Love Regency Style

by Samantha Holt

  Her dance card wasn’t even secured about her wrist!

  Lady Elizabeth almost agreed. How could she refuse the unmarried earl, whose blonde curly hair, sky blue eyes and handsome features made so many of the debutantes in atten­dance flutter their lashes and nearly swoon in his presence? But she had watched him execute the same maneuver with another chit only moments before from her vantage point at the stop of the stairs, so she decided it would be better to learn a bit more about the earl before she allowed him a dance.

  Gabriel was quite attentive at that last ball of the Season, especially after the more formal introductions were made by one of her young, married friends. Once he heard she was the daughter of the Marquess of Morganfield, his face lit up with what might have been recognition.

  A more cynical sort would have recognized the look for what it was.

  Predatory.

  “Lady Elizabeth, it is truly an honor to make your acquain­tance,” he said, bowing over her gloved hand and once again brushing his lips over the back of her knuckles.

  “And yours, my lord,” she replied, a bit cool in her response. The fan she held in her left hand fluttered twice before she snapped it shut, all the while holding his gaze with her own. “Have you just arrived in town?” She hadn’t seen him at any of the balls or soirées held during the spring. Perhaps he was new to his title.

  “Only last week, my lady,” he confirmed with a nod. “I inherited the Trenton earldom last year upon my father’s death.” At Elizabeth’s appropriate look of sadness, he added, “I have been in mourning, of course. I held off visiting London until my solicitor required my presence here.” The words were delivered without inflection, suggesting his mourning period was truly over, if indeed he had ever really mourned the pass­ing of his father.

  “I am so sorry for your loss,” Elizabeth replied with a sol­emn nod. She had heard of the Trenton earldom—knew it to be one of the wealthier titles in Great Britain. And then she remembered how he had hurried to the base of the stairs when she was making her way to the ballroom floor. He had sought out her. Or found her appearance pleasing enough that he would make a spectacle of himself in front of Lord Esterly’s guests—not just once, but several times. Thinking he spoke with good diction, knew his manners and was quite possibly the most beautiful man she had ever met, Elizabeth decided she could bestow her best smile on him. “I do hope you find your stay here satisfactory.”

  The earl allowed his gaze to boldly sweep over her from head to toe. “I already have, my lady,” he answered, his brow cocking in such a manner as to suggest he had found her to be the reason for his satisfaction. “The sight of so many beautiful women in one room is almost too much to bear.”

  A bit shocked Gabriel Wellingham would be so bold, both with his words and his rakish manner, Elizabeth held her face as impassive as possible. He was too handsome and might be a bounder, she decided, her own head leaning to one side as she considered whether or not to introduce him to her best friends. “Are there other traits you find too much to bear in a woman, my lord?” she teased, wondering if her comment would cause him to blush or if he would list his proclivities.

  Gabriel straightened and placed the palm of one hand against his chest, as if he had suffered the cut direct. His face brightened. “Why, Lady Elizabeth, your boldness is not one of them,” he answered with a huge grin. “Either you are test­ing me or you are teasing me, but I find I am not the least bit offended by either.“

  Her mouth forming a perfect ‘o’, Elizabeth realized too late the earl was not the stuffy, overbearing sort she expected.

  He had a sense of humor.

  “I was teasing, of course,” she answered with a tap of her fan against his arm. “But my question remains unanswered.”

  The earl regarded her with a calculating grin and finally sighed. “I do not care for dishonesty, gossip or cleverness in women, but then, I do not tolerate them from those of my sex either,” he said, his face taking on a more serious expression.

  Elizabeth sensed the change in him even before she heard his words. She found herself wondering if this was the man she would marry before Christmastime. “Well said, my lord,” she agreed, giving Gabriel a nod.

  “Said well enough that you might now grant me a dance this evening?” he countered, his expression remaining serious.

  Apparently her earlier refusal had bruised his ego.

  For a moment, Elizabeth wondered at the change in his mood. She hadn’t meant for her teasing to leave him in ill humor. She lifted the wrist from which her dance card dan­gled. “I believe I have an unclaimed quadrille here,” she sug­gested, taking her eyes off his in order to search for the blank on the pasteboard. She found a line on which there was no name scribbled. “Here ’tis,” she offered, holding the card out to him. He gave her a nod and took up the small pencil attached to the card. He wrote ‘Gabriel’ on the one blank line. “Thank you, Lady Elizabeth,” he said in a voice that indicated he was dismissing her. “I shall find you when it is my turn,” he added, bowing deeply.

  Elizabeth curtsied in return and watched the earl take his leave.

  There was definitely an attraction there, she was sure, enough so she decided not to search for Lady Hannah and offer an introduction to her. Although Hannah was a beauty in her own right, her porcelain complexion, dark eyes, rosebud lips and platinum blonde hair making her look like a delicate doll or a fairy princess, the younger woman had a rather odd attitude when it came to considering potential husbands. With her other friend, Lady Charlotte, already betrothed to the Earl of Grinstead, there was no point in arranging an introduc­tion to her, at least not until Elizabeth had spent enough time with Gabriel to determine if his friendship would be worth the effort.

  The earl’s mood was considerably lighter when he came to claim her for the quadrille. They danced, but due to the intrica­cies of the quadrille, they weren’t able to exchange more than a few snippets of conversation. Once they parted company, Elizabeth rather hoped the earl would decide to spend part of the summer in town; perhaps they would see one another whilst shopping or in Hyde Park.

  Later that week, she learned from Lady Charlotte that the earl had returned to Staffordshire the day after the ball. Disap­pointed but determined they would renew their acquaintance during the Little Season, Elizabeth put thoughts of marriage and the Earl of Trenton on hold for the summer. Instead, she concentrated her attention on a far worthier pursuit.

  Charity.

  Chapter 4

  Lessons of a Mistress

  June 1815

  “Now, there are some rules I think you should learn, George,” Josephine said just before she nodded to the footman who was filling her breakfast plate with coddled eggs and a rasher of bacon.

  George cocked an eyebrow in response, wondering what she had in mind for his next lesson. For the three months they would spend in Horsham, Josephine had already seen to it he had a stack of reading material ready for his perusal as well as a dance instructor to teach him the cotillion, quadrille and waltz. He had grown up performing the contradances, the dances done longways, and announced with some derision that he had no intention of doing them in order to court a lady of the ton. “How am I supposed to carry on a conversation with a lady if I’m constantly changing partners?” he argued successfully. “Better I escort her to the supper or converse with her by a potted palm.”

  Josephine rolled her eyes but didn’t argue the point. “How will you introduce yourself to the lady?” she asked as she helped herself to a piece of toast from his plate.

  “My lady, I am George Bennett-Jones, at your service,” he replied as he mimed lifting one of the woman’s hand to his lips and kissing the back of it.

  “Oh, that’s good,” Josephine commented, patting his knuckles. “No one need know you have a title until it becomes necessary for them to know. Use it as a last resort.”

  George raised an eyebrow. “Really?” he replied, not quite believing her comment.

  “I
t will come in handy when you need assistance from the hired help, of course. Butlers may not allow you into a lord’s home unless you give your title.” She took a sip of coffee. “Now, when you’re in conversation with a lady, you must make her feel as if she is the only woman in the room.”

  Pausing before putting a forkful of eggs into this mouth, George considered her words. “And if I am in conversation with more than one woman?”

  His mistress regarded him with a bit of surprise. “Oh, my,” she replied, her face displaying her amusement. “Then you must make them feel as if they are the only women in the world. Maintain eye contact. Appear as interested as you pos­sibly can. Even if you’re bored to tears and want nothing more than to make haste to the card room.”

  George frowned. “I wouldn’t necessarily make haste to the card room even if I was bored,” he countered. Cards some­times bored him more than standing next to a potted palm at a ton ball. At least he could watch those in attendance from the relative safety of the plant. That was far more entertaining than looking at a handful of cards and making bets on their worth.

  Josephine ignored the comment, not having been in pub­lic with George to know how he really behaved. “So, what do you say to a lady when you first meet her? After the introduc­tions, of course?”

  Opening his mouth to respond, George suddenly closed it and thought for a moment. He thought of conversations he overheard at the few Society events he had attended. “You appear in fine health. Is that a new bonnet, perhaps? Your gown is stunning. Is that silk de Naples? Or Indian silk? And from where did you purchase that lovely corset I see when I peek down your bodice?”

  Covering her mouth with a hand, Josephine let out a gig­gle. “George!” she admonished him. “Really, there’s no need to comment on the fabric of a lady’s gown.” When George’s eye­brows lifted, she added, “Or on the corset. And never let a lady know you’ve looked down her bodice.” She thought a moment, her brows furrowing. “Unless she’s a widow, in which case she may welcome your glance in that direction.”

  “Josie!” It was George’s turn to admonish his mistress, sur­prised she would make such a claim. “If I’m not to make men­tion of her gown or her cleavage, what can I say?”

  The older woman regarded him for a moment and angled her head to one side. “Keep your compliments light, and be self-deprecating when it makes sense to do so.”

  George sighed. “I can do that,” he replied with a nod, his attention on the sideboard. “So, once I have complimented her on the color of her gown, and I’ve made a fool of myself by being self-deprecating, then I suppose I need to ensure the conversation continues.”

  Straightening in her chair, Josephine smiled. “Oh. You’re doing very well, George!”

  He gave her a look of uncertainty. When was the last time he had carried on a conversation with a member of the fairer sex? Other than with Josephine, of course? “And how should I proceed?” he asked, his face screwing up into an expression of pain.

  Sighing, Josephine replied, “Ask questions that show you are truly interested. And then listen to their replies.”

  George considered her words. “Did you finish reading the pamphlet on the Corn Laws?” he asked suddenly, his brow furrowing. “I should like to know your opinion.”

  His mistress raised her eyebrows at the apparent change in topic. “They are … extremely unfair and quite costly for the general population of England,” she responded carefully, repositioning herself in her chair so she faced him more squarely.

  “And how do you propose the situation be changed?”

  Josephine regarded George with surprise. She sat very still for a moment, seeming to collect her thoughts. “The laws must be repealed. The inflated prices of English-grown corn is forcing those who are already poor into considering an upris­ing. This country cannot survive what happened to the French monarchy,” she spoke, leaning toward him as she did so.

  “I will ask the Lord Chancellor to add the topic to our agenda when our session resumes in September. I will do what I can,” George promised with a nod. After a pause, one in which he kept his attention on Josephine, he then asked, “How did I do?”

  Her mouth dropping open in astonishment, Josephine realized George had merely been practicing his conversational skills with a topic he knew she would find interesting. “Oh, George. I do believe you can converse with the best of them. Just remember, most chits aren’t going to know a Corn Law from a cob of corn. Better you keep the topic on something like … the theatre or the latest fashions from Paris.”

  Shrugging, George finished the slice of toast Josephine had abandoned on his plate and took another sip of coffee. “What else?” He knew his mistress had other suggestions, other recommendations for how he could increase his chances with a lady of the ton. Better he get them all out of her today so he had the summer to practice.

  Josephine angled her head to one side. “My poor little dog has disappeared, George, and I am simply unconsolable. Boo­hoo,” she said in a whiny voice that could have belonged to just about any debutante in the ton.

  George blinked once. Twice. He shook his head.

  Sighing loudly, Josephine took a deep breath. “Offer con­dolences when appropriate, help when needed, and be a knight in shining armor whenever given the opportunity.”

  Holding up a hand to indicate he understood, George nodded once and then gave her his most sympathetic expres­sion. “My dear Josie, you must be beside yourself with worry. I know how much you love that little … Brutus,” he guessed at a name, hiding his amusement when Josie rolled her eyes. “Whatever can I do to help? I can take you in my curricle and we can search for Brutus together. I shan’t give up until he is safely back … in your arms, my lady. And when he is, we shall see to it he has another to keep him company so he will not run off again,” he intoned, placing his hand on Josephine’s arm and giving it a reassuring nudge.

  Josephine grinned. Then her smile broadened. “Bravo, George. Always promise her more. I do believe you’ll be ready for the Little Season.”

  George sat back in his chair and sighed as if the lesson had taken every bit of energy he had in him. “God, help me,” he whispered. “This had better be worth it.” A footman entered the breakfast room, a newly ironed copy of The Times in his hands. “Ah, a newspaper,” he said, hoping Josephine’s interest would be redirected to it. He held out his hand and the foot­man handed it over, bowing as he did so. George nodded in his direction and turned his attention to the headlines. He hid his initial astonishment from his mistress, thinking that, for once, he actually knew something she wouldn’t yet know in the world of politics. Napoleon Bonaparte had just lost a battle at Waterloo to a coalition of forces led by Wellington and von Bluecher. The tyrant had finally been defeated. Perhaps this time they would see to his death so that he couldn’t escape and continue his war on England.

  When George glanced back at Josephine, he noted how his mistress looked a bit crestfallen, but at the moment he couldn’t give her his full attention. The war against France was over, which meant his best friend would be returning soon—if he had survived. He barely heard Josephine’s words. “Of course, it will be worth it, George. Especially since I intend for you to marry a woman perfectly suited to you,” she said rather care­fully. “Most debutantes are not going to be acceptable to you. I realize that. Which means you need to have your sights on a woman who can challenge you a bit.”

  He looked up from his copy of the week-old paper and regarded his mistress with a cocked eyebrow. “Does one actu­ally exist that meets your approval?” he wondered, deciding he would allow her to read the paper and learn of the news herself.

  “Yes, actually. I do have a woman in mind whom I think you should marry,” Josephine replied as she watched George’s reaction.

  Damn! She’s already vetted someone! “Playing matchmaker now, are you?” he accused, his manner not showing the least bit of humor. Why is she bringing this up now? he wondered. They wouldn’t be b
ack in London for a few months, and then it would be another two weeks or more before the Little Sea­son started. His gaze settled back down onto the article he had been reading and he wondered about his friend, Teddy.

  Josephine shrugged as if his comment held little merit. “Lady Elizabeth Carlington.”

  George looked up from the paper again, his face taking on a look of concentration, as if he was trying to recall a men­tal image of the woman Josephine named when all he could really think of was Teddy Streater. Did he survive? Would he be returning to England’s shores soon? Perhaps he was already back in London. When the man had last been in town, George was still just a nephew to a viscount. He rather hoped his title wouldn’t preclude Teddy from renewing their friendship. The man was a perfect fencing partner, and he shared George’s dis­like of the gaming tables. “I don’t think I have had the plea­sure,” he finally responded with a shake of his head, just then realizing Josephine was waiting for a response. He had to admit to a bit of curiosity about the chit, though. Josephine wouldn’t have suggested Elizabeth Carlington if she hadn’t done her research on the young lady.

  Sighing, Josephine leaned forward. “If you would have attended at least one ton ball during the past three Seasons, you would not be able to make that claim,” she stated firmly.

  George leaned back in his chair and regarded his mistress. “Carlington? As in the Marquess of Morganfield?” he won­dered, trying to imagine if he had ever seen David Carlington in the company of a daughter. He realized he had only ever seen the marquess in White’s and once or twice at Angelo’s Academy. The man was decent on the piste and could be an exceptional fencer if he practiced more.

  “The very one,” Josephine replied, taking a sip from her teacup. From where she sat, she could tell that George was giv­ing her suggestion some thought.