The Kiss of a Viscount (The Daughters of the Aristocracy) (34 page)

“He who?” Elizabeth wondered, her curiosity getting the better of her. There had been only one other man who had ever kissed her.

Kissed her senseless. Kissed her
everywhere
.

The troublesome frisson shot through her again, and she chastised herself for allowing herself to remember just how delicious those kisses had been. Especially with her father sitting directly in front of her. Her face took on the pink shade that so obviously displayed her embarrassment.

“Bostwick,” the marquess stated simply.

Elizabeth blinked and regarded her father for a moment, not immediately recognizing the name. “Bostwick?” she repeated, thinking she’d heard the name at some point in her life. Wasn’t he an old viscount, perhaps? The one who was a molly?

“Yes. Lord Bostwick,” he clarified, realizing he needed to be more clear since his daughter’s expression wasn’t indicating any recognition. At her expectant look, he straightened in his chair. “The viscount?” he added, thinking that would clear up any confusion.

Elizabeth merely shook her head. “I haven’t made his acquaintance, ... have I?” she countered, suddenly concerned that some old fart of a viscount had taken an interest in her and had neglected to let her in on his attraction but had already cleared his intention to court her with her father.
The bastard
! 

David Carlington stared at his daughter for a very long time. “You had
supper
with him at Weatherstone’s ball,” he stated rather loudly. “He took you for a
ride
in the park. You
danced
with him at Lady Worthington’s ball. Twice, if I remember correctly. And you went to the museum with him yesterday,” he added, his expression suggesting that if she was trying to deny her association with the man, he wasn’t going to have any of it.

Elizabeth’s mouth opened into a rather large ‘O.’ “
George
?” she replied in disbelief, drawing out the word into the two syllables that made the name sound like so much more than it was, her mouth ending in the shape of a rather small ‘o’.

“Bennett-Jones, yes,” her father insisted, his brows furrowing into a single line. Under different circumstances, he might have thought his daughter’s imitation of one of Lord Everly’s tropical fish was rather amusing. At his moment, he did not.

Elizabeth blinked once. Twice. “George ... George Bennett-Jones is a ... is a
viscount
?” she questioned, a look of utter disbelief on her face. Then she remembered Gabriel’s comment about the viscount’s nephew.
Well, he’s certainly not good ton
. And George’s comment about having inherited his house from his uncle.
George is a viscount?

David Carlington’s eyebrows now shot back up to their previous record heights. “Indeed, he is,” he stated emphatically. “Rather new to the title since his uncle died earlier this year, but,
yes
,” he explained quickly. Then it dawned on him why she might not know he was a titled gentleman. “I take it his original introduction did not include that little snippet of a title?”

Elizabeth stared at her father.
It certainly had not!
George had
never
given her a hint he was a member of the
ton
! Never
once
had he said anything about being a viscount! Or being related to one. But then, none of those around the man had said any honorifics to suggest he was, either. Everyone called him ‘George.’ In Lady Worthington’s library, when Lady Fletcher had caught them kissing, she’d called him ‘George.’ As had several gentlemen they’d come in contact with during the ball.

Elizabeth cast a glance at her father and shook her head, not sure how she felt about learning that the man she had been naked with the night before was a titled gentleman – not some well-to-do cit as she suspected. “It did not,” she finally said, her teeth catching her lower lip.

Lord Morganfield nodded. “Well, the man has always been a most honorable gentleman. He asked for my permission to court you a couple of days ago. After a session of Parliament,” he stated evenly. “He’s not nearly as rich as Trenton, of course, but still worth about a third of that, I should think.”

“Oh,” Elizabeth answered, her head spinning with the news. She found herself wondering if it was truly honorable of a man to omit his title when introducing himself to a lady, though. And, as she gave the rest of his comment more consideration, she wondered if a third of ‘very rich’ was still ... rich.

“Especially since he owns some coal mines down in Sussex. Most of his lands are down there.”

“Lands?” Elizabeth repeated in disbelief. “Not ‘land’?” She swallowed, took a deep breath and swallowed again, her head spinning just a bit too quickly.

A third of ‘very rich’ was indeed
rich
.

Her father smiled then. “You look as if you might swoon.” To have both his wife and daughter out cold at the same time would be a first.

Elizabeth stared back at him then, her mouth finally opening to speak, but nothing came out.

David Carlington regarded his daughter for another moment, wondering at her odd reaction. She had done
something
, he knew, he just couldn’t quite figure out what it was. “Did
he
kiss you?” he asked then, the tone of his voice almost hopeful.

Elizabeth swallowed, realizing she needed to admit that she had, indeed, been kissed by George Bennett-Jones. And kissed him back. “Yes. Yes, he did,” she answered slowly, as if she was reliving the entire moment in the library when he had bestowed that very first kiss on her. “Well, I
asked
him to kiss me, actually.”
I didn’t have to admit to that
, she thought absently, wondering what kind of admonishment her father would have in store for her.

When she didn’t elaborate, her father leaned forward. “And?”

“Oh. He’s very good ... at kissing,” she replied, her face taking on a pink glow. She was sure her father had already determined that. Honorable man that he was, George had probably asked her father’s permission to kiss her. And her father probably allowed it so someone in his sphere of influence could attest to being better at something than Butter Blond.
But that’s just ridiculous
, she realized and returned her attention to her father.

“And?”

Elizabeth blinked at her father, not sure what he wanted to her to say. “And?” she countered carefully. She was not about to admit she’d been naked with him, too!

Suddenly alarmed, the marquess leaned forward in his chair. “Did Lord Bostwick take your virtue?” he whispered hoarsely, his eyebrows drawn together in a manner Elizabeth found most threatening.

“He most absolutely did
not
!” she nearly shouted, forcing her father to sit back in the chair and regard her with a bit of shock. “It isn’t his ... or anyone else’s ... to
take
.”
Even when I begged him to take it
. “At least, ... not yet,” she said in a quieter voice, suddenly wondering when George might come to ask for her hand.

George
!

He said he would come ask for her hand if he discovered she wasn’t betrothed to Butter Blond. How long would that take? Gossip seemed to travel fast in London, but apparently not fast enough.

Her father nodded his head then and settled back into the chair, not particularly satisfied with her response. “What else?” he asked then, knowing if he kept at it, she would admit to the
something
.

Elizabeth sighed, realizing she needed to tell her father more. “He paid for my bonnet. The one with the peacock feathers,” she admitted finally, as if that would help her father to remember a bonnet he had never actually seen. Her tear-stained cheeks colored up at the confession.

Her father regarded her for a moment, his expression not changing. “Was he ... with you when he paid for the peacock?” he wondered, his brows furrowing suddenly. If so, a shopkeeper had seen them together and witnessed an improper purchase.

Elizabeth shook her head. “Of course not! He wasn’t even
in
the shop!”

The marquess struggled to maintain decorum as he tried to figure out how George Bennett-Jones would have paid for his daughter’s bonnet without actually being
in
the shop. “I suppose you can guess my next question,” he stated, his face taking on a rather stern appearance. As frustrating as it was to have a conversation with Elizabeth, he usually found it more fun to pretend he couldn’t follow so that she would have to over-explain herself. Unfortunately, at the moment, he really couldn’t follow her train of thought.
I’ve been derailed
, he thought suddenly, wondering how it was he could sit in chambers day after day and comprehend everything that was said when he rarely dedicated more than half an ear to it, but spending a few minutes with his daughter required all of his concentration and powers of deduction beyond those of a Bow Street Runner.

Elizabeth blinked once. Twice. “Oh,” she said with a gasp, her mouth forming that perfect little ‘o’. “Well, he had to go into the shop to pay, of course, but he wasn’t there when I bought the bonnet. But I think it must have been him who went in as Lady Charlotte and I were taking our leave of the place. And when I went back to pay for the bonnet, because I didn’t pay for it when Lady Charlotte was with me because I’m always a bit embarrassed about paying for fripperies when Charlotte is with me because she always just puts it on her father’s account, and I cannot do that because you give me an allowance so that I can pay for things directly,” she paused to take a breath while David Carlington fought the impulse to growl at her expense. “So, once I dropped her at Ellsworth House, I had the driver take me back to the shop ..,” she paused when she noticed her father’s increasingly strained expression as he followed her explanation.

“Well, don’t stop now,” the marquess insisted. “This is all starting to make sense in some twisted, torturous way.”

Thinking she should feel a bit offended, Elizabeth straightened on the ottoman. “When I spoke with Mr. Neville about the bill, he said it was already paid. And when I asked who would do such a thing, he said he was sworn to secrecy and would not reveal the person’s identity.”

Her father’s eyebrows became one. “So ... how is it you know that
Bostwick
paid for it?”

Elizabeth took a deep breath and let it out slowly, realizing she would need to divulge certain secrets if she was to answer
that
question.

Or she could parry.

“Mr. Neville said it was purchased as a ‘thank you’ gift.”

When she hesitated to say more, her father cocked an eyebrow. “And why would Bostwick have need to thank my daughter, I wonder?” he said
sotto voce
. His gaze on her hardened. “Enlighten me, daughter.”

Elizabeth’s eyes widened.
This isn’t going well.
“I helped a friend of his gain suitable employment at the Bank of England,” she blurted out. At least she didn’t have to admit to having spent the evening in the presence of George. Naked.

Ah, now we’re getting somewhere,
the marquess thought as he settled back into his chair. “Through your charity, perhaps?” he half-asked, a smirk replacing his threatening look from a moment ago.

“Yes,” Elizabeth breathed, her eyes widening again. “How ... how did you know?”

Even before she had the words out, her father had retrieved her calling card from his waistcoat pocket. He held it up by one corner. “Lady E, I presume?” he countered, the expression on his face not giving away whether he was pleased or not at having identified the owner of the moniker.

Stunned that he had one of her cards in his possession, the air seemed to go out of Elizabeth. She slumped on the ottoman. Closing her eyes, she nodded. “I found out that the only way some soldiers can get back their old positions of employment – the ones they had
before
they went off to war and got wounded – is through bribery.”

David straightened in his chair at this tidbit, his eyebrows once again becoming one.
Bribery
?

“I thought to use my allowance to pay for everything. And it was enough to let an office and cover some initial expenses, but the bribe I had to pay Mr. Whittaker at the bank took most of the rest of my funds.”

“How much?” her father asked, his hands clasping between his knees as he hid his growing alarm at her comments.

“Twenty guineas,” Elizabeth replied, thinking she was prepared to argue that it was necessary.

David Carlington resisted the urge to growl again.
Twenty guineas!
How dare someone demand a bribe in exchange for hiring a war veteran! “Whatever possessed you to think you could ...?” Her father stopped and lowered his gaze to the floor between them. When he looked back up, he found Elizabeth staring at him, her wide eyes again wet with tears, her lips sealed together into a straight line. “Why did you ... find it necessary to even
start
this charity?” he wondered then. His initial perturbation seemed to evaporate with the question. How could he find fault with her for possessing the wherewithal to actually start such a venture? Without his help? Without benefit of his name and his financial assistance? He’d been quite helpful with Lady Morganfield’s charities, even if they were essentially duplicates of other
ton
ladies’ approaches to helping war widows and orphans. As far as he knew, someone benefitted from the money he gave his wife to use for her causes. He never asked for an accounting of how the funds were spent.

“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.