Duchess by Design

by Maya Rodale

Rose carried on: “She is described as a woman with dark hair and doe eyes, wearing a rather fetching plum-colored skirt and matching jacket open over a delicately ruffled shirtwaist.”

  “Well now, doesn’t that sound like someone we know?” Rachel asked. Two pairs of eyes fixed their attentions on Adeline, who suddenly became very interested in examining some stitches on the sleeve of a lemon-yellow jacquard jacket.

  “Someone we know who happened to be at the Fifth Avenue Hotel just yesterday afternoon? Who just happened to have spent last week sewing delicate ruffles onto her best shirtwaist?”

  “It must be a coincidence,” Adeline said, trying to deflect their questions and attention. There was no point in discussing her encounter with the duke; it was the sort of fun, flirtatious, and insignificant amusement a girl had here and there in the city. A moment’s delight before it was forgotten entirely. Forever.

  But Rose and Rachel were still staring expectantly for the full, delectable story. Oh, they leaned in close, eyes wide. Waiting.

  “Who did these stitches, by the way?” Adeline wondered. “They are far too loose.”

  “Never mind the stitches!” Rose huffed.

  “It was you, wasn’t it?” Rachel said, grinning now. “You were the dark-haired and doe-eyed woman who had captured the duke’s attentions and has thus made every single woman in New York City jealous of you before breakfast. You saw him when you were there for the fitting with Miss Burnett. I knew it!”

  Rose didn’t even wait for confirmation, she just sighed mightily. “Oh, Ada, what’s he like?”

  He was like a fantasy come to life. He was handsome and self-possessed. There was something intensely erotic about the way he looked at her: like she was his living, breathing, fantasy and he wanted to know her and to touch her to make sure she was real. He looked at her with those piercing blue eyes like she might save him. Just being near him made her want to pull him off to some secluded spot where they might occupy themselves by saving each other.

  But she didn’t want to give her friends fodder for further discussion. Or to herself for further fantasies.

  “His jacket was very well made,” Adeline replied. “It was a fine cashmere wool, expertly tailored. Saville Row, probably.”

  “Of course one would expect a duke to display excellent tailoring of his clothes,” Rachel remarked.

  “Who cares about clothes and stitches!?” Rose threw up her hands in despair. It had to be agony for her to possess enough romantic feeling for all three of them.

  “The better question is why she was close enough to know such details,” Rachel pointed out. “Must have been a very inattentive elevator attendant.”

  Again, her friends gave her The Look.

  It was The Look of a friend who knows there is a story and that they will not cease until they are privy to every last dramatic, romantic detail. Their workday was a good ten hours long at least—not only did that make diversion necessary, it meant that Rose and Rachel were prepared to wait her out. It wasn’t often that any of them had even a mildly romantic encounter worth gossiping about, and now Adeline had an encounter that made the newspapers. She could hem and haw and comment on stitches all she liked, but they wouldn’t stop badgering her about the duke until she told them everything.

  Everything.

  Adeline paused, dramatically.

  Then, with a flash of her impish smile, began: “It was seven minutes before two o’clock, when I was due at Miss Burnett’s rooms on the top floor of the Fifth Avenue Hotel.”

  Adeline related everything: the accidental collision with the duke’s wide, well-muscled chest clad in the finest cashmere wool. How his ducal hands clasped her arms after he had, in a manner of speaking, nearly swept her off her feet.

  She told them about the way his presence took up all the air and space inside the elevator, leaving her light-headed, but she still managed some flirtatious banter. Yes, she told Rose, he took her breath away. She told her friends how he spoke of marriage, when they had only just met.

  Rose had that dreamy, faraway look in her eyes and even Rachel’s usual stoic expression softened into a smile. Adeline was happy to provide this little escape, this little fantasy, but . . .

  “But nothing will come of it, of course. We never even exchanged names.”

  That was the exact moment that a young man in a uniform from the Fifth Avenue Hotel entered the shop.

  Bellmen from the Fifth Avenue Hotel were not the usual clientele of Madame Chalfont’s Dressmaking Establishment.

  His presence generated a burst of excited chatter among all the ladies, who paused in their sewing and ironing. Even Madame Chalfont herself was intrigued. She stepped away from her work to approach the man who dared to enter her shop.

  “I have a letter for Miss Adeline Black,” he declared.

  “It’s most likely from Miss Burnett, perhaps about her dress order,” Adeline explained to her curious colleagues. Yesterday, she had returned from the fitting of the first few dresses with orders for a dozen more. Madame Chalfont was so pleased she actually smiled—though it quickly faded when she read Miss Burnett’s stipulation that they be customized by Adeline. She did seem to feel competitive with regard to her younger trainee.

  Madame Chalfont frowned and clapped her hands and barked out, “Back to work, ladies,” in her distinctly Midwestern accent—not her feigned French accent—which happened when she was vexed.

  Rose and Rachel leaned far over Adeline’s shoulders so they could read the letter.

  “It’s from the duke, isn’t it?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “Well, let’s have a look.”

  To the enchanting girl from the elevator—

  Her friends sighed. In spite of herself, Adeline smiled, then frowned, curious as to how he had found her. But he was a high-and-mighty duke, so he must have ways that a girl like her would know nothing about.

  “It’s definitely from the duke,” Rose said.

  “Or the elevator attendant,” Adeline suggested and everyone ignored her.

  “They already have pet names for each other,” Rachel muttered.

  “I’m swooning,” Rose said, placing her hands on the worktable. “Actually swooning.”

  “Shall I stop reading and fetch the smelling salts?”

  “No!”

  As I have only just arrived in town, I must see all the sights Manhattan has to offer. Would you do me the honor of joining me for a walk in Central Park?

  —Kingston

  “You are definitely free that day,” Rose said.

  “He didn’t specify a day,” Rachel pointed out.

  “She will make herself free. It’s a duke! A handsome duke!”

  “I’ll tell him no, of course,” Adeline said.

  “What?”

  “Why?!”

  “We have a massive dress order to attend to, for one thing,” Adeline said. “Nearly two dozen dresses for Miss Burnett. She wants them immediately.”

  “We’ll get them done; we always do,” Rachel said.

  “You absolutely will get them done,” Madame Chalfont interrupted. “And you will start now instead of standing idle and chattering about the untoward attentions of a man. He’ll never be interested in you for anything decent, Miss Black, and any hint of an illicit liaison will ruin you in this business. Mark my words, a woman’s good reputation, once lost, is gone forever—and all her good opportunities go with it. The world thinks little enough of dressmakers as it is—no man is worth the risk.”

  Her word being final, she walked away with the expectation that the excited chatter would cease and the sewing would resume and all thoughts of handsome dukes would simply vanish. But practical matters could not compare.

  “What we don’t always do is walk in the park with a handsome duke,” Rose continued in a whisper. “On behalf of all of us you must go. For the sisterhood, Adeline. For us. For all the girls who dream of something like this and never get the opportunity.”

>   That was a difficult plea to resist. Adeline thought of all the girls dreaming for chance encounters with dashing strangers and romantic walks in the park with handsome dukes and eligible bachelors. What was wrong with a little romance to brighten up their hardworking day-to-day existence? It was madness—a wonderful, glorious madness—that this opportunity should fall into her lap. Any one of these girls would seize it without a moment’s hesitation. In fact, any one of them would have already sent a reply saying, Yes, Duke, just say when and where.

  But Adeline did not want the distraction.

  She wanted to make dresses. She wanted to make dresses according to her vision. In fact, she had an idea about that green silk for Miss Burnett that she was eager to get started on.

  But then Adeline glanced down at the newspaper Rose held in her long, tapered fingers. Words jumped out at her. A rather fetching plum-colored walking dress with a tailored matching jacket. Delicately ruffled shirtwaist. That was her dress described in print and read by all the women of high society.

  All at once, the idea occurred to her.

  “It could be good advertising. Free advertising. I could wear one of my own creations and on the duke’s arm, I’ll be sure to attract attention and perhaps have my dress written up in the newspapers. Again. Perhaps that will lead to my own shop.”

  There was a collective groan from the other girls. They were all well aware of Adeline’s dreams and plans. How many times had one of them been assigned to “correct” her inventive work that went against Madame Chalfont’s vision and wishes? Too many. But this was taking her single-minded determination too far.

  “Romance, Adeline. Romance!” Rose exclaimed.

  “Romance is a dirty trick and you know it,” Adeline replied. “No good comes from romance. It’s just silly notions that lead a girl to make ridiculous decisions.”

  Just like her mother. Just like a thousand women before her.

  “It’s just a walk in the park, Adeline,” Rachel pointed out.

  “There is no such thing as just a walk in the park with a duke.”

  Chapter Four

  Must host house party for the girls at Lyon House to find husbands. Stop. When will the roof be repaired? Stop. Girls will want the new style of walking dresses. Stop.

  —Telegram from Her Grace,

  the Duchess of Kingston

  The next day, Sunday afternoon

  Central Park

  Kingston strolled toward the corner of Fifty-ninth Street and Fifth Avenue, toward one of the entrances to the already famed and fabled Central Park. Massive, ornate mansions lined the streets leading up to it. Though his traditional male British pride would never allow him to say such a thing aloud, he privately thought that such palatial homes would put many an English house to shame.

  Not Lyon House, though. That ancient and massive heap of limestone in Buckinghamshire was at least twice as large and ornate as any of these, and it was surrounded by thousands of lush, rolling acres of farmland, steeped in history, and any number of royal heads had slept under its roof. But unfortunately, it was without modern amenities such as running water—unless one counted the leak from the roof after the rain.

  Which one did not.

  But—Kingston’s heart started to quicken its rhythm in his chest as he considered it—if he were to apply one of these Fifth Avenue fortunes to his own holdings, he’d have his family’s ancestral estate up and working again. He could stop the damage that time had wrought. He could restore Lyon House to all its former glory, a home befitting a man of his position.

  He’d be The Duke Who Saved Them All.

  With a renewed sense of purpose, Kingston approached the entrance to the park and waited for her, that charming and enchanting girl from the elevator who just happened to be residing in the suite of rooms next to his. Damn, but he loved the convenience of falling for the heiress next door.

  After making some discreet inquiries with the hotel staff, Kingston had learned that the woman who occupied the suite of rooms adjacent to his was Miss Harriet Burnett. It was intimated that she had something of a scandalous past—which he could certainly overlook, considering his circumstances and their instant connection—but she had recently come into a great fortune. Her stay at the hotel was temporary while her townhouse was being renovated and redecorated.

  Kingston had never given much thought to marriage until recently, when it became necessary that he marry quickly and richly. Thus, he had never given much consideration to marrying for love. Until yesterday. Now the idea that he could marry to his heart and purse’s desire was irresistible—to say nothing of the woman herself—and it seemed impossible that he should settle for anything less.

  He’d be The Duke Who Had It All.

  He quickly caught sight of her, thanks to the eye-catching sky-blue walking suit that she wore. It stood out among all the other women’s Sunday finest on parade. He was no fan of fashion and thus lacked the appropriate words to describe the ensemble—he did tend to tune out his mother when she chattered away about frocks and such—but even he noticed such finely made attire that seemed to hug and caress, to shape and show off her figure. He instinctively recognized the confident, self-assured way she moved in this suit as belonging to one who could, say, reign over a ballroom.

  Like a duchess.

  “Why, hello.”

  “Hello to you, too.”

  Their eyes locked. For a moment he had no other thoughts than you’re pretty and I found you. She was lovelier than he had remembered, which was really something, because his thoughts had strayed to her often. He had lingered over the way her lips had turned up, the glimmer in her eyes when she had teased him. His thoughts had strayed to kissing her.

  The full force of this infatuation hit him all of a sudden. It damn near took his breath away.

  Kingston smiled. She smiled. And the woman standing beside her cleared her throat pointedly.

  Then his gaze moved from his heiress to the tall and beautiful dark-skinned woman who was smiling pointedly as she waited for an introduction.

  “This is my”—his heiress began to explain.

  “Chaperone,” the other woman cut in with a smile. She extended her hand and he shook it. “I’m Miss Rose Freeman. I couldn’t let my friend scandalize everyone by enjoying a walk in the park alone with a—”

  “Gentleman,” his enchanting girl cut in, making Kingston wonder if she hadn’t been about to say duke. He couldn’t blame her if she, too, had made discreet inquiries or read the newspapers. He’d glimpsed the headlines that seemed to have followed him from London to New York. But whether her ignorance of his position was genuine or feigned, he appreciated the opportunity to not be The Duke and to just be . . . himself.

  “Don’t mind me,” Miss Freeman said, waving off any possible concerns. “I shall just blend into the background and you’ll never know I’m here. Go, enjoy your romantic walk in the park.”

  “Rose . . .”

  “Of course a lady ought to have a chaperone on an occasion such as this. I am glad to have your company, Miss Freeman. You shall keep us from wandering off into dens of iniquity.”

  “Oh, I can’t imagine you’ll find those this far uptown,” Rose replied with a laugh.

  “Shall we be off?” He offered his arm to the girl, quite possibly The One, and they set off for a walk in the park on a lovely spring day. Trees were bursting with blossoms and fresh green leaves. Squirrels dashed to and fro. The air was full of birdsong and sunshine.

  In London, it would be raining.

  In London, he’d be ensconced in his study, consumed with account books and dismal meetings with secretaries and solicitors. Freddie had been right about coming to New York for a bride; a walk in the park with a pretty potential wife was a far more pleasurable method of attempting to save his estate than, say, meeting with mining companies or railroad executives.

  Yes, marrying a woman of wealth was definitely the way to go; there was a reason it had been tradition for centuri
es, and who was he, the fifth duke of Kingston, to defy the done thing? But Miss Burnett offered something he had never even dreamed of: the possibility of a bride he could love. A wife he would want to spend his nights and morning-afters with.

  “So this is Central Park,” he began, silently admitting to himself that it was a remarkable park that all manner of New Yorkers seemed to be enjoying—the obviously wealthy shared the same paths with those who were clearly less fortunate and everyone in between. The people seemed to have come from all over the country and all over the world; the range of humanity was notable, intriguing, and nothing like, say, White’s or Parliament.

  “Magnificent, isn’t it? New York City has everything a girl could possibly want,” she replied. “Shops, entertainments, magic. And parks like this, for when one wants a bit of greenery.”

  He chuckled at a bit of greenery. “You are quite enamored of the city.”

  “How can one not love New York?” She opened her arms wide. “The buildings are breathtaking; there are so many interesting people and ever so much to do. It’s never dull.”

  “I certainly find it . . . enchanting.” Kingston paused to gaze down into her pretty brown eyes. Yes, he could gaze into those eyes for a lifetime. “I hope to see more of it.”

  By it, he meant her.

  Behind her, Miss Freeman heaved a dreamy sigh.

  “Tell me, how does New York compare to London?” his enchanting girl asked. “I’ve never been to England.”

  “I must admit weather here is far superior. In the few days since my arrival, it hasn’t rained once, which my mother and sisters would enjoy. They often lament about how the weather ruins their gowns.”

  “Given all the care and consideration a woman puts into her dress, it must be dreadful to be cooped up inside unable to show oneself or to risk wrecking a carefully constructed ensemble.”

  “One would think the solution is to be less invested in one’s attire and appearance.”

  “I would think a more reasonable solution would be to move where it rained less,” she replied breezily.