The Kiss of a Viscount (The Daughters of the Aristocracy) (21 page)

Bereft and fearing for her own future, Josephine returned to London and made discreet inquiries that led to her introduction to George. Their contract was negotiated and paid for by George’s uncle, the viscount whose title he had inherited earlier this year. The older man explained that he was hiring her because he did not want his nephew – his only heir – employing whores or otherwise fathering bastards.

The implication was clear to her; she was not to allow a pregnancy, and should one occur, she would be required to end it.

“If you still intend to ask for her hand, you must be sure her thoughts of you promise more than what the earl has to offer. He is rich and has a better title than you,” she added, as if he didn’t already know how much better Gabriel Wellingham looked on paper – and in the looking glass – than did he. “But I have it on good authority that he lacks certain ...
skills
,” she hinted, her eyebrow arching suggestively.

The comment got George’s full attention. “What do you know?” he wondered then, his nervousness about the upcoming evening suddenly gone.

Josephine regarded him for a very long time. “He pays three mistresses, one of them quite a lot more than he should have to,” she said with a shake of her head. “Refuses to learn the very basics and sees only to his own satisfaction.” This last was said with a bit of derision, as if providing reciprocal pleasure was required along with the coin paid for the privilege of a tumble.

George wondered if some of her comment was aimed at him; at one time he had been guilty of the same selfish behavior with her.
But only because I didn’t know any better.
Until his uncle’s death, he knew only the basics of pleasing a woman. Josephine had been his only bed partner, after all. As a mistress, it was up to her to please him, he’d always believed.

He knew better now, of course. Far better.

And with his new-found skills, his confidence about the upcoming evening’s seduction – there could be no other word for it – increased. As did his nervousness.

“Why didn’t you tell me that I did not please you?” George asked suddenly, his expression showing he’d taken offense at her insinuation when she’d brought it up shortly after his uncle’s death. Their arrangement had being going on for nearly eight years. Why hadn’t she said something before he became a viscount? Done something? Shown him how to make love to her? Why wait all those years and then suddenly announce to your protector that he didn’t please you?

Caught off-guard by the question, Josephine regarded him, at first with a stunned glare. But then her eyes closed and she sank into the chair next to his, her face softening. She reached for his hand and gripped it. “Because you did. In other ways. Truly.” At his look of disbelief, she added, “Because, afterwards, you held me. You spoke sweet nothings, and you stroked my hair. You stayed in my bed far longer than you had to.” Indeed, there had been many times when he simply slept with her the entire night, so that when they awakened, they could continue making love. Those were the times she cherished most, for it was by the first light of day when George looked his best and seemed happiest. “You .. loved me.” She swallowed hard then, her eyes brightening with unshed tears. Looking away quickly, she took a deep breath and then slowly returned her attention to him. “A woman can overlook quite a lot when she feels ... loved.”

George was up and out of his chair and lifting her into his arms almost before she had finished her admission. He held her tightly to his body, one arm around her shoulders and the other around her waist. “Oh, Josie, can you ever forgive me for what I’m about to do?” he whispered, his words nearly lost in her hair. He felt her head shake against his shoulder.

Josephine pulled her head away so that she could see his face. “I will never forgive you if you do
not
try for her hand,” she countered, a wicked smile replacing the sad visage she had displayed only moments before. “What kind of tutor would I be if my student does not succeed at my speciality?”

George stared at her for a very long time. “You really
want
me to marry her, don’t you?” he asked then, his brows furrowing in confusion. Another thought intruded. “But, I will continue to be your protector even after I am wed ...”

“No, you will not.”

Josephine’s voice sounded almost foreign to his ears; the emphatic statement was delivered with such finality. Confused, George stepped back. “But, if I am not your protector ...”

Josephine interrupted him again. “I have already made arrangements for my future, George.”

An expression that could only be described as pain crossed George’s face before he looked away.
Arrangements? When? And with whom?
Had she done this all behind his back?

His mistress allowed him the moment before she reached out to place a hand on his arm. “Once you inherited, I knew you would need to marry. And marry well. I have seen to it I will have a new protector once that ...”

“And I have no say in the matter?” he countered in a voice that was suddenly filled with anger. The look of astonishment hid the other emotions that immediately joined his anger.

“No, you do not,” she answered calmly, steeling herself for a row she was sure was about to erupt. They’d never fought before. They’d had disagreements on occasion, friendly arguments about politics or his choice of clothing for a weekend in the country or her thoughts on whose social entertainments he should attend. But they had never yelled at one another. Never turned their backs on one another or slammed doors or thrown objets d’ art at the walls or each other.

“Josie, how could you?”

The woman took a deep breath and held it for a moment before finally saying, “I know you, George. Unlike every other titled man in this town, you will honor your marriage vows. And you would feel beholden to me and feel so guilty that you would continue my allowance for the rest of my days , but I will not be a kept woman ...”

“You’re my
friend
, damn it!” George shouted, the hurt he was feeling in his chest so acute he thought he might be having an attack of some kind. At the sound of his voice, so loud in his ears, he shut his eyes tightly.
We’ve never raised our voices at one another
, he thought, stunned that he could be acting so poorly toward a woman he was sure he once loved.

“And you pay me quite well for the privilege,” Josephine responded too quickly, her own voice so quiet he almost didn’t hear her words. She regretted them immediately, her hands coming up to cover her mouth even though she realized it was too late. “I did not mean that,” she rushed to get out, tears pricking the edges of her eyes. How could she say such a thing to a man who only wanted the best for her? Who had seen to her every need for eight years?

Most mistresses could hope for a protector for a year, perhaps two, before having to arrange a new one. She’d been blessed when George’s uncle had insisted on her being hired as his mistress. He had to have made a discrete inquiry of the Earl of Staffordshire as to her suitability, and the earl’s response must have been positive since there were no other living clients to recommend her. And the contract had been quite generous considering she wasn’t a celebrated courtesan. She wondered then if her lack of notoriety was more valued by the viscount than her other talents. She never guessed the arrangement would last eight years!

“Josie,” George sighed, the sting of the simple statement hurting almost as badly as the thought of losing her completely. He gathered her into his arms and held her tightly. “Oh, Josie. He is a duke, no?” he whispered, his lips kissing her hair. “Nothing less than a duke for you, I should think,” he added, finally pulling away to gaze at her.

Josephine’s eyes were wet with tears. She had never allowed him to see her like this – so sad, so vulnerable. “No, George,” she replied with a small shake of her head. “He doesn’t even have a title,” she added, sniffling.

In the middle of retrieving his handkerchief from his waist coat pocket, George paused and regarded the woman with a frown. “What do you mean?” he asked, finally offering her the linen cloth. “What are you saying?”

Josephine hadn’t intended to tell George of her plans to marry the man she had loved when she was a younger woman. The man to whom she’d promised her virtue all those years ago. Had her father lived through the winter of influenza that ravaged their village when she was seventeen, she would not have made the trip to London in search of her mother. She would not have been tutored by her mother and then been seen by then son of the Earl of Staffordshire and been made an offer she couldn’t refuse. An offer that resulted in a career as a mistress, such as it was. But now her childhood lover had made his way in the world. He was ready to take a wife.

And he still wanted her.

“I have accepted an offer of marriage from my first ... love,” she finally replied, a sense of relief flooding her as she heard the words spoken aloud.

George stared at Josephine for a very long time. “First?” he repeated, as if he couldn’t quite comprehend her statement. At her nod, he closed his eyes. “And ... you love him still?” he wondered, his eyes remaining shut until he realized he had to open them in order to see her nod in response.

“I have since we were ... twelve, thirteen, perhaps,” she explained quietly. “We have remained in contact all these years. I was sure he would find someone else, but it turns out, he is a very stubborn man,” she said before a sob took her breath.

George took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. “And, does this man know you are my mistress?” he wondered then, not sure what he thought about Josephine returning to a man who had apparently held a candle for her all these years.

Josephine could not meet his gaze as she shook her head. “He thinks I have been a servant in a nobleman’s home,” she replied, her head falling against the small of his shoulder. His arms moved to embrace her, to comfort her as her body shook with another sob.

“Which you have been, I suppose,” George said, stroking her face with a finger. He kissed her forehead and then sighed. “I shall miss you terribly,” he stated, fighting to keep his composure when he felt tears fill his eyes. He blinked them back and took a deep breath. “Will you go back to Yorkshire then?” he wondered, realizing there was no point in arguing about her future when she had already seen to it.

Raising her face from his shoulder, she shook her head. “Jack’s business is in Oxfordshire, but he wrote that he would like us to find a house in town, too.”

Although a bit confused, George nodded. “And what exactly is his business?”

Josephine took a deep breath. “Wool,” she finally said with a nod.

George blinked once. Wool meant sheep, and sheep meant ... a shepherd. Could her Jack be a simple shepherd? George could not imagine Josephine, a woman who was so worldly – so interested in politics and current affairs – with a man who was a shepherd. “Sheep?” he clarified, thinking she was trying to make her Jack sound as if he had a better station in life.
As long as he’s not a tailor.

“Well, he used to tend them when we were children. His father had quite an extensive herd, you see,” she explained quickly. “But Jack figured out a way to make a better weaving machine that turns the wool into a very fine fabric.”

Not a shepherd, then,
George realized, completely changing his course of thinking about Jack. “Indeed?” he replied with a furrowed brow.
Did having an extensive herd of sheep mean her future husband’s family had an extensive bit of money then?
“And does he have one of these machines in actual operation?”

Nodding, Josephine said, “I believe there are over a hundred of them in his building in Oxford. And he employs several hundred people to operate them and keep them in working order. And several clerks to keep track of the business, of course.”

So, he’s definitely not a shepherd
, George thought in surprise. In fact, the man sounded like he could be quite wealthy. “The Luddites haven’t burned him out, then?”

Cocking her head to one side, she gave George a look of derision. “Jack saw fit to hire people who lost their positions at the factories where the first frames were installed, insisting he wanted only experts to create his superfine,” she explained patiently. “It struck me as very wise of him to play on the egos of mere factory workers like that. He makes them feel important. And he pays them more than they made when they worked on looms.”

Wise, indeed.
“And you love him?” George stated more than asked. He stood very still as he waited for her response.

Knowing she would hurt him with his answer, Josephine returned her head to his shoulder. “I always have, George,” she said quietly. “Just as much as I do you,” she added as she leaned her head back so that she could see his face.

George nodded, although he had a hard time believing the last statement.
Was it possible for a woman to love two men at the same time?
“Do you suppose I will ever be allowed to meet the man?” he wondered, his gaze capturing Josephine’s. At her suddenly arched eyebrow, he added, “I think I would be more accepting of your arrangement if I at least ... knew the man.”

Josephine gave him a brief nod. “He cannot know, George,” she whispered, her head shaking almost imperceptibly.

Pressing his lips into a thin line, George regarded her for a very long time. “Then he won’t,” he agreed, hugging her body to his own as if it would be the last time they embraced.

And with that hug, George realized why Josephine was so insistent about helping with the evening’s plan, for now it was more important than ever that he convince Elizabeth Carlington to be his wife. Josephine had a future planned – and it didn’t include him.