The Sullen Seamstress of Horenwall Manor: A Historical Regency Romance Novel

by Emma Linfield

  Norman rolled his eyes, “I’m half your size Belthyne, but I can hold my own. I may even beat you.”

  “Ah! That’s fighting talk! Put your fist where your mouth is and show me what you’ve got!” Radcliff said, his tone low and taunting.

  They exchanged punches that landed on bare skin with meaty thumps, and by close dodges escaped blows that would paint faces black and blue the coming morning.

  The sweat dripping from his forehead and the burn in his knuckles had elevated Norman’s mood. Racing Goliath did the same but there was just something more satisfactory in the hands-on approach of boxing.

  In the past three years and having spent time in the ring with the Scotsman, Norman knew that the Baron had unmatched strength and stamina. Radcliff could box his way to the following dawn if he was left to it, which was why Norman knew he had to end it quickly.

  He allowed himself to trade blows with his partner while focusing on his footwork and his plan for success. Radcliff had a pattern that Norman easily deciphered when he started it. He opened with a right jab, followed with a left uppercut and another right jab to prepare for his left roundhouse. His left side was left open as the right was in motion, that was where Norman was going to strike.

  A third, fourth and fifth round passed with swift footwork, body punches and then Norman moved in for the end.

  He slung a left punch that was blocked, ducked under Radcliff’s right jab, ducked the uppercut and delivered a swift series of jabs to the Baron’s left side. To his surprise, Radcliff landed a blow on his stomach and Norman stumbled back a few steps. He came to rest on rough hemp ropes while grabbing his breath back.

  “Knew you’d go for my left,” Radcliffe grunted, “You’re not the only one who’s predictable, Kinsley.”

  “Touché,” Norman said as he slipped to the ground and peeled his gloves off.

  “Is that all you have in you, Kinsley, six rounds? What about a few more?”

  “No, thank you,” Norman scowled. “I have work in the morning, and I would like to look somewhat civilized.”

  “I told you, civility is not my strong point,” the Scotsman grinned while stripping off his gloves

  “You don’t have to tell me, Belthyne,” Norman added while grabbing his nearby towel.

  “You know, I’ve been meaning to ask you,” Radcliffe peered at him. “Why don’t you or Evan ever call me by my last name? It is always titles with you lot.”

  “I tried, but it did not sit well. Sculthorpe sounds strange,” Norman added while levering himself from the ground and climbing out of the ropes.

  “I have the same point,” Radcliffe grinned, “Everything about you English is strange. Now, would you mind telling me what particular demons did you have to exorcize?”

  Norman thought about it and then sighed, “I made a massive error in judgment, Radcliffe…I kissed Miss Hall, and now she doesn’t want a thing to do with me. And I still haven’t grown the bollocks to explain myself to her.”

  A pregnant pause hung in the air until Radcliff grunted, “I may not be an oracle, but I saw that coming a mile away. When I first saw the lass, her beauty astounded me. A lesser man would have taken her as a mistress in a heartbeat, but you have not.”

  “I need someone to tell me that I am going insane,” Norman corrected. “I have a fiancée who is of the true blood, but I am only interested in the seamstress.”

  “Kinsley, I am pretty sure why you came to me.” Radcliff inserted, “Evan with his holier-than-thou self would have cut you at the quick. Me, I’m more understanding, I know what it is to shun convention and do what your gut tells you, which is why I am going to play the Devils’ Advocate here.”

  Rolling his neck, Norman sighed, “My gut is going to send me to hell.”

  “In many cases, not following it might,” Radcliffe counseled, “What do you see in her that you have not seen in Miss Fawcett?”

  “Reality,” Norman replied, “She is down-to-earth and genuine in all she does. She has no pretense, Radcliff. She cannot play the pianoforte, speak French or dance but those traits do not matter much to me. She sees the world as it is, the ugly harsh world that we in the upper ten thousand do well to ignore, and that draws me.”

  Balancing his head on the ropes, Norman stared out without looking at anything in particular. “Once, after she came from London, she told me that it is a city of two realities, one for the rich and one for the poor. A lady of fortune would have glibly ignored the sight of the paupers and indulged only in the better half but she…she had empathy. A trait very rare in the ladies of the realm.”

  “What else do you know about her?” Radcliffe prodded.

  “And that is where I fall,” Norman grumbled. “I jumped from wanting to befriend her to sending her running to the hills.”

  “Ah,” Radcliff grinned, “Do you think you can win her back?”

  “How?” Norman asked.

  “By the tried and true way,” Radcliffe smirked, “Be pursuant, let her know that you’re not going to give up. If you cannot see her, or if she cannot see you, send her gifts my man…and then, let her come to you.”

  “Ah, Miss Hall,” Lord Ogbent said as he rounded a fountain in the main garden, “What a wonderful day it is, no? Will you care to walk with me?”

  Rosaline wasn’t sure what her answer would be. On one hand, she had wanted solace in her walk, but on the other, it would be rude to reject such a nonchalant invite.

  “I will, My Lord,” she replied with a patient smile on her face, “How are you this evening? Elated I assume?”

  “Very much,” the older man added while tugging at his coat’s sleeves, “I am so proud of Isabella. Her Mother and I did right by her for choosing Duke Horenwall.”

  Rosaline felt a bit confused, wasn’t the Duchess the one who had chosen Miss Fawcett?

  “She is indeed lucky,” Rosaline mused, “His Grace is a wonderful person. I am sure she will have a happy marriage.”

  They two came to a rotunda where a thick circle of dog-rose was blooming. The Lord gave her an inviting smile, “And what about you, Miss Hall. Surely you have a beau of your own.”

  She colored slightly, “No, My Lord, I have none. I am flattered that you think so though.”

  “Hm,” the older man said while plucking a flower out of the bush, “I am surprised to hear that Miss Hall, your beauty, like this flower, is undeniable.”

  Rosaline stood still while the man tucked the stem of the flower behind her ear. That close, she had to admit that man was handsome for his age. His jaw was still square, his shoulders firm and eyes beguiling. Mercifully he stepped back and smiled “Any man would be glad to have you.”

  Unknown to either of them, the Duke, who had nearly entered the garden, silently retreated from the two, with a tight look on his face.

  Cowardice does not become you Norman.

  A day and a half after the boxing match had found him still wavering with his apology to Miss Hall, and he hated it. Radcliff’s advice about being pursuant sounded true, but he knew he had to apologize first.

  How hard was it to tell her that he had miscalculated and done a very stupid thing? Then again, saying the word miscalculated sounded too clinical, it sounded as if he had been using her for an experiment.

  Five minutes ago, disgusted at himself, he had bit the bullet and sent Miss Keats to summon Miss Hall and when she arrived, Norman faltered. Miss Hall—Rosaline, her name is Rosaline—looked like a wary doe trapped in the sights of a hunter’s gun. The wariness in her face saddened him so deeply, he hated himself even more.

  “Thank you for coming to see me,” Norman said from a respectable distance. “Miss Hall, the other n—”

  “Please don’t,” she cut in quietly, “I mean…no speech is necessary, Your Grace. If you need to apologize just say so. I hope we can move on and…forget it all happened.”

  She looked desperate, and he understood why. This was not easy for him either as he knew what he wanted from her, but she p
robably did not feel the same way.

  The memory of yesterday evening sprang up unwantedly. By the blush on her face, it was clear, Rosaline was being roped into the man’s seduction. She might be charmed by the other man now, but he would be damned if he was going to sit quietly and let her slip from him.

  Damn you, Ogbent!

  Bowing his head, he spoke, “I apologize, Miss Hall, I sincerely apologize. My actions were not fair to you.”

  Her smile was tight, “I accept, now may I go, Your Grace?”

  The words were said tonelessly and the lack of inflection only deepened the laceration inside his stomach, “Miss Hall, for all it is worth, I do still want to be your friend.”

  Perhaps even more…

  She looked squarely at him, “Thank you, Your Grace, but I think the cordial relationship we have now is enough. I am only here to do you a service, and I must put all my effort into doing so.”

  His smile was mirthless, “Of course you do. Good day, Miss Hall.”

  “Good day, Your Grace.”

  Watching her curtsy and leave left the laceration in his chest go numb. The words he had prepared, “My actions last night were unthoughtful, reckless and very insulting, to your code of honor, my Mother’s order, Miss Fawcett and her family and to myself. I overstepped my bounds and I should not have taken advantage of you that way, but kissing you felt right Miss Hall, more right than anything I have done in the past days, were doomed to go unsaid.

  Norman pinched the bridge of his nose and laughed quietly to himself. “You fool…you said you wanted her? Why did not you put in the work? You just jumped from a few cordial meetings to kissing her.”

  Dropping his hand Norman shook his head at his illeism. Referring to himself in the third person was a bad habit of his but it worked when his mental castigation wasn’t hard enough, “Perhaps this game is not over yet…let me see if Radcliff has a point.”

  Chapter 18

  It was coming to the evening and Miss Moore was to leave soon. Rosaline had not heard a peep from the Ogbents for the past few days and she was glad for that. She did not know if she could handle more stress than what she was already under. Keeping the secret of the Duke’s kiss was gnawing at her every time she came near the Duchess

  But the nights were a different story altogether. In those lone, barren hours, she remembered the night and shivered. His kiss had rearranged her sensibilities, and what was once a faint fantasy was now a reality. The worst part was, she craved it…like sugary treats. Once she had tasted one, she craved more.

  She did not know what the Duke was aiming for and that scared her. More importantly, she didn’t want to feel the growing jealousy for the lady who was going to be the recipient of those tender caresses for the rest of her life. The lady whose wedding dress she was making.

  Her fingers curled in on themselves while she looked at the decadent cloth under her hands. This splendor was what was due to women of Miss Fawcett’s class, a wonderful marriage to a wonderful husband, no matter how nasty she was.

  “The cuttings are done, Miss Hall,” Jane said proudly.

  Standing to view them, Rosaline smiled at the accuracy, “They are perfect Jane. You have done wonderfully.”

  Looking out at the drawing evening, Rosaline added, “I think it’s time for you to go home, is it not?”

  “I suppose,” she nodded, “but I can stay and help you clean up.”

  “Nonsense,” Rosaline shook her head, “A few clippings do not warrant you to stay. I can clean the little mess by myself. Please, go home and give your mother my regards.”

  With the young apprentice gone, Rosaline took to straightening up the room. Humming under her breath she did not hear when someone approached until the harsh clearing of a throat startled her.

  She almost dropped the broom but spun in place to see Lady Ogbent standing there, her nose elevated in pride and her eyes dark in scorn. Instantly, Rosaline leaned the broom on the wall and curtsied.

  “Lady Ogbent, good evening,” she swallowed in fear. Does she know about the Duke’s kiss? “What may I do for you, My Lady?”

  “I have come to see how far the dress is now,” the lady said tightly. “Surely you have gone further than the chemise and stays.”

  “Yes, My Lady,” Rosaline replied and directed her to the table where the satin gloves, completed sash and lace veil were laying. “in addition to those, we have begun the dress now.”

  Lady Ogbent fingered the material of the gloves and the veil and lifted each separately to inspect them closely. “This is good work, Miss Hall.”

  Rosaline eyes widened minutely at the unexpected praise, “Thank you, My Lady.”

  “I detect some old-fashioned stitching in the veil,” Lady Ogbent said while laying down the objects, “Your tutor has certainly schooled you in many ways, Miss Hall. I am reminded of my seamstress when I was Isabella’s age.”

  Clearing her throat softly, Rosaline asked, “Please offer my congratulations to Miss Fawcett on her formal engagement. How is she doing this morning?”

  “Resting,” the lady said, “She is still elated about the engagement.”

  A stifled pause raised the hairs on the back of Rosaline’s head. She felt her stomach tightening as the lady entered the room and walked around. She did not move from her place while thinking about how to approach the subject of her sister.

  Mary…how can I bring up Mary?

  “Is Miss Fawcett planning to wear jewelry with her dress?” Rosaline asked as casually as she could in an attempt to distill the silence between them.

  “Yes,” the Lady nodded, “An inherited diamond necklace. One I almost lost.”

  Almost lost? How could you almost lose a diamond necklace? But still, I cannot bring up Mary, drat!

  “That would be a wonderful accent,” Rosaline added.

  “I agree,” Lady Ogbent’s lips pursed, “well, I’ve taken up too much of your time, Miss Hall, carry on.”

  With that order, the lady walked away with her nose in the air.

  She must drown when the rain falls.

  Shaking herself out her reverie, she finished her cleaning, and placing the broom in its place, Rosaline went to her room. At her door, she slipped inside and instantly, her eyes were drawn to a set of books on her bed, the stack of three tied with a blue ribbon. A card was laid near it. Curious, she took the card and read.

  Nyx is only the beginning.

  Tugging the ribbon out, Rosaline flipped the cover of one of the books, saw a drawing of a man, promptly blushed and slammed the cover shut. Good God! The man had not a stitch of clothes on! Peeking once more, only enough to read the words under the statue, she read, Phoebus Apollo.

  Nyx was only the beginning…these are from His Grace, I know it. Closing the book, Rosaline set all three of them on her desk with a mind to never look or even read them.

  Fool me once…

  God’s blood, Norman seethed as he stepped away from the corner that led from her workroom, is it not enough that I saw them in the garden, must I see them here too?

  “Miss Hall,” the Viscount said, “What a wonderful surprise seeing you here.”

  A floor under your room, Ogbent and you happened to be here, on a casual walk perhaps? How transparent are you?

  “I only came for a book, My Lord,” she replied, “I’m on my way to supper. How are you faring?”

  Instantly irritated, Norman, swiftly backtracking his steps, went to his study and instantly gravitated to the liquor cabinet. It was early hours yet but his annoyance did not know time.

  Pouring himself a drink of whiskey, he swallowed it in one gulp. The acid burn on his empty stomach felt murderous, which was a mirror of his emotions.

  This is nonsense, he reasoned, this jealousy has no place here.

  But it did. Norman did not want to see that flush on her face for any man but him. Wasn’t it enough that the old man’s daughter was marrying him, giving him a good stand in his fortune, but to go after the one woman
Norman had decided that he really wanted?

  Does he have to have his cake and eat it too?

  Expelling a breath, he went to the windows, past the leather furniture and the wingback chairs and looked out into the growing darkness. His eye lit upon the first evening star that hovered over the horizon as a lone speck of light. He empathized with the heavenly orb, alone in a sea of darkness. Staring at it, he felt as if he was carrying the weight of the world upon his shoulders.