Love Regency Style

by Samantha Holt

  “I saw a need. None of the other charities seemed to ben­efit the men who actually fought in the war against France,” Elizabeth stated simply. “Are you …” A sob interrupted her query. “Are you angry with me?” she wondered then, her tears threatening to spill down her cheeks anew.

  Her father’s brows furrowed. “No,” he said with a shake of his head. “Quite the contrary, pet,” he said, the term of endearment something he hadn’t used with her since she was in leading strings. “It’s just that, you really should have a chap­erone when you’re in your office. Or when you meet with these employers. What if someone threatened you? Or …”

  “I have Mr. Overby and Mr. Barnaby,” she replied quickly, remembering that she at one time considered bringing her maid. But she thought better of it when she realized Anna would be of no help in her daily visit at the charity. Anyone taking up space in the small office needed to be contributing to the success of the endeavor.

  David Morganfield regarded her for a moment longer. “Your husband will insist on protection,” he stated in a quiet voice. Because I’ll demand it of him, he added to himself.

  Elizabeth’s quick inhalation of breath and suddenly down­turned eyes spoke volumes. Given the events of the afternoon, there would be no husband, at least not the one she had envi­sioned for herself since that first ball of the Little Season.

  David Carlington had obviously underestimated his own daughter. And his estimation of her being a spoiled brat no longer seemed fair. “I haven’t given you much in the way of pin money. How, exactly, are you funding this little venture of yours?”

  Elizabeth realized she hadn’t told him about the dona­tions. “When I arrived at my office a few days after I placed Mr. Streater, a patron had left an envelope for my charity that contained a hundred pounds …”

  “A hundred pounds?” the marquess repeated in shock. Good grief! She already had donors to her charity! “I suppose that made my sack of sovereigns look like pin money,” he said under his breath.

  And then he realized the identity of her patron.

  Bostwick!

  Gasping, Elizabeth straightened and regarded her father in disbelief. “You? You sent the footman with the purse?” she asked, her face brightening. “But … but I didn’t recognize his livery,” she said in a whisper.

  “He was a courier from Parliament,” the marquess com­mented in an offhand manner.

  Elizabeth straightened. Her father had arranged for funds to be delivered to her charity! “Oh, thank you, Father,” Eliza­beth said brightly, her hands clasping together as if she were about to pray. “You’ll be happy to know I was able to place two gentlemen as clerks with a trading company in Wapping with some of the funds you donated. The rest is being spent this very moment on a tailor. He’s making suits of clothing for some of my newest clients.”

  The marquess nodded absently, his mind still on Bost­wick. The man was definitely serious about marrying Eliza­beth. He was honorable. He was devious. He was apparently a good kisser. He could certainly afford Elizabeth. And her charity. “Very good, pet,” he said quietly, his head bobbing up and down. “I … I am very proud of you,” he added as he reached over to take her hands in his. “I do hope you’ll con­sider Bostwick’s offer of marriage. He may not be as handsome or as rich as Butter Blond, but I think you two will suit one another far better.”

  Elizabeth stared at her father for several moments, stunned at his comments and even more stunned when she realized they had never spent this much time together in conversation.

  Ever.

  “Thank you, Father,” she replied.

  The butler appeared at the door and cleared his throat. “My Lord. There is a George Bennett-Jones calling for Lady Elizabeth,” he said, a bit of revulsion in his voice.

  The marquess stood up and smoothed his coat sleeves. “That would be Lord Bostwick to you and most of the rest of London,” he stated emphatically, not adding anything about the man becoming his son-in-law sometime in the near future.

  With any luck, tomorrow. The butler’s eyes widened a frac­tion and quickly returned to normal. Morganfield felt a bit of satisfaction in knowing he had discomfited the man, if only for a moment. Returning his attention to Elizabeth, he cocked an eyebrow. When she shrugged, he said, “It’s up to you, my dearest. I trust you will make the right decision.” He turned to the chair that held Adeline and, reaching down, scooped her up into his arms. “I’ll see to your mother.” With that, he left the room carrying Adeline Carlington, who, when David wasn’t looking, opened her eyes and winked at her daughter.

  As she watched her father and mother leave the parlor, Elizabeth felt a bit of outrage and nearly stamped her foot. Her mother had obviously heard every word she said to her father!

  And just how could her father think she would allow a man to bed her?

  Even if she had almost allowed it?

  Had even encouraged it!

  In those moments of pure bliss, when his lips and hands and tongue had pleasured her until she had shattered, she had begged George to take her virtue. And despite her pleas, her quiet whimpers and her wanton behavior the night before, George had kept his word and left her virtue intact.

  A man of his word. A man of honor.

  She whirled around, looking for a mirror, sure her face was tear-stained and hoping she could do something about it before George appeared. This was not the way she planned to meet him! And the butler was still waiting on a response. “Tell him … Tell him I’ll be but a moment,” she started to say, but George was already there, standing behind the butler, looking as if the world had ended.

  “George!” she said with a great deal of concern. As she hurried up to him, the butler moved away quicker than she had ever seen him move.

  George Bennett-Jones, Viscount Bostwick, reached for her hand and brushed his lips over her knuckles, his face so drawn and sad he looked a bit like a hound dog. Had she been able to see his lips at that moment, Elizabeth would have seen them tremble, would have seen the tears pricking the corners of his eyes.

  And she would have taken him in her arms and consoled him and assured him he was the only man for her.

  But Elizabeth was curtsying, her head tilted down a bit. She had barely straightened when he released her hand. “You came!” she said as brightly as she could, her tears starting anew.

  “I have,” George acknowledged with a nod. “I merely wanted to wish you happy, and I would like to thank you for … allowing me to at least try for your hand,” he said rather qui­etly. Never once did his eyes make contact with hers. “Good day,” he added before quickly turning on his heel and walking out of the parlor.

  So struck was she by the tone of his voice and the words he had said, Elizabeth stood quite still for several seconds. The sound of the front door closing was the same sound she heard when her heart seemed to stop beating.

  Thud. Just like that.

  George was gone.

  Chapter 41

  A Proposal in Reverse

  Wondering if perhaps the events of the last minute had been a figment of her overactive imagination, Elizabeth looked about the room. Surely George hadn’t just come in and wished her happy and given her some message of thanks! Her father had barely left the room with her mother, and they were no doubt at that very moment taking advantage of her mother’s prone state somewhere upstairs.

  Was George about to propose? If so, had he changed his mind at the last moment, deciding she wasn’t worthy of him? She shook her head. She was the daughter of a marquess. Her dowry was quite substantial—at least, her father must have thought so. He frequently complained about it being a poten­tial drain on the marquessate finances.

  George said he came to wish her happy. But one didn’t do that unless they were attending your wedding.

  Or knew you to be engaged to marry.

  Elizabeth’s eyes opened in astonishment. “Oh,” she got out before Alfred once again appeared in the doorway.

  “There is a
Miss Wentworth to see you, milady,” he intoned with the voice he used when he thought the visitor was a very important person.

  Elizabeth took a deep breath, holding it a moment. Thank goodness! Josephine would know what to do. “Please, send her in,” Elizabeth ordered, her subsequent breaths coming too fast. “Oh, dear. He thinks me engaged!” she said to no one in par­ticular as the hand George had kissed went to her breastbone.

  Josephine Wentworth, dressed in a dark blue wool car­riage gown and pelisse, stood on the threshold of the parlor. From her expression, it was apparent she had overheard the remark. “He does, indeed,” Josephine agreed with a solemn nod. As she took in Elizabeth’s tear-stained face and the wet handkerchiefs the poor girl held wadded up in one of her hands, Josephine angled her head. “I see you’ve been playing at being a watering pot.”

  Nodding, Elizabeth curtsied and tears began pricking the corners of her eyes. “I could have positively drowned all the plants in this room,” she replied, desperate to keep the new tears at bay. “Oh, Josephine, what have I done?” she cried, large tears once again escaping to stream down her face.

  Josephine hurried to stand before Elizabeth, her own handkerchief held out as she regarded the girl. “I take it … you’re not engaged?” the older woman asked with a knowing smile.

  Shaking her head from side to side, Elizabeth sniffled. “I told my father I couldn’t marry Butter Blond because he kissed like Harold MacDuff. And it was quite apparent Gabriel has no intention of giving up his mistresses,” she added, her disgust increasing. “He still has two of them,” she added with a good deal of emphasis and lot of disgust.

  The older woman gave her a wan smile. “They’ll be giv­ing him up before he gets a chance to do so,” she whispered hoarsely. “They cannot tolerate his kisses, either,” she added with a wink. Sighing, she angled her head to the other side. Her expression sobered. “George assumed you had accepted the earl’s suit.”

  Sniffling, Elizabeth nodded. “I figured that from what he said when he came in. He didn’t even give me a chance to tell him I didn’t.” She sniffled again, her heart so heavy she thought she might die.

  Josephine took a deep breath. “I gather from all these tears that you do feel some sort of affection for my George?” she wondered then, her gloved hand resting on the side of Eliza­beth’s arm. There was something very maternal in the way she regarded the crying woman, as if she had done it many times.

  “Oh, very much so,” Elizabeth agreed with a nod. “I think … I think I may be … in lo … love with him,” she whispered, her lower lip trembling. “Is … is that possible after only a few days of knowing someone?” Her eyes lifted to meet Josephine’s.

  “I certainly hope so,” the mistress replied happily. “Come, take a turn with me, won’t you?” she added as she held out her arm. Elizabeth hooked her arm into Josephine’s and they began a slow walk. “I have known George a very long time,” Josephine stated as she led Elizabeth out the parlor door and down the hall toward the vestibule. “Eight years now.”

  “Eight years?” Elizabeth repeated, drying her eyes on the handkerchief the older woman had given her. “Is he … is he as considerate as he seems?” she wondered, trying hard to sup­press her sobs. They had stepped into the vestibule, and the butler was seeing to the front door.

  “Oh, even more so,” Josephine replied, patting the back of Elizabeth’s hand with her assurance. They stepped out the door and made their way down the steps to the walkway. “I have been quite stern with him about how to treat others,” she explained with a nod. “How to treat a lady. How to kiss a lady.” At this comment, Elizabeth nearly stopped in her tracks.

  “He is a very accomplished kisser, I think,” Elizabeth said without the least hint of embarrassment at knowing such a thing. She allowed herself to be led down the walk to the town coach that waited at the curb. The driver—Elizabeth thought surely it was the same driver who had picked her up the night before—jumped down from his perch and opened the coach door.

  “How to make love to a woman,” Josephine went on, her voice lowered a bit as she stepped into the coach and then motioned for Elizabeth to join her.

  “Then you’ve taught him quite well, for he was …” She stopped when she realized George Bennett-Jones was in the coach. “… Amazing,” she finished, her quiet voice suddenly very audible in the close confines of the elegant space. “Hello, George,” she said with a sad smile, wanting desperately to sit next to him. But Josephine had taken the seat across from him and motioned for Elizabeth to sit next to her.

  As he tipped his hat, George shot a look at Josephine that suggested he was most displeased with her—a look that sug­gested he would be speaking with her in private later. “My lady,” he offered quietly.

  “Oh, George. Or, my lord, I suppose I should say,” Eliza­beth corrected herself, her eyes widening as she realized her faux pas.

  “No,” George said quietly, his head shaking from side to side. “Please, do not.”

  Elizabeth inhaled, her brow furrowing. “Why didn’t you tell me?” she whispered, suddenly wondering why a member of the aristocracy would not offer his title as part of his intro­duction. He should have done so the moment he rescued her during the waltz at Lord Weatherstone’s ball!

  His lips pressed together in a thin line, George regarded her. His expression didn’t give any hint of the turmoil he felt inside. He was sure he had steeled himself quite adequately for what he was sure would be the outcome of today’s proposal. Of course, Elizabeth would accept the earl’s offer. Why had he allowed himself to hope it could be any different?

  Trenton was young, he was handsome, and he was rich.

  The fact that he kissed like an Alpenmastiff couldn’t weigh much in the decision as to whom Elizabeth would marry. Could it? “Would it have made a difference?” he asked finally, his entire body seeming to deflate in front of her. He could barely get the question out before having to swallow quickly.

  Catching her lower lip with a tooth, Elizabeth gave his question a good deal of thought. Had she known he was a titled gentleman, would she have asked him to kiss her? Would she have asked him about the pleasures possible between a man and a woman? Accepted his offer to find out firsthand? Allowed him to remove her clothes until she was bare naked and then allowed him to pleasure her until she cried out his name in ecstasy? Not once, not twice, but three times?

  Probably not, she realized suddenly. No. Certainly not!

  In fact, if she were perfectly honest with herself, she would not have done anything with George Bennett-Jones. Except maybe dance, of course. “Oh, dear. Yes,” she admitted, her hands moving to her cheeks, her pinkies splaying to cover her mouth. Looking back on what her curiosity had led her to do the past few days, Elizabeth found herself unable to control the blush coloring her face. “I might never have … I would not have been as … familiar with you. I certainly wouldn’t have asked you to kiss me.

  “And then I never would have known.” This last was deliv­ered in barely a whisper, her eyes focused on something very far away.

  George’s expression changed to one of concern. “My lady?” he queried, wondering if Elizabeth was about to swoon. “Are you … all right?”

  Elizabeth stared at him a few more seconds, aware both Josephine and George were waiting for her to say something. “Oh, George. I am so very glad you did not tell me. Although, it made for a rather odd conversation with my father just now … “

  At this, George’s eyebrows cocked in surprise. “Oh?” he replied, his curiosity piqued.

  “Yes,” she said, one her own eyebrows lifting into an ele­gant arch. “When I was explaining why I wouldn’t have been able to accept Gabriel Wellingham’s offer for my hand. You see, Trenton never actually asked for my hand, and I thought to be sure of a couple of things before I told him to sod off.” She stopped and sighed. “Oh, I didn’t really say it like that, of course, but I truly didn’t wish to further associate with the earl,” she said quite
firmly. “Nor will he with me.”

  George sat up straighter at this news.

  Had he heard her correctly?

  “You did not ..?”

  “No,” she replied with a shake of her head. “I do not feel affection for him, and I do not wish to marry a man who kisses like an Alpenmastiff. And licks like one, too,” she added, her face screwing up into an expression of obvious disgust. “Nor do I wish to marry a man who is more beautiful than I am and who keeps three mistresses. Well, two, now that one has quit him,” she quickly amended. She took a breath and let it out slowly. “You see, my friend, Lady Hannah, insists men do not love their wives if they have mistresses, and I should like it very much to have a husband who respects me enough to honor his marriage vows.”

  Stilling himself as the meaning of her words took hold, George regarded her carefully. “So, does this mean ..?”

  Elizabeth saw hope spring to the viscount’s eyes, saw his face change from the drawn, sad visage to one more familiar to her.

  He is a handsome man when he smiled, she thought.

  And he was someone she could imagine sitting with at breakfast every morning, and spending time with in the library before dinner, and lying atop of, naked, every night just before sleep took hold. She suddenly pushed herself off the coach seat and knelt before him. “George Bennett-Jones, would you do me the honor of being my husband?” she asked quietly, plac­ing her hands over those he held clasped together in his lap. There was a long moment of stillness, when no sounds could be heard, not even the slightest breath. She felt his hands fall apart beneath hers, felt his open palms catch hers and his fin­gers tighten around her hands. “I want very much to be your wife,” she added, her eyes filling with tears again. Tears of fear, she knew, since, for whatever reason, it was possible George no longer wanted her as his wife. And if that were the case, then she at least had only one witness to her impropriety. For when did a woman ask a man for his hand in marriage? She certainly had no intention of doing so when she entered his coach!