The Kiss of a Viscount (The Daughters of the Aristocracy) (7 page)

Chapter 7
Daughters Consider Matrimony and Bonnets

September 1815

“So, will you accept the earl’s suit? You must know there is talk that he will ask for your hand,” Lady Charlotte spoke softly, leaning sideways a bit so that she wouldn’t be overheard by a passing shopper. Arm in arm, she and Lady Elizabeth strolled along New Bond Street, stopping at nearly every window to marvel at the colorful displays. Their maids trailed behind, both bored by the tedium of following their mistresses on their day of shopping for the first ball of the Little Season.

Elizabeth paused in mid-step, surprised by her best friend’s comment. “What have you heard?” she gasped, glancing about to be sure no one had overheard Charlotte’s comment. “And from whom?”

The honey-haired beauty pulled Elizabeth into the closest shop, where bonnets were artfully perched on a series of shelves. “I was at hospital today ...”

“You’re
always
at hospital,” Elizabeth countered with a teasing roll of her aquamarine eyes. “I am beginning to believe that Joshua was never in a fire, and that he and you are simply using the place to meet for secret assignations.”

Charlotte’s eyes widened in shock. “Elizabeth! How dare you?” she exclaimed, her gloved hand immediately covering her mouth as she realized she could be overheard by anyone in the shop. The fact that they were the only two people in the shop, besides the bespectacled owner who stood at the counter reading a copy of that morning’s
The Times
, did not seem to register.

Elizabeth didn’t mean what she said, of course. Her friend had been a volunteer at St. Bartholomew’s Hospital for several years, spending most of her time there tending to ill children. Lately, though, Charlotte had been spending several hours a day at Joshua Wainwright’s bedside whilst he lay in St. Bart’s. Even if the man was unconscious all of the time, Elizabeth worried that the impropriety would start tongues wagging among the town gossips. 

Charlotte sighed. “I assure you, I merely ... when I am not seeing to patients, I sit by his bed. He is completely unaware of my presence!” she hissed. She wasn’t about to admit she held Joshua’s undamaged hand when no one was about, or that she spoke in low tones to him about the happenings in London. The man was rarely conscious, and when he was, he was in so much pain it brought tears to her eyes.

“I apologize,” Elizabeth said suddenly. “It was wrong of me to make light of his situation.” Her expression took on a look of appropriate guilt. “Lottie, he will be alright, you must know. And when you turn one-and twenty, you shall go to him and become his bride.”

Charlotte gasped, surprised by her friend’s insistent tone. “You really believe I will just ... go to him and
offer
myself as his betrothed?”

It was Elizabeth’s turn to show surprise. “Why, of
course
you will. You went off and rescued him from certain death in that backwater village!” she countered, as if that kind of bold action was something Charlotte Bingham did on a daily basis. What did it matter that the Earl of Torrington had provided assistance in the form of his traveling coach-and-four? “You do ... feel
affection
for Joshua, do you not? You always have. We always knew he was better suited for you than his brother John. And given what has happened, he will need a strong wife who has been training to be a duchess for her entire life. That’s
you
, Lottie,” she stated firmly. “There can be no other wife for Joshua Wainwright.”

Charlotte stared at Elizabeth for several seconds, struck by her words. For a long time, she hadn’t been certain her friend was aware of her desire to wed Joshua, even in his current state. And the comment about Joshua needing a strong wife only served to reinforce her desire to see herself wed to the duke. “Thank you,” she whispered, her head nodding as if she had been doubting her fate.

“Of course,” Elizabeth replied with a lift of one shoulder. “Now that we have your future worked out, please, Lottie, tell me what you have heard regarding Gabriel,” Elizabeth pleaded, her voice kept in a near whisper.

Charlotte did her best to suppress a gasp at hearing her friend refer to the Earl of Trenton by his first name. Elizabeth Carlington could be the most frustrating of friends. As the daughter of a marquess, she’d been raised to expect a life of luxury and marriage to a member of the
ton
. Those who knew her as well as Charlotte did were well aware that Elizabeth was not nearly as spoiled rotten as her behavior would sometimes suggest. She was dedicated to her mother’s charities, some of which could be construed as inappropriate for a woman of her station, and she was kind to the household staff at Carlington House. Everyone thought her beautiful, if for no other reasons than her captivating, almond-shaped eyes and auburn hair. Last spring, she had started her third Season in Society and had decided that this was the year she would accept an offer of marriage.

With the Little Season about to begin, it left her with just a few months to land a man. But referring to the Earl of Trenton as ‘Gabriel’ seemed a bit too familiar to Charlotte Bingham.

“Gabriel?” Charlotte repeated in surprise. “Has he given you permission to address him that way?” she wondered with a hint of shock, moving down one aisle of the hat shop to look at the bonnets.

Elizabeth shrugged. “He took me for a ride in Hyde Park last week and requested I save the first waltz for him at Lord Weatherstone’s ball,” she said quietly, her eyes dancing in delight at sharing the news. “I said I would, of course,” she added as she glanced about the shop, apparently just then realizing it was a hat shop. “Oh, I really must find a suitable bonnet for my old carriage gown,” she murmured as she wandered from Charlotte’s side. “Something to make it appear newer than it is.”

Charlotte rolled her eyes before shaking her head. She’d spent most of her life preparing to be a duchess, having been betrothed to Joshua’s older brother since she was three. There was a kind of security in knowing who she would marry, and she’d felt a bit of relief in not having to participate in the annual Marriage Mart. But now that John Wainwright was dead and his younger brother had the title of Duke of Chichester, Charlotte was no longer so sure of her own future. Elizabeth’s words had helped to reassure her, though, as only a good friend could do. So, in a sing-song voice, Charlotte said, “I heard from Penelope Winstead Seward, who said she spoke with Lady Asheford, who apparently heard from Lady Worthington that Gabriel Wellingham’s
mother
was especially happy that her
son
had decided this was the year he would marry, and that he had decided to pursue the daughter of a certain
marquess
that wielded a good deal of power in Parliament.” At Elizabeth’s amused expression and quick wave, she followed her friend through to the back of the shop. “And then Hannah Slater’s father mentioned it last night during dinner,” Charlotte added, almost as an afterthought, her voice returning to its normal rhythm and pitch. 

Lady Elizabeth paused before trying on a jaunty bonnet of deep green velvet adorned with peacock feathers. “Good heavens,” she replied, her eyes wide. “The Marquess of Devonville mentioned it?” she asked in disbelief, the bonnet falling to one side of her head. She caught it in her gloves hands before it fell off completely. “Oh, dear. This is happening much faster than I thought it might,” she added when she saw Charlotte’s raised eyebrow.

“Oh, taradiddle! You’ve known for the past
week
he would ask for your hand,” Charlotte scolded, suddenly wondering at which social engagement the two had originally met.

“I did not,” Elizabeth protested, her voice carrying a bit more than she intended. The man at the counter – Elizabeth was fairly certain his name was Mr. Peabody – glanced up from his reading to give them a curious look. “I merely ... suspected,” Elizabeth added, holding the feathered bonnet as if it were a weapon. “And if I must marry someone, why not Gabriel Wellingham? I rather adore his blond curls, and those blue eyes, and the ten thousand a year I hear he’s worth,” she said in a voice that clearly mocked the way debutantes talked. “And being a countess seems like a perfectly acceptable way to spend married life, don’t you suppose?”

Charlotte smiled at her friend’s description of the earl. She might have agreed, but having listened to Lady Hannah’s father complain about the man through two courses of last night’s dinner party, she was having doubts. When she and Lady Hannah left their parents to play cards after the men had enjoyed their port and cheroots, Hannah mentioned how her father, the Marquess of Devonville, had voiced similar complaints about the Earl of Trenton for the past week. Apparently, Gabriel Wellingham’s youth and lack of decorum in the House of Lords was a distraction, and his political views were at odds with her father as well as Lady Elizabeth’s father, the Marquess of Morganfield. “Why, Lady Elizabeth, I cannot believe you would settle for something less than a duke,” Charlotte teased then, her grin betraying her mock seriousness.

Elizabeth’s eyes widened. “Unlike you, Lady Charlotte, we can’t all be
duchesses
,” she countered happily, a flush turning her face a soft pink as she considered Charlotte’s news.

So the earl may offer for my hand!

The gossip was merely confirmation of what she already suspected. Gabriel Wellingham had been quite attentive these past two weeks, ever since he had returned to London from summering in Staffordshire. During their drive in Hyde Park, the earl had requested she reserve a waltz with him at Lord Weatherstone’s ball. The rest of their conversation had been the usual banter about weather and fashion before he began extolling the virtues of his new horse and a phaeton he had on order, the renovation work he was having done to Wellingham Manor in Staffordshire, and his good fortune in securing an appointment with Hoby for a new pair of boots. It was only when he seemed to run out of safe topics to discuss that he asked about what she had done over the summer. As she briefly described her three weeks at the Morganfield estate and the week in Bath, she was sure she saw genuine interest on the part of the earl.

Never mind that most of it seemed aimed at her bosom.

Gabriel Wellingham was a man, after all, and she’d been told by her mother that most men were attracted to women with ample breasts. Her mother seemed to know such things with a degree of certainty that sometimes made Elizabeth wonder
how
she knew.

“Will your father even
allow
you to marry the earl?” Charlotte asked in a quiet voice. “If I understand what Father said, and hearing the Marquess of Devonville say it, too, the Earl of Trenton does not share your father’s political views.” She spotted a dark blue riding bonnet and was admiring the decoration attached to it when she realized Elizabeth was suddenly uncomfortable. “What is it?”

Sighing, Elizabeth pursed her lips. “I do not believe Father would begrudge me the groom of my choice,” she said very carefully. “But I do wish he would at least ... take an
interest
in whom I might marry,” she added, her attention going back to the bonnet she held. Unlike Charlotte, a marriage had not been arranged for her, nor had her father made suggestions regarding possible matches. If it was up to her to choose, she would do so based on the suitor’s title, his annual income, and whether or not she found him to have a pleasant countenance. There was the hope he could please her in other ways, as well, but she rather doubted she could expect so much in just one man.  

“Be careful what you wish for,” Charlotte whispered as she leaned towards Elizabeth’s ear. “My father is suddenly showing entirely
too
much interest in my situation. Despite the arrangement he made with the Wainwrights, I do not believe he wants me to marry the Duke of Chichester.” She straightened, her worried look completely at odds with her earlier joy at sharing her news about the Earl of Trenton.

“Why ever not?” Elizabeth asked, her aquamarine eyes as wide as they could be. “You’re to be a duchess, for goodness sake!” Charlotte had been betrothed to the heir to the dukedom since she was three! Just because the older brother was deceased did not mean she couldn’t marry the younger brother – the man Elizabeth knew to be Charlotte’s true love.

“Father has heard the
on-dit
. He believes Joshua will never recover enough to assume his duties,” Charlotte explained, her voice rising enough so that the man at the counter looked their way again.

Elizabeth forced her face to remain impassive. She had heard the very same gossip. “But, he will. Won’t he?” Elizabeth stammered, suddenly not so sure.
What if the gossip was true?
She’d been wondering if Charlotte’s expectations for Joshua Wainwright’s recovery weren’t just a bit too high. What if Joshua didn’t recover? Charlotte was due to marry when she reached one-and-twenty, just six months from now. If Joshua could not fulfill his duties as a duke, perhaps it was better that Charlotte be married to someone else. Another year or two and she would be too old to be considered biddable for most titled gentlemen.

The crestfallen look on Charlotte’s face made Elizabeth want to take back her query, though. “I apologize, Charlotte. Please forgive me,” Elizabeth whispered quickly. “I hear such terrible things, but you
see
him every day ...”

“He
will
recover,” Charlotte assured her, her head nodding quickly. “I have seen to it he has the very best doctor, and there is a nurse – a nun, actually – who sits with him when I cannot. The physician said that since Joshua has survived this long, he will live. Another week and he’ll be past the worst of the pain.”

Elizabeth gasped at the suggestion that Joshua Wainwright was still suffering. It had been several weeks since the fire. “I am relieved to hear you say so. You ... you haven’t said as much, at least to those who ask after him. Perhaps you must be more forthcoming with what you know,” she suggested, realizing Charlotte’s information was more hopeful than most had heard. “And you must be more forthcoming about his improving state. In fact, you must
start
your own gossip!”

A pink flush spread over Charlotte’s face, the young woman obviously uncomfortable by her friend’s suggestion. Gossip could be a hurtful, damaging tool when used by those out to destroy someone. But perhaps it could also be used to good affect.

“I .. I suppose I must,” she agreed finally. “Yes, in fact, I think I shall have to, if for no other reason than to be sure my father hears the good news of Joshua’s recovery from someone other than me.”