The Kiss of a Viscount (The Daughters of the Aristocracy) (13 page)

To think, her friend from finishing school, now a duchess and mother of four children, expected her to dance with her duke! So when Lady Elizabeth had arranged her introduction to Jeremy Statton, and mentioned that the duchess expected her to dance with him, the duke’s face had brightened, and then he had
laughed
! The kind of laughter that, despite the crush in the ballroom, was overhead by anyone standing within ten feet of them. Suddenly mortified, Elizabeth gave the man a quick curtsy and was about to step away when he suddenly stilled her by cupping her elbow with his gloved hand. The kid leather was soft and warm against her skin as he slid his arm beneath hers, making it look to anyone who might be watching that Elizabeth had offered her arm to the duke. “Forgive me, Lady Elizabeth, but I was expecting Beth’s friend to be ... well,” he paused and lowered his face so that it was closer to the side of hers. “Not a woman of your beauty, certainly,” he quickly explained, the mirth still evident in his dark blue eyes. Momentarily confused, Elizabeth searched the duke’s face for some inkling that he was teasing her. But she found his manner quite sincere. “You see, my wife believes I am too shy to arrange my own dances,” he added when he saw Elizabeth’s expression.

“And you are not,” Elizabeth stated, her momentary confusion dissipating as she regarded the handsome, young duke. No wonder Elizabeth Cunningham, the daughter of a viscount, found the man irresistible! Of course, when her friend had married him, he was merely the second son of a duke and not ever expected to inherit his father’s title. But when a boating accident took the lives of his father and elder brother, Jeremy Statton was forced to take on the dukedom, and her friend, Elizabeth Cunningham, was suddenly a duchess.

“I was at one time, I suppose,” he admitted as he led them to the refreshment table. “But after five years in Parliament and five years of dealing with tenants, and five years of marriage, and four children, I find I can converse easily with just about anyone. Helps to be a duke, I suppose,” he said as he handed her a glass of champagne. “You are allowed, I hope?” he wondered before he let go the glass into her raised hand.

“I am,” Lady Elizabeth replied with a nod as she resisted the urge to sound offended. The duke was not at all what she expected. He was far more confident than Beth had led her to believe. “Beth insisted I see to it you danced ...” She stopped and inhaled sharply. “Forgive me, Your Grace.
Her Grace
,” she corrected herself, her face coloring up in embarrassment. How could she forget propriety so quickly? Just because she’d known Elizabeth Cunningham as a viscount’s daughter and not a duchess did not give her the right to be so familiar now!

“It’s quite alright, my lady,” the duke said with a wave of his bejeweled hand. “Beth has frequently spoken of you. She’s very fond of you and wondered at when you might finally marry one of these ...” He waved his arm in the direction of several young gentlemen grouped near the doors that led to the terraced gardens.

Elizabeth felt her face redden even more. “I’ve not yet been made an offer,” she answered, keeping a smile pasted on her face.

There had been talk her first Season. A young earl seemed set to ask for her hand, and then
something
had happened. He’d shown up at the last ball of that season with a rather plump chit on his arm. The gossip had it they’d married by special license, and the earl had suddenly come into a good deal of blunt. Not particularly disappointed (the earl didn’t suit her, and even more important to her, he didn’t seem to suit her father – even though her father never said anything to indicate he didn’t want her marrying the earl), Elizabeth figured her second Season would provide more agreeable marriage opportunities. Indeed, there were more eligible gentlemen, but there were also more marriageable daughters of the
ton
. And the young baron who showed the most interest suddenly ... did not. Her father finally admitted his complicity in the baron’s abrupt disinterest, explaining that the young man’s political future was cloudy at best and that his fortune was far too small to support a wife.

And now, in her third Season, Elizabeth was more mature and considered one of the most beautiful prospects. The Earl of Trenton seemed most interested in courting her. Now that they had danced several times, including a waltz earlier this evening, and he’d taken her in his curricle for a ride through the park during the fashionable hour, Elizabeth was quite sure this was the Season she would become engaged. And she was quite sure Gabriel Wellingham, the Earl of Trenton, would be her husband. By Christmastime.

As if toasting the thought, she took a sip of champagne.

The Duke of Somerset regarded her with a grin. “I have it on good authority that a gentleman who is present this very evening has intentions of asking for your hand,” he stated with a cocked eyebrow, the look making his already debonaire features seem a bit rakish.

Her mouth forming a perfect ‘o’, Elizabeth quickly lifted a gloved hand so that her fingers covered it. “Indeed?” she answered, somewhat breathless at hearing a duke confirm what she had already suspected.
Gabriel will ask for my hand!
she thought happily. She finished off the champagne and a footman retrieved her glass even before she could look about for a place to set it down.

Jeremy Statton smiled broadly. “My Beth will be so thrilled. As a young matron who has already given me four children, she’s feeling as if all her friends have forgotten her.”

Gasping, Elizabeth shook her head. “We have not,” she replied quickly. “I will be sure to call upon her when she arrives in town. When do you expect that will be?”

The duke shrugged. “Probably a week come Tuesday. She will be very pleased to know you still hold her in high regard.” He glanced about the room, aware of the orchestra beginning the next dance. “And now, my lady, it sounds as if the next dance is about to begin.” He held out his hand, expecting Elizabeth to place hers in it. Elizabeth paused, a bit startled that he expected her to dance. It was the supper dance, after all, and he had not claimed it on her card, though no one else had, either. “It would be my honor,” she breathed, suddenly aware that it was not only the supper dance, but a waltz!

The two stepped to the edge of the crowd surrounding the ballroom floor and were suddenly moving in time with dozens of other couples. A better dancer than the Earl of Trenton and much taller, the Duke of Somerset swept her about the room, his hold on her quite firm and his steps perfectly placed. It was a marvelous dance, and left Elizabeth feeling as if she was being shown off to everyone in the room. The sensation of spinning was dizzying. The lights from the candles above highlighted the red in her auburn hair. And somewhere along the edge of the crowd, her future husband was probably watching her. It could not have been a more perfect night.

And then she’s been sent spinning into the arms of George Bennett-Jones.

What a very odd night!

“So, you see,” Elizabeth said as she finished telling Charlotte about the events of the evening, “I have absolutely no idea.” Realizing she still held George’s handkerchief, she slowly spread open the white linen across her lap. “GBJ,” she murmured as she studied the embroidered initials in one corner. “Who
are
you?”

Chapter 11
Unrehearsed Maneuvers in Review

“I owe you, Your Grace,” George said in a lowered voice as he stood next to the Duke of Somerset. They were near the entrance of the room that had been set up for cards, supposedly considering which game to join. “Your timing was impeccable, as was your placement. It almost looked as if we rehearsed it,” he added, obviously pleased with the evening’s second waltz. They couldn’t have planned the maneuver any better, nor the fact that it gave George the opportunity to escort Lady Elizabeth to the supper. That she had so readily agreed still had George thanking his lucky star.

“My pleasure, truly,” Jeremy Statton replied happily, having a hard time keeping his grin in check. “The look on her face was ...” He shook his head, apparently unable to come up with the appropriate words. “I shall have Beth in giggles when I tell her what we did. Hell,
I’ll
be in good humor every time I think of it.”

Alarmed by the thought that the duke would share the details of their plot with his wife, George regarded his friend for a moment. “Do you think that’s wise?” he wondered aloud, his brows furrowed with worry. “What if Her Grace tells Lady Elizabeth? You said they are friends from finishing school. She’ll think me a
rake
!”

The duke stifled a laugh as he used his embroidered handkerchief to dab at his eyes. “Trust me, Bostwick. There isn’t a person at this ball who would ever mistake
you
for a rake,” he said jovially. The laughter the man had been holding in was finally allowed to burble forth, and several card players turned in their direction to determine what the duke  found so amusing.

Although the verbal jab was meant as a compliment, George felt it as if it had been delivered into his belly by a closed fist.

It was true, though, he knew.

No one in the
ton
would ever consider him a danger when it came to their wives or daughters. George Bennett-Jones could be trusted with any of them. The Marquess of Morganfield had even mentioned to Lady Elizabeth that he trusted George with her.

Sometimes living an honorable life made for a milquetoast existence.

Or, perhaps not.

Perhaps it was that very trust that could work in his favor, he realized suddenly. For who would ever expect George Bennett-Jones to waltz off with their daughter in front of the entire
ton
? Or kiss her until she whimpered? Or do anything else the least bit scandalous with her? And with Lady Elizabeth assured he could be trusted ...

Not trusting himself to behave in an aristocratic manner for the remainder of the evening, George made his excuses with the Duke of Somerset and took his leave. As he sat in his new town coach, he grinned the entire trip to Josephine’s.

Chapter 12
Suitability

Lady Hannah Slater regarded her best friend as she at on the edge of the settee in the Devonville House parlor. She and her best friends had left the Weatherstone ball precisely at one and shared Hannah’s coach for the short trip to the other end of Park Lane. “Are you quite sure you want to marry the earl should he ask for your hand?” she wondered. She did not seem the least bit pleased by Lady Elizabeth’s declaration that she would be married by Christmastime. “You can put off marriage another Season or two. It’s not as if you
have
to marry,” she said in a very persuasive tone.

Lady Charlotte Bingham held her breath, waiting for Lady Elizabeth Carlington’s eminent response. She expected Elizabeth to counter Hannah with a rather loud or emphatic argument as to why she
would
and
should
marry the Earl of Trenton. Elizabeth was, after all, a woman who knew her own mind and was quite good at getting what she wanted. Some might consider her demanding, others thought her spoiled, her father once accused her of being manipulative, and her mother thought her too bold. But those closest to her knew she was merely firm about getting what she wanted. She rarely spent her entire allowance on a shopping trip, and now she probably had none of it left given she was funding her own charity. She did not leave her clothes scattered about the room for a poor maid to pick up, she was a tireless worker when it came to her other favorite charities. And she never pitched a fit.

Until now.

“How can I put off marriage another year, Hannah?” Elizabeth nearly shouted. “I am one-and-twenty! Look at Penelope Winstead! She was ... what? Three-and-twenty when she finally married? She held off marriage because she thought some son of a viscount was going to propose.”

“You are not anything like Penelope,” Charlotte put in, hoping to help calm the marquess’s daughter. “And Penelope ended up married to the son of an earl, so it truly is alright to wait. Hannah is just concerned that you might not be getting the best husband in Gabriel Wellingham.”

“He’s an
earl
!” Elizabeth countered, as if the rank had everything to do with how to choose a husband. “There are currently no sons of marquesses of an age to marry ...”

“I hear Leonard Blakely is considering marriage,” Hannah said helpfully.

The sound of a gasp was as loud as it could be. “Blakely is a pimply-faced bounder!” Charlotte exclaimed in shock, earning her a point in Elizabeth’s estimation. The boy in question, a notorious gambler since the age of fifteen, was no doubt planning to marry in order to gain any dowry involved. Who knew what his debts would be before he reached his majority? “And I think he’s only eighteen.”

“... and as for dukes, I believe our fair Charlotte has claim to the only one to whom I would ever
consider
marriage,” Elizabeth stated, continuing her rant despite her friend’s helpful suggestions. She almost regretted mentioning Charlotte’s duke; the man was still in hospital and apparently in a good deal of pain.

“I hear the Earl of Trenton employs a mistress,” Hannah whispered, her face taking on a look of pain. It was her sincere belief that men only married for convenience and only ever really loved their mistresses. Despite having married friends who could readily dispute her belief and a father who insisted that her late mother was the only woman he had ever truly loved, Hannah held fast to her belief. When her mother died two years earlier, Hannah decided then that when she married, it would be for the sole purpose of having children. She was sure a husband would never love her for who she was, but would only marry her to gain her substantial dowry and a mother for his children.

Better that she accept that suit now than be disappointed once she was married.

Charlotte sighed, the sound as loud as her earlier gasp in the quiet parlor where they were gathered. “I believe nearly every man in the
ton
has a mistress, Hannah,” Charlotte countered patiently, wondering if her duke would ever employ one given his situation. Would any woman besides herself ever want to share a bed with a man who was so badly scarred? She doubted any of the high-priced high flyers employed by the rich men of London would do so. Would a more desperate whore, though? She’d heard tales of prostitutes who would bed men infected with the French pox, their cases so advanced their faces displayed the ravages of the disease. She shivered at the thought.