Love Regency Style

by Samantha Holt

  But he had said, I love you, she remembered. In a moment of passion, yes, but still, he had said those words with such conviction!

  Our children.

  “I will see you this afternoon then,” Elizabeth replied before kissing his cheek and giving him a quick hug. Doesn’t he realize I cannot marry him? The door was opening; she had only a second to get to her feet and rearrange her skirts before Forsham would hand her down.

  Instead of moving to the door, she leaned over George and held her face very close to his, willing him to kiss her one last time. He did so, wrapping an arm around her neck and pull­ing her down so he could deepen the kiss. Then it was over as quickly as it had begun. She stepped down from the carriage and hurried up the front walk to the double doors of Carling­ton House. George watched from the coach window, noting how Elizabeth opened the door herself and slipped in, turning once to give him a wave before shutting the door.

  Although the sound of the door closing didn’t reach his ears, the sound of his heartbeat was suddenly very loud in George’s ears.

  Chapter 36

  One Last Moment with the Mistress

  George took a very deep breath and settled back into the squabs, a combination of emotions vying for his attention. He was at once relieved, for the evening had gone, except for those few moments when he had lost control and nearly … he shook his head.

  The evening had gone better than he planned.

  Lady Elizabeth hadn’t been as reserved as he expected, and he wondered if he should be concerned she allowed him to undress her so readily, allowed him to touch her and kiss her in places that would make most women blush in embar­rassment. Her soft whimpers and his name spoken in gasps brought him a deep sense of satisfaction. Despite his nervousness—and he had been nervous—he had been able to bring her to the brink of ecstasy and push her over the edge until she was breathless and boneless and sobbed his name in that way she had of making it sound like the most wonderful moniker a man could have. And he had done it again and again, the last time resulting in his own orgasm that had been such a sur­prise, he had said words he never thought he would say aloud to anyone but Josephine.

  I love you.

  The thought of Josephine brought him up short. He sud­denly wondered about the time she and Lady Elizabeth had spent together in the town coach. What had his mistress thought of Lady Elizabeth? The two had been together at least fifteen minutes in the coach; perhaps Josephine had learned something that could help him in his pursuit of Elizabeth.

  The coach slowed and finally stopped. A quick glance showed he was already back at his townhouse. Glancing at his Breguet, he was stunned to find it was only a quarter past two. He climbed out of the coach and gave a wave to his coachman, who directed the four horses to head for the stables behind the house.

  The familiar scent of Josephine’s perfume tickled his nose as he opened his front door. Dressed in the same carriage gown she had worn when she set off in his coach to get Eliza­beth, she slowly rose from a chair in the vestibule. “Josie,” he breathed, rushing to wrap his arms around her.

  Josephine allowed the hug but did not return the gesture. “Hello, George,” she said with a slight smile. She regarded him as he removed his arms from around her shoulders. “Well?” she wondered, a bit breathless. When George didn’t immediately respond, she added, “Was she everything you … expected?” Wanted? Dreamed of? She had spent the entire evening won­dering about George and Elizabeth, wondering how the two fared in each other’s company. Wondering if Lady Elizabeth had even made it through dinner, let alone the champagne in the library. Although she desperately wanted to know, Jose­phine had stayed away until just after two, deciding it was bet­ter to give George the benefit of the doubt.

  “Oh, God, yes,” he answered without pause. “I love her, Josie. I do. I … ” He shook his head as if to clear it. She seemed to wilt before his eyes. “I apologize,” he said then, scrubbing his face with his hands, wondering how he could be so insensi­tive to Josephine. She was his mistress. He had loved her all the years they had been together.

  One of Josephine’s eyebrows arched. “George! There’s no need to apologize,” she admonished, placing a gloved hand on his arm. “I merely stopped by to see if I might be of assistance in getting Lady Elizabeth home. But I suppose you made your ridiculous deadline,” she teased, unable to resist the jab at him for keeping his word as to when he would return Elizabeth to her house. Josephine angled her head to one side as she watched her protector begin to pace across the vestibule.

  “We did,” George acknowledged, nodding. “And it was not ridiculous. It was … appropriate,” he explained lamely, his mind trying to keep his memories of the evening from becom­ing jumbled. There was so much he wanted to remember. So much he wanted to replay in his head, if for no other reason than to be able to relive those moments over and over again. Even if Elizabeth didn’t agree to marry him, he would forever remember this night. He thought perhaps the memories could sustain him for the rest of his life. “How … how did you get here?” he wondered suddenly, not having seen a carriage in front of his townhouse.

  “Clarice dropped me on the way from the theatre,” she said with a wave, referring to a discreet courtesan with whom she occasionally attended social functions. “She confirmed Gabriel Wellingham will be asking for Elizabeth’s hand tomor­row … or rather, later today,” she stated, a sense of urgency in her words. She told herself the news was the real reason she had stopped by this evening, although it was really curi­osity that had her wondering how George had done with his assignation.

  George stilled and took a deep breath. He nodded, as if he had come to the same conclusion. “Short of ruining her com­pletely, I have done all that I can,” he said finally. He realized then he really meant it. What else could he have done to court Elizabeth Carlington in the short amount of time he had had? He had danced with her, supped with her, taken her on a ride in the park, kissed her, taken her to the museum, kissed her again, and made love to her in every way but the way in which he truly wanted. “I shall call on her later this afternoon. I told her … I said I would ask for her hand if she doesn’t accept Tren­ton’s suit. I should know by then if she has accepted his offer.”

  Josephine crossed her arms and let out a very unladylike snort. “George Bennett-Jones! Why not go as early as you can? Before Wellingham is even out of bed?” she asked, suddenly angry. “I have it on very good authority the marquess is an early riser, and I rather think the rest of his household is as well.”

  Surprised by her outburst, George warily regarded his mistress for a moment before replying. “I want her to have the choice, Josie.”

  His mistress shook her head and crossed her arms, obvi­ously annoyed. “She will still have the choice, George,” she admonished him. “Some of these chits don’t make a deci­sion on the day they are asked. They expect to have three or four offers before the end of the Little Season! And then they decide!”

  “Which is why there is no hurry, Josie,” he interrupted, his voice kept deliberately quiet. He wondered at the sense of calm that had settled over him. If he closed his eyes, he could see Elizabeth as she was when she was beneath him, naked and open and begging him to take her, her bee-stung lips eager to kiss him and her fingernails laying claim to the skin of his back. And he could still remember that overwhelming and sensational feeling as his body reacted to hers. He had never experienced anything like it with Josephine. Never.

  So now, as Josephine admonished him for not taking the initiative and being first to ask for Lady Elizabeth’s hand, he felt a great deal of satisfaction in what he had accomplished this evening. He wasn’t about to allow Josephine to ruin his good mood. But even as he basked in his success with the woman he hoped would be his wife, he watched Josephine as she seemed to deflate before his very eyes. “What is wrong?” he wondered suddenly, hurrying to provide support with an arm and shoulder.

  Tears pricked at the edges of Josephine’s eyes. “Oh, G
eorge,” she sighed, her head shaking as he took her back to the chair she was sitting in when he first arrived. “I truly can no longer be your mistress,” she whispered, a tear escaping her eye and slowly rolling down her cheek.

  George furrowed his brows, more concerned about her saddened state than the words she spoke. “What has hap­pened?” he wondered, kneeling in front of her while clutch­ing one of her gloved hands in his. Had his assignation with Elizabeth bothered Josie more than his mistress would admit?

  “I received a note from Jack. He is due to arrive in London the day after tomorrow.” She lifted her head to meet his gaze and then could not. “I thought … I thought I had more time …”

  “Whatever do you mean?” George asked then, his worry increasing. Something was wrong. He couldn’t remember a time when Josephine had shed a tear about anything. Pulling his handkerchief out of his waistcoat pocket, he placed it in her hand and closed her fingers around it. “Josie, tell me what is wrong.”

  Josephine sighed, using the handkerchief to dab at the corners of her eyes. “He wants me to accompany him whilst he looks at townhouses … he is prepared to buy one …”

  “That’s wonderful! You’ll be in London. I can still see you on occasion,” George reasoned, his expression especially happy.

  “He wishes to live part of the time here in town …”

  “Show him yours,” George stated firmly. “Tell him … tell him you just inherited it.”

  “Inherited?” Josephine replied in surprise, her head shak­ing quickly. “From whom? He knows my father had nothing …” Her voice trailed off and her eyes fell to gaze at the carpet, as if she was embarrassed at her admission.

  “Does Jack know about your mother?” George asked gen­tly. Does he know why she left Yorkshire, left her children and her husband when she set out for London all those years ago?

  How many women earned their living as a prostitute and were fortunate enough to find a man willing to marry them? To find a man willing to provide protection? Josephine’s mother had done just that, but after bestowing two daughters and a son on her husband, she left her family and returned to London. Returned to her life as a courtesan. Her daughters had eventu­ally followed, both choosing the life of a mistress rather than stay in Yorkshire to marry farmers or shopkeepers.

  George watched the younger daughter as she seemed to crumble before his eyes. In all the years George had known Josephine, he had never seen her so unsure of herself, so lost. She had always seemed confident and strong, as if she could rule a country. She had taught him that trait, he real­ized. Instilled in him the need to exude confidence, to appear friendly and approachable, to carry himself as if he were to the manor born. The change in the way others regarded him was a revelation. From the piste to his place in the House of Lords, his peers seemed to regard him with respect while never becoming too formal with him. How else could he move about town and continue to be addressed as ‘George’ rather than ‘my lord’ after his uncle’s death?

  “I told him … I told Jack she had gone to London to care for a family member,” she whispered.

  George thought for a moment. “Does he know she has since died?” George knew Josephine’s mother lived in town when he first took Josephine as his mistress. He had never met the woman, and when she died a few years later, Josephine had kept the news to herself for a very long time.

  “No,” she breathed, her head lifting until she was seated quite upright in the chair.

  “Then you inherited the house from her … or her family,” George stated firmly. “Is your wardrobe in order?” he won­dered then, thinking he rarely saw her in anything other than an occasional day gown and apparel appropriate only for a bedchamber.

  The change of subject was a surprise to Josephine. “Of course,” she replied, a bit indignant. “Your generosity has seen to that.”

  George nodded then, as if acknowledging her compliment. “So, your having inherited a house and some funds from your mother or a member of her family is not so unbelievable. I’ll give you the title, so it will not be in dispute. It’s in my study. I know exactly where it is.” He stood up as if to go get it, but Josephine held on to his hand.

  “George!” she protested. “I cannot take your house!” she countered, surprised by his generosity and even more sur­prised that the house was his to give. She had always thought it was merely leased for her use.

  “But, you must,” he insisted. “You cannot turn down a wedding gift, after all,” he reasoned, his face brightening with his quick thinking.

  Josephine moved to get up and then decided to keep her seat. He was giving her the house! The house she had grown so fond of over the course of their eight years together. The house that held her favorite memories and everything she could call her own. George was giving it to her!

  “Here ‘tis,” George announced as he returned from his study, holding out the title to the townhouse.

  Finally reaching for the document, Josephine caught his hand and kissed the back of it. “Are you certain?” she asked, sniffling and trying very hard to maintain her decorum.

  George smiled, making him look every bit as handsome as she had ever seen him. “I am positive,” he answered with a nod. “I have no need of it, and I know you have grown fond of it.” He sighed, a sense of overwhelming satisfaction settling over him. He wondered if this was how Elizabeth felt when she was successful at placing a wounded soldier in a position.

  Closing his eyes, he thought of their last moments together

  in the coach. Thought of Elizabeth’s last kiss, how desper­ate she had seemed when she turned back to him and kissed him. Hard. A last kiss? Or simply the last kiss of an evening’s togetherness?

  Josephine was right, he realized. The woman could no lon­ger be his mistress. And he found he no longer wanted her in that capacity. “You are welcome to spend the night here, but I must insist you take the guest suite,” George said very care­fully. “I do not think it proper for either one of us to be sharing a bedchamber this evening.”

  And he certainly didn’t want her to see the state of his apartment at the moment.

  Josephine smiled and nodded. “Thank you, George. The guest suite will do fine.” With her tears wiped away, she allowed George to escort her up the stairs. It would be the last evening she would spend in his home with George as her protector, with him as her employer. In just over a day, Jack would claim her, and her new life would begin.

  She found she could hardly wait.

  Chapter 37

  Decision Day

  He had kissed her as if it would be the last time he ever did so. Elizabeth wondered at the sad look in his eyes as he had watched her step down from the carriage. As promised, he had returned her exactly at two o’clock, the bells of a nearby church tolling the hour as she lowered her face to his. Lips parted, she had leaned over him until George had been forced to return what started as a gentle kiss and then had become … something more. She had wanted to throw her arms around him, beg him to take her back to his townhouse, back to his bed and to the promise of … more.

  Her entire body shivered, and she gasped.

  “Are you well?”

  Elizabeth gave a start as she realized her mother was star­ing at her. “Pardon?” she replied, her voice a bit breathy.

  Lady Morganfield angled an elegant eyebrow, her aqua­marine eyes lighting up with amusement. “You must have had a grand time with Lady Charlotte last evening. And you look as if you’re still there, wherever it was,” she added as her grin widened.

  Swallowing, Elizabeth considered her mother’s comment. Her maid, Anna, had mentioned she looked—how had she put it?—Brighter. “You must have slept especially well last night. Your complexion is the best I’ve seen it in weeks.”

  One of Elizabeth’s hands lifted to her cheek as she glanced down at her breakfast plate, knowing her face was pinking up under her mother’s scrutiny. Couldn’t the woman tell she had been pleasured within an inch of her life just bar
ely seven hours ago? In response to that thought, a delightful shiver coursed through her belly, and she nearly gasped at the sensa­tion. George wasn’t even touching her, and yet she could still feel the effects of his fingers, his lips, his tongue all over her body!

  Her mother was expecting a reply, she remembered, and she struggled to pull her mind into the breakfast room and the conversation she was supposed to be having. Lord Morgan­field, wondering at the sudden silence, closed his newly ironed copy of The Times and regarded his daughter with a question­ing look.

  “Why, thank you, Mother,” Elizabeth replied lightly, allow­ing a brilliant smile to appear. “I did sleep well. I think it helped that Lottie and I spent the evening at the Ellsworth townhouse instead of going out.”

  Lady Morganfield’s eyebrow arched again. “I thought you planned to attend the play at the Drury Lane Theatre,” she countered, a bit of disappointment in her voice. “I was hoping for your review this morning. Your father and I may attend this evening.“ She pretended to ignore her husband’s quick shake of his head in her direction; he would go only if she insisted they do so. In exchange, she would show up at his bed­chamber door wearing his favorite lace and feather confection shortly after their return and make it up to him.

  She had become quite good at encouraging him to be social outside of their home this past year. And in the spirit of good sportsmanship, he had allowed it.

  Elizabeth shrugged. “We were planning to do so, but Lottie bought the latest La Belle Assemblée, and we ended up spend­ing the night drooling over all the fashion plates. And she allowed me to try on several of the new gowns she had made for the winter season. The new fabrics are just splendid!” The reasons she listed for not attending the theatre nearly matched what she and Charlotte had discussed the day before when they devised the plot to help her escape Carlington House at six o’clock. She had sent a note this morning letting Charlotte know she had arrived home safely and that she would tell her more when next they met.