by Jenn LeBlanc
She realized his anger was coming from concern and his agitation from some deeply seated emotion that she believed resonated from his gut—because right now, her gut was telling her the same thing.
Dr. Walcott could see dawn breaking through the small gap in the heavy drapes and he heaved a sigh then stood, rubbing his back with stiff fingers. He turned to the girl that had helped him throughout the night and patted her on the shoulder. “Go rest. Send someone else to watch over her. I will give them instructions before I go. There is nothing more that can be done now, but perhaps to pray,” he said quietly.
The girl nodded and took an armload of bloody rags with her as she disappeared. A few minutes later, another servant entered with Lilly’s father behind her.
“Mr. Steele,” the doctor said, shaking his head. “I cannot even fathom what it must take for you to look on your daughter like this. I must tell you that in all likelihood she’ll not survive. I’ll stay and see her through as far as I am able, but you should prepare her mother. I’ve never seen injuries as extensive as these, and I don’t know how she’s to survive… Or if she would even want to,” he whispered.
Francine watched as Mrs. Weston pulled the drapes open on the windows, letting in the fresh morning sun, before stoking the fire in the grate and heating a kettle. The room warmed quickly and Mrs. Weston walked to the giant bed.
Francine groaned and rubbed her hands over her face, then cocked an eyebrow as she looked around. She was still here, wherever here was. She’d tossed and turned all night, in and out of dreams, her mind replaying the events in the maze. She believed half the images must have been imagined, because she certainly wasn’t aware of the duke being attracted to her before. She decided the excitement had colored her memories, making them more vivid than they actually had been and, in truth, the parts that she knew to be accurate were rather unbecoming and a bit insulting.
Had he actually said that she had no morals? Yes, he did, she thought. He really said that. Obviously he wasn’t taken with her as much as embarrassed for her sake—or maybe simply for propriety’s sake. Good grief, he was ridiculous. She had never met a man who was so concerned with what others thought.
Francine sat up, looking for Mrs. Weston again. She spied her behind a footman who was pushing in the slipper tub, and she smiled.
“The dressmaker should arrive today, so we should get you all cleaned up.”
Francine watched as Mrs. Weston moved around the room and a parade of housemaids came in through the passage behind the fireplace carrying kettles. Francine sighed as the steam rose, blotting out the countryside as it peeked through the windows. Mrs. Weston added some oils to the bath and then went to help Francine to the tub.
They were starting to get used to each other, and Mrs. Weston turned away politely as Francine disrobed and stepped into the warm bath, then returned and fussed over her hair, straightening tangles and getting it washed.
Francine reached up and patted the hand that gently pushed her forward in the tub.
“Oh dear, sweet. Don’t you worry, miss, we’re going to take good care of you, no matter,” she said.
Francine smiled, leaning her chin on her knees and letting Mrs. Weston take care of her as her mind drifted back to the garden. She closed her eyes, saw him leaning on the wall in front of her, his breathing labored, his movements determined. And his body—aroused? Is that what I saw? she thought as she flushed. Yes, it was. She could feel the blood tingling close to the surface of her skin, raising goose bumps and tightening her nipples. She leaned back in the tub at Mrs. Weston’s urging, shaking her head under the water to clear her thoughts and rinse the soap from her hair.
“Oh, miss! You’ve caught a chill,” Mrs. Weston said. Francine blushed harder, sending Mrs. Weston in a flurry, yanking the curtains closed and stoking the fire. Francine sat up, giggling, and Mrs. Weston walked over to her. “Are you feeling well?” she asked.
Francine nodded as she glanced up at Mrs. Weston and signed thank you.
“You did that last night, miss. You used your hands to tell me something. What was that?” Mrs. Weston asked.
Francine was surprised she remembered any sign language since she hadn’t used it in years. But she used it naturally, as though she had never stopped. One of the girls in the foster home where she was taken after her parents died had been profoundly deaf, and she had learned from her. Francine shrugged, unable to tell Mrs. Weston about it, and signed thank you again, this time using both hands for emphasis.
“Well, miss, how do you say you’re welcome?” Mrs. Weston asked.
Francine repeated the sign for thank you.
“‘Tis the same?” Mrs. Weston asked. Francine nodded and Mrs. Weston smiled. The housekeeper handed her the bar of lilac soap and turned to ring for her breakfast tray. Francine rubbed her hands around the bar, squeezing to make it spin. She closed her eyes tightly and chanted to herself, iPod iPod iPod iPod. She opened her eyes and looked down. Soap. She sighed and watched Mrs. Weston as she walked back to the tub.
“Gideon?” Francine whispered, wondering when she would see him again.
Mrs. Weston’s eyes widened. “You must not use his Christian name, miss,” she said stoutly. Francine nodded. “My, but I believe you’re taken with His Grace,” she continued quietly. “Understandable, yet to use his given name would be improper. You cannot do that, and besides, you’re not to speak.”
Francine nodded again and sank into the tub, thinking about the duke, while a broad smile spread across Mrs. Weston’s face.
“Ferry!” Roxleigh sat on the edge of his bed, not bothering to reach for the pull because he felt like yelling.
“Should I have Samson readied?” Ferry asked when he entered.
“No. I’ll be going to London. Pack my things.”
“Yes, Your Grace,” Ferry said, turning to the wardrobe. “What of the architect?” he asked.
“I’ll leave everything he requires on the grand table,” Roxleigh said.
“Yes, Your Grace.”
Roxleigh had business to attend to in London that had been waiting for too long, and a few days away from the manor to think seemed more than justified. His ride yesterday had done much to clear his head, but having Francine alone in the maze with him last night had only served to muddle it again. She was so… Magnificent seemed to be the only word he could find to do her justice. He could still feel her pressed against him as he ran back to the manor, her hands clasped around his neck, her fingers teasing the curls at his nape. It had steeled every muscle in his body then and sent a shiver through him now.
He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. He could still sense her, the lavender and rain. She was so sweet, succulent. He wanted to taste her, breathe her essence, feel her flesh prickle with awareness as his fingers gently caressed her. He knew from the reactions he’d already witnessed how she would respond to him. How her breath would be nothing more than a sigh. He stood, fighting another rush of blood. This was not good. He couldn’t prowl around the manor like an unsatisfied rake, and he knew if he stayed here that’s exactly what he would end up doing. For Francine’s sake, and his own, he had to leave.
Three hours later, Francine was surrounded by soft pastel muslins; lush, heavy velvets in burgundy and deep blue; prickly, stiff tulle; dark, serviceable broadcloth; vibrant, slippery satins; heavy patterned brocades; and several other exquisite fabrics covered in pearls, beads, and lace. The volume of the fabrics overwhelmed her, as did the speed with which the dressmaker spun them around her body, making measurements and notes and then moving on to the next. “Laura, that pink is horrible with her complexion. Try the deeper silk,” Madame Basire said.
“Yes, ma’am,” her assistant replied, dropping the bolt of fabric into a pile and reaching for a deep blue Italian silk and a black corded trim.
Mrs. Weston stood. “No, that color is too bold, Madame. His Grace would never agree, and you know it isn’t proper for a miss,” she said sternly.
Franci
ne groaned. Proper, proper, proper! I am so sick of proper. She had never felt so trapped by her inability to speak. Madame Basire grasped the divine silk, wrapping it around Francine’s middle as she watched the end flutter gracefully to the floor. Francine grinned at the way it drifted about her ankles. She glanced at Mrs. Weston, who was refusing to return her pleading look.
“Fine,” Mrs. Weston said after a moment. “But just the one. Please also allow for a riding habit. A deep green or blue would be appropriate for that.”
Francine gave her an excited smile and Mrs. Weston signed you’re welcome.
Monsieur Gautier Larrabee opened the letter from Lord Hepplewort, expecting confirmation of his daughter’s consummated marriage and instructions for the final payment as reward for his patience. What he found, however, was a rambling missive ending with his daughter being held by a duke at his remote English estate and the payment of his funds being retained by Hepplewort until she was restored to him.
“Merde!” he exclaimed, then called to his wife. “Eglantine! Me venir maintenant!” She rushed to his side, hearing the anger in his voice. “Il faut que nous allions à l’Angleterre, notre fille manqué,” he said briskly.
Eglantine gasped. “Elle manqué? Mon Dieu!” she said, stunned to learn her daughter was missing.
“Oui, c’est vrai, cette lettre est d’elle fiancé. Nous devons aller immédiatement,” he responded.
“Bien sûr, mon mari,” she agreed. They packed and left for England without hesitation.
Francine walked to the window while Madame Basire and her assistant spoke with Mrs. Weston about her requirements. She leaned against the windowsill, looking over the drive in front of the manor. A sleek black carriage pulled by four beautiful black horses waited majestically. She motioned to Mrs. Weston to come to the window, then pointed down to the carriage.
“They are magnificent, aren’t they? Look, there’s Samson,” Mrs. Weston said as she gestured to the steed now being tied at the back of the carriage. “Why the barouche?” she mused aloud. “Oh,” she said, sounding distressed. They watched a footman place a trunk in the boot. Mrs. Weston’s brow creased and she looked to the outer door. Roxleigh was giving directions to Ferry.
He’s leaving, Francine thought as she latched onto Mrs. Weston’s arm.
“I’ll be back shortly,” Mrs. Weston said, pulling Francine’s fingers loose. She patted her arm and strode to the fireplace. A few moments later, she reappeared at the front entry next to Ferry.
Francine watched with a heavy dose of concern. She guessed from the trunk that the duke was going somewhere for an extended time, and though she knew she shouldn’t, she felt a great deal of disappointment. After last night she was hoping they’d be able to spend some time together, even though they were still separated by his damned propriety. She wished she knew when he would return.
Her brows creased and she leaned against the window, desperately trying to catch a glimpse of his face when he turned to climb inside the carriage. She could see him pointing and speaking directly to Mrs. Weston, and she knew he was admonishing her for being what he thought was careless.
Mrs. Weston straightened her back and nodded, her hands clutched in front of her. The footman said something to Roxleigh and Francine caught his profile as he turned to acknowledge him. Her breath raced against the glass.
Roxleigh paused, then lifted his face and looked directly at her.
She held his gaze, neither of them giving any hint of emotion as they studied each other. She placed both hands in front of her face, fingers spread, palms toward her. She pulled her hands downward sharply and, when she looked back up, he was stepping into the carriage. She felt a pull deep within her chest. He moved the window curtain aside momentarily and Mrs. Weston nodded, then glanced toward Francine in the window. The outriders and Ferry mounted the carriage and rode swiftly away from the manor.
Mrs. Weston returned to the room before Francine had a chance to move away from the window. “He’ll return soon, miss. He has business in London that he’s neglected and he needs to attend to,” she said, taking Francine’s hands in her own. “He’ll return,” she whispered again.
Francine smiled, but the sadness she felt at watching the carriage rolling swiftly through the far gates refused to abate. She turned back to the room to find she had an audience.
Lord Hepplewort paced in the small bedroom at the Running Iron Inn, his jowly face turning beet red and sweat dripping from his straggly grayish hair. He shook as he raged, his paunchy belly threatening to burst the buttons on his satin brocade waistcoat, sending them dangerously through the air like arrows to lambs. Madeleine’s betrothed, Lord Hepplewort, possessed a deportment that matched his manner measure for measure.
Upon taking a foreign bride, the earl was required by tradition to show his betrothed her new country with a carriage tour that would end with the marriage at the chapel on his estate. To that end, on Madeleine’s seventeenth birthday he’d retrieved her from the convent in France where she’d led a peaceful and completely sheltered life. They’d proceeded by ship to the northern port of Newcastle upon Tyne, and from there to the northernmost edge of the United Kingdom in Scotland, close to the lands of the Duke of Roxleigh.
He refused to return home without his bride, yet there was no way for him to retrieve her from Eildon Manor. He knew of the duke and his stalwart reputation. He would have to retrieve his bride later. She must have begged for shelter, provided some ridiculous tale about who she was, or that she had been mishandled or kidnapped or something of the sort. As her father’s property until marriage, certainly the duke would have no choice but to return her.
He knew Roxleigh wasn’t one to dismiss the law, and by contract, she belonged with him. The problem would be explaining why he was on the duke’s land without permission. He was sure to be brought on charges of poaching for having his dogs out, and how would he explain them chasing her? Hepplewort fumed. No, it was all too difficult; he would have to wait until she was returned to her father. The man would certainly hold to the contract that had made him a rich man, especially with half the money awaiting confirmation of her chastity upon their marriage.
He’d sent a message to France the day after the incident to notify Monsieur Larrabee that he expected to complete the bargain upon her return, and in the meantime he’d proceed to his estate in Shropshire. Perhaps he could pluck another fresh apple on the way home, sweet and tart, to have a little fun with as he had the one he found outside of Kelso. He went to tell his footman of the plans.
Madame Basire broke the silence with a hearty laugh, drawing all the attention in the room to her. She was studying Francine and Mrs. Weston. “Oh my,” she said, waving her hand in front of her face like a fan. “It seems the most eligible duke in the kingdom has an admirer.”
“I’ll thank you not to perpetuate such a rumor if you wish to stay in His Grace’s good temper,” Mrs. Weston admonished.
“Well, Mrs. Weston, if my lips were loose my business would have suffered ages ago,” Madame Basire said happily.
The housekeeper nodded. “Are we finished?”
Madame Basire thought for a moment. “I need a few more measurements for her foundations.”
“Of course.”
Madame Basire whispered a few directions to her assistant, who nodded, then measured Francine a bit more and made some notes in Madame’s book. When they finished, they gathered the bolts of fabric and trimmings in a flurry of colors and sent the footmen to load her carriage.
Francine turned to the settee in front of the fireplace, and clapping her hands to get their attention, she motioned to the garments they’d left.
Madame Basire smiled. “I cannot leave a beautiful peach as you without a stitch! These may not fit perfectly, but they’ll do until I return. I’ve also left some drawers and nightgowns, a few stockings and a corset. That’s fine with you, Mrs. Weston, yes?”
“I’ve no doubt His Grace will appreciate the courtesy. I will be sure
to let him know upon his return,” Mrs. Weston said.
“Well, we will all await his swift return, won’t we?” Madame Basire placed her hand gently on Francine’s and, with a wink, a devilish grin, and a rustle of skirts and fabric, she was gone.
Francine stood in awe of the brazen woman, then turned to the garments she’d left behind. She reached out, feeling the soft muslin in pale hues with delicate trimmings. The drawers were a bit strange to her. She realized with a frown that the cheeky panties and boy shorts she was fond of would not be available.
The drawers were long, thin, bloomer-like pants with ribbons that tied at her hips. She looked from the drawers and stockings to the corset, petticoats, and dresses, and realized what a production being “proper” was. She lifted one leg of the drawers and saw the crotch shift, and thinking they were torn she looked closer, seeing both edges trimmed with a delicate lace. She rather suddenly understood the purpose for the slit in the drawers was that she wasn’t supposed to remove them when she used the bathroom.
