The Irresistible Lady Behind The Mask (Historical Regency Romance)

by Emily Honeyfield

  “I think it is perfect for you, Miss.” Gwen brought Priscilla’s hair up in a twist. “Oh my, you will look like a princess.”

  “I do not know about that, but I know you will have me looking my best.” Priscilla frowned as a thought crossed her mind. “What if Philip did not get the date that I requested?”

  Gwen giggled. “I think he would have said something about that.”

  “You are probably right. I just am too used to worrying,” Priscilla said as she smoothed the silken skirt down.

  Priscilla felt Gwen’s hand on her arm and she looked around at her maid. “I do not know a bride alive that wasn’t worried over every little thing before her wedding. I think that’s just how God made women. We worry.”

  Gwen’s words brought a smile to Priscilla’s face. She nodded and looked back at herself in the mirror. “I suppose that is just the way of things.”

  “And a good thing too. With marriage and children come lots of worries,” Gwen said.

  Her words made Priscilla look around at her again. “I forget sometimes that you are married. I shall lean upon you heavily.”

  “Good thing that I was made to bear weight,” Gwen replied with a wink. “I am always at your side, Miss. I trust in His Grace’s good intentions to keep you safe.”

  Priscilla agreed with a nod of her head. “I think the tailor has done a fine job,” Priscilla said, as she really did not know what else to say.

  Gwen gave the dress a good once over. “Mmhmm. It looks like she knows her stitching. Shall I help you get back out of it?”

  “I would appreciate it,” Priscilla replied with a chuckle. “I would hate to tear it trying to get out of it.”

  Gwen whispered, “Mustn’t take away His Grace’s fun.”

  Priscilla gave a half-hearted laugh. Gwen did not seem to notice and Priscilla felt relief for that. The maid hummed a little song that Priscilla did not recognise as she worked to free Priscilla of the dress’ bondage.

  Once she was free and carefully made modest again, Priscilla felt better. The wedding was not far off, and yet it did not feel real. She hoped it became more so, but everything seemed so distant.

  Gwen carried on as if Priscilla were paying rapt attention. It felt nice to not have to respond. Priscilla could merely nod along with the maid and Gwen kept up a constant flow of chatter.

  While Gwen rambled on Priscilla’s mind wandered. It felt odd to hear Philip referred to as His Grace. That had always been Philip’s father. Philip was just Philip.

  Priscilla found it very hard to rationalise that the scrawny scamp she ran through fields with as a child was now the tall, handsome duke she was destined to marry. Was that not the perfect start to one of those dreamy romantic poems that her governess read all the time? Yet there was no romance between them.

  He was kind, considerate, cordial even. Yet Priscilla could only look upon him with warm thoughts of friendship. There were no breath-stealing moments or furtive glances.

  “Do you think His Grace will come to call upon you this evening?” Gwen’s question brought Priscilla back from her mind wandering.

  Her brows wrinkled as she thought about that. “It is likely. He said that he would be back from his outing and he seemed eager to stop by.”

  “Of course he is,” Gwen said with a grin. “Shall you bring the dress with you now or have it delivered?”

  Priscilla had always been a bit clumsy. “I think I shall let the tailor deliver it. There was that stitch that was loose, after all.”

  “Right,” Gwen said as she nodded her head. “I had forgotten about that completely, what with you looking so bedazzling in it.”

  Priscilla waved off Gwen’s foolishness. Her mother did not like how informal Gwen was at times to Priscilla, but there was only a few years difference between them. Priscilla thought of Gwen as a friend. They had known each other for years and Gwen had a lot more life experience than Priscilla. She was a natural ally in these strange times.

  “Gwen,” Priscilla said in low voice. “Did you love your husband before you were married?”

  Gwen hung the wedding dress carefully on the hook by the door before she turned around to eye Priscilla with amusement. “I didn’t even know him, Miss.”

  “Surely you jest,” Priscilla said, trying to imagine what that would be like.

  Gwen shrugged her shoulders and smiled. “Well, I suppose I did meet him a few times beforehand. Mind you, I had no say in the matter whatsoever.”

  “I have heard of that many times. We had a cousin whose father married her off quite suddenly. Took us all quite by surprise. He had seemed a reasonable fellow before that.” Priscilla frowned as she remembered how she had heard the news and then her cousin had simply been married.

  Gwen nodded. “Parents always want to make a good life for their child. Just like me, they always think they know best. It’s why Fred wanted me to leave my work as a maid. As if we could survive on just what he brings in from the factory.”

  Priscilla did not like to think about it all. She drew in a breath before she ventured, “But you grew to love your husband?”

  “Oh, yes, Fred is a fine chap,” Gwen said with a content smile as if she were remembering something fond and warm.

  Priscilla smiled at the look of affection on Gwen’s face. It made her feel better to know that love could grow out of such a beginning as Gwen and her Fred must have had. She noticed Gwen watching her a bit and she gave Gwen a curious look.

  Gwen had a twinkle in her eye that made Priscilla uneasy. “You got the cold feet, haven’t ye?”

  “Is that what this is?” Priscilla puzzled over the question. “I do not suppose I know what it feels like so I cannot say.”

  Gwen giggled. “It feels like you might be about to step off into a deep hole, one you don’t see.”

  “Maybe,” Priscilla replied honestly. “What if I do not love him as I should?”

  Gwen pushed her lips out as she pondered Priscilla’s question. “What is the right way to love a man?” Gwen shook her head. “What is it that truly bothers you about it all?”

  “I have known His Grace for all my life. I do not know how to suddenly see him any differently just because Mother and Father have decided that it is time we made a life together.”

  An understanding hum escaped Gwen. She gave Priscilla look of compassion. “It might be a true gift to marry a man you know so well. You will have no fear of the unknown with him. Why, true friendship can blossom into a fine rose.”

  “I do hope that is the case,” Priscilla whispered. “I feel foolish that I worry so, yet—”

  “Yet, you cannot help it,” Gwen said as she laid her hand on Priscilla’s shoulder. “Oh Miss, I wish I could quiet your worries, but they are natural. Every woman feels such things sometimes.”

  Priscilla knew that what Gwen said held truth, but this did not quiet the nagging thought that things were not exactly right. “You are right.”

  ***

  Doctor George Rowley met his patients in many places that were slightly less savory than he would have liked. Today was a pleasant change from sour-smelling bedrooms. He was checking on Timothy Henderson, the youngest son of the seamstress that lived at the corner of Elm and Arlington Roads.

  Mrs. Henderson’s house smelled of lemons from her vigorous cleaning. George had told the woman of the usefulness of such things to combat the foulness of the diseases that tormented her youngest son. The lemon-scented breeze wafted through pristine white lace curtains that lifted with its touch as George warmed his stethoscope.

  George gave the boy a smile as he put the end of the stethoscope against Tim’s chest. “Big breath, Timmy,” George said as he keened his ears to listen for the tell-tale wheeze and rattle of pneumonia that had developed in the child’s lungs after a prolonged battle with a vicious cold.

  Tim drew in a breath and let it out slowly. The child’s eyes were wide with dread. George knew that he hated the medicine and probably hated even more that George
had insisted on bed rest for him. No doubt the child was wondering what sort of foul torment George had for him today.

  After a couple more breaths George removed his stethoscope and slung it around his neck like a garish scarf. “Mrs. Henderson, I do believe that Timmy here has earned himself some time out of this bed.”

  No sooner had George said the words than Tim let out a triumphant, “Yahoo!”

  George raised a hand to halt the boy who was already half out of the bed. “Easy does it,” George warned. He turned toward Mrs. Henderson who held her hands clasped together as if holding herself back from celebrating as well. George told her, “Make sure he plays outside when it is not too hot. We do not want to strain his lungs. And make sure he takes frequent rests.”

  Mrs. Henderson bobbed her head. “Whatever you say, Doctor Rowley.”

  George gave Tim’s hair a ruffle with his hand. “On with you then, Master Timmy!” The boy shot George a grin before he eyed his mother to see if she also approved. She must have done because Tim was soon out of the room, bare feet and all.

  Mrs. Henderson called, “Timmy, come back and put something on your feet! We shall not have you undoing all of Doctor Rowley’s hard work!”

  George just shook his head as he gathered up his equipment and put it back into his black leather bag. He followed the mother out of the room as she went to fetch Timothy from doing himself damage. “Mrs. Henderson,” George said as he got to the front door. “If he begins to cough, give him some of the elixirs I left and put on a kettle for some lemon and honey tea. I shall be back to check on him in a week, but please call me if you need me sooner.”

  “Bless you, Doctor Rowley,” Mrs. Henderson said as she clutched her apron. “Here, I know it isn’t much.” She held out her hand and George tried to wave off the coins, but she insisted as she pressed them into his palm. “You do so much for us. Let us pay you, won’t you?”

  George sighed and nodded. If it made the woman feel better then he supposed it could not hurt. “You are a kind woman, Mrs. Henderson. I shall see you in a week, no payment necessary.”

  Mrs. Henderson looked like she might start singing his praises again, and George took evasive action by giving her a bow and replacing his hat on his head. With the signal given, he bid her good morning and stepped off down the street with a clear conscience. As he walked he listened to the clatter of dishes, the trill of voices, and the general din of life in London.

  George had come to London to study at one of the local hospitals and earn his license. He had never intended on staying, as his goal in earning a medical degree had had little to do with the masses. No, George had gotten his license to help his mother who was very sick.

  Unfortunately George could not save her, even with all his learning. It perhaps had been folly to think he could succeed where the other doctors had failed. His mother had smiled at him. She had called him her “gentleman doctor.”

  George took his mind away from his mother. His failure stung too much when he held it close. He looked instead down the hill towards the river. The fog was gathered there and George treaded on toward it.

  He might have failed his mother but he had sworn to help people just as she wanted him to do. He would save the whole of London if it lifted this weight from his heart. To mend others was to mend ourselves, as his old mentor at the hospital had told him once when George’s doubts had gotten the better of him. He would heal himself one patient at a time.

  ***

  Early the next morning, Priscilla eyed Gwen in the mirror as the maid combed and braided Priscilla’s brown hair. My hair really is the most boring color, Priscilla decided. She much preferred Gwen’s auburn locks. They were so dramatic compared to Priscilla’s mundane hair.

  “What are you pouting at?” Gwen asked with a grin.

  Priscilla laughed and gave a sigh. “I just wish my hair was not such a dreary thing. It is so bleak compared to yours.”

  “I like your hair. It reminds me of chocolate cake. I love chocolate cake,” Gwen said with an unabashed look of amusement.

  Priscilla could not stop herself from rolling her eyes. “I like chocolate cake too, but do you not think that red velvet cake [F1]is more dramatic?”

  “Tastes the same with your eyes closed,” Gwen replied with her tongue in her cheek.

  Priscilla laughed. “It is too early to be talking of dessert.”

  “What will you do today, Miss?” Gwen was just about done braiding her hair.

  Pricilla thought of all that she had to accomplish before the wedding. She really did not have that much left. The wedding was drawing closer and closer, no matter how Priscilla wished the time would slow down. “Well, Mother is insistent that I look at more dresses, even though we have a perfectly good one.”

  “That sounds like Lady Chaplin,” Gwen said. She gave Priscilla a compassionate smile. “Do you want me to tag along today and be a buffer for you?”

  “No,” Priscilla said and she noticed that Gwen looked visibly relieved. Priscilla smiled. “I can handle my mother. Now if you could tell me how to handle my sister then I would be beholden to you for all time.”

  Gwen whistled. “Not sure I can solve that riddle for you. I never even understood my own sister.”

  “She is my younger sister but we are not that far apart in age,” Priscilla continued. “I want to be close to her. We should be close, should we not?”

  Gwen heaved a sigh and walked over to the vanity to put away the brush. “Not all sisters are close. I have three sisters and I only really speak to one of them. Family does not always mean friendship, but I do hope you can find some way to connect with your sister, Miss. If that is truly what you want, I hope it happens.”

  Priscilla nodded. “I hope so too, but I fear that my hope gets further from reality every day. I think she resents me for marrying first.”

  “How could that be? You are the oldest and therefore should marry first,” Gwen said with a shake of her head.

  Priscilla knew all of that. Her mother had told her the same thing and said she was just being paranoid because of her nerves. Perhaps that was true. It could be true.

  “I just wish that I could find some common ground with Bridgitte.” Priscilla had been trying for so long to come up with something that she and her sister agreed on, and she had really thought that this Season in London might be the thing that did that. They were both thrust into the spotlight, which Bridgitte was clearly more comfortable in, and Priscilla had been happy to let her sister shine.

  Priscilla preferred to play her piano and sing than to dance with men at fancy balls. Bridgitte, however, had the fever that came with the discovery of the male gender. The symptoms of the batting eyelashes and flushed cheeks were all too evident in her sister. At first, Priscilla had gotten most of the attention, to Bridgitte’s chagrin.

  It did not take long for Priscilla to lose favour in the eyes of prospective dance partners when it became obvious that her strength was not being a charming decorative ornament to hang on their arms. Bridgitte knew when to laugh and when to dip her head demurely, and just what to say to make the gentlemen come back for another dance.

  Really, if Priscilla thought about it, it made sense that her father would choose Priscilla to wed first. After all, she was definitely the one who needed help with making a match. There was no doubt that Bridgitte would find a suitable husband in time.

  “You will find what you need in time,” Gwen said, and Priscilla looked at her oddly before she remembered what she had said just beforehand.