by Erica Ridley
“I won’t go,” she said quickly. “I’d already decided not to go before we even... I’ll stay with my friend Angelica. I won’t let on that we’ve met, much less made love. Don’t worry.”
“Don’t worry?” he repeated in disbelief. “More futures than just mine are hanging on a thread. Nottingvale is a powerful duke whom I’d hoped would become a trusted business partner. You’re asking me to lie to him, not just for the length of one party, but for the rest of our lives. My conscience would be better off if I admitted the truth up front, and let the chips fall where they may.”
“You can’t,” she burst out in horror, face pale. “I’ll be ruined if you do, and besides you... you signed a contract...”
He let out a humorless chuckle.
“The contract was in regard to a Mrs. Lépine, who, it turns out, does not exist. The document is worthless, and you know it.” He led her to the door on stiff legs. “It seems you’ll just have to trust the discretion of a lowly tailor.”
Chapter 15
The Hoot & Holly posting house was a snowy smudge far in the distance when Belle finally stopped trying to steal furtive glances out of the window as the horses drew the coach higher and higher up the twisting evergreen-lined road to Cressmouth.
She’d known it couldn’t last. And then it didn’t last. Exactly as anticipated. Yet she could not help but feel like a thief fleeing through the night in an attempt to outrun the future.
It wasn’t the future that scared her, Belle told herself. How could it? Her destiny had been foretold since the moment of her birth. It was as unavoidable as the air she breathed.
She was running from Calvin. From the hurt in his eyes, the bitter disappointment, the well-deserved anger. She was running from Belle, what were you thinking? because contrary to everyone’s beliefs, she had been thinking.
She’d been thinking any woman would be lucky to have a man like Calvin in her life. She’d been thinking how unfair it was that she could never be “any woman” and instead was forced to be a predictable, respectable lady. She was thinking no Mayfair terrace could ever offer a view half as marvelous as watching the sunset sparkle off the falling snow from the comfortable warmth of Calvin’s arms.
She was thinking that if she could do it all over again, she would. Every single minute in his company was permanently engraved upon her heart. Their kisses, yes, the lovemaking, of course, but also the companionship of roasting chestnuts over a tiny fire, the silliness of sharing tea from a single cup, the camaraderie of working together not on embroidered handkerchiefs that would molder in a basket of more of the same, but on a project that meant something, that could change lives.
She’d felt more important in those moments than she ever had waltzing through Almack’s, or riding an open barouche through Hyde Park at the precise hour when everyone would see her and gawk.
She had felt important to Calvin. No, she had been important, and then ruined everything by admitting who and what she was. His gorgeous speech in which he’d expressed his desire to become a man worthy of her was laughable not because he was beneath her, but because she was not a woman who deserved him.
The last thing she’d wanted was to see the affection vanish from his eyes, but he deserved the truth. He was bound to find out eventually, one way or the other, and she would much rather he hear it from her. She owed him that much, at least. He’d given her more life in a fortnight as Mrs. Lépine than she’d enjoyed in the four-and-twenty years prior.
“Well?” Ursula said softly. Belle had told her the whole story.
Most of the story.
“I did the right thing,” Belle mumbled. She smoothed the gown Calvin had made for her, rather than meet her maid’s too-perceptive gaze.
“Which part felt like the right part?” Ursula persisted. “When you were there with him, or when you left?”
Belle didn’t answer. She didn’t have to. Ursula had made an irrelevant point. That Belle had preferred her false persona with Calvin to her real life as a Nottingvale did not signify. Being a Nottingvale was the only thing that had ever signified. She’d been taught that before she knew her own name.
But now, something else also signified. Calvin mattered very much. The business partner Belle had never met mattered. Fit for a Duke mattered. And all the future customers who would look and feel their best thanks to Calvin and his affordable, fashionable couture.
By staying out of his way from now until forever, she was doing all of those people a grand favor.
The road had forked. He would go his way and she would go hers.
Ursula twisted her lips. “You look miserable.”
Belle balled her hands at her hips. “Thank you.”
Ursula tried again. “If you didn’t want to leave—”
“He didn’t want me to stay,” Belle reminded her. “He wanted the widow Lépine, who doesn’t exist.”
Ursula shook her head. “He wanted you.”
“And what would the duchess say to that?” Belle snapped. “You’ve heard Mother pontificate as many times as I have. She would be mortified if I accepted the hand of a noble-born second son, much less a common tailor. Heirs presumptive are not good enough for Lady Isabelle. A Nottingvale only accepts the very best. We give the gossips no fodder.”
“Is that what he is?” Ursula asked. “A common tailor?”
“No.” The word exhaled from her lungs in a defeated little sigh. Belle’s shoulders slumped. “He’s as uncommon as a shooting star among glow-worms. I’ll never find someone else who shines half as bright. But nor can I bring shame to my family. I don’t want to cause them any pain, and I’m tired of being a disappointment. I want Mother to be proud of me, for once.”
“To hear her brag about you instead of your brother?” Ursula asked with far too much perspicacity.
“Correct,” Belle replied defiantly. “Just once, I’d like to be the one that sparkles. I’ve lived in the Nottingvale shadow my entire life; I’ve been a disappointment since birth. Even if Mother somehow gave Calvin and me her blessing, I would not escape Vale’s shadow, but be thrust deeper inside it.”
Of course “Fit for a Duke” couldn’t simply be a clever metaphor. It had to be modeled quite literally after an actual duke. Her elder brother, the handsomest, wealthiest, most eligible bachelor in all of England.
Fit for a Duke was Vale, just like it was Calvin, and his business partner MacLean. All three pieces were inextricable. Belle was the part that didn’t belong. She had spent her entire life looking for the place where she did belong. She loved Calvin and her brother too much to lock herself into a situation where she would resent them for life. She could not marry her brother’s business partner and live permanently in that shadow.
“You’re stronger than that,” Ursula said. “You don’t need your mother’s approbation. You need to give yourself your own.”
Belle glared at her. “A Nottingvale—”
“—should do as a Nottingvale pleases,” Ursula cut in. “You’ve always done as your mother pleases, as your father pleases, as your brother pleases. When will you get to do as you please?”
“Never,” Belle said listlessly. “An obedient daughter does as her parents decree until the day she weds, upon which she becomes an obedient wife who does as her husband bids.”
Ursula lifted her brows. “Does Mr. McAlistair wish to ‘bid’ you?”
No. He wished to bed her, which Belle also wanted. He wished to spend mornings with her, and noon meals, and tea time, and sunsets, and then find themselves back in each other’s arms. He wished to work with her, not to command her. He wanted to put her name in a place of honor on his catalogue, to give credit where he felt it was due.
Ursula tilted her head. “You’ve been trained to give up when people tell you no. But what if you didn’t?”
Belle stared at her.
She wasn’t afraid to say what she wanted, but she never got to have it. No was the most common word Father had ever spoken to her. No was alwa
ys at the tip of Mother’s tongue. No, no, no was all she’d heard from the publishing houses and entertainment venues who had refused to even open Belle’s portfolio. After the success of “Mr. Brough,” why hadn’t she confronted them with the proof of her talent?
“Don’t wait for a hero,” Ursula said softly. “Be one.”
Even with Calvin, Belle had negotiated the wrong direction with the button contract. He’d offered to pay her to paint, and she’d demurred and done it for free. He’d offered to credit her as a valued contributor, and she’d brushed that off, as well. Belle told herself no just as often as she heard it from other people.
Ursula’s gaze was sharp. “You must fight for what you want.”
“I want Calvin.” The words scratched from Belle’s throat, but they weren’t the whole story.
Status did not matter. All people were worthy, regardless of their bloodlines. Belle had met enough so-called gentlemen to know that Calvin was in a class of his own. He deserved to have every dream come true. Belle wanted to believe she deserved the same.
“I want it all,” she admitted. “I don’t want to sparkle just once, but for the rest of my life. I want to be an artist who gets paid for her work. I want my signature to be my name, not a pseudonym. I want my work and my name to be as meaningful as my husband’s. I want to be a team, not a doll or a pet.”
Ursula tilted her head. “Is that something he could give you?”
“It’s what he tried to give me.” Belle’s chest felt empty. “I ruined it.”
“Did you ruin it?” Ursula asked. “How can you know you’ve caused irreparable harm if you haven’t tried to make any repairs?”
“If... if I chase after Calvin, the next place I’ll see my name will be in a scandal column. No lord would want me. My reputation will be ruined.”
Ursula shrugged. “Your mother cares about that. Do you?”
“I...do not.” Belle gave a startled little laugh. “What good is ‘Lady Isabelle’s’ precious reputation if all my best work is under a pseudonym? Maybe she’s the one who doesn’t exist and never has. I would trade my status as a lady for one of an artist married to the man she loves.”
Ursula grinned at her. “Then do it. Don’t take ‘no’ for an answer.”
Belle’s pulse quickened, a sudden syncopated staccato.
She might not have the power to win the battle, but she had the power to try. She could no longer be afraid of failure. Calvin was worth the risk. Belle was worth the risk. So was his business, her art, their future.
It was too late to return to the Hoot & Holly to apologize. He had left first. She had cowered in her tiny guest chamber until she heard his door, his footsteps, and then nothing.
She did not have his address. There was no direction where she might send a letter or pay a call. But she did know where he intended to spend the Yuletide.
The question was whether she could convince Calvin that Lady Isabelle was just as worthy as Mrs. Lépine… and convince her powerful brother not to retaliate against the tailor who had stolen his sister’s heart.
Chapter 16
By the time Calvin reached the Duke of Nottingvale’s charming holiday cottage, snow was once again beginning to fall. He prayed he would be able to leave straight after the presentation. He could no longer imagine himself making merry in a Christmas village full of strangers.
Well, no, that wasn’t entirely true. Calvin was very good at disappearing in a room full of strangers. The person he didn’t want to see was Belle. Even if the presentation went well, and the duke signed a contract detailing his patronage, the moment he suspected Calvin had been anywhere near his sister...
His muscles tightened. The duke would not find out. Calvin had worked too bloody hard on this dream for too long. Fit for a Duke was too important to him and to Jonathan and to all their soon to be well-dressed customers for Calvin to preemptively walk away. He was reclusive, but not a coward. He’d come here to fight for his dream.
Calvin and Jonathan would take this moment of privacy to prepare an impeccable presentation before the duke arrived, and then after they secured his investment and his endorsement, Calvin need not be present for any additional tête-à-tête. All further arrangements could be handled via post.
He would disappear from Belle’s life, just as she’d always intended.
His lungs constricted painfully. He had tried to be honorable. He’d given her his heart. She hadn’t even given him her true name. His jaw clenched. He would not think about Belle. Not here. Not until he was back in the empty sanctuary of his home.
At the sight of Calvin and his driver alighting from the carriage, a quartet of well-appointed footmen streamed from Nottingvale’s cottage to assist with the valises. Calvin handled his manikin Duke himself for safekeeping.
The butler showed them into a large, sunny parlor. Calvin had scarcely positioned Duke in the primary window’s best light when Jonathan strode in through the open door.
“My apologies for not arriving on schedule,” Calvin said. “The snowstorm had... unexpected consequences. I trust you were not terribly bored in my absence?”
The most peculiar expression crossed Jonathan’s handsome, rakish face. It almost looked like... a blush?
“Not too bored.” Jonathan’s voice was strangled, but he’d turned to busy himself with the unloading of trunks and Calvin could no longer see his face. “We have to hurry.”
“We are further along than you might think.”
Calvin unsheathed the stack of painted illustrations. They were as stunning as the artist who had painted them. Despite all that had happened, he was proud of the result. Proud of Belle. But he could never look at these prints without remembering all the happy afternoons they’d worked together in harmony... or the cold dawn when her indifference was finally laid bare.
He shoved the stack at Jonathan. “Here. Select your favorites. The duke arrives tomorrow afternoon, is that right? We need to be ready.”
“We need to already be ready. His Grace arrived an hour ago, and he will join us in the parlor shortly.”
Calvin’s muscles flinched. “He’s here?”
Damn the snowstorm! Calvin had lost his heart and his sole opportunity to discuss strategy with his business partner prior to the most important meeting Fit for a Duke would face.
“What’s this?” Jonathan flipped through the illustrations with obvious surprise. “Had I known you were capable—”
“It wasn’t me.” Calvin concentrated on dressing Duke so he could not meet Jonathan’s gaze. “An... er... assistant lent a hand.”
“These are very good.” Paper rustled. “We ought to hire the fellow outright.”
“Woman,” Calvin corrected automatically, and wished he hadn’t, for now he would need to explain himself. “She’s called... Mrs. Lépine.” No. He would not perpetuate a lie. “It’s a pseudonym.”
“She can call herself the Queen of England for all I care,” Jonathan said. “These are impressive. I particularly admire the candid watercolor series of you designing a custom wardrobe and outfitting your manikin with care.”
“Watercolors of what?” Calvin spun around and held out a shaking palm.
Jonathan handed him a dozen sheets and resumed his perusal of the painted sketches.
It was indeed an utterly charming series. Calvin, cutting fabric in total concentration, a few pins protruding from the corner of his mouth. Calvin, serene and bathed in sunlight, sewing the fabric into a waistcoat before an instantly recognizable vista of snow-covered evergreens. Calvin, buttoning the waistcoat on Duke, eyes alive with pride and delight because this prototype was already his favorite, and he hadn’t even got to the tailcoat yet.
Belle wasn’t in any of the behind-the-curtain portraits, yet her presence was in every stroke of the brush, every splash of color.
Calvin swallowed hard. Belle was not indifferent after all. She simply didn’t want him enough. Not openly, anyway. Like her book and her playbills, he was somethi
ng she only dabbled with in secret. Something she would turn her back on in a heartbeat before it could sully her lofty reputation.
He shoved the watercolors back into the leather portfolio, where they could no longer remind him of her.
Footsteps sounded in the hall, followed by Jonathan’s whispered, “He’s here.”
Calvin straightened just as the duke strode into the parlor.
Nottingvale was tall and broad of shoulder. Imposing in the way powerful people often were, when they’d wielded their power since birth and used it as casually as someone else used a pencil. He had the same dark hair as his sister, but his eyes were a bright brown, rather than hazel. And their sharp focus was right on Calvin.
“Calvin,” Jonathan said smoothly, “may I present His Grace, the Duke of Nottingvale? Your Grace, this is my business partner, Calvin McAlistair, the genius behind all these fashionable designs.”
Calvin performed his best bow.
Nottingvale swept past him. “Yes, well, I’m afraid this will have to be quick. Such unpredictable weather! Some of my guests have been delayed, but others will arrive at any moment, at which point I must be a proper host. Please, show what you intend to show, without delay.”
Calvin and Jonathan exchanged glances. So much for their grand presentation. They now held half the duke’s attention, if that.
He took a deep breath. They would make it work.
“Have you seen ladies’ fashion repositories such as Ackermann’s and La Belle Assemblée?” He motioned for Jonathan to hand over the stack of illustrations. There was no time to select specific favorites. “The Fit for a Duke catalogue will comprise illustrations such as these, organized by type and style, with a clear price for each and information on how to place an order.”
A frown marred the duke’s regal brow. “Who painted these?”
“Er...” Calvin’s poise deserted him along with the rest of his carefully planned speech.
“Mrs. Lépine,” Jonathan answered brightly. “A temporary assistant.”
