by Erica Ridley
His mouth dried. There was only one answer to an offer like that.
“Where do I sign?”
Chapter 8
Belle glanced over her shoulder and through the large window in what she’d come to think of as her corner of Mr. McAlistair’s workroom. The sun was out, and the falling snow had dwindled to the occasional flutter of snowflakes. The storm had passed, or soon would. Before she knew it, the roads would be clear enough for one to drive all the way to Cressmouth.
She had never wanted anything less.
The past four days had been a delight. Racing next door first thing every morning, where Mr. McAlistair would greet her with a smile that melted her knees. Then they’d button up her dress and get to work. Work! She, Lady Isabelle, had work.
It was her, not “Mr. Brough,” who Mr. McAlistair trusted to paint his business partner’s sketches. Oh, very well, “Mrs. Lépine” was still a pseudonym, but at least Belle hadn’t needed to pretend to be a man to be taken seriously.
She was doing work that mattered, work that would mean something, work that could bring hope and new possibilities to countless people. Her efforts here today might one day be in people’s homes, be the topic of conversation at dinner, or be marked with a bit of ribbon as a potential customer decided which of his favorites he might purchase.
It wasn’t exactly the same as publishing original art under her own name, but it was an honor and a privilege to be chosen and trusted with something so important and irreplaceable.
Mostly trusted, she amended, with a subtle glance at Mr. McAlistair. Belle had mastered the art of sliding her eyes just above or beside her easel in order to gaze at him without it looking as though her focus had broken at all.
He trusted her enough that he no longer flinched whenever she selected a new sketch, but he could not hide his almost comical relief every time she presented him with a completed illustration and he discovered it was actually good and not ruined.
Not “good,” Belle reminded herself. He needed these to be perfect. Mr. McAlistair demanded no less than perfection from himself.
He needn’t worry.
She could barely concentrate on her easel because she kept staring in awe at him.
He was fearlessly creative, cutting and sewing and discarding in order to cut and sew again and again. Slight variations, dramatic variations, wildly different combinations. Nothing was sacred until it completed some vision that he had to create with his hands and see before him to know it was right. Only then did a slight smile tease the edge of his lips.
His work took one hundred percent of his attention. She suspected a dragon could fly up and breathe fire at the windowpane and he wouldn’t notice. It was as though nothing existed but him and his designs.
Until he laid down his completed greatcoat and lifted his gaze to hers.
She jerked her eyes back to her easel, but it was too late. He had caught her watching him. Her cheeks burned. She pretended none of that had occurred and that she had been deeply engrossed in her illustration the entire time.
Only half the sketches had been painted. Belle wanted to complete the rest not just to prove herself competent and useful, but because the project was exciting, and Mr. McAlistair was incredible. Working with someone was a new experience in general, but working with him was better than anything she might have dreamt.
She wouldn’t be there when he and his partner pored through the finished watercolors to determine which finalists would be accepted into the catalogue, but she had no doubt any investor worth his salt would be just as impressed as she was. She might not be present for the making of the catalogue, but she’d see it everywhere once it became the talk of the town.
“How is the new illustration coming along?” came Mr. McAlistair’s seductive rumble from just a few feet away.
“Er…fine,” she said. Or sort of said. Words tended to tangle in her throat whenever he was close enough to smell, to touch.
As if it wasn’t pressure enough to know how critical it was for every sweep of her brush to be perfect, for Belle to be perfect. He was putting so much faith and trust in her. She had to deserve it.
“There.” She stepped back from her easel. “You can look if you like.”
Of course he could look if he liked. The illustrations were his property. She was helping, but he didn’t need her. He and his partner would get on just fine without her as soon as the snow melted. And Belle would go back to painting everyday scenes for a book she would never publish.
Mr. McAlistair joined her before the easel, his body close enough for her to feel his heat and breathe in his masculine scent.
Perhaps that was why she babbled, “The outfit is a delight, but where is this supposed to be? There are—” She counted quickly. “—nine drummers drumming in the background. Is it supposed to be some sort of parade?”
He shrugged. “According to Jonathan, adverts needn’t portray realistic circumstances to be effective. Besides, don’t forget I’ve had a peek at your calendar. Were any of those settings practical?”
“Very practical,” she assured him. “I would never ride bareback on a stallion without a satin opera gown and a shell lace tippet.”
He grinned at her. “You should sell your visions back to Ackermann.”
Her heart thumped. He was teasing, she reminded herself. Ackermann would never purchase its own designs, which meant Mr. McAlistair wasn’t really saying he thought her art was good enough to be sold or used commercially.
“Or paint something else,” he suggested. “And then you can sell it to the world.”
Oh.
He really was saying her art was commercially viable.
Her heart beat so fast, it felt as though it was taking flight.
His bright brown eyes held hers in their thrall. “May I see the rest of your paintings? As lovely as your Christmas gift to your maid is, I’m certain you must have more art next door that I haven’t seen.”
“N-no,” she stammered. “That is, yes, I do have a few pieces, but I’m not ready... for...”
She trailed off and clamped her lips together before she spilled all her secrets.
Ursula wasn’t the only one who would receive original Lady Isabelle artwork this Yuletide. When Belle wasn’t working side by side with Mr. McAlistair, she hunched over the floor in her cramped guestroom, painting a series of candid watercolors of Mr. McAlistair working on his designs. Cutting, sewing, measuring, outfitting his manikin.
The series would not be suitable for inclusion into his catalogue, but she hoped it would bring him good memories of the work he’d put into his dream... and the short time he and Belle had spent together.
“That’s all right,” he said. “I understand. I’ve never shown anyone my unfinished work or the designs I decided not to pursue.” When his gaze flicked to his manikin, and his eyes crinkled. “Well, until you, of course.”
“This week has been full of first times for me, as well,” she admitted. She ran her finger along the wooden rim of the easel. “Other than Ursula, no one sees my work at all.”
He tilted his head. “How is she?”
“Better every day, they tell me, although I haven’t been allowed to see her.”
Not being allowed something she wanted was another first. Oh, to be sure, Belle’s family laid down laws and tugged the reins. But outside of her home, no one would dare naysay Lady Isabelle.
Mrs. Lépine, on the other hand...
“I’m glad to hear she’s improving. Where did you say you were off to once the snow clears?”
She hadn’t said. Every time he asked something personal, no matter how innocent or insignificant, she’d deflected the question rather than risk accidentally giving a clue to her real identity.
But she was tired of being unable to share any part of her true self with the man she was spending every day with. The better she came to know Mr. McAlistair, the more she liked him. She wished he could know her, too, if only superficially.
�
�I’m visiting friends and family for Christmastide,” she said.
There. That was true, if not special or unique. She imagined every guest in the posting house shared the same festive agenda. Many were doubtlessly en route to Marlowe Castle for the Yuletide season. They might even attend some of the same assemblies or theatre productions, although with the influx of tourists making the annual pilgrimage to Cressmouth, running into anyone specific would be unlikely.
“I’m sorry the snow has spoilt your plans.” The light from the window gave his hair a celestial glow. She longed to paint him, just like this. “Your friends and family must miss you.”
Angelica would, yes. But Belle was not expected at her brother’s cottage for another week. She doubted Vale had left London yet.
“Come to think of it,” she said with a little laugh, “I’m uncertain my brother expects me at all.”
His brows shot skyward. “Why wouldn’t he?”
“My brother...” is the Duke of Nottingvale. “...is too busy to plan his own soirées. I used to help.”
Not “help.” Belle used to do absolutely everything. Mother believed running Vale’s various households would foster necessary skills and increase Belle’s attractiveness to potential titled suitors. Over the years, she had learned every detail and could have run a dozen households in her sleep. That was, if there’d been any time to sleep. Or to paint. Or to breathe.
No one was more shocked than Belle when she’d finally rebelled. All of these demands weren’t her duty at all. She was not a wife, these were not her households, and this was not her cross to bear. There was no time to just be Belle.
So, she’d stopped helping with the Christmas parties. A minor insubordination, perhaps, but the first time she’d attempted to assert her independence to her mother.
Mother’s response, of course, was to say that Belle was not now nor would ever be independent. She was obliged to do as she was told, first by her family, and then by her husband. The sooner she resigned herself to the facts of life, the sooner they could all have done with this silly tantrum.
Vale had been the one to come to Belle’s rescue. He was horrified to realize how many responsibilities his little sister had undertaken, and declared at once that she was not obliged to exhaust herself like a maid-of-all-work when the dukedom’s coffers had more than enough coin to employ additional staff to handle any duty.
So, Belle had got her way. She wasn’t in charge of anything anymore. No longer needed, wanted, noticed. No longer significant in the least. Hurrah.
Winning had been worse than losing.
“I haven’t any siblings,” Mr. McAlistair said, and leaned one shoulder beside the window. “Does that make me advantaged or disadvantaged?”
“Both,” she answered without hesitation, and chuckled at his confusion. She tried to explain. “I love my brother more than anything. He loves me, too. I have never doubted it. But he was born the important one, whilst I was born expendable.”
She’d spent a lifetime trying to prove herself otherwise, but longed to do it on her own terms. To be important because she was Belle, rather than because she served some easily replaceable purpose.
“Surely not expendable,” Mr. McAlistair said in horror.
“They would never harm me,” Belle assured him. “They just don’t... see me.”
No one did.
To the beau monde, she was the Duke of Nottingvale’s sister, rather than her own person. To her mother, she was a little doll to be posed and placed wherever her mother saw fit.
Belle wasn’t supposed to have thoughts in her pretty head. She couldn’t even color theatre bills without doing so under an assumed name. Lady Isabelle had plenty of money. Why play at some laughable post to earn a pittance? She should go shopping instead. Perhaps the right ribbon in her bonnet would help her attract the right man.
According to Mother, the right man was someone like the Earl of Lunsford or the Duke of Westlington, both of whom had deep coffers, enormous estates, and thrice as many years as Belle. They were old enough to be her grandfather. Not that a wife need be attracted to her husband. No one wed because they liked each other. They married to cement their dynasty. Didn’t she want to be a rich, powerful duchess?
No, actually. Belle did not. She would do it, of course, because it was her duty to do so, and she’d already disappointed her family enough by dragging her feet for this long. Besides, what else could she do? Her place was in Society. It was the only world she knew, the only place she was of value.
Mother was right: Belle had learnt all the skills. No one would laugh to hear Lady Isabelle was the Countess of Lunsford, the way the publishing houses and traveling circuses had sniggered when she had tried to show them her art. She belonged in the beau monde. Accepting her destiny was nothing more than changing which shadow she lived under.
Her husband’s name would always be far more important than hers.
“How about you?” She put down her brushes. “You’ve the presentation, of course, and then what?”
“Seasonal festivities,” he said in a tone that sounded anything but jolly. “If the presentation goes well, I won’t want to do anything but work on plans for the company. Waiting until after Twelfth Night will be torture.”
“Your presentation will go splendidly,” she assured him. “Your investors will be more excited about your couture than they will be for Christmas.”
Thanks to their contract, Belle would not be able to squeal, I know him! when his fashions became the talk of London. Mr. McAlistair’s name would be as well-known as the Duke of Nottingvale’s or Beau Brummell’s.
As for Belle’s name, well... perhaps a pseudonym wasn’t the worst that could befall her. It gave her the freedom to be here with Mr. McAlistair. To paint, and to be taken seriously as an artist. She could throw herself into his arms for that alone. He saw her. He liked her; he appreciated her. He made her wish she could feel like this every day.
“Tea?” he asked, pushing away from the window.
She nodded. “Please.”
The sun was beginning to set, which brought them to Belle’s second favorite part of the day: not working together. Mr. McAlistair would make tea, and they would sit side by side before his great window and watch the sun slowly sink behind the rolling snow-covered hills, bathing them with a pink and orange watercolor of its own.
He placed a steaming cup of tea into her hand and joined her on the cushion. He was close enough that she could have laid her head on his shoulder if she wanted to. She did want to. She wanted to nestle into him and have him tuck his arm about her and watch the sunset wrapped in each other’s arms as their tea grew cold, forgotten.
When he thought her attention was elsewhere, Mr. McAlistair looked at her like he wanted those things, too. He gazed at her as though the only thing stopping him from reaching for her was the boiling liquid clutched in his hand, which was the real reason for mucking about with tea. He wasn’t thirsty, or at least not for that. He looked at her as though he were hungry for her.
Until she accidentally met his eyes, of course. And then they immediately cast their gazes out of the window, their words tripping over each other to be the first to make some inane comment about evergreens or holly.
She should be glad he wasn’t as rakish as he dressed, she reminded herself. She was a lady, soon to be betrothed to some lord. Under no circumstances should she embroil herself in a torrid affair with a devastatingly handsome tailor.
All it would take was one kiss, and she would forget her station completely.
She must stay very, very vigilant.
“Thank you,” he said softly. “For helping.”
Thank you for disrobing me seemed an inappropriate response, so Belle simply gave a quick nod behind her teacup. “It’s my pleasure.”
Why had she mentioned pleasure? The moment the word was out of her mouth, his gaze dropped to her lips. Her skin heated and tingled in awareness.
His eyes met hers. “You are asto
undingly talented, Mrs. Lépine.”
Oh, there it was. A beautiful compliment spoilt by her dreadful pseudonym. She had never impressed anyone before, and hated that she could only do so from behind a false name. She wished, just for once, just with him, that she could still be impressive as herself.
But he could never find out. No one could. Her reputation would be worse than ruined. She’d not only lose her place in Society and her good favor with her mother, she’d tarnish her entire family’s name in the process.
That was why his idea to sign a contract had been brilliant. She would ensure he never learnt her true identity, but even if he did, he could not disclose it. No matter what, they would go their separate ways, and that would be that.
Belle would be temporary, their stolen moments together a secret, just like she wanted.
Like they both wanted.
And if a tiny part of her wanted nothing of the sort, well, that was because every time Belle thought, she thought all the wrong things. Thoughts like, I wish this was real. Or, if it’s to remain secret anyway, what’s the harm in one little kiss? Thoughts like, I want more.
She couldn’t help it. He was genuine and honest. He was a creative genius who appreciated and encouraged her contributions. He was happy to act as a team. He was proud of the work they did together. He smelt of sandalwood and sunshine, and sent her heated sidelong glances that could melt a woman’s stays right off her body... that was, if Belle were wearing any.
He touched the side of her face and lowered his mouth toward hers. “Stop me.”
She pressed her lips to his.
Stop him? Nothing could stop this. Their kiss had been inevitable for days, building up power with every stolen glance and unfastened button until they could not be in the same room without the constant awareness of each other heating the air.
A chaste kiss was all it could be, something fast and passionless to prove their attraction to be nothing but folly.
