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

This is a work of fiction. The events and characters described herein are imaginary and are not intended to refer to specific places or living persons.

The opinions expressed in this manuscript are solely the opinions of the author and do not represent the opinions or thoughts of the publisher. The author has represented and warranted full ownership and/or legal right to publish all the materials in this book.

The Kiss of a Viscount

All Rights Reserved.

Copyright © 2013 Linda Rae Sande

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Chapter 1
An Earl Takes a Tumble

December 1814

Gabriel Wellingham, Earl of Trenton, pulled on his blue satin breeches as he regarded his reflection in a mirror
.
Despite having just tumbled the tavern’s bar maid, his blond curls were still presentable, although a bit tousled from the wench’s insistence at running her fingers through them. He glanced at the reflection of the young woman who had been the object of his attention for the past hour. She was watching him from the room’s only bed, where she lay on her stomach, one leg bent so her foot circled in the air. Propped up on her elbows so her breasts mounded a bit where they touched the mattress, she gave him a look that suggested he should return to the bed.

“I am tempted, Sarah,” Gabriel admitted to the reflection, “But I really must take my leave.” He pulled his linen shirt over his head, taking care to straighten it as his valet would do before shoving the tails into his breeches.

The bar maid cocked her head to one side. “Must you?” she countered, giving him her very best come-hither look. She didn’t really
want
him to stay – he was terrible at kissing and seemed to enjoy licking too much, and not in the right places – but the man was handsome. And he had given her a sovereign for her time and attention, far more than she could get for the same services from any of the other patrons of the Spread Eagle given its rural location in Staffordshire.

Sarah wondered if the man had a mistress. If not, she thought of asking if he wanted one. Perhaps he would put her up in a cottage, or, if he was really as rich as his purse seemed to indicate, a townhouse in Wolverhampton. Before she had a chance to offer herself, though, the dandy turned in her direction. “You have such a round ...” He motioned with his hands to indicate her hips. “Rump,” he finally added, a teasing smile displaying his perfect white teeth. “I do believe you’re a better lay than the mistresses I keep in London,” he commented before donning his gold embroidered waistcoat.

Mistresses?
As in,
more than one?
It took all the acting skill Sarah had to continue smiling. “Isn’t London an awfully long way to go for ... a tumble?” she wondered, drawing one of the bed linens over her backside. Round rump or not, she suddenly felt very exposed given the man was nearly dressed.

Gabriel sat down on the edge of the mattress, lifting one bare foot to rest on his other knee so he could pull on a stocking. “It is, indeed,” Gabriel answered, his brows furrowing when the stocking didn’t go onto his foot as easily as when his valet did it. “But that is why I sought you out,” he said, his attention still on this foot. “Damn it, how does this work?” he complained
sotto voce
.

The tavern wench reached over and positioned the stocking so it would slide on easier. “Does that mean you will seek me out again?” she asked hopefully, one finger moving from his foot to the mound that was silhouetted in the satin breeches.

Jerking reflexively, Gabriel gave her a huge smile. “I would, but I will be leaving for London soon,” he said, careful not to tell her it was to search for a wife. He had a few young debutantes in mind, but he still wasn’t quite sure what he should be looking for in a wife.
Beauty? A dowry?
He was as rich as Croesus, so money wasn’t an issue.
A good tumble?
And how would he discover a girl’s ability between the sheets if he couldn’t try her out in advance of the betrothal?

“Ah, headed to the Marriage Mart, no doubt,” the bar maid guessed as she rolled her eyes.

Gabriel struggled to maintain an impassive expression.
Was it that obvious?
“That and ... well, let’s just say I have some reconnaissance to do before I settle in Mayfair.”

The wench sat up, pulling up the bed linens to cover her generous bosom. “Reconnaissance?” Sarah repeated, her interest piqued. “Are you a
spy?
” She asked this with such excitement in her eyes that Gabriel nearly admitted to being one. He shook his head instead.

“More like, political research, I suppose,” he countered. “I am determined that certain
older
members of Parliament should be stripped of their powers.”

Leaning her head away from Gabriel as he moved to pull on his other stocking, the bar maid eyed him with suspicion. “And if you are successful in stripping them of their powers, who would then have the power?” she wondered, returning her hand to the bulge beneath the satin breeches.

Gabriel mirrored her posture, leaning away so her finger could no longer reach his hardening cock.
Was she a spy?
The very last thing he expected from a tavern wench was this level of perception. “Better educated lords. Younger lords.”
Me
, he almost added. “I just have to figure out how.”

A slow smile spread over the bar maid’s face.
He’s a lord
, she realized. No wonder he had tossed a sovereign on the bed when he’d first followed her into the room. He could probably afford a crown or more. His mistresses were no doubt set up with their own townhouses and modistes and private boxes at the theatre. 

“What are you thinking?” Gabriel wondered as he watched her expression change.

Sarah straightened as she considered how to respond. Who could undermine a respected member of the House of Lords? Who wielded the most power? Who controlled the lives of the aristocrats? Who hosted the balls and musicales and every event where political decisions were discussed and debated and decided outside of chambers?

Why, the
women
behind those lords, of course. The mothers, the wives, the  ... “Marry the daughter of the most powerful lord,” the wench blurted suddenly. “The daughter of your most political opposite.”

Gabriel Wellingham stared at the woman, stunned at her perfect solution. He swallowed. He blinked. He shook his head. “That’s genius,” he breathed, his appreciative gaze making the bar maid sit up a bit straighter. The bed linen didn’t follow, however, and the tops of Sarah’s breasts were suddenly on display. “As are those,” he added with an arched brow. Reaching into his topcoat pocket, Gabriel withdrew his purse. “And worth at least another sovereign,” he added as he fished a coin out of the velvet pouch and tossed it in her direction.

Sarah caught it and gave the earl a gracious nod, deciding not to explain just then that the plan might not work. Probably
wouldn’t
work.

The daughters of the aristocracy were powerful in their own right, after all.

Chapter 2
A Viscount and His Mistress

January 1815

Josephine Wentworth was reading the latest treatise on the failures of the monarchy in France when her butler cleared his throat. She looked up to find him standing in the doorway of her parlor, his hands clasped behind his back. “Yes, Frederick?” she spoke, a bit startled at his sudden appearance and wondering just how long he’d stood there attempting to get her attention. The treatise was interesting and well written, after all.

“Mr. Bennett-Jones is calling. Should I tell him you are not receiving visitors today?” he wondered, knowing full well she would tell him to admit the man. She always accepted George Bennett-Jones’ visits.

As the man’s mistress, she was expected to do so.

“He seems ...
distraught
,” the butler added, his hesitance apparent. He knew it wasn’t his place to comment on the state of mind of Josephine’s visitor, but for reasons not yet apparent to her, Frederick thought it was best to do so in this instance.

Josephine set aside the booklet and stood up quickly, smoothing her skirts and trying hard to mask her alarm. George was rarely emotional about anything; if Frederick thought he was
distraught
, then something was wrong. “I’ll see to this. Could you bring tea, please? And maybe the brandy, too,” she added, just in case something was really
wrong
. George was not one who allowed himself to get upset over anything. He lived a rather calm life. A boring life, one might say. Like clockwork, his twice-weekly visits were always on the same days at the same time. Any changes to that schedule were due to his very occasional trips to his family’s estate in the country or a fencing match at Angelo’s Academy.

Perhaps he had come to end their relationship, Josephine considered. Or he had met someone he wanted to court. He’d always said he would not keep a mistress if he married.

Hurrying to the elegant townhouse’s small vestibule, Josephine found George, hat in hand, his back against the front door, his dark blue eyes closed. Not a particularly handsome man and even less so now that his face was a picture of pain, some would say George appeared haggard, as if his cheeks were about to slide off and take the outer edges of his eyes with them. But when he smiled, Josephine considered George to be one of the most handsome men in London. He wore his sable hair cut short and sometimes combed forward; otherwise, the top would be tousled from his running his fingers through it as he did when he removed his hat. His six-foot frame was that of a fencer, lean but sculpted with muscle, his broad shoulders and chest tapering down to a somewhat narrower waist and hips. The buckskin breeches he favored fit as if Weston himself had sewn them. The navy blue topcoat was made of the highest quality superfine. Bronzed from having spent too much time out of doors, George did not look like a typical aristocrat.

But then, until that morning, he wasn’t one.

As Josephine rushed to meet him, he pushed himself away from the door. He wrapped his arms around his mistress at the very moment she lifted her arms to his shoulders. “Oh, George, what has happened?” she whispered, putting as much sympathy into her voice as she could manage. She felt his face press against her hair, felt his arms tighten around her so that she could hardly breathe. And when she felt his heart beat against her bosom, she realized its rhythm was much faster than usual.

He held her like that for several seconds before he could say anything. “Uncle has died,” he croaked, his voice so husky Josephine didn’t recognize it. His back pressed against the door, as if he needed the solid surface to hold him up.

Never in her eight years as George’s mistress had Josephine ever seen him so ...
distraught
. She allowed him to continue holding her, the fronts of their bodies pressed against one another. It was not unlike the nights they spent in her bed, holding one another close after frenzied lovemaking, as if they had to hang on to each other for dear life or risk losing themselves in the splintered aftermath.

And then she realized the larger implication of his simple statement.
Uncle has died
. Joseph Bennett-Jones, Viscount Bostwick. A viscount who was married briefly and then was left a widower upon his wife’s death during childbirth. Although the son she bore him survived his birth, a fever took the child’s life during his fourth year. The viscount never remarried. For a few Seasons after that, quiet gossip suggested he preferred the company of men. As his only nephew and an orphan since his twelfth year, George had been his uncle’s heir apparent for nearly twenty years.