The Kiss of a Viscount (The Daughters of the Aristocracy) (33 page)

Sorrow, then
, he realized. “Shh,” he whispered, kissing her temple and then her forehead as he pulled away. “Your mother used to cry like this,” he said quietly as he led her to his favorite wing chair and pulled her onto his lap. She let out another “Oh,” but he wasn’t sure if it was in reaction to her being pulled down onto his knee or surprise that her mother used to cry. “She always felt much better afterwards,” he added when she finally turned her tear-stained face to his. He took a deep breath and let it out. “I am ready now. You can tell me what happened,” he added, as if he’d had to gird himself for whatever bad news she had to share.

Elizabeth nodded and took a breath. “I may have done something truly terrible,” she said, a sob interrupting the ‘truly’ so that it came out in two parts.

Lord Morganfield sighed and leaned back into the chair. “Was it illegal?” he asked, an eyebrow cocked at an odd angle.

Her own eyebrows furrowed as she considered the question. “No,” she replied in a whisper. Her eyes suddenly widened. “Worse, I should think.”

Morganfield’s eyes widened and he held his breath. “Go on.”

“I allowed Gabriel to kiss me at Lord Weatherstone’s ball,” she blurted, holding her own breath as if waiting for her father’s rebuke. She was nearly blue in the face before she realized he wasn’t going to throttle her.

“And?” he finally prompted, withholding his opinion that the Earl of Trenton did indeed warrant arrest and possibly transport, but not because of a kiss.

“He kissed like Harold!” Elizabeth proclaimed with a suitable degree of disgust, hoping the analogy would help to get her point across.

At first, she thought she succeeded.

“
Harold
kissed you?” the marquess queried, one eyebrow rising on his forehead.

Elizabeth sniffled. “Harold is always kissing me. He’s very affectionate,” she added, suddenly feeling her father’s knees shift dangerously beneath her.

David Carlington blinked once. “Who is this Harold?” he wondered, his eyebrow still rather high.

“Harold MacDuff,” she replied quite matter-of-factly.

“Harold MacDuff?” he repeated, his eyes darting back and forth, as if he was having a hard time remembering if he’d ever met someone – anyone – by the name of Harold MacDuff.

“Hannah’s Harold,” she clarified, suddenly realizing her father didn’t remember Harold.

“Hannah’s Harold?” he repeated, his eyebrow climbing. No comprehension was evident in his expression, though.

Elizabeth nodded, a smile appearing. “Lady Hannah’s Harold. Harold MacDuff.”

Her father stared at her for a very long moment. “Does this Harold ... also kiss Hannah?” he wondered, his eyes darting about as if he was trying to follow the path of an annoying fly.

“Oh, all the time. He’s very affectionate.”

The knees under her jerked enough that Elizabeth felt she had to move to the ottoman in front of the chair or risk being dumped onto the floor. “And Hannah
allows
this?” her father wondered, the cocked eyebrow nearly into his hairline.

He was hoping that, with time, feeling would come back into knees.

His legs had gone to sleep.

“Well, of course. I think she’s rather
indulgent
, actually. She allows him to sleep in her bed with her.”

Lord Morganfield made a rather rude noise in his throat, and his other eyebrow joined the first in elevation. “Indeed?”

“I suppose it’s rather nice in the winter to have such a large, warm body to snuggle up to,” she commented lightly, thinking just then how wonderful it would be if she and George could share a bed in the winter. Or anytime, really.
Naked, in bed with George.
A frisson passed through her that made her suddenly feel rather warm and wonderful.

The marquess took a deep breath just as Adeline Carlington peeked into the parlor. “There are you,” she said with a bit of relief, her smile growing as she realized she’d found both her husband and her daughter apparently having a heart-to-heart talk. “I suppose I’m all on pins and needles,” she said brightly, her Italian accent barely evident. Then she noticed her husband’s obvious discomfort and her daughter’s tear-stained face. “Oh, my. Whatever’s happened?” she asked as her look of happiness was replaced with one of concern. She wrung her hands together at her waist.

“Harold MacDuff, it seems,” her husband replied, not yet able to stand up, a courtesy he usually performed when his wife, or any woman, for that matter, entered a room.

“Harold?” Adeline repeated, her eyebrows lifting. “Whatever has he done
now
?”

“He’s kissed our daughter!” the marquess nearly shouted.

Adeline’s face brightened again, displaying her straight white teeth. “Oh, he does that all the time,” she said with a wave of her hand. “He’s very affectionate. I don’t allow him to kiss
me
, of course, but I do let him lick my hand now and again. He never could hold his licker.” She tittered when she realized her clever pun.

A growl sounded from David Carlington, Marquess of Morganfield. “Who
is
this Harold MacDuff? And where do I find him?” Duels might be illegal in England, but at the moment, he didn’t care. He only wanted to get his hands on the man who had taken the liberty of kissing his daughter. And licking his wife.

Adeline frowned at her husband’s reaction. “He’s more of a
what
, really, darling. Harold is, oh, what
is
he again?” she asked as she turned to Elizabeth.

“An Alpenmastiff,” Elizabeth said with a nod. “I was just telling Father that Butter Blond kisses just like Harold.”

They both turned to the marquess to find his head in his hands, a mournful moan emanating from him.

Her mother suddenly straightened. “Who is Butter Blond?” she asked then, at which point Lord Morganfield slammed his hand down on the arm of his wing chair.

“Enough!” he yelled, causing both women to attain a moment of being airborne before landing quite suddenly with rather startled expressions on their faces. “Enough about Harold whoever. Who the hell is
Butter Blond
? And how many times has
he
kissed you?”

Adeline’s moment of shock passed quicker than Elizabeth’s as the parents both turned to their daughter. Her mouth had formed that perfect ‘o,’ and the look on her face showed her fright at having upset her father. “Forgive me. I know it’s a horrible nickname, but it ... it so
suits
Gabriel,” she said as her shoulders fell and her gaze lowered to her father’s feet. “And just the one time,” she added, remembering the rest of her father’s query.

Adeline sat down in a chair next to her husband. “You call Gabriel, ‘Butter Blond’?” she wondered, her lips pursing in attempt to prevent a grin from appearing. Lord Morganfield leaned back in his chair and allowed a burble of laughter to escape. “Do you use that expression as a term of endearment, my dear child?” he asked before another chuckle erupted.

“No, of course not,” she said with a shake of her head, wondering if her father would require a trip to Bedlam. “George mentioned it during Lady Worthington’s ball, and it just seemed such a suitable nickname ...”

The marquess regarded Elizabeth with a smile and a nod. And then another as he remembered how their conversation got started. “So, Gabriel Wellingham, the Earl of Trenton kisses like an Alpenmastiff, does he?”

Elizabeth sighed, her shoulders slumping. “Yes.”

Adeline gasped.

“And he licks like one, too,” Elizabeth added, a shake of disgust accompanying her comment.

Adeline fainted.

Lord Morganfield glanced in her direction and rolled his eyes.
At some point, this tidbit of information about Trenton could be helpful
. Perhaps in the political arena, although he could not quite figure how. He thought for a moment.
Lord Chancellor, I move the Earl of Trenton’s point on the matter be stricken from the record. The man kisses like Harold MacDuff and licks like him, too! 
It might make for a moment of humor – everyone knew they could use a bit more of
that
in chambers ... He shook himself out of his reverie to find his daughter’s aquamarine eyes wet with tears. “I take it you did not accept Trenton’s marriage proposal,” he stated with a curt nod.

Elizabeth shoulders shook with a sob. “He didn’t actually
ask
for my hand. I think I ... I may have offended him. But I wouldn’t have accepted if he had asked.”

Her father inhaled and let out the breath in a very slow, satisfying sigh. “Thank you for deciding to turn him down,” he said then, his own arms braced on the arms of the wing chair as if he had to ground himself.

Elizabeth’s aquamarine eyes widened again as she watched her father’s reaction. “You’re not ... disappointed in me?” she whispered then, swallowing a sob.

“No,” he replied rather quickly. “I am rather proud of you, in fact. But you simply must tell me why, because I’m sure I’ll be asked at least a dozen times at White’s tonight,” he paused and glanced at his still prone wife. “Or the theatre, and I should like to have the answer straight from your lips so that I might provide a suitable response.”

Sighing, Elizabeth stared at him for several seconds, trying to decide if she could tell him the real reason. But she couldn’t tell him about George. Not yet, anyway. “I don’t think you can tell the gentlemen at White’s why I turned down the earl,” she responded finally. At her father’s suddenly serious expression, she added, “It was mostly because he kisses like Lady Hannah’s dog.”

Morganfield’s eyebrows shot up, and up some more when he realized she was serious. “You truly turned down Trenton because he kisses like an Alpenmastiff?” he asked in astonishment, his amusement growing by the moment.

Not able to help herself, Elizabeth smiled, putting a hand over her mouth to hide it. “It was quite ... wet and slobbery, and then he
licked
my cheek ...” Her body shuddered as she remembered the experience. A sound of disgust escaped her, causing her to shake even more.

Her father was grinning like she’d never seen him grin before. “And this all happened during Weatherstone’s ball?” he asked with an eyebrow so cocked it nearly disappeared into his hairline. At Elizabeth’s nod and an expression that made her look as if she’d swallowed the cook’s concoction for coughs, Morganfield slowly nodded. “That wasn’t the
only
reason you turned him down, though,” he stated quite emphatically.

Sighing, Elizabeth rolled her eyes. “When I asked if he was agitated because one of his mistresses quit him, which I have on good authority that she did, he got quite upset. He still has
two
of them! He must have to pay them buckets of blunt for them to put up with his awful kisses. It’s a wonder he’s still rich!”

Lord Morganfield stared at his daughter, his mood suddenly serious again. “You asked him about his
mistress
?” he repeated, his head suddenly shaking from side to side. A look of ... was it disappointment? Astonishment? Or
pain
, perhaps, crossed his features. “You cannot ...” He paused and took a breath, sitting up a bit straighter in the chair. “It’s not done, Elizabeth,” he spoke quietly. “It’s simply not done.” Worrying the edge of his thumbnail between his teeth, he considered what a mistress had cost him early in his career, both politically, because she’d been a spy of sorts, and privately, because Adeline remained so emotionally distant those first few years. He’d felt as if he had no one to turn to when his world had come down around him. He’d had no one to blame but himself – well, he could blame the courtesan who relayed his pillow talk to a political enemy, but it was he who shared information with her that he had no business sharing with anyone outside of chambers. “But, I see your point,” he added, his attitude softening a bit as he pulled his thoughts to the present. He sighed rather loudly. “You must know, if had you accepted the earl’s suit, I would have had to disown you,” he said without a hint of humor. The idea of Trenton as his son-in-law had been so abhorrent, he could barely tolerate the thought of his daughter
dancing
with the man, let alone kissing him!

Her eyes widening, Elizabeth sniffled and stared at her father. “What did you say?”

The marquess took a deep breath. “Gabriel Wellingham is a threat to this country, my dear child.”

Her mouth forming that perfect ‘o’ again, she considered her father’s pronouncement. “Oh. I do hope you mean ... politically, and not because he is a spy for the French or an assassin out to kill Prinny or some such.”

“Wouldn’t surprise me in the least if he was,” her father retorted, his manner still suggesting he was serious. “Wouldn’t necessarily oppose the assassination, though,” he added under his breath.

Elizabeth pretended not to hear her father’s last comment. “Then, I suppose I am ... rather
glad
I did what I had to do.” She paused a moment. “Mother will not be, though.” Elizabeth regarded her father for a moment more, feeling not the least bit chastised by his words about mistresses. Lady Hannah might be able to abide them when she married, but Elizabeth had decided that whomever she married would not employ one. “Politics aside, Father, why
did
you want me to turn him down?” she wondered then, realizing there was more to his dislike of the earl than to what he had just admitted.

Morganfield leaned back into the chair and took a deep breath. “A matter of honor, I suppose,” he answered with a sigh. “He didn’t ask my permission to court you, and
he
didn’t tell me he was planning to ask for your hand.”

Her eyebrows shooting up at this bit of information, Elizabeth gasped. “He ... He didn’t? Then ... how did you
know
he would do so? You said so at breakfast!”

Her father shook his head. “Gossip, my girl. I heard the gossip,” he murmured, disgust still evident in his voice. He took a deep breath. “So, do
you
feel better?” he asked, his own mood lightening. “Because I certainly do.”

“Oh, much,” she replied with a nod, grinning as she wiped away the remains of her tears. Elizabeth thought a moment, a sob racking her body and causing her to hiccup. She regarded her father, saw that he seemed ... happy. “When you first came in, you said you had news,” she remembered suddenly. “Was ...
that
your news? That you were going to disown me?”

Her father smiled. Noticing hers had become a bit drippy, he held out his own handkerchief. “No, Elizabeth. Actually, I was going to let you know about another suitor for your hand,” he stated, leaning back in his chair. “In the event you needed a choice, although it’s apparent you didn’t. I don’t suppose
he’s
kissed you?” he asked rhetorically.