The Kiss of a Viscount (The Daughters of the Aristocracy) (3 page)

Chapter 4
Lessons of a Mistress

June 1815

“Now, there are some rules I think you should learn, George,” Josephine said just before she nodded to the footman who was filling her breakfast plate with coddled eggs and a rasher of bacon.

George cocked an eyebrow in response, wondering what she had in mind for his next lesson. For the three months they would spend in Horsham, Josephine had already seen to it he had a stack of reading material ready for his perusal as well as a dance instructor to teach him the cotillion, quadrille and waltz. He had grown up performing the contradances, the dances done longways, and announced with some derision that he had no intention of doing them in order to court a lady of the
ton
. “How am I supposed to carry on a conversation with a lady if I’m constantly changing partners?” he argued successfully. “Better I escort her to the supper or converse with her by a potted palm.”

Josephine rolled her eyes but didn’t argue the point. “How will you introduce yourself to the lady?” she asked as she helped herself to a piece of toast from his plate.

“My lady, I am George Bennett-Jones, at your service,” he replied as he mimed lifting one of the woman’s hand to his lips and kissing the back of it.

“Oh, that’s good,” Josephine commented, patting his knuckles. “No one need know you have a title until it becomes necessary for them to know. Use it as a last resort.”

George raised an eyebrow. “Really?” he replied, not quite believing her comment.

“It will come in handy when you need assistance from the hired help, of course. Butlers may not allow you into a lord’s home unless you give your title.” She took a sip of coffee. “Now, when you’re in conversation with a lady, you must make her feel as if she is the only woman in the room.”

Pausing before putting a forkful of eggs into this mouth, George considered her words. “And if I am in conversation with more than one woman?”

His mistress regarded him with a bit of surprise. “Oh, my,” she replied, her face displaying her amusement. “Then you must make them feel as if they are the only
women
in the world. Maintain eye contact. Appear as interested as you possibly can. Even if you’re bored to tears and want nothing more than to make haste to the card room.”

George frowned. “I wouldn’t necessarily make haste to the card room even if I was bored,” he countered. Cards sometimes bored him more than standing next to a potted palm at a
ton
ball. At least he could watch those in attendance from the relative safety of the plant. That was far more entertaining than looking at a handful of cards and making bets on their worth.

Josephine ignored the comment, not having been in public with George to know how he really behaved. “So, what do you say to a lady when you first meet her? After the introductions, of course?”

Opening his mouth to respond, George suddenly closed it and thought for a moment. He thought of conversations he overhead at the few Society events he had attended. “You appear in fine health. Is that a new bonnet, perhaps? Your gown is stunning. Is that silk de Naples? Or Indian silk? And from where did you purchase that lovely corset I see when I peek down your bodice?”

Covering her mouth with a hand, Josephine let out a giggle. “George!” she admonished him. “Really, there’s no need to comment on the
fabric
of a lady’s gown.” When George’s eyebrows lifted, she added, “Or on the corset. And never let a lady know you’ve looked down her bodice.” She thought a moment, her brows furrowing. “Unless she’s a widow, in which case she may welcome your glance in that direction.”

“Josie!” It was George’s turn to admonish his mistress, surprised she would make such a claim. “If I’m not to make mention of her gown or her cleavage, what can I say?”

The older woman regarded him for a moment and cocked her head to one side. “Keep your compliments light, and be self-deprecating when it makes sense to do so.”

George sighed. “I can do that,” he replied with a nod, his attention on the sideboard. “So, once I have complimented her on the color of her gown, and I’ve made a fool of myself by being self-deprecating, then I suppose I need to ensure the conversation continues.”

Straightening in her chair, Josephine smiled. “Oh. You’re doing very well, George!”

He gave her a look of uncertainty. When was the last time he’d carried on a conversation with a member of the fairer sex? Other than with Josephine, of course? “And how should I proceed?” he asked, his face screwing up into an expression of pain.

Sighing, Josephine replied, “Ask questions that show you are truly interested. And then
listen
to their replies.”

George considered her words. “Did you finish reading the pamphlet on the Corn Laws?” he asked suddenly, his brow furrowing. “I should like to know your opinion.”

His mistress raised her eyebrows at the apparent change in topic. “They are ... extremely unfair and quite costly for the general population of England,” she responded carefully, repositioning herself in her chair so that she faced him more squarely.

“And how do you propose the situation be changed?”

Josephine regarded George with surprise. She sat very still for a moment, seeming to collect her thoughts. “The laws must be repealed. The inflated prices of English-grown corn is forcing those who are already poor into considering an uprising. This country cannot survive what happened to the French monarchy,” she spoke, leaning toward him as she did so.

“I will ask the Lord Chancellor to add the topic to our agenda when our session resumes in September. I will do what I can,” George promised with a nod. After a pause, one in which he kept his attention on Josephine, he then asked, “How did I do?”

Her mouth dropping open in astonishment, Josephine realized George had merely been practicing his conversational skills with a topic he knew she would interesting. “Oh, George. I do believe you can converse with the best of them. Just remember, most chits aren’t going to know a Corn Law from a cob of corn. Better you keep the topic on something like ... the theatre or the latest fashions from Paris.”

Shrugging, George finished the slice of toast Josephine had abandoned on his plate and took another sip of coffee. “What else?” He knew his mistress had other suggestions, other recommendations for how he could increase his chances with a lady of the
ton
. Better he get them all out of her today so that he had the summer to practice.

Josephine cocked her head to one side. “My poor little dog has disappeared, George, and I am simply unconsolable. Boo-hoo,” she said in a whiny voice that could have belonged to just about any debutante in the
ton
.

George blinked once. Twice. He shook his head.

Sighing loudly, Josephine took a deep breath. “Offer condolences when appropriate, help when needed, and be a knight in shining armor whenever given the opportunity.”

Holding up a hand to indicate he understood, George nodded once and then gave her his most sympathetic expression. “My dear Josie, you must be beside yourself with worry. I know how much you love that little ... Brutus,” he guessed at a name, hiding his amusement when Josie rolled her eyes. “Whatever can I do to help? I can take you in my curricle and we can search for Brutus together. I shan’t give up until he is safely back ... in your arms, my lady. And when he is, we shall see to it he has another to keep him company so he will not run off again,” he intoned, placing his hand on Josephine’s arm and giving it a reassuring nudge.

Josephine grinned. Then her smile broadened. “Bravo, George. Always promise her more. I do believe you’ll be ready for the Little Season.”

George sat back in his chair and sighed as if the lesson had taken every bit of energy he had in him. “God, help me,” he whispered. “This had better be worth it.” A footman entered the breakfast room, a newly ironed copy of
The Times
in his hands. “Ah, a newspaper,” he said, hoping Josephine’s interest would be redirected to it. He held out his hand and the footman handed it over, bowing as he did so. George nodded in his direction and turned his attention to the headlines. He hid his initial astonishment from his mistress, thinking that, for once, he actually knew something she wouldn’t yet know in the world of politics. Napoleon Bonaparte had just lost a battle at Waterloo to a coalition of forces led by Wellington and von Bluecher. The tyrant had finally been defeated. Perhaps this time they would see to his death so that he couldn’t escape and continue his war on England.

When George glanced back at Josephine, he noted how his mistress looked a bit crestfallen, but at the moment he couldn’t give her his full attention. The war against France was over, which meant his best friend would be returning soon – if he had survived. He barely heard Josephine’s words. “Of course, it will be worth it, George. Especially since I intend for you to marry a woman perfectly suited to you,” she said rather carefully. “Most debutantes are not going to be acceptable to you. I realize that. Which means you need to have your sights on a woman who can challenge you a bit.”

He looked up from his copy of the week-old paper and regarded his mistress with a cocked eyebrow. “Does one actually exist that meets
your
approval?” he wondered, deciding he would allow her to read the paper and learn of the news herself.

“Yes, actually. I have in mind a woman I think you should marry,” Josephine replied as she watched George’s reaction.

Damn! She’s already vetted someone!
“Playing matchmaker now, are you?” he accused, his manner not showing the least bit of humor.
Why is she bringing this up now?
he wondered. They wouldn’t be back in London for a few months, and then it would be another two weeks or more before the Little Season started. His gaze settled back down onto the article he’d been reading and he wondered about his friend.

Josephine shrugged as if his comment held little merit. “Lady Elizabeth Carlington.”

George looked up from the paper again, his face taking on a look of concentration, as if he was trying to recall a mental image of the woman Josephine named when all he could really think of was Teddy Streater. Had his friend survived? Would he be returning to England’s shores soon? Perhaps he was already back in London. When the man had last been in town, George was still just a nephew to a viscount. He rather hoped his title wouldn’t preclude Teddy from renewing their friendship. The man was a perfect fencing partner, and he shared George’s dislike of the gaming tables. “I don’t think I have had the pleasure,” he finally responded with a shake of his head, just then realizing Josephine was waiting for a response. He had to admit to a bit of curiosity about the chit, though. Josephine wouldn’t have suggested Elizabeth Carlington if she hadn’t done her research on the girl.

Sighing, Josephine leaned forward. “If you would have attended at least one
ton
ball during the past three Seasons, you would not be able to make that claim,” she stated firmly.

George leaned back in his chair and regarded his mistress. “Carlington? As in the Marquess of Morganfield?” he wondered, trying to imagine if he’d ever seen David Carlington in the company of a daughter. He realized he’d only ever seen the marquess in White’s and once or twice at Angelo’s Academy. The man was decent on the piste and could be an exceptional fencer if he practiced more.

“The very one,” Josephine replied, taking a sip from her teacup. From where she sat, she could tell that George was giving her suggestion some thought.

“Was this his idea or yours?” he asked then, folding the paper and placing it next to his plate. So much for catching up on old news, he considered, rubbing his eyelid with a forefinger.

Josephine made a sound that hinted at her impatience with him. “Mine, of course. Morganfield doesn’t know yet.”

“But you’re going to tell him.” It wasn’t a question. George knew of Josephine’s occasional visits to Carlington House to apprise the marquess of her latest deductions on the political and social happenings in England. She’d been doing it since before George knew her, and she’d been upfront about her intention to continue doing so even after Joseph Bennett-Jones arranged for her exclusive services on  George’s behalf.

“I will ...
discover
if arrangements for his daughter have been made. And, if not, I will make the suggestion. Unless you’d rather me not,” she added, suddenly acting as a submissive wife might.

One of George’s eyebrows cocked into an arch. This wasn’t like Josephine. Not at all. “Not having met the chit,  I cannot yet find fault with your plan. However, Josie,” he added, his voice taking on a tone of warning. “Should Miss Carlington ...”

“Lady Elizabeth,” Josephine corrected him.

“Should Lady Elizabeth turn out to be some spineless milk water maid who faints at every turn and frequently suffers from vapours, then I shall demand your hand in marriage as recompense.”

His mistress stared at him for a full second, stunned that George Bennett-Jones could be so ...
persuasive
... when he needed to be. “I assure you, George, Lady Elizabeth will never be mistaken for a milk water maid, she probably hasn’t fainted a single time in her entire life and, as for vapours, none of us seems to know what that even
means
, so I rather doubt she has succumbed to them, either.”

Grinning at her insistent tone, George nodded. “Then I suppose I must look forward to the day Lady Elizabeth and I are introduced.” Seeing Josephine’s look of satisfaction and conciliatory nod, George reopened
The Times
and returned to his reading.