by Erica Ridley
Belle’s other dream, the one even closer to her heart than being an independent spinster—and just as unlikely an outcome—was to gather her favorite paintings together in a book. She’d been working on it for ages. It had gone through so many drafts that she would have more than enough content for an entire series of picture books: Cressmouth at Christmas, Bath in springtime, High Season in London.
The possibilities were endless.
The cost of publication was no object. She could publish a new collection every month if she pleased. The problem was... would it please anyone else?
Her work had already been rejected by every fashion repository or playbill designer in England. That was what had given birth to “Mr. Brough.” If no one took Lady Isabelle seriously enough to let her paint an advert for a juggling clown, who on earth would wish to spend money purchasing an entire book of her paintings?
“Mr. Brough” could do it, of course. No one would blink an eye.
They also wouldn’t know they were turning the pages of Belle’s baby. She’d been painting her whole life, and yearning for recognition for just as long. But she couldn’t bear being recognized as a national embarrassment.
Lady Isabelle, the coddled fool who thought she could paint.
Ursula had accused her of rarely allowing people close. Of Belle always keeping an easel or a pseudonym between herself and anyone who could hurt her.
Ursula wasn’t wrong. It was easier that way. Safer. Infamy wasn’t something Belle could ignore if she didn’t like it. No matter how much money rattled in her purse.
She had to mind her reputation at all costs.
It wasn’t just a matter of looking a certain way. Belle had to be a certain way.
Being the sort of lady a lord married was a currency far greater than gold. Society had certain expectations. Mother had even higher expectations. The longer Belle took to marry well, the more unsuccessful she looked in the eyes of her peers, and the more scathing her mother’s lectures became.
How was Belle not a countess already? A duchess in her own right? A princess? She’d been bred for this like a blood-lined horse, for God’s sake. If a common filly could do as it was trained, why couldn’t Belle? From the moment she’d failed to be born a male, marrying well had been her raison d’être. When would she cease being a disappointment to her poor mother?
Belle shoved her empty breakfast plate away. Mother wasn’t even here to scold her, and Belle could still hear every word.
She pushed to her feet. Mother needn’t worry. Belle was slow, but she was dutiful. She would follow the path she’d been given and make her family proud.
It was why she was attending Vale’s Yuletide party, rather than simply visiting Angelica. Her brother wouldn’t be the only unwed lord in attendance. Perhaps in a less populated, relaxed, and friendly atmosphere like Cressmouth, Belle and some charming earl-marquess-prince would fall in love at first sight.
No, there she went again, being fanciful. Thinking, when she should not. How many times had Mother told her “love” was the chain binding the lower classes?
Duchesses didn’t need love.
Countesses didn’t need love.
Marchionesses didn’t need love.
They needed a powerful husband with deep coffers. They needed an army of servants and countless acres of land and so many residences it was impossible to visit them all in a year. They needed to glare down their noses at Society with their heads held high because they were better than everyone else, and everyone knew it.
If Belle wanted to make her mother proud, she needed to stalk the Marriage Mart like a hunter. One didn’t leave beauty be. One mounted its head on the wall in order to brag to all one’s friends.
But first, Belle needed to survive the next few days at the Hoot & Holly inn. Ursula was in the sickroom, along with half the other maids. The other staff did not have a moment to spare to deal with the sartorial whims of the widow Lépine. But Belle would still need to get in and out of her clothing.
Which left Mr. McAlistair.
He did not want to help her. He did not have time to help her. But he was all she had, and she was willing to pay handsomely for the favor.
He wasn’t anyone of high social consequence, or she would already know his name. He dressed well, but so did Beau Brummell, and which dandy spent the mornings in a dressing room with Prinny, despite bearing no title?
Just as tellingly, Mr. McAlistair had chosen to take his holiday here, in the Hoot & Holly posting house, rather than continuing on to the next town, where guests enjoyed the sumptuous luxury of Marlowe Castle.
If she paid him for his time, she would be performing a favor in return.
She would simply have to otherwise keep her distance. No matter how solitary it felt all alone in an empty room. No matter how warm Mr. McAlistair’s hands, or how sensuous his lips, or how broad and fit his shoulders were. Their dealings would be purely transactions. A few buttons for her, a few coins for him, then good-bye, au revoir, no further contact until the morrow.
It should be easy.
Even someone like Belle could manage that much.
She climbed the stairs to the third floor and bypassed her door to knock on his.
He answered the door with a shimmering hunk of golden cashmere over one shoulder and a sewing needle between his teeth.
Her eyes widened. She would get to the button agreement in a moment. First, she had to get to the bottom of... this.
“What are you doing?”
“Sewing.”
Obviously. Perhaps this was the best of all possible scenarios.
“I can sew,” she said quickly. “I can help you.”
His expression was flat. “No, you can’t.”
It should not have hurt, but it did. He hadn’t even seen the terrible destruction her embroidery had wrought upon innocent handkerchiefs, yet he could discern her ineptness just by looking at her.
“I can darn stockings,” she informed him hotly. “And attach buttons.”
He lifted a corner of the cashmere. “This isn’t a stocking.”
“What is it?”
The soft, rippling gold unfolded into a stunning waistcoat so beautiful it nearly hurt her eyes.
She gasped despite herself. “It’s exquisite.”
“I know.” He tossed it back over his shoulder without changing expression.
He was right, damn him. If Belle even touched that fabric, it would fall apart in her hands. The best thing she could do for that waistcoat was keep her clumsy fingers away from it.
“Where did you find the pattern?”
“Pattern?” He repeated the word as though he’d never heard of the concept.
She gestured at the delicate cashmere. “For the waistcoat.”
“Do you really want to know?”
No. She should not have asked. She should explain the button arrangement and then walk away. Flee, even. Secure her door with a key to keep her locked safely away from her impossibly handsome neighbor, with whom she would not spend a single second more time than absolutely necessary.
“Yes,” blurted her traitorous mouth. “I want to know.”
He gave a deep sigh as if he had feared that answer, then gallantly stepped aside. “Do come in.”
Chapter 7
Calvin cursed himself. Inviting Mrs. Lépine into his rented rooms was the opposite of avoiding distractions. It was inviting trouble.
And yet, from the moment she’d appeared at his door, inevitable.
He ushered her past his bedchamber and toward the small parlor he’d converted into a temporary workshop.
As soon as she stepped into the parlor, she shrieked and stumbled backward, straight into Calvin’s chest.
He caught her, his arms sheltering her instinctively. Her hair was still damp from her bath and smelt of orange and nutmeg. He tried not to notice how well she fit against his body.
“What is it?” His cheek nestled against her head. “What has happened?”
The pa
rlor looked as it always did. A bit messy, perhaps, with folded piles of fashionable prototypes and samples of expensive fabric laying on every surface, but he hadn’t expected it to cause terror.
Mrs. Lépine let out a short, embarrassed laugh. “That man... I thought... When I glimpsed him from the corner of my eye...”
It was Calvin’s turn to chuckle in embarrassment. “A thousand apologies for not explaining sooner. That’s Duke, my manikin. He’s a lay figure made of wickerwork, and the most patient model a tailor could have. He doesn’t even mind when I poke him with a needle.”
“Are you a tailor?”
It wasn’t until she slid around to face him that Calvin realized Mrs. Lépine was still wrapped in his arms. He should let her go. He would have let go, if she had pushed away from him instead of turning toward him. His hands now rested at the small of her back. Her face was a mere hand’s width from his.
“What was the question?” he rasped.
Her chin tilted up, bringing her lips even closer to his. All he would have to do was drop his head a few inches and his mouth could claim hers.
“You’re a tailor? Out here? Who are your clients?”
“No clients,” he managed. “The designs I’m creating are... a speculative experiment.”
Her eyes were too close to his. He couldn’t stop looking at them, drowning in them.
“You’re very talented.”
All she had seen was a waistcoat and a wicker manikin. She had no idea if Calvin was a talented clothier. Unless she wasn’t talking about his designs. Then what would she mean he was talented at? Holding her close? Unbuttoning her gown?
He released her at once and turned to fiddle with the fireplace so she would not sense his consternation. “Would you like tea?”
“Tea?” she echoed blankly, as though she forgot the meaning of the word.
“I’ll put the kettle on.”
There. That was a calm, platonic, definitely-not-kissing-the-beguiling-widow action to take. Calvin had come to Houville to prepare for his presentation without disruption. He would serve his beautiful distraction a quick cup of tea, and send her on her way.
“You keep tea in your room?”
He glanced over his shoulder in surprise. “Don’t you?”
She bit her lip. “My room hasn’t even a fireplace.”
He suspected that was not the full story, and cursed himself for wanting to know what the full story really was.
“I travel with everything,” he said, rather than press for information. “When I’m working on a project, sometimes I don’t leave the workroom for days on end. I’ve fallen asleep on that sofa as many times as the bed.”
She glanced at the sofa with interest.
He deeply regretted mentioning beds at all.
“You mentioned you don’t have clients,” she said, and then paused as if Calvin would know what to say next.
He did not. The shrilling of the kettle saved him from having to pretend to. He removed it from the heat, only to remember he had a month’s supply of tea but only one cup and saucer. When he’d packed for “everything,” he had not anticipated entertaining a pretty woman who could not remove her clothes without Calvin’s help.
“I don’t want tea,” he announced, and shoved the saucer her way. The sooner she drank it and left, the sooner he could return to his work and life as usual.
She frowned. “Surely you—”
“I have only the one cup.”
“Of course you do,” she murmured, which made no sense at all. How many people did she know with only one teacup?
“Mrs. Lépine,” he began.
“I’ll pay you,” she blurted out.
He blinked. “You’ll what?”
“Just until Ursula recovers, or the snow melts, whichever comes first,” she explained, as though that explained anything. She didn’t touch her tea. She plucked at her fingers as if removing an invisible set of gloves. “You have no clients and I have no lady’s maid. It’s perhaps not perfect, but... I’ll give you four guineas a day to continue buttoning me every morning and unbuttoning me at night.”
Four guineas was more than the average maid or footman earned in an entire month.
Calvin would have unbuttoned her for free.
“Five guineas,” said Mrs. Lépine, as though he had argued. “You are not a lady’s maid, and I respect that. I shall also expect you to adhere to absolute discretion.”
“Shall you?” he said, his voice dangerous.
“If it’s not enough, just tell me your price,” she said, as though he had answered an employment advert and was now being unreasonable. “Six guineas? Seven?”
Despite his fancy clothes, she saw him as someone to be purchased like a servant. Not a man who could give his word as a gentleman. Calvin’s word carried no weight because he was no gentleman. He was a stranger to be pitied, or to be bought.
“The terms are,” she continued as though he had dared to negotiate, “when we leave here, we do so as strangers. Not only won’t anyone know you assisted in Ursula’s place, you’ll deny ever having met me at all.”
“Will I?” Each word was cold and flinty. “Ten pounds a day, with a fifty quid minimum, paid up front.”
There. Now she would know how it felt not to be trusted to keep one’s word. Besides, fifty pounds was a ridiculous sum. The annual wage of a butler. Enough to commission two dozen serviceable day dresses with nary a button.
Not the sort of coin one offered a posting house guest so that one could pretend one had never met him without fear of the dirty secret being found out.
“Very well.” She opened her reticule.
Who the devil gadded about with fifty quid in their reticule?
Someone who thought ordinary men like him could be purchased and discarded, like a day-old newspaper.
“Why don’t we sign a contract?” he asked with exaggerated solicitousness. “Will that set your mind at ease?”
Without waiting for a response, he set his writing slant atop one of his traveling trunks and put pen to paper.
“Ten per day... Fifty on signing... Buttons... Absolute discretion... Proceedings limited to Mrs. Lépine presenting herself at Mr. McAlistair’s door... We the undersigned solemnly swear to never again acknowledge the other’s existence once the roads clear or the maid resumes service, whichever comes first.” He signed his name with a flourish and held out the plume. “Madame?”
“Thank you,” she said without irony, and signed her name. “Now it is binding.”
She placed five ten-pound notes onto his slant and picked up the “contract” by a corner, lest the ink smear.
Calvin didn’t know whether it was better or worse that she didn’t seem to realize how offensive it was to try and purchase a fellow guest like a servant.
No, not to try. She’d achieved it. The contract was in her hand.
Well, what did he care? He was fifty pounds richer. He hadn’t been planning to start an acquaintance with Mrs. Lépine, much less continue on once they departed the Hoot & Holly. Which, hopefully, would be soon. The days before the meeting with the investor were dwindling, and he and Jonathan still needed to prepare the materials for their presentation.
Mrs. Lépine had granted Calvin a favor by limiting the scope of her distraction. They were to be neither friends nor lovers, but two temporary neighbors who briefly came together twice a day.
He should be thrilled at this turn of events. He fancied himself a misanthrope, did he not? A recluse, alone by design. Mrs. Lépine was just... Wasn’t “lépine” French for “thorn?” A proper English rose; pretty to look at, painful to touch. He would stay on his path and leave her to hers. It was better for both of them.
She picked up her tea, realized it had gone cold, and set it back down in the saucer unsampled. “Will you show me more of your work?”
He stared at her. Would he what? She’d just paid a proper ransom to keep him in his place, and now she wanted a tour of his haberdashery? And Ca
lvin thought he didn’t know how to avoid awkwardness with other people.
Maybe... maybe Mrs. Lépine didn’t know either. Maybe she was worse. Maybe what she needed most wasn’t help with buttons, but kindness.
“It must be brief,” he reminded her. “I’m very busy.”
She nodded eagerly and set the contract on the sofa cushion next to her reticule.
How much blunt was left inside? A fistful of hundred-pound notes? Did she even realize he could not exchange her ten-pound notes for ready cash unless he visited the Bank of England in London?
Perhaps that explained Mrs. Lépine. She was from London. Her clothes indicated wealth, although Calvin of all people knew how little stock to put into a fine costume.
Her refined accent had been a better clue. Money wasn’t something new she had married into, but rather something she had been born with.
Perhaps this was her first trip outside London. How would she know how everyone else lived? Her husband would have handled all financial matters. Or a man of business would have, Calvin supposed. Perhaps Mr. and Mrs. Lépine had been creatures of leisure.
Perhaps she had asked about Calvin’s work not because she was interested in him or his art, but because she was bored, and he was the caged tiger in the menagerie.
“In short,” he said as if concluding a long lecture, even though he had just begun. “This—” He pointed at his manikin. “—is the sort of evening dress one might wear for dancing at the local assembly. These—” He held up a few pieces that had been lying folded on one of the chairs. “—are different waistcoat fabrics and cuts, depending on the preference and body shape of the wearer. Those—” He gestured vaguely toward the other chair. “—are trousers with varying styles of straps, depending on the dimensions of the wearer’s foot and the fit of his boot.”
“These are beautiful.” She gazed at the waistcoats in his hand with reverence, reaching out to touch one and then dropping her hand to her side just before her fingers could graze the fine material.
His chest swelled with warmth.
“But...” Her brow furrowed. “Wouldn’t you know your customer’s preferences and dimensions?”
