Love Regency Style

by Samantha Holt

  In the end, it was Elizabeth who asked for George’s hand.

  “Because you loved George?” Charlotte had ventured care­fully. Why else would Elizabeth turn down Gabriel Welling­ham? Charlotte often wondered if Elizabeth had fallen in love with the viscount. The woman didn’t even learn he was a member of the aristocracy until moments before the proposal, and only then because her father had told her.

  “No,” Elizabeth had responded with a shake of her head, although her denial had been a bit too quick. “Well, I didn’t love him then,” she had clarified, hinting she had since changed her mind and was now in love with her husband. She had taken a deep breath then, as if she was still uncertain about sharing her information. “Charlotte, remember at the Weatherstone ball when I said I had experienced my first kiss, and it was horrible?” she had asked suddenly, her eyes rolling dramati­cally, as if she decided she might as well tell her two friends everything.

  Charlotte had nodded, recalling the evening quite clearly. George had escorted Elizabeth to the supper, and, at George’s insistence, Charlotte joined them at their table. And, she didn’t quite know how the conversation changed, but Elizabeth had grown quite upset over the fact that her first kiss was quite unpleasant.

  “Well, if you’ll recall, I was talking about Trenton. And, truly Hannah, no offense to your dog, but Trenton kissed like Harold MacDuff,” she announced then, referring to Hannah’s beloved Alpenmastiff.

  Lady Hannah’s mouth had dropped open in astonishment, never having heard her dog being compared in any way to an earl. “None taken,” she murmured with a shake of her head, since she agreed her dog did tend to slobber a bit when he was sharing his affection.

  “But George was … he is an excellent kisser,” Elizabeth had sighed emphatically, her cheeks turning pink as she made the pronouncement. “And he is an even better lover. And he was quite adamant that, should I agree to marry him, he would never take a mistress nor visit brothels should I agree to marry him.” She didn’t add that George was especially supportive of her charity, ‘Lady E’s—Finding Work for the Wounded’ while Trenton seemed especially offended she worked at her own charity.

  Charlotte had stared at Elizabeth for several seconds, the implication of the viscountess’ comments slowly sinking in. Hannah’s own gasp of surprise was quickly masked by a fake cough. Within a moment, all three women were exchanging nervous glances. “Elizabeth!” Charlotte had finally admon­ished her friend. “Did you know this about George before you agreed to marry him?” she had wondered, surprised at her­self that she would ask such a personal question of her friend. Kissing before marriage, she could understand. But lovemak­ing? Elizabeth was suggesting she and the viscount had shared sexual congress prior to their engagement!

  “Why, yes, I did,” Elizabeth had stated as she held her chin up. “Well,” she had rolled her eyes again as she corrected her­self. “I knew about the kissing and … well, most of the rest.”

  Charlotte had let out the breath she had been holding.

  “George was quite insistent I be left with my virtue intact should I decide not to marry him, which, of course, only made me want him more. I had to know what more there could be after that one glorious night.”

  Charlotte had blinked. And blinked again. “So, you allowed him to bed you, but …”

  “I asked him to do so, to prove himself capable of pleasur­ing me,” Elizabeth had clarified. “He considered me a beauty, and he knew he was not.”

  “By bedding you.” Hannah was on her feet and standing next to Charlotte’s bed, her arm wrapped around the bed post, presumedly for support.

  “By making love to me,” Elizabeth whispered, her face blushing quite prettily. “George was convinced I wouldn’t give him the proper consideration as a prospective husband. He was … correct, in that respect, I am now very sorry to admit,” she had explained quite humbly.

  Charlotte had been so surprised at Elizabeth’s admission, she had said the first thing that popped into her mind. “So, you had no intention of marrying him before ..?”

  “Of course not!” Elizabeth had replied, her manner sug­gesting she was offended someone would even think she would marry George Bennett-Jones without some kind of side ben­efit. “But, having endured Trenton’s awful kiss and finding his entire approach to mistresses and marriage … repulsive, I asked George to kiss me. That was the night of Lady Worthington’s ball, just a few days before Trenton called on me to propose. And the reason I didn’t even allow him to do so, I suppose.”

  That last comment forced a couple of gasps from her audience. They had both been under the impression the Earl of Trenton had proposed and been turned down by Lady Elizabeth.

  Elizabeth paused for a moment, absently rubbing a hand over her belly while a wan smile appeared on her face. “George kissed me because I asked him to, you see. And he was quite thankful for the honor of kissing me. And once George had quite thoroughly satisfied me with his abilities in that regard, I decided to give him a chance to prove himself in bed. I fig­ured if I had to marry someone, I wanted to at least enjoy my time in the marriage bed with him,” she had stated emphati­cally. “And, as you well know, he proved himself quite adept,” she had added, patting the evidence of her pregnancy with the palm of her hand. “I am telling you this, Lottie, because I believe you should be sure your duke can satisfy you in bed. Or where ever you make love,” she had added with a careless wave of her hand. “Before you meet him at the altar. And those hideous burn scars be damned!”

  Charlotte had gasped at the suggestion, gasped again at the implication Elizabeth had been making love somewhere other than in a bedchamber, and a third time at her friend’s curse. “But … I love Wainwright!” she had countered defen­sively, not thinking anything done in the bedroom might have an effect on her feelings for the duke. And she had already come to terms with his scarred visage when he was still in hospital.

  “Love has nothing to do with it, milady,” Elizabeth had replied quietly. “Trust me.” The lack of conviction in how she made the proclamation suggested she might believe love had just a bit to do with it.

  “That’s because men do not love their wives, Lottie,” Han­nah had chimed in to say brightly, despite her tear-filled eyes. “For if they did, there would be no reason for mistresses.”

  Charlotte stared at her two friends, not believing half of what they claimed and hoping, for her own sake, at least, that they were mistaken. How simple Hannah’s situation is! she thought as she considered her own. She just needs to find an older man in need of an heir.

  And, of all the women in the ton, how odd that the beau­tiful Elizabeth Carlington would marry a man based on his abilities between the bed linens!

  Charlotte wanted a father for her children, of course, but, secretly, she also wanted that man to love her.

  And if he was a good lover, she would consider that a bonus.

  Lady Charlotte Bingham was contemplating whether or not her host would oblige her in any of those situations when Gates suddenly returned to the parlor.

  “His Grace will see you now.”

  Angus McFarland had followed the Earl of Torrington’s coach from the time it left a fashionable townhouse in May­fair. His employer, a nattily dressed gentleman whom he knew from the gaming hells they frequented, had given him a crown and instructions to follow the coach to its final destination. “When you know where she’s staying, see to it she doesn’t live through the night,” the man had said, giving him another crown. “There will be more if you succeed. And, for God’s sake, man, make it look like an accident.”

  McFarland’s eyes widened at the sight of the coins, and he nodded. “I’m your man,” McFarland replied with an eager nod.

  Having been on the road for nearly five hours, McFarland was starting to wonder if the assignment was worth the grief. He was tired, thirsty, dusty and saddle sore. The coach’s one stop had been to change horses in Guildford. McFarland had been forced to stay back in the trees and wait
until the coach was on its way again before he could hurry into the coaching inn for a quick ale and a hunk of cheese and bread. Back on the road, he had forced his horse to a quicker pace and then, when he realized the coach had stopped to allow a herd of sheep to cross the road, he had been forced to ride on ahead in order to avoid suspicion. Once he was well in front, he pulled his horse off into a thicket and waited for the coach to pass again. It was another two hours before he sighted the coach pulling off the main road and into the half-circle drive of an estate home.

  The house near Kirdford wasn’t a castle nor overly large; two wings on either side of a central hall. He noticed the wing on the west side looked a bit newer, as if the stones had been scrubbed clean and the windows had been washed. From his vantage point well away from the house, he watched as two woman departed the coach. The one dressed in a travel­ing gown would be the cousin, he thought, remembering his employer’s reference to the gel he was to kill during the night. The other woman, dressed in black and walking behind the gel, would be the lady’s maid.

  Footmen hurried to claim luggage and trunks from the back of the coach as McFarland continued to watch from his hiding place. When the coach suddenly left, not even chang­ing horses before it departed the estate’s drive, McFarland headed his horse toward the nearby village of Kirdford. With her mode of transport gone, the gel wouldn’t be leaving the estate anytime soon, he figured.

  Now he just had to decide on a method of seeing to it she left in a coffin.

  Chapter 3

  His Grace and Lady Charlotte Contemplate Matrimony

  Joshua’s breath caught as he realized why Lady Charlotte must have come. To pay her respects, no doubt. To offer con­dolences and ask if there was anything she could do.

  A pang of guilt shot through him as he remembered meet­ing her for the first time. She had sought him out that night, his brother not being in attendance at Lord Weatherstone’s ball several Seasons past. Dressed in an apple green and white gown of satin that displayed her décolletage to his advantage, she had curtsied to his bow and smiled as if he were the only man on the planet. And while dancing, she was poised and confident whilst asking him about his life. He had kept up his end of the conversation, realizing too late their happy moment was shattered when he brought up the topic of his brother, and she said she looked forward to the day when he would become her brother by marriage.

  His father once claimed that, as Earl of Grinstead and heir to the Chichester duchy, John Wainwright II had no choice as to whom he would marry. The daughter of an earl, Charlotte Bingham was arranged for him when he was but ten years old. Knowing he would one day become the Duke of Chichester, John accepted the fate that would one day have him married to the woman to whom he was betrothed. And he planned to do so when she turned one-and-twenty. She would bear his heir and perhaps a spare, and he would continue to see his string of mistresses and Cyprians and an occasional trollop, one of whom would infect him with the French pox before he was twenty.

  The thought of Lady Charlotte Bingham marrying his brother was not one Joshua Wainwright entertained very often, however. It made him angry to think that such a beauti­ful, refined and well-educated woman would be wasted on his unappreciative brother.

  And now she was here.

  And her betrothed was dead and buried in the small graveyard on the eastern edge of the ducal property.

  The implication of that last thought hadn’t quite been con­sidered when Gates entered and bowed. “I apologize, Your Grace,” he said, almost in a whisper. “There is a …”

  “Send her in,” Joshua responded quickly, his attention back on the coach that was making its way back to the main road. Grandby’s? he wondered, surprised it was already leav­ing. Perhaps arrangements had been made at a nearby coach­ing inn for the horses to be watered and fed.

  Finally moving away from the window and back to the library desk, he remembered his mode of dress. “Wait. Is my topcoat around here somewhere?” he wondered aloud. At least he was wearing a waistcoat, he considered, thankful he had donned more than his usual breeches and soft linen shirt that morning. The problem with burn scars was that clothing tended to bind and scrape them during the day. The less he wore, the faster his skin seemed to heal.

  “Should I send a footman for one, Your Grace?” Gates inquired, noting the suddenly nervous behavior of his master with a cocked eyebrow.

  “No,” Joshua replied with a quick shake of his head. He reached up to ensure his leather mask covered the worst of his facial burn scars. “Please send in our guest,” he said, trying to take on an air of casual interest. “And be sure she’s given a suite of rooms appropriate to her rank.” With her mode of transport gone, it was obvious she intended to stay.

  “As you wish,” the butler replied as he bowed and disap­peared, not reminding His Grace there was only one apart­ment available in the entire house; the east wing included only three on the second floor, and two of those were being used by Joshua and Garrett. At least there were several servants’ quar­ters available near the kitchen. Gates would see to the lady’s maid as soon as her mistress was shown to the study.

  Stunned at how quickly she had been escorted to the study, Charlotte made sure to afford the Duke of Chichester her very best, deepest curtsy followed by a brilliant smile and the words, “It is so very good to see you again, Your Grace.”

  Although a simple nod of his head would have sufficed, Joshua bowed, his vision taking in the woman he had often dreamed of having as his own. She seemed even more beauti­ful than when he had last seen her. At a ball, no doubt, her honey blonde hair shimmering under the candlelight of the ballroom, her infectious smile wiping out the glum he had felt at his continued losing streak in the card room.

  He rather doubted her comment, though, knowing that to see him now was not nearly as pleasant at it had been before the fire. He still had the strong jawline and a wider than nor­mal nose for an aristocrat, and his features were balanced by broad cheekbones and a mouth that smiled easily.

  At least, it used to.

  With a leather mask covering most of the left half of his face and the side of his head to just beyond his ear, he looked as if he was about to attend a masked ball. If one looked closely, it became apparent his left eyelid was pulled a bit, misshapen by the tight, scarred skin under the mask. “And you, Lady Char­lotte,” he answered, his face brightening. He stepped forward and took her hand in his, lowering his lips and lightly brush­ing them over the knuckles. “I am honored you have come.”

  A shiver passed through Charlotte’s hand as she felt his warm lips actually touch her. To see him up and about, appar­ently in charge of ducal matters, was a huge relief. And to see that his scars were easily hidden by the mask he wore meant he was probably back to living a somewhat normal life. If she didn’t know the entire left side of his torso and arm had at one time been engulfed in flames, she wouldn’t know it from looking at him now. He leaned a bit to the left, no doubt due to what the doctor had explained was a tightening of the skin when it healed. If he was following the regimen recommended by the doctor, though, eventually he would regain full use of his arm and body, perhaps even regain the feeling in the dam­aged skin.

  Gates cleared his throat and Joshua tore his gaze from Charlotte for a moment. “Yes, Gates?” he prodded, wishing the butler would leave them alone. He then felt a bit of panic at the thought he would be left alone with her.

  “Your Grace, Cook is in need of a menu for this evening’s dinner,” he intoned, using a quiet voice and a manner suggest­ing he had made the query earlier and, now that they had a guest, dinner would need to be more than a casual affair.

  Joshua closed his eyes for a moment, a small headache suddenly forming at the front of his head. He used his right hand to rub his temple. He had forgotten to do menus for the week and then put off requesting anything in particular because, well, it was just Garrett and him eating in the dining room these days.

  Charlotte noticed his discomf
ort. “If I may, Your Grace?” she offered quietly.

  Joshua opened his eyes, wondering at first what she meant, and then realized with a sense of immense relief she might be about to save him. “Please do,” he replied, his voice an exag­gerated plea despite his not knowing exactly what it was she was offering.

  Turning to the butler, Charlotte thought for a moment. “Let us start with walnuts and coffee in the library. Then, at the table, let us do a beef broth soup followed by a plate of cheese and breads. Leg of lamb with mint sauce and herbed new pota­toes, and whatever vegetable is ripened in that beautiful gar­den I saw as we drove up. For the fish course, sole in a light butter sauce, and for dessert,” she paused to regard Joshua for a moment, “Chocolate bread pudding with just a small dollop of vanilla crème.”

  Eyes widening, Joshua listened to her recite the menu. My favorite meal, he thought, wondering how she could possibly remember—if, indeed, she ever knew. He nodded at Gates’ questioning glance in his direction. “What she said,” he spoke quickly. “And could you have Mrs. Gates bring tea, please?” As he hoped, the butler bowed and left the study.

  “Thank you,” he said as he regarded Charlotte, a bemused expression on his face. “You have saved me from my cook’s wrath.”

  The brilliant smile reappeared. “You are most welcome, Your Grace.”

  Joshua nodded, suddenly ill at ease. “Have you just come from London?” he wondered, hoping there was more to her visit than just condolences for his departed family.

  Charlotte nodded. “Indeed. I hope I have not caught you at an inopportune time,” she spoke quietly, and then glanced at a nearby settee as if to hint they should be seated.

  “Please,” he said as he held out an arm.

  Once Charlotte had taken her place on the deep green vel­vet upholstered settee, he took the adjacent chair to her left, wanting to be sure the right side of his face was most visible to her. It wasn’t just vanity that had him sitting to her left. The hearing in his left ear was still somewhat lacking, although a nearby doctor had assured him it would probably return in time.