Love Regency Style

by Samantha Holt

  “Oh?” Hannah answered, trying to sound a bit shocked. “And, of course, you would not grant him permission to do such a thing,” she suggested with a hint of humor, trying to quell the flutterbies that were at it again in her stomach.

  “Oh, I told him he could have as many dances as he wished,” the marquess answered, his face contorted into a smirk.

  “Father!” she admonished him. “If you truly did that, then you had best inform Lady Jersey, or I will never be allowed in Almack’s again!”

  William Slater shook his head, his eyes truly full of humor. “I rather doubt you’ll ever have to go to that despicable place again,” he countered with a shudder.

  Hannah was about to ask why he would say such a thing, but they had reached the bottom of the stairs, and she was sud­denly breathless. The Earl of Gisborn stood before her in black satin evening clothes, his snow-white cravat perfectly tied. A ruby pin gleamed from within the folds. Bowing deeply, he moved toward her as she completed her curtsy to take her gloved hand and kiss the back of it.

  “My lady, you look like perfection embodied,” he mur­mured, holding his arm out for her.

  Hannah blinked. She could think of no one who would dare say such a thing to a lady, unless it was said in private, per­haps. Or by George Bennett-Jones. He would say something like that to Elizabeth. Probably had done so a dozen times or more, now that she thought about it. “Thank you, my lord,” she murmured, her face taking on the familiar pink blush. Good­ness, she hardly knew what to say! He was so regal, so hand­some. She couldn’t believe it was the same man who had paid her a call that very morning and taken her on a ride in Hyde Park! The farmer? Lily had said. The Henry Forster who stood before her certainly didn’t look like any farmer Hannah had ever seen, nor could she imagine him working in the fields.

  Hannah placed her hand on his arm and realized she would, indeed, be escorted by two gentlemen this evening. They all paused as Hatfield opened both front doors before they proceeded down the steps and across the street to the Attenborough’s.

  Henry held himself as erect as possible, aware of Hannah’s occasional glances in his direction, as if she couldn’t believe her eyes. He could hardly believe his. How had this woman managed to make it through an entire Season without being claimed by the first available duke or marquess? How could she possibly still be on the Marriage Mart? She was perfec­tion, he repeated to himself. Lovely. Gracious. A good conver­sationalist. With a good disposition. Despite her huge dog that would more appropriately be called livestock than a pet, she was the perfect woman to be his countess.

  He thought of the ruby signet ring tucked into his waist­coat pocket. If he was brave enough to ask for her hand during a walk in the gardens, he would have something to put on her finger tonight. A jeweler in Ludgate Hill was making the ruby and diamond ring he planned to give her on their wedding day. He had Lady Charlotte in mind when he had ordered it, but somehow he thought it would look better on one of Lady Hannah’s long fingers. With luck, the goldsmith could have it finished on the morrow. The special license he had procured from the bishop in Doctor’s Commons was back at his house in Bruton Street. If she accepted his suit, they could be married in a few days, and be on their way to Oxfordshire the day after that. After all, every day he was gone from home was another day lost in starting the irrigation ditches and in preparing the fields for planting.

  “Did you attend any balls last Season, my lord?” Han­nah asked, allowing Gisborn to step them around a carriage parked in front of the Attenborough home.

  Henry turned his head slightly. In the dim light of a nearby gas lamp, he tried to see her face and found it mostly in shadow. What was visible seemed almost angelic. “I did not. I was only in town in February, so I was able to attend Mrs. Worthington’s musicale and a few lectures at the Royal Academy,” he replied. He noted that the marquess was quiet. In fact, the man didn’t seem to have his attention on either of them but rather on the crowd of ball guests as they made their way up the flagstone path to the front doors. “Will there be a card room, my lord?” he wondered, curious as to Devonville’s silence.

  The marquess seemed reluctant to tear his gaze away from the crowd in front of them. “Lord Attenborough always has a lively card room, Gisborn,” he responded. “And the supper is quite good if you’re of a mind to eat at midnight,” he added, his tone suggesting he was not.

  Henry turned his attention back to Hannah. “Are you of a mind to eat at midnight?” he asked in a subdued voice.

  Shivering at the sound of his question, Hannah had to swallow before she could respond. “Lady Attenborough’s lob­ster patties are the best in all of London,” she hinted.

  “My favorite!” Henry replied, giving her his best smile. “Will you stay and have one or two with a glass of cham­pagne?” he wondered, his voice lowering.

  “It depends on the company,” Hannah replied, feeling like a coquette, her lashes hiding her eyes as she made the remark. Her lip curled a bit, though, and gave away her answer.

  “And will there be company you wish to keep?” he coun­tered, enjoying the opportunity to flirt.

  Hannah angled her head to one side, realizing she didn’t know whom to expect at the ball. Elizabeth and George would be there. This would be their last ball before they headed off to Sussex. “I expect Lord and Lady Bostwick will be in atten­dance,” she replied. “I would like to introduce you if you’ll allow it,” she offered, wondering if he might already know them from prior Seasons.

  “I would like that,” he replied, lifting the hand that rested on his arm so he could bring it to his lips and kiss the back of it. “And I would like to dance every waltz with you, if you’ll allow it.” Henry heard the slight inhalation of breath Hannah made on hearing his words, wondering if he had shocked her with the request. He thought her father’s permission to dance as many as he wanted had been said in jest; now, he wasn’t so certain.

  Given there would probably be only two waltzes played during the entire ball, Hannah lifted her head and said, “I will allow it, of course,” the flutterbies tumbling in her middle.

  And suddenly, they were in the crowded vestibule, Han­nah giving up her shawl to a footman as her father and the earl waited. It was then she realized she hadn’t brought a reticule or a fan. How could she forget? How could Lily allow her to get out of the house without at least a fan? She could only hope the early Season ball would not become a crush. But if it did, she hoped Gisborn would escort her on the back terrace so she might get some air.

  As she rejoined them for the receiving line, she glanced about to look for anyone she knew. She looked for Elizabeth and George but saw neither. She did notice Lady Fletcher— George’s aunt—with Lady Pettigrew as they joined the line. The two older women had their heads together, apparently continuing whatever conversation they were having in the park earlier that morning.

  Lady Attenborough raised her eyes to meet Lord Gis­born’s. Hannah watched the older woman’s reaction, pleased to see the delight in the viscountess’ face. “Why, Lord Gisborn, you’re not at all who I expected!” she said as she allowed Gis­born to raise her gloved hand so he could brush his lips over her knuckles. Lady Attenborough was positively blushing!

  Henry realized their hostess probably expected his late uncle and wondered at how they would know the man. He rarely visited London in his later years.

  Hannah, having completed her greeting to Lord Attenbor­ough, turned and noticed the raised eyebrows of those behind them in the receiving line, realizing they had overheard Lady Attenborough’s curious remark. Afraid they would think Gis­born was a gate crasher, she was about to say something like, “Lord Gisborn inherited the title from his late uncle last year,” when Henry gave Lady Attenborough a winning smile. “I do hope your invitation is not withdrawn, my lady. I had so looked forward to a dance with you.”

  Beaming, Lady Attenborough turned to her husband. “Attenborough! Look who ’tis. Randolph’s nephew, Henry!” She turned ba
ck to the suddenly surprised earl. “We spent a very lovely week at Gisborn Hall many years ago,” she explained. “You were still in short pants and …”

  Lord Attenborough nudged his wife. “Livvie, darling, let the poor boy be,” he admonished her. He held out his hand to Henry and the earl stepped over so he stood in front of the familiar man.

  “Lord Attenborough, so good to see you again,” Henry stated with a slight bow.

  “And you. How are the Gisborn farms?” he asked, his head tilted up a bit as he was a good deal shorter than Henry. “Still growing wheat, beans and barley?”

  “Indeed, and on a bit more land now,” Henry replied with a grin. And then he was at the end of the line and holding his arm out for Hannah. Her father had her other arm. A foot­man announced them to a ballroom not yet crowded. The orchestra was playing somewhere off to one side and footman scurried about with champagne on trays as the three of them descended the seven steps to the ballroom floor.

  The Attenboroughs had spared no expense on candles. The three massive chandeliers hung above the room had hun­dreds of them, giving the room a bright, golden glow. The French doors to the flagstone terrace and gardens were already opened. Outside, paper lanterns bobbed in the gentle breeze, giving off light that seemed to dance. The ball had barely begun and yet everything seemed magical.

  “If you two will excuse me, I need to make someone’s acquaintance,” the marquess murmured, giving Gisborn and Hannah a nod before he walked off toward one of the corners.

  Surprised at his sudden departure, Hannah followed his apparent path to where Lady Winslow stood next to a potted palm. The widow’s face split into a smile when she spotted the Marquess of Devonville approaching her. “Oh, my,” Hannah breathed, not intending Gisborn to overhear her.

  “Something amiss?” Henry wondered, following her line of sight. He watched as the marquess lifted both of the wom­an’s hands to his lips. And then the woman had her arm on his as he escorted her toward the French doors.

  “Not really, I suppose,” Hannah murmured, finally turn­ing her attention to the earl. When she realized he had been watching her father and the widow, she added, “I had no idea he had a tendre for Lady Winslow.”

  Henry regarded Hannah for a quick moment. “Does it bother you if he does?” he asked carefully. He took two glasses of champagne from a passing footman’s tray and offered her one.

  Hannah grinned as she wrapped her fingers about the stem. “No,” she replied with a quick shake of head. “I am rather happy for him, in fact,” she said, realizing she meant it. Her father had missed her mother, his bouts of melancholy less often these days but still evident when he spent too much time alone.

  Touching his champagne glass against the rim of Han­nah’s, Henry cocked an eyebrow. “To your father’s happiness then?” he offered, wondering how Hannah would react.

  She responded with a brilliant smile. “Yes!” she said before taking a sip. The bubbles danced on her tongue and continued dancing down her throat, leaving her feeling a bit giddy.

  Smiling broadly, Henry took a sip of his and let the liq­uid stay on his tongue as long as he could. Champagne was not something kept in the cellars at Gisborn Hall. There hadn’t been much to celebrate at the estate in many years, but per­haps with Hannah as his countess, there would be a reason to stock it. “Tell me, Lady Hannah. As the lady of Devonville House, have you had to host an entertainment such as this?” he wondered, the hand holding his champagne waving in a small arc to indicate the ball.

  Hannah shook her head. “I assisted my mother with her last ball, of course, so I know the requirements of hosting such a production, but my responsibilities to my father have been to play hostess for his dinner parties.”

  Henry seemed to think about that for a moment, his brow furrowing. “Does he host them often?”

  Smiling so her dimple appeared in her right cheek, Han­nah nodded. “Every week,” she replied. She took another sip of her champagne, wondering why Gisborn would ask such a question. Was he interviewing her to determine if she had the necessary skills to be a countess? “How many do you host as an earl?” she asked before finishing off the champagne and allowing a footman to take the glass from her.

  The question caught Henry off guard. He glanced to the side quickly, his attention briefly captured by a familiar woman who had just kissed the cheek of the man who was escorting her. She hadn’t even tried to hide the kiss! And now she was angling her head against his shoulder as they made their way toward a couple near the center of the ballroom floor. “I admit, I have not had the opportunity to do so,” he answered with a shrug.

  Hannah turned to glance where the earl’s attention had been diverted a moment ago. She smiled when she recognized Elizabeth and George. “Did Lady Bostwick do something scandalous?” she asked with a teasing grin, her voice seduc­tively quiet.

  Surprised by the question, Henry blinked. “I have not been introduced to a woman of that name,” he countered, his eyes moving back to the center of the room. Hannah’s question had him suddenly wondering if he was too staid for the ball. Was it common practice for ladies to kiss their escorts out in the open? If so, when had the rules of society changed to allow such a display of affection?

  “She is the former Lady Elizabeth Carlington. Of the char­ity, Lady E and Associates’ Finding Work for the Wounded. What did she do?” Hannah asked as she placed her hand on his arm and turned toward the couple, making it clear the two of them would be heading in the couple’s direction.

  Henry started walking, slowly at first. “She kissed him. She didn’t even try to hide it,” he whispered, trying not to act too scandalized.

  Hannah leaned toward him, her mouth inches from his ear. “Lady Bostwick and her husband are quite in love with one another. Prior to their union, she was a prim and proper young lady, with nary a hint of scandal associated with her. Then, she and George married,” she said with a sigh, one that did not sound as if she found fault with the union. “Ever since, Elizabeth has been quite obvious about her feelings toward her husband. It does not excuse her action, but she has a hard time keeping her kisses to the privacy of their home,” she managed to get out before they were standing before the happy couple.

  “Hannah!” Elizabeth brightened, her arms coming out so her hands could grasp her friend’s shoulders. Hannah did like­wise as the two women hugged. “You look exquisite, as usual, and …” Her attention turned to Gisborn. “I see you have arrived on the arm of a Greek god this evening. Do tell me which deity he is. I’m terrible at mythology.” This last was delivered with a good deal of mischief and to the astonished earl himself. Han­nah had to fight down the urge to gasp in shock.

  Henry did his very best to keep his face as impassive as possible, but he found himself allowing a small smile. The woman was most outrageous! And he recognized her as the woman who had come out of Devonville House that very morning before he had called on the marquess. He immedi­ately realized that his earlier assumption of her being over­weight was incorrect—she was quite round with child. And she was one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen.

  Her husband had turned to join them at that moment, his eyes rolling and his head shaking at his wife’s comment. “Please allow me to beg your pardon for milady’s mistaken assumption,” Lord Bostwick intoned, a hint of a smile giving away his humor. “Elizabeth, he is most assuredly a Roman god,” he corrected her. “I’m thinking … Apollo?” he guessed, a dark eyebrow cocking. The man’s stern features didn’t allow him to be particularly handsome, but with his devilish grin making his eyes light up, he suddenly appeared friendly and very approachable.

  Quite certain his face was taking on the reddish cast of embarrassment, Henry bowed, realizing their comments were all in good fun. “Neither, I’m afraid. Henry Forster, Earl of Gis­born, at your service,” he answered, not waiting for Hannah’s introduction.

  “Elizabeth and George Bennett-Jones,” George replied in kind, bowing as Elizabeth curtsied
. She held out her hand and the earl kissed the back of her knuckles.

  “Viscount Bostwick,” Hannah added, since George never seemed to mention his title when introducing himself.

  The viscount reached over to lift Hannah’s gloved hand to his lips. “And you are looking as if you stepped out of the pages of … ‘Sleeping Beauty’, perhaps?” he guessed, giving Hannah a mischievous grin.

  Hannah’s inhalation of breath was soft enough that only Henry was aware of it. He wondered what it was about the ref­erence to Sleeping Beauty that would make her react so. Had he been given time to consider what fairy tale princess she looked like this evening, he would have to agree Sleeping Beauty was a good guess. A thought of kissing her awake crossed his mind, but he had to erase it as quickly as it appeared—his satin breeches did not allow room for the erection that was forming.

  “George!” Hannah admonished him, not wanting to admit it was her thought while in front of the vanity mirror. Turning to Henry, she said, “George is a fencer.”

  A look of recognition passed over Henry’s face. “Bennett-Jones, of course,” he spoke. “You are Angelo’s champion, are you not?”

  George dipped his head. “Guilty as charged, my lord,” he responded. “But I’ll probably lose the title during the next few months. I’m about to whisk my wife away to Sussex for her confinement. And I have estate business to attend to,” he explained quickly, his gaze on Henry’s one of calculation. “May I assume you are the Forster who is a friend of Lady Charlotte’s?” he asked then.

  Stunned that a man he hadn’t met would know of his con­nection to the Binghams, Henry nodded. “Indeed, I know Lady Charlotte—her entire family, of course—since one of their estates is adjacent to the Gisborn lands in Oxfordshire,” he explained quickly, hoping there was no hint of scandal associated with him or Lady Charlotte. “Have you heard if her father is … recovering?” he wondered, not having ascertained the truth as to the health of the Earl of Ellsworth since return­ing to London.