Love Regency Style

by Samantha Holt

  She would be there tonight.

  She would see firsthand how he lived, how many servants he employed …

  Her stomach took a tumble and she gasped. His ser­vants! Should any of them gossip, and servants always gos­siped, she would be ruined!

  George reached out a hand and placed it over hers. “What is it?” he wondered, concern etching the brow she could see as he kept his eyes on the road, expertly weaving the curricle in and around the traffic outside the park.

  Elizabeth glanced around, surprised they were already out of Hyde Park and in Oxford Street. Turning to see if Anna was still sleeping, she leaned over so that her lips were near his ear. “Do you employ servants?”

  His eyes widening a bit, George took her meaning almost immediately. “An entire household staff of ten, of course, but I will see to it that not even my butler, Elkins, will be in resi­dence this evening. Your reputation will be quite safe, I assure you,” he murmured, realizing he was going to have to invent an evening’s entertainment for his servants to go out and enjoy while he saw to Elizabeth’s. He wanted desperately to kiss her then, to assure her somehow that she had nothing to fear. He half expected her to change her mind, to apologize and request he forget their entire conversation.

  But Elizabeth Carlington wasn’t a typical lady of the ton, he was finding.

  “I will provide a chaperone in the carriage, but she is of utmost quality and will be discreet.” At least, he hoped he could convince Josephine to be a chaperone. What will she think of this arrangement? He wondered if his mistress would scold him for having proposed such an assignation. “Do you know how you will … take your leave?” he wondered then, realizing he had given her instructions and no opportunity to argue or counter what he had said.

  Sighing, Elizabeth thought of Lady Charlotte. Certainly her best friend would agree to be her excuse for the evening. They had already talked about playing cards. She didn’t dare tell Charlotte of her plans, though. She couldn’t imagine what she or Lady Hannah would think of her, although, as she gave it some more thought, Charlotte would probably encourage her.

  This is what you want. This is what you desire. Don’t think too much.

  Although she didn’t think she had feelings for George—he was not a man she would consider a potential husband—she knew she had already thought entirely too much. “I will say I plan to dine with a good friend, who is providing a coach and a chaperone. I will be home late,” she recited, as if she did this sort of thing every week. “See you at breakfast tomorrow morning.”

  George dared a glance at her and smiled. His suddenly handsome visage caught Elizabeth by surprise. “Tonight, then,” he said in a whisper as he handed her down and escorted her to the front door of Carlington House before heading back to the curricle to assist the maid.

  Aware that Alfred had opened the door behind her, Eliza­beth stood on the top step of Carlington House and watched as George escorted Anna to the house. An honorable man, she thought again. “Thank you for a lovely morning,” she said when George bowed over her hand.

  “You’re very welcome, Lady Elizabeth,” he replied, aware of Alfred’s scowl as the butler stared down at him. “I look for­ward to our next encounter. Until then,” he tipped his hat. “I wish you a very pleasant day.”

  Chapter 28

  Arrangements for an Assignation

  Once he took his leave of Carlington House, George headed straight for Josephine’s townhouse. He found his mis­tress at home, in her bath, in fact, preparing for an evening at the theatre. While George described what had happened in the park and his intention to prove himself to Elizabeth that very evening, he knelt behind the copper tub.

  “What are you doing, George?” she wondered, sitting for­ward in the tub so that her breasts were pressed against her bent knees.

  “I wish to help you with your hair, of course,” he answered in surprise. “You … you’ve allowed me to in the past.”

  Josephine gave him a smile and reluctantly leaned back. As he rubbed rose-scented soap into her hair, taking care to gently rub the suds through the long strands before pouring a pitcher of warm rinse water along her hairline, she sighed. “You’ll make your wife an excellent lady’s maid,” she teased, closing her eyes as a curtain of water streamed over her face.

  “You once told me having your hair washed by me was the most sensuous feeling you ever experienced,” he countered in a quiet voice, his hands squeezing water out of her hair before he refilled the pitcher and repeated the rinsing.

  Josephine didn’t reply to his comment, but instead offered her assistance in planning the execution of the evening’s plan. She insisted on being involved, reminding George he needed a wife and this was an opportunity for him to court a suitable woman.

  Once she was out of the tub and wrapped in a dressing gown, she saw to most of the details for the evening, from the menu planning to arranging how George was going to return Elizabeth to her home by two in the morning.

  But the details for how he would go about fulfilling Lady Elizabeth’s request were left up to George. He couldn’t help but notice Josephine’s lack of advice in that regard. She lectured him at length about making sure he kept a pleasant expres­sion on his face. Warned him that, despite how passionate he might feel about the lady, he would have to maintain control of himself. “If you are successful in pleasuring her—if she even allows you to touch her most intimate places—she may very well offer her virtue,” she had said by way of a warning.

  George scoffed and replied, “Only in my very best dreams.”

  One of her eyebrows cocked in a manner suggesting she was privy to rather important information. “Women can become quite wanton when they’re given half a chance,” Josephine countered, her arms crossing in front of her chest. Alarmed by the comment, George swallowed. Hard. His mis­tress couldn’t help but notice. “Sensuality is not a sin, George,” she said with a shake of her head. “If she believes she is com­mitting a sin is at any point during the evening, then you have lost.” And then she scolded him before reminding him Lady Elizabeth’s motive for agreeing to the evening’s itinerary was borne of curiosity. “She has heard stories and wants to dis­cover for herself if the claims are true,” she explained patiently, remembering her own thoughts on the subject when she was still a virgin.

  When she was but seventeen, her mother, a courtesan of some skill and repute, tutored her and her sister in the arts of seduction and pleasure. When it was time for them to make their debut, it was her mother who chose their first protectors.

  Her sister left England with a French paramour, an older gentleman who claimed he would continue her education and see to it she was compensated generously.

  For Josephine, her mother selected a member of the aris­tocracy, the son of an earl. The gentleman had been kind that first night, and very generous with his gifts, but his preference for bedding virgins meant she was soon dismissed with a mod­est settlement and replaced by another courtesan’s daughter. Her only other protector before George was a another mem­ber of the aristocracy, an earl who set her up in a small town­house near Berkeley Square and kept regular appointments over the course of their five years together. It was under his tutelage that she developed an interest in politics and current events, realizing her lover appreciated their conversations as much as her skills in bed.

  His unexpected death meant a few months of uncertainty, and a few months to spend time at home. Time to get reac­quainted with those from her youth. And the realization that a man to whom she had promised her virtue was the man she most wanted to spend time with. The man she wanted to marry, should Jack ever make his way in the world and be able to support a wife. But it would be years before he would be able to do just that.

  Bereft and fearing for her own future, Josephine returned to London and made discreet inquiries that led to her intro­duction to George. Their contract was negotiated and paid for by George’s uncle, the viscount whose title he had inherited earlier this year
. The older man explained he was hiring her because he didn’t want his nephew—his only heir—employing whores or otherwise fathering bastards.

  The implication was clear to her; she was not to allow a pregnancy, and should one occur, she would be required to end it.

  Josephine regarded George for a moment. “If you still intend to ask for her hand, you must be sure her thoughts of you promise more than what the earl has to offer. He is rich and has a better title than you,” she added, as if he didn’t already know how much better Gabriel Wellingham looked on paper—and in the looking glass—than did he. “But I have it on good authority that he lacks certain … skills,” she hinted, her eyebrow arching suggestively.

  The comment captured George’s full attention. “What do you know?” he wondered then, his nervousness about the upcoming evening suddenly gone.

  Josephine regarded him for a very long time. “He pays three mistresses, one of them quite a lot more than he should have to,” she said with a shake of her head. “Refuses to learn the very basics and sees only to his own satisfaction.” This last was said with a bit of derision, as if providing reciprocal plea­sure was required along with the coin paid for the privilege of a tumble.

  George wondered if some of her comment was aimed at him; at one time he had been guilty of the same selfish behav­ior with her. But only because I didn’t know any better. Until his uncle’s death, he knew only the basics of pleasing a woman. Josephine had been his only bed partner, after all. As a mis­tress, it was up to her to please him, he had always believed.

  He knew better now, of course. Far better.

  And with his newfound skills, his confidence about the upcoming evening’s seduction—there could be no other word for it—increased. As did his nervousness.

  “Why didn’t you tell me I didn’t please you?” George asked suddenly, his expression showing he had taken offense at her insinuation when she had brought it up shortly after his uncle’s death. Their arrangement had been going on for nearly eight years. Why hadn’t she said something before he became a vis­count? Done something? Shown him how to make love to her? Why wait all those years and then suddenly announce to your protector that he didn’t please you?

  Caught off-guard by the question, Josephine regarded him, at first with a stunned glare. But then her eyes closed and she sank into the chair next to his, her face softening. She reached for his hand and gripped it. “Because you did. In other ways. Truly.” At his look of disbelief, she added, “Because, afterwards, you held me. You spoke sweet nothings, and you stroked my hair. You stayed in my bed far longer than you had to.” Indeed, there had been many times when he simply slept with her the entire night, so when they awakened, they could continue making love. Those were the times she cher­ished most, for it was by the first light of day when George looked his best and seemed happiest. “You … loved me.” She swallowed hard then, her eyes brightening with unshed tears. Looking away quickly, she took a deep breath and then slowly returned her attention to him. “A woman can overlook quite a lot when she feels … loved.”

  George was up and out of his chair and lifting her into his arms almost before she had finished her admission. He held her tightly to his body, one arm around her shoulders and the other around her waist. “Oh, Josie, can you ever forgive me for what I’m about to do?” he whispered, his words nearly lost in her hair. He felt her head shake against his shoulder.

  Josephine pulled her head away so that she could see his face. “I will never forgive you if you do not try for her hand,” she countered, a wicked smile replacing the sad visage she had displayed only moments before. “What kind of tutor would I be if my student didn’t succeed at my speciality?”

  George stared at her for a very long time. “You really want me to marry her, don’t you?” he asked then, his brows fur­rowing in confusion. Another thought intruded. “But, I will continue to be your protector even after I am wed …”

  “No, you will not.”

  Josephine’s voice sounded almost foreign to his ears; the emphatic statement was delivered with such finality. Con­fused, George stepped back. “But, if I am not your protector …”

  Josephine interrupted him again. “I have already made arrangements for my future, George.”

  An expression that could only be described as pain crossed George’s face before he looked away. Arrangements? When? And with whom? Had she done this all behind his back?

  His mistress allowed him the moment before she reached out to place a hand on his arm. “Once you inherited, I knew you would need to marry. And marry well. I have seen to it I will have a new protector once that …”

  “And I have no say in the matter?” he countered in a voice that was suddenly filled with anger. The look of astonishment hid the other emotions that immediately joined his anger.

  “No, you do not,” she answered calmly, steeling herself for a row she was sure was about to erupt. They had never fought before. They’d had disagreements on occasion, friendly argu­ments about politics or his choice of clothing for a weekend in the country or her thoughts on whose social entertainments he should attend. But they had never yelled at one another. Never turned their backs on one another or slammed doors or thrown objets d’ art at the walls or each other.

  “Josie, how could you?”

  The woman took a deep breath and held it for a moment before finally saying, “I know you, George. Unlike every other titled man in this town, you will honor your marriage vows. And you would feel beholden to me and feel so guilty, you would continue my allowance for the rest of my days, but I will not be a kept woman …”

  “You’re my friend, damn it!” George shouted, the hurt he was feeling in his chest so acute he thought he might be having an attack of some kind. At the sound of his voice, so loud in his ears, he shut his eyes tightly. We’ve never raised our voices at one another, he thought, stunned he could be acting so poorly toward a woman he was sure he once loved.

  “You pay me quite well for the privilege,” Josephine responded too quickly, her own voice so quiet he almost didn’t hear her words. She regretted them immediately, her hands coming up to cover her mouth even though she realized it was too late. “I did not mean that,” she rushed to get out, tears pricking the edges of her eyes. How could she say such a thing to a man who only wanted the best for her? Who had seen to her every need for eight years?

  Most mistresses could hope for a protector for a year, perhaps two, before having to arrange a new one. She had been blessed when George’s uncle had insisted on her being hired as his mistress. He had to have made a discreet inquiry of the Earl of Staffordshire as to her suitability, and the earl’s response must have been positive since there were no other living clients to recommend her. And the contract had been quite generous considering she wasn’t a celebrated courtesan. She wondered then if her lack of notoriety was more valued by the viscount than her other talents. She never guessed the arrangement would last eight years!

  “Josie,” George sighed, the sting of the simple statement hurting almost as badly as the thought of losing her com­pletely. He gathered her into his arms and held her tightly. “Oh, Josie. He is a duke, no?” he whispered, his lips kissing her hair. “Nothing less than a duke for you, I should think,” he added, finally pulling away to gaze at her.

  Josephine’s eyes were wet with tears. She had never allowed him to see her like this—so sad, so vulnerable. “No, George,” she replied with a small shake of her head. “He doesn’t even have a title,” she added, sniffling.

  In the middle of retrieving his handkerchief from his waist coat pocket, George paused and regarded the woman with a frown. “What do you mean?” he asked, finally offering her the linen cloth. “What are you saying?”

  Josephine hadn’t intended to tell George of her plans to marry the man she had loved when she was a younger woman. The man to whom she had promised her virtue all those years ago. Had her father lived through the winter of influenza that ravaged their village whe
n she was seventeen, she wouldn’t have made the trip to London in search of her mother. She wouldn’t have been tutored by her mother and then been seen by the son of the Earl of Staffordshire and been made an offer she couldn’t refuse. An offer that resulted in a career as a mis­tress, such as it was. But now her childhood lover had made his way in the world. He was ready to take a wife.

  And he still wanted her.

  “I have accepted an offer of marriage from my first … love,” she finally replied, a sense of relief flooding her as she heard the words spoken aloud.

  George stared at Josephine for a very long time. “First?” he repeated, as if he couldn’t quite comprehend her statement. At her nod, he closed his eyes. “And … you love him still?” he wondered, his eyes remaining shut until he realized he had to open them in order to see her nod in response.

  “I have since we were … twelve, thirteen, perhaps,” she explained quietly. “We have remained in contact all these years. I was sure he would find someone else, but it turns out, he is a very stubborn man,” she said before a sob took her breath.

  George took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. “Does this man know you are my mistress?” he wondered then, not sure what he thought about Josephine returning to a man who had apparently held a candle for her all these years.

  Josephine couldn’t meet his gaze as she shook her head. “He thinks I have been a servant in a nobleman’s home,” she replied, her head falling against the small of his shoulder. His arms moved to embrace her, to comfort her as her body shook with another sob.

  “Which you have been, I suppose,” George said, stroking her face with a finger. He kissed her forehead and then sighed. “I shall miss you terribly,” he stated, fighting to keep his com­posure when he felt tears fill his eyes. He blinked them back and took a deep breath. “Will you go back to Yorkshire then?” he wondered, realizing there was no point in arguing about her future when she had already seen to it.