The Kiss of a Viscount (The Daughters of the Aristocracy) (32 page)

The parlor door opened, the tea cart rolling in ahead of a maid. Gabriel sighed loudly and stepped back to allow the cart to pass between he and Elizabeth.

Pursing her lips to stifle a grin, Elizabeth nodded to the maid. “I can serve, Rose. Thank you.”

Reluctantly, Rose made her way out of the room, not bothering to shut the door as she left.

“Tea?” Elizabeth asked as she lifted the pot and prepared to pour a cup for the earl.

The Earl of Trenton seemed to have a debate with himself, his attention again on the open door. “Uh, no, thank you,” he responded. His nervousness was suddenly noticeable.

“A biscuit, perhaps?” Elizabeth offered, lifting the plate of lemon confections from the cart.
He is squirming
, she thought, surprised that a man who displayed such confidence in a crowded ballroom could be
nervous
.

Gabriel regarded the biscuits and then shook his head. “No. None for me, thank you,” he commented, waving his hand as if the plate was offensive to him.

Stunned that he would turn down both the tea and biscuits, Elizabeth angled her head. “Something else, perhaps?” she wondered. “I can have Cook make you something,” she suggested, an expression of concern on her face. It was only polite to at least accept tea, she considered.
Although, he looks like he needs a brandy!

His eyes rolling skyward, Gabriel took another deep breath. “No, thank you, Lady Elizabeth. As I said, I ...” He stopped and glanced back toward the open door. He lifted a finger and then moved to close it himself.

A bit alarmed, and suddenly aware they were
alone
behind closed doors, Elizabeth set aside her tea cup and straightened on the settee. “My lord, whatever is
the matter
?” she asked as Gabriel repositioned himself, although he could not stand directly in front of her as the tea cart took up some of the space. An image of the night he kissed her suddenly filled her mind’s eye.

Was Gabriel about to try to kiss her now?

“Is it true, milady, that you have let an office in Oxford Street for the purpose of performing ...
work
?” he finally got out, his arms crossing in front of his body. His head was shaking as if he knew it couldn’t be true.

“I have let an office in Oxford Street for the purpose of doing
charity work
, yes,” Elizabeth responded demurely, wondering where he’d learned of her charity’s location.

Gabriel’s eyes widened, but the response left him speechless for a moment. “Oh,” he finally said, straightening. “That’s ... very noble,” he offered, apparently not prepared for the answer to be what it was. A bit of air seemed to go out of him. “And, have you done this charity
work
for a long time?” He seemed to have great difficulty with the word
work
, as if saying it was somehow foreign to his lips.

Elizabeth poured herself a cup of tea. “Not long at all. But I take great pride in having been able to help those that have already benefited,” she offered with a smile. She deliberately kept her answer vague, hoping the earl wouldn’t press her for more details. What could she tell him? She had only placed six soldiers into various positions and, as of this morning, nine others were pending. That didn’t sound particularly successful.

He seemed placated by the answer, but he still seemed ill at ease. And agitated. “My lord, what has upset you so? Please tell me, what is wrong?” Elizabeth pressed. Perhaps she had guessed wrong and that the earl would not be supportive of her charity.

“Nothing is
wrong
exactly,” he replied a bit curtly, shifting his shoulders in the rather tight-fitting top coat he wore. The dark puce, Elizabeth suddenly realized, was a color that did little to enhance the earl’s current complexion. One of his hands was gripping his hip while the other was raised, as if he wished to make an important point.

Elizabeth wondered if he took that stance when he was speaking in chambers.  

“Well, there is something wrong, but it has no bearing on my presence here,” he said, his manner suddenly a bit cross.

Elizabeth’s eyes widened at his odd response.
Why is he so agitated?
Even in his current state, he was as handsome as she’d ever seen him, his blond curls a bit wild about his face, one lock curling on his forehead.
Will he always be more beautiful than me?
she wondered. What had he said?
My own beauty requires a woman with at least as much to match my own
. Surely, he’d said it in jest.

Or had he?

Would he always dress better than she did? She thought of the other men she’d seen that week. George wouldn’t be caught dead wearing puce. Or apple green. He wore impeccably tailored suits in dark superfine and conservative waistcoats. He wasn’t flamboyant.
Please think of your future happiness ...  and not just the money or the title
, he’d said just yesterday. He’d had the same mistress for eight years and was quitting her to marry. Quitting her because he intended to honor his marriage vows. At the thought of the mistress, one of Josephine’s comments about Trenton’s mistresses came to mind. And a sudden realization washed over her.

She could not marry this man.

It didn’t matter if he was an earl, or if he was rich as Croesus, or blond and blue-eyed or that he dressed better than her and all her friends combined.

I cannot marry this man
.

Before she realized it, the words were out of her mouth. “Oh, dear, did one of your mistresses quit you?” she asked in a manner suggesting she was truly concerned, a sympathetic smile touching her lips as her head cocked to one side.

“Yes, damn it, and she was ...” Gabriel stopped speaking and stared at Elizabeth, shock evident on his suddenly flushed face. “How did .. what do
you
know of my mistresses?” he demanded, his brows drawn together to form a single line on his forehead. The expression gave him a comical look, one that Elizabeth promised to remember for the rest of her days. How had she not noticed this level of vanity before? How had she been able to ignore his quick anger and the sense of entitlement he seemed to exhibit when around others?

Classically handsome men were obviously given too much latitude, she realized then. They didn’t have to
work
to earn the consideration of an unattached female.

And having buckets of blunt didn’t help the matter, either. 

“Oh, goodness, Gabriel,” she said as she waved her hand in a dismissive motion. “You’re an
earl
. Let’s see. You’re left with, what? Just the two now?” Elizabeth countered, not allowing the earl’s apparent surprise to affect her own rising disgust. She rather liked addressing him by his given name just then, too, especially in a tone that was almost a scold.

Gabriel’s mouth was open in surprise and something else. “How ... how
dare
you?” was all he could say in response.

“They must cost you a
fortune
!” Elizabeth continued, as if she hadn’t heard his admonishment. “And I don’t know
how
you can keep them all
satisfied
,” she continued, just now noticing the earl’s reddened face. She certainly felt satisfied at the affect her words were having on him. “Oh, wait, you
cannot
. That must be why the one quit you,” she stated in the same sweet tone she would use if she were discussing the weather. “Now, tell me Gabriel, why was it you’ve come calling?”

“Why, you little ...”

Elizabeth was on her feet in a instant. “Don’t you
dare
!” she interrupted him, her own rising anger so quick it surprised even her.
You disgusting pig
, she wanted to add, but thought it would be too unladylike to say aloud. Why discussing mistresses was somehow acceptable in her own mind could have only been because she’d been in the presence of a perfectly acceptable one the evening before. The mistress who had seen to it she had the ammunition she needed at this very moment to most thoroughly discomfit the earl.
Brava, Josephine!

Gabriel jumped back a step, startled that she would stand up to him. “Milady, I ...” He paused, noticed her expression, one that suggested he would be better off taking his leave of Carlington House or risk being hit by a flying objet d’art.

Such as the porcelain vase that graced the table next to where she stood. The one that held the mums he’d given her only moments ago.

“I have an appointment,” he stated suddenly, his gaze flitting to the vase and back to Elizabeth. “Thank you for the ... hospitality,” he added, backing his way toward the door, visibly swallowing. “I will see my way out.”

Elizabeth’s eyes shot daggers before she called out, “Really, Gabriel. You need to
smile
. You have no idea how
lucky
you are at this moment.”

Lucky she didn’t have a loaded pistol.

Lucky there weren’t any servants to see how she’d given him the cut direct.

Lucky he wasn’t about to be betrothed to a woman who knew what she wanted in life and went after it.

After a hasty bow, the earl did indeed show himself out the door, a tentative smile pasted on his face.

A moment later, Elizabeth was aware of the front door closing rather loudly.

She stared at the parlor door, stunned at what had happened.

Stunned at what the earl had nearly said.
Bitch
?

And even more stunned at what
she had
said.

Sinking into the velvet settee, Elizabeth hung her head and placed her suddenly trembling hands on either side of her face. “Oh, what have I done?” she wondered, tears pricking the edges of the eyes. “What have I done?”

Gabriel Wellingham could not get out of Carlington House fast enough. Once he was through the front door, he paused on the stoop and took a deep breath before descending the stairs to his phaeton. His smile wasn’t one of mirth or pleasure but one forced by the last words he’d heard Lady Elizabeth state before he removed himself from the parlor.
You need to smile. You have no idea how lucky you are at this moment.

Indeed, he was lucky he had avoided asking a
shrew
for her hand in marriage! How had he misjudged her so? He thought she would be the perfect accomplice in his ploy to embarrass the Marquess of Morganfield. A beautiful, brainless woman more concerned about appearances and money than her father’s political career. A year or two of political maneuverings, social set downs and manipulative gossip, and he’d take the place of the disgraced marquess in Parliament, the man’s daughter an unknowing patsy standing by his side.

But what else had her words threatened would happen if they did wed? Her words were a warning, to be sure. Would she go public with what she knew of the mistress that had quit him the night before? Not that his having a mistress, or two or three, was somehow scandalous. But perhaps she knew of what he
discussed
with his mistresses. They were always so eager for him to talk, asking him leading questions about the proceedings in chambers, asking him about his political views, asking him what he thought of various and sundry aspects of life so that there was barely time for a tumble or two, and certainly no time for kissing.

Spies
! he thought suddenly. His mistresses were
spies
, sharing the information he was freely imparting to them with ... who? The French? Other members of Parliament? Elizabeth?

Gabriel vowed to end his contracts with both mistresses that very night. An expensive endeavor, he knew, remembering how much in pin money and rent he would need to pay to end the liaisons, but it was necessary.

He wasn’t about to suffer the same embarrassments he knew his rival had suffered so many years ago at the hands of a mistress who sold his secrets to the French. Better to sit quietly in chambers and allow the older lords to direct the proceedings. He could be patient, at least until another daughter of the
ton
, one whose father was somewhat powerful, appeared on the Marriage Mart in the next year or so. Then he could use her to gain the political power he so desperately wanted.

Chapter 28
Regrets

Lord Morganfield paused a moment before stepping over the threshold of the parlor. The rich scarlet and sea foam green upholstery fabrics were well suited to the darker cherry wood finishes of the furniture his wife had so carefully chosen when she’d redone the room years before. The year he decided he rather loved her, preferred her, in fact, to his long-time mistress. The year she’d borne his son – the heir to his title.

The boy was off to Eton now, presumedly getting an education, although David Carlington’s own time there had been spent in pulling pranks and avoiding getting caught while doing any number of things he shouldn’t have been doing. Thank the gods those days weren’t well documented; otherwise, he would not now be enjoying his career as a powerful member of Parliament.

But, at the moment, he stood in the doorway of his parlor in Carlington House gazing at his eldest, his daughter of one-and-twenty, who at breakfast had seemed somehow
different
from every other day they’d shared the morning meal – he reading
The Times
and her occasionally conversing about Society events and the latest fashions from Paris with her mother.

Never
gossip
, though, he realized suddenly.

Her mother might have enjoyed sharing the latest
on-dit
about town, but Elizabeth Carlington didn’t seem to share in the fascination of other people’s foibles and failures. She was more practical about everything, sure of what she wanted and usually quite good at getting it.

Not spoiled, necessarily, but determined.
Perhaps Bostwick knows her better than I do.
Not better, he argued with himself.
Perhaps he just knows a different side of her.

She was a daughter he could be proud of, he thought, remembering her commitment to her favorite charities, practical charities that didn’t necessarily attract the attention of the other ladies of the
ton
. And to the charity she had started with her own funds – a charity that, according to his sources, had already seen at least five clients placed into employment at a cost of nearly seventy pounds.

She didn’t behave like a hoyden (well, at least, he certainly had never
heard
she indulged in such behavior). And after being in Society for three Seasons, it seemed she had decided it was time to accept
someone’s
offer of marriage. At eight-and-twenty, the Earl of Trenton would seem the perfect match for an only daughter.

But not to him.

To Morganfield, Trenton came off a bit of a self-important ass, too rich and too beautiful to be taken too seriously, too vain to want as his son-in-law, and too eager to achieve political power. Wellingham had made a rather brusque remark to the marquess during the Weatherstone ball, implying that he had decided on Elizabeth because she was beautiful, and his own beauty required a woman with at least as much to match his own. Could the man be so addle-brained as to actually believe what he espoused?

But then the impertinent Trenton hadn’t even asked his
permission
to court his daughter.

And this afternoon, at exactly the moment it was fashionable to pay an afternoon call, the ass had shown up at his front door with flowers and a ring in hand, asking to see Elizabeth – “alone, if it can be arranged” – and asked for her hand in marriage.

At least, that’s what Lord Morganfield
thought
had happened.

He didn’t know exactly what had transpired, which is why he stood in the doorway to the parlor watching his beautiful daughter do a perfect imitation of a watering pot. It dawned on him that he hadn’t seen her cry in a very long time, and he suddenly wondered if she shed tears of joy or of sorrow.

It was always very difficult to determine until such time as the tears stopped flowing.

When Elizabeth finally looked up from her tear-soaked handkerchief and saw him regarding her, she let out one of her patented, “Oh,”s and stood up so quickly she nearly lost her balance and fell back down on the settee.

He hid the sudden grin that he felt tugging at the corners of his mouth and entered the room. Wrapping his arms around her shoulders, he hugged her and rubbed her back until her sobs subsided and he heard her whispered, “Oh, Father.”