by Erica Ridley
“There were no glances at my art,” she explained gently. “There were glances at my face, at my gown, at my age, at my name. The men in charge were much too busy to humor the whims of a silly young woman.”
“Their loss,” he growled.
“Not exactly,” she admitted. “They are using my work, although they’ve no idea it’s me they employ. A certain reclusive ‘Mr. Brough’ submits his art by post.”
“You should tell them.” His eyes were dark with anger. “Throw their prejudices in their ignorant faces. It’s your work. You deserve to have your name on it. Not a pseudonym. You.”
She could do no such thing, of course. Her first act upon reaching Cressmouth would be to write to Mr. Brough’s employers, regretfully expressing an old man’s desire to retire from service.
The book of Christmas illustrations, on the other hand... No, not even that. Mother would be horrified, and who knew how potential suitors might react? She’d waited this long. Waiting until she secured her husband’s permission—if indeed her future lord would grant such a petition—wouldn’t change things in the least.
“Obviously, Jonathan and I will credit your work with your name on these illustrations,” Calvin assured her.
She stared at him in terror.
“Credit how?” she stammered. “I thought you would only be using a handful of these in your presentation to your investors.”
“That’s what I thought, as well. And then I saw the finished product. These are wonderful, Belle. Jonathan would have to be a fool not to want to use them in the final catalog, and Jonathan is no fool. Once we’ve made our selections, I’ll let you know, and we can work out proper compensation.”
“I don’t want compensation.” Rather, she did not want him to seek her out. “I give them all to you freely to use as you like.”
“Please recognize your worth, Belle.” His voice was quiet steel, his gaze unrelenting. “Your work has value and so do you.”
Oh, why did life have to be so muddled? She would love to see her name on a project as destined for greatness as Fit for a Duke: Lady Isabelle, illustrator.
But she could not allow any such thing to occur. As much as she wished she did not have to hide her true self behind false names, now more than ever she could not risk Calvin learning her true identity. He could place it on the cover of a nationally-available catalogue out of misplaced chivalry and ruin her life.
That was, if his warm feelings toward her did not immediately evaporate upon discovering her a highborn lady. He had made no pretense of his opinions about the upper classes, and his wish to have nothing to do with the beau monde beyond the world of fashion.
That Belle was exactly the type of spoilt young lady who might have once employed his mother... that Belle’s own mother had indeed been one of the fine duchesses who frequented her modiste’s establishment without ever once inquiring about Mrs. McAlistair’s life or progeny, because such details would have been beneath a duchess’s notice...
He could never know. When they left the posting house, she must disappear just like the snow.
“There,” she said, the word scratching from her throat. “I’ve completed the final illustration.”
He hastened to her side and said everything she’d ever hoped to hear anyone say about her talent with a paintbrush. She would miss that as much as the tea and kisses. Being appreciated for what she could do, rather than for who she’d been born.
After peppering her with lighthearted kisses, Calvin pulled back, his brown eyes twinkling. “I’ve finished something for you, as well.”
She clapped her hands together. “Is it a buttonless greatcoat?”
“It is not, minx.” He retrieved a package wrapped in brown paper from beside the sofa, and handed the parcel to her. “Open it.”
“It feels like Christmas,” she said with a nervous laugh, and picked at the twine until it unraveled, and the paper shell revealed its pearl.
Inside was a dazzling frock of deep blue satin and celestial silk, trimmed with a sumptuous, delicate ruff.
“Is it Christmas?” she breathed in wonder. “Calvin, this is beautiful. How did you—”
“It’s functional,” he corrected, but his chest had expanded, and his eyes shone with pleasure. “It may look like the finest day dress the world has ever seen—and you’d be right—but it closes with an interlocking hash of ribbon beneath a secret panel under the bodice, allowing the wearer to tighten or unfasten it at will.”
She narrowed her eyes to hide her laughter. “You could have fashioned me a self-closing dress at any time?”
“I did do it at any time,” he assured her. “I finished five days ago.”
She arched a brow. “And didn’t tell me?”
“Your rules, not mine,” he reminded her with exaggerated innocence. “I signed a contract that said, ‘nothing but buttons.’ Even with the verbal ‘just kisses’ amendment, I was clearly overstepping my—”
She shut him up with a kiss.
“You just didn’t want me to stop needing you to unbutton me,” she accused.
“Well, yes,” he said. “Obviously, that. I’m going to accidentally spill tea on the gown here in a moment so that I can sob, ‘Oh no, woe is me, I shall have to continue undressing you with my bare hands. How could Fate be so cruel as to place this beautiful woman back into my arms...’”
She returned to his arms of her own volition.
“I will throttle you if you allow any evil to befall this gorgeous gown,” she warned him.
“Perhaps we should have Duke wear it for safekeeping,” Calvin said brightly, gesturing toward his manikin. “I doubt Nottingvale would mind overmuch.”
Belle’s stomach turned to ice.
“What did you just say?” she asked, her voice faint.
“Oh.” Calvin waved a hand, as if brushing her concern away. “The Duke of Nottingvale is our initial investor. He provided the funds for the prototypes, and the measurements for the manikin. Fit for a Duke isn’t hyperbole—it’s modeled after the real-life Duke of Nottingvale, who I hope will be so impressed with our work and vision that he will invest significantly more and become our partner for life.”
Belle’s brother? Calvin’s partner for life?
Her head swam with panic, her breaths shallow when they came at all. Had she believed living beneath Vale’s shadow was dreadful before? Now she definitely could have nothing to do with Calvin’s project, not even under a pseudonym. And she especially couldn’t be anywhere the two of them might be at the same time.
“When did you say you were meeting...” My brother. “...His Grace?”
“On the twenty-third of December,” Calvin replied. “Two days before Twelve-tide.”
Before the party, Belle realized in relief. Vale would never mix business with pleasure. All the same, she would not attend until after Calvin left, to be safe. She could stay with Angelica until there was no doubt all danger had passed.
She would have spent this past fortnight with Angelica anyway, had it not been for the snowstorm. Belle was simply moving the dates of her visit. Angelica would not mind, and Vale and his guests would not notice. Belle wasn’t the reason they attended the party.
“Have you met His Grace before?” she asked as casually as possible.
Calvin made a face. “I’d sworn to have nothing further to do with the beau monde at all, and now look at me, arranging private meetings. No, we haven’t met. I’ve corresponded with his tailor, which is how I got the measurements for the manikin. My partner Jonathan is the one who has been communicating with Nottingvale. I suppose that will all change now.”
“I suppose so,” she echoed faintly.
It was a good thing she had harbored no ridiculous secret fantasies about running off with Calvin. The track would lead right back home to her family. There would be no pseudonym to hide behind. Even as Mrs. McAlistair, every day would still be nothing but Nottingvale, Nottingvale, Nottingvale. She’d already inadvertently painted il
lustrations for a company that turned out to be both his likeness and namesake.
Her family’s orbit was inescapable, even under an assumed identity.
“I should go,” she stammered. “I need to check on Ursula.”
Calvin cupped the side of her face. “You’ll be back for sunset?”
She nodded. Of course she would be back. Her family had won—they always won—but they hadn’t won yet.
“I’ll pick up supper from the kitchen,” she said. “And a bottle of wine.”
After one last kiss, she placed her new gown in her room with care, then hurried downstairs to place their supper order and ask about Ursula.
For the first time since arriving, she was told Ursula had improved enough to be allowed company.
“And just in time,” Mildred chirped as she led Belle back to the erstwhile sickroom. “Now that the snow has stopped, teams of men have spent all day clearing the roads. By this time tomorrow, the Hoot & Holly will have completely different customers under its roof.”
Belle swallowed hard. Once upon a time, escaping the shabby posting house was all she’d wished to do. Now it was the last thing she wanted. Without the excuse of snow, Calvin no longer had a reason to stay.
Christmas was just beginning, but Belle’s holiday had come to an end. It was time to wake up from the dream.
Ursula’s eyes lit up when Belle entered the room. “Lady—”
“I’m Mrs. Lépine,” Belle whispered as she enveloped Ursula in a quick embrace. “I’m so pleased to find you looking like yourself again.”
“I see you’ve missed me something dreadful,” Ursula said with a laugh, plucking at Belle’s sleeve. “Where are your stays? Oh, of course you can’t manage them alone. I’ve no idea how you even secured this gown. I’m so sorry to have abandoned you like that.”
“You didn’t abandon me,” Belle chided her maid, trying not to be hurt by the of course you can’t manage comments. No one ever thought she could manage anything, and until this past week, Belle had believed them.
But she had managed, hadn’t she? She’d managed to make friends with a handsome stranger. She’d managed to become an artist-for-hire, a temporary assistant performing a necessary and valued service.
She’d managed to get her life and her heart tangled into bits.
Ursula flung back her blanket and swung her feet to the floor. “I’m coming with you.”
“What?” Belle jumped back in alarm.
Ursula couldn’t possibly resume her duties now. Not when a bottle of wine and romantic supper was being prepared for a certain shared sunset on the third floor.
“Why don’t you rest for one more night,” Belle suggested. “You’ll be very busy at my brother’s cottage.” Or would be, if Belle had any intention of attending the party. “Resuming your duties in the morning will be soon enough.”
Ursula frowned. “But don’t you need—”
Belle did need. She was trying to fathom out a way to have what she wanted, if only for a few more stolen moments.
“Stay here until I send for you,” she instructed. “I’ll make certain you get your sleep before we set out.”
“Oh, are the roads free again?” Ursula lay back on her pillow and closed her eyes. “You must be so happy.”
Belle was very happy, if by “happy” one meant distraught.
Her time left with Calvin could be counted in hours. Unbeknownst to them at the time, they’d already had their last day. All that was left was tonight. One chance to experience what it would have been like to have everything she wanted.
She wouldn’t let it slip away.
Chapter 12
Calvin tried not to think about the sunset’s bittersweet beauty. He adored these moments snuggled on the sofa with Belle in his arms, but the setting of the sun also signaled her imminent departure. Soon she would set down her barely touched glass of wine, they would kiss one last time, and then he’d unbutton her gown and say good-bye.
She wouldn’t need him in the morning. She might not be here in the morning. A footman had brought him the good news hours ago along with a hot bath: The snow had stopped. The roads were clear. Calvin and the other guests were trapped no more.
Huzzah.
It wasn’t that Calvin wished to avoid his trip to Cressmouth. He’d been waiting for an opportunity like this his entire life. Working toward it night and day, whilst he ate, in his sleep. He had tried so hard and so long. He had let nothing stand in his way. Success was close enough to taste.
So was Belle. He had tasted her lips countless times as the sun dipped behind the endless sea of snow-capped evergreens. He could not stop kissing her, no matter how he tried. Perhaps for a few seconds, a long moment, and then he would turn to her or she would turn to him or they would turn to each other at the same time, hungry for something far more filling than a candlelit dinner could provide.
She looked at him now and the familiar flutter tickled somewhere deep in his chest. He would never be used to the curve of her eyelashes, the rosy blush of cheeks kissed by the setting sun. He wished he could paint, so that he could capture her just like this; mussed and thoroughly kissed, and a mere heartbeat away from the next kiss.
They barely managed to set down their wine glasses on this surface or that before their mouths and bodies crashed together and they were back in each other’s arms. What allure could a sunset offer when he had Belle to hold? He adored her softness, her sweetness, although tonight her kisses were different. They had not been hesitant with one another since their first embrace, but these kisses were hungrier than before, naked, incendiary. This was no kiss good-bye. These were kisses that started a fire and stoked the flames higher.
She pulled her mouth from his but just barely, her lush lower lip brushing against his as she said, “I’m leaving in the morning. This is our last evening together. I want… I want to make it count.”
Ah. So, it was a kiss good-bye. But they would not be stopping there.
He slid his fingers deeper into her hair, kissed her until they both gasped for air. “Tell me what you want.”
“I want everything.” Her hot gaze did not waver from his. “I want you. Just for tonight.”
“Then you will have me.”
He scooped her into his arms to carry her into the bedchamber. For a second, he could not bear to allow her out of his embrace, if only to tumble to the center of his bed. How many times had he dreamt of having her exactly there? How was he supposed to walk away forever? How could one night ever be enough?
“Let me undress you,” he said gruffly, setting her beside the bed rather than on top of it.
She peered up at him with a half-smile. “One last time?”
“No.” He tried not to question why the words one last time chafed so much. “For the first time.”
He had unbuttoned her a dozen times, and buttoned her just as many. But for as familiar as the tips of his fingers were with the nape of her neck, the soft curve of her spine, unbuttoning was all that they had allowed themselves.
Until tonight.
His body tightened in anticipation as he freed each ivory pearl from its silken slit. This time, when he reached the final button, she would stay right here in his bed. He would uncover every inch of her soft flesh, thread by thread, and take her until they both came undone.
He lowered his mouth to her freshly exposed shoulder, pressing his lips to the hollow above her collarbone as he let the delicate gown slide down her curves to the floor in a whisper of fallen silk.
She did not try to catch the material as it fell, and instead turned to face him, the pulse at her neck fluttering.
She wore no stays, and he was glad of it. Her plump breasts were right there, nipples puckering invitingly beneath the gossamer linen of her chemise. He plundered her mouth as he cupped her breasts, enjoying their soft weight as he teased her pert nipples until she fumbled at his neckcloth, as if eager to do to him everything he was doing to her.
He let her rip o
ff his cravat, his jacket, his waistcoat. Any other moment, he would have treated each item gingerly, keeping his bespoke clothing and her expensive gown carefully folded and safe on some wardrobe shelf far from the bed.
Tonight, he didn’t care if each seam ripped asunder. He would resew every stitch in the morning if he had to, or better yet, they’d spend the dawn naked, limbs tangled together beneath the sheets. Who needed clothes when they had a bed and a woman like Belle to share it?
No, not a woman like Belle. There was no one else he wanted in his arms. No one else he wanted in his life. A few stolen hours could never be enough. He would prove it to her kiss by kiss, lick by lick, stroke by stroke.
He yanked off his favorite cambric shirt, flinging it to a far corner. There was too much material still between them. He slid the soft linen of her shift up her thighs, over the curve of her hips, her waist, her breasts, and over her head. He tossed the flimsy chemise to the floor and lifted Belle up and into the center of the bed.
She was so beautiful, part of him could not bear to cover up her delectable body with his. So, he did not. He lay on his side beside her and dipped his mouth to her nipple.
With his hand, he explored the rest of her, not resting until his fingers slid to cup her slick heat. Her legs tensed about him for a brief second until his fingertip began a lazy pattern that soon had her hips bucking against his hand in quest for more.
Of course he would give it to her. He alternated teasing circles with shallow dips inside. She gripped his hair, clutching him tight to her bosom as if he could ever wish to be anywhere else. This was just the beginning.
Tonight was only the beginning.
He could not possibly be expected to walk away from...
Love.
The realization hit him as her breath quickened, and her body strained into his hand. He was in love, damn it all. And not in a position to give her more than the one night she asked for... yet.
He slid his hand from between her legs and she whimpered.
“Calvin...”
“Here I am.” He lowered himself until his tongue could take over for his hand. He needed to taste her, to feel her thighs tremble about him.
