ring, he was disappointed it wasn’t visible in the dim light of the lanterns.

  Hannah stood very still, her heart beating so fast she was sure he could hear it. “Oh, Gisborn,” she breathed. This is so unexpected! She thought he had brought her out to the garden to kiss her—not to propose! But how to answer? Certainly she always intended to say, ‘yes’ to a proposal as romantic as this one. “I … I …” Placing an open hand against her bosom, she lowered her face to his. “Yes,” she said with a nod. And then her lips were on his, inviting him to kiss her as he rose from this knees and wrapped his arms around her shoulders. His lips never left hers, their hold gentle but possessive, his tongue tasting the champagne and a hint of strawberries that lingered in her mouth. A moment more and Hannah’s fingers were at the nape of his neck. As Henry’s hands slid from her shoulders to her waist, his thumbs brushed along the sides of her breasts, sending shivers of pleasure though her very core, their inten­sity so surprising and so delightful her mouth broke with his for a moment so she could breathe. And then they were kiss­ing once again.