The Dressmaker's Duke

by Jess Russell

  By God, it was as if a carefully tended dam, built up over many years, had suddenly burst and his enormous need of this woman rushed out to drown him.

  Rhys pushed himself away from the wall, and brushed off his hat. Lock and Company. He ran his finger over the label. A gentleman’s hat, the very height of civilization. He carefully settled it squarely on his head. He would put this Mrs. Olivia Weston behind him. He would govern himself and be honorable in his pursuit of Arabella Campbell. His title demanded it of him, and his father could continue to roast in Hell where he belonged.

  ****

  He was late. Nearly gone midnight. Not that the duke had set a specific time and not that Olivia was expecting him. After all he was a duke. Dukes did not have time for mere modistes. She was really relieved. She was—

  Was that a noise in the street? Foolish girl. She moved to snuff the lamp.

  The jangling bells sent her heart almost out of her chest and the lamp to the floor. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, he was here. So be it.

  But this time she was ready. Ready for his height and breadth. Ready for his deep, liquid voice. Even ready for his eyes—well almost—but, nonetheless, she must face him. Squaring her shoulders, she parted the curtain and walked though.

  Her mouth dried up, her heart skipped several beats, her breasts tightened under her severe bodice, and the man hadn’t even turned around. Yes, things were going swimmingly.

  She cleared her throat.

  He was putting a basket on the small table near the shop’s front door. He seemed in no hurry and finally turned toward her.

  She focused on his chin. “Your Grace, I have taken the liberty of modeling the second dress to save us both valuable time. As you can see it is extremely fine workmanship, if I do say so myself.” She took a much needed breath. “Now if you would excuse me, I will remove myself to the back room and pack it up for you.” Olivia turned to go.

  “Mrs. Weston?”

  “Yes, Your Grace?” she barely glanced in the duke’s direction.

  “Do you take me for a fool?”

  “Why no, Your Grace.”

  “Excellent. I am happy to hear it.”

  “I will not be but a moment.” She took another step, her only thought, escape.

  “Mrs. Weston.”

  Damn. She turned back again. “Yes, Your Grace?”

  “I believe that is a day gown suitable for walking or perhaps riding in a carriage?”

  “Why, yes, you are correct.” She resumed her exit to freedom. “I will only be a moment.”

  “Mrs. Weston.”

  She stopped again and jerked the curtain to the back room open. The sound of its rings clattering together lent a certain satisfaction to her mood.

  “While I will grant you the—stitching—seems very fine, that is not the gown I bought.”

  “I do beg your pardon, but how would you know specifically what was ordered?”

  “True, I am unaware of the exact specifics, but I know that gown is unsatisfactory.”

  “Unsatisfactory?”

  “You are very keen, Mrs. Weston. Unsatisfactory is precisely what I said.” How he managed this rejoinder without the slightest hint of sarcasm, she would never know.

  However, it did not stop her from using a liberal dose. “And, pray tell me, Your Grace, what precisely is so unsatisfactory?”

  “Well, madam, the simple fact it is a carriage dress.”

  “Ah-h-h.” So that way goes the game. “Do none of your ladies ride in carriages?”

  His one brow lifted and then he frowned as if the subject deserved his careful consideration.

  “Well, as to that, I have no…lady at present, but if I were to acquire one, I would suppose she would ride in many carriages and perhaps a phaeton or curricle as well.”

  Was there not one ounce of humor in the infernal man? His gaze was steady, downright somber. But somehow his manner of regard made her think the words coming out of his mouth had absolutely nothing to do with his actual thoughts.

  “Is this the kind of gown you are known for?” he asked, interrupting her thoughts.

  This was most definitely not going as planned. She remained mute.

  “No,” he settled into one of the minuscule chairs. “I thought not. This is not remotely like the gown I saw last evening. I paid for a Weston—well several to be precise—and I expect to have a Weston creation. If I may peruse the back of the shop”—he rose. “I am sure I will find just the gown I require.”

  This was too much. “Your Grace, I am afraid that is not possible. I have nothing else near finished.”

  But she was talking to his exquisite back.

  She hurried after him.

  The duke immediately went to the gowns and began riffling through them.

  “Your Grace, this is highly improper.”

  She might have been an insistent fly for as much attention as he gave her. He was probably the sort who could read, as well as comprehend, in the midst of a herd of wild elephants. He paused over the sheer black model with midnight tulle and indigo spangles, cocking his head as his gaze raked over it and then over her. He hung it over a nearby chair.

  She tried again.

  “Your Grace, I must insist you return to the front room. I will attend you there.”

  He spared her a brief glance but continued on his quest.

  As he fingered a peach chiffon, his gaze trolled around the room and then caught on the draped dress stand in the far corner. Damn and Blast! He must have the sight of a homing bird. The room was quite dim and the form was nearly hidden behind a high table littered with paper patterns and rolls of fabric.

  Sure enough, he abandoned the chiffon and crossed to the form, but she was there before him, heading him off.

  “Your Grace, this is unfinished—just a rough mockup of something I am working on. It is nothing that would interest you.”

  Her words seemed to spur him on. He deftly stepped around her and lifted the muslin sheet from the stand.

  His breath caught.

  His gaze never left the gown as he slowly removed his glove. His fingers hovered and then brushed the edge of the delicate sleeve. The touch was one of reverence, as if the lace would dissolve under his all too human touch.

  Olivia could not help a thrill of pride watching him, seeing her work through his eyes.

  “Yes,” she thought she heard him murmur.

  “Yes, I will have this gown,” he said louder and with more control. “Unfinished, though it is.” He pierced her with his amber gaze.

  She pressed her lips together. Oh, how to deal with this man?

  “Your Grace, it is quite imposs—”

  He moved through the curtained doorway and to the basket he had brought. He produced a bottle of wine and two crystal glasses and began pouring, oblivious to her stammering protests.

  “Mrs. Weston.” He offered her a glass. “You possess an extraordinary talent.”

  “That is quite beside the point, Your Grace. What I have been trying to convey to you is that gown is not available. Not to you. Not to anyone.”

  He raised a ducal eyebrow along with the glass of wine.

  “That particular creation is for my own personal wardrobe,” she answered him as if the mere raising of his eyebrow was a reasonable rejoinder.

  He stopped drinking. “You said you did not have a lover.”

  “Whether I do or do not…which I do not”—for some reason it seemed important he know that—“does not signify.” She continued, “If you must know, I need it for my business.”

  He paused and carefully lowered his wine glass to the table.

  “Your business, madam?”

  “Oh, blast you. I need it to generate custom.”

  His gaze narrowed. “Could you elaborate?”

  “To solicit ladies, and sometimes gentlemen.” Still his eyes seared her. “To order gowns.” Why did he fluster her so? “I act as a kind of model for my creations. And I need this particular gown for Mrs. Park
ington’s mask this next Thursday.”

  She raised the glass that had somehow appeared in her hand and gulped the wine down in a neat swig and then thrust it back at him.

  “Mrs. Weston, I wish you had said so in the beginning.” He took the crystal, his fingers lightly brushing hers, causing her heart to jump ridiculously. “It is a simple matter. We shall attend the mask together.” And he blithely refilled the goblet.

  Oh no, this was by no means the direction she wanted to take. “I thank you for your kind invitation, but no.” She clasped her fingers, hoping by squeezing the blood from them they would cease to tingle from his touch. She only succeeded in mashing Wes’s ring into her knuckle while the tingle continued along with the pain. “Your Grace, I believe our business is concluded. If you would be so kind as to leave, I would be most obliged.”

  “But I have not been obliged, Mrs. Weston, and there’s the rub.” He gestured to the other chair, offering her wine. She ignored both. He shrugged and settled into his chair again with the wine next to him. “I do not wish to appear vain, madam, but I dare say your custom would benefit greatly with a duke as your escort.”

  Well, he did have her there. Still she tried to parry his logic with her own. “I owe you a few gowns, Your Grace, not my time. That, I am thankful, is still my own to dispense with as I please.”

  He took a long swallow, set down his glass. “If you will attend Mrs. Parkington’s mask with me, then I would be willing to forgive the other three gowns.” He stood and offered the wine again.

  What to do? She could not think. She took several steps away from him, but his gaze, real as a touch, enveloped her. She mentally shook him off. Think. It would be quite a coup to enter the ballroom with the Monk. She was sure to garner instant attention.

  He held out her glass, very much like a snake with a shiny red apple. Heavens, he was an amazing looking man. But to spend a whole evening with him? A shiver ran through her, settling in her loins. No, it simply would not do. She was just about to tell him so when she thought of Egg.

  Right. There was no choosing really. Women in their situation did not have the luxury of choice.

  She took the offered glass, making sure her eyes never left his.

  “Very well, Your Grace, it seems we have a bargain. I will see you Thursday.” The wine flooded her mouth. It tasted of earth and currants. So decadent and expensive. She deposited the glass on the cutting table behind her, walked to the front door, opened it, and left the shop without a backward glance.

  Rhys listened to the tread of her feet as she made her way from the outer vestibule up the steps to her apartments above. Did he imagine a door softly closing? A whisper of skirts falling to the floor?

  He expelled the breath he had been holding and replaced it with a deep draft of wine.

  He had told himself he wasn’t coming. He had made sure to fill his day—the morning, with estate business, and most of the rest at the House of Lords, trying to make those stodgy oafs see reason. He had dined at White’s with his uncle, who had not-so-subtly rebuked him for his manners of last evening, and then he had spent the last three hours walking the streets determined not to find himself at Hamley Place.

  It had not worked.

  He had given himself another chance. And strangely, he was not sorry.

  Rhys poured the rest of the wine and looked around. It appeared he would be left to close up.

  He walked into the workroom, ostensibly to extinguish the light, but he was once again drawn to the dress. It shimmered, almost alive, in the soft light. He knew instinctively it was not so much the gown itself—which was extraordinary, as if a fairy had blown a golden-blonde cobweb over the form—no, it was more the notion of the woman in the gown that took his breath. For his mind had already taken that leap and forged the two together.

  She would be exquisite. The lace had been dyed to exactly match the color of her skin. The effect being—save the golden shimmer—she would appear quite naked.

  ****

  “Are you sure you don’t want me to come with you?” Egg said from her chair by the stove. “I dare say I could come up with some ensemble. Do you recall my Queen Bess?”

  Olivia had said nothing to Egg about the duke’s late night visits and that he would be her escort this evening.

  “No, and please do not resurrect that atrocity. Good Lord, we need a patron not an arrest. Besides, we have gone over this before. I will be quite well on my own.” Olivia pulled the golden gown off of its stand.

  “If only Jeb was available to escort you, I would feel much better.” Egg rose to help slide the gown over Olivia’s elaborate coiffure.

  “Egglet, please—” The gown covered her face, cutting off the impatience in her voice. Lud, her nerves were strung tight as a young lady at her come out ball. But Olivia was no green girl, and this mask a far cry from any ton event. She emerged from the lace to take her friend’s hand. “You will wear yourself out with your needless worries,” she said as much for herself as for Eglantine. “After all, I am no young miss.”

  “Well, you are my ‘young miss’.” Egg gently tucked a stray curl back into Olivia’s chignon. “And I cannot—nay I will not—give up the privilege of mothering you, just a bit.”

  Olivia ducked her head and Egg’s familiar rough-tipped fingers cupped her cheek. She hated keeping things from her friend, but Eglantine’s endless questions would be far worse. So Olivia stood placidly while Egg continued to fuss and coo over her chick.

  “I wonder what he is like?” Egg said, wetting her fingers to smooth the delinquent curl.

  Olivia wrinkled her nose. “Who?”

  “Why our dear Monk.” She waggled her eyebrows.

  Oh not again. Egg had been next door to visit their landlady, Isabelle Harton, this morning. Ever since Mrs. Harton had found out about Olivia’s visit to the Duke of Roydan, she had been filling Egg’s ears with all kinds of gossip.

  “Very strict habits.” Egg shook her head dropping her voice dramatically. “Probably in reaction to his father, Isabelle says.”

  “His father?” The words were out before Olivia could stop herself.

  Egg made a face like a prune. “Apparently a Miss Virginia Newton was never quite the same after her dealings with the old duke. Isabelle says it is rumored, years later, the poor girl lifted her skirts, in broad daylight, and pissed on his grave.”

  “Good heavens. As bad as that?”

  “Worse. Isabelle says—”

  Olivia held up her hand.

  “Very well, Miss Squeamish, I will spare your delicate sensibilities.”

  Egg motioned Olivia to turn as she inspected the back of the gown. “Anyhow, Daria Battersby became obsessed with the new duke. Her fixation was likely the reason the Earl of Benchley rigged the whole White’s incident in the first place. You see Benchley was Battersby’s protector at the time and fiercely jealous.”

  Olivia made no comment; however, her silence did not deter Eglantine.

  “But Isabelle maintains it was the Gillray print with Harriette Wilson that finally pushed the duke to the brink. Evidently it hung in the front of Hannah Humphrey’s shop for months.” Egg, getting into the spirit of things, took up a length of dark wool and a ruler. “There he was, in full monk’s robes complete with sackcloth and ashes, flagellating himself while Harriette Wilson flashed teeth and diamonds.” She flailed the ruler about her shoulders with relish.

  “You could go nowhere without encountering some reference to a monk,” Egg continued. “So the duke set out to find the best whore the city could offer. And, surprise, she just happened to be Daria Battersby.” She took a hasty breath. “Egad, do you know the pie he’d been eating for his dinner that night at White’s is still known today as Monk’s Pie? I will be sure to order it next time I dine out.”

  “Enough of ‘Isabelle says’ and your dinner.” Egg’s breath was coming too fast and too shallow. “What of me?” Olivia said removing her hands from her hips and dipping into a curtsey. “W
ill I do?”

  Egg humphed, clearly disappointed with her audience, and dropped the cloth and ruler on the cutting table. She stepped back, casting a critical eye over Olivia. “Do?” Egg’s face split into a smile. “Those bacon-faced tarts will be falling arse over tit when they get a look at you.” She touched the scrap of lace at the shoulder of the dress. “I cannot imagine why you would even think of wearing the black tulle instead of this beauty.”

  “So you have said only a thousand times.” Olivia had dearly wanted to defy the duke by wearing the other gown. “Now here is your tea”—Olivia handed her the warm pot—“and your silly book.”

  “Ah yes, The Italian by Mrs. Radcliffe. Do you know it was modeled after The Monk by Matthew Lewis? I am reading it as an homage to our own dear monk who has provided the means for us to live these past weeks. Now if only I had some of his delicious pie.” Egg giggled.

  Little did she know their dear duke was providing more than funds these days.

  “Do not stay up too late reading that drivel.” Olivia pulled Egg’s shawl a bit more snugly around her. “You will be no earthly good to me if you are not rested. I need you ready for all the work we are going to have when I knock those jades for six with our newest creation,” she said, opening the shop door for Egg. “We will not have a moment to call our own. We will be so à la mode!”

  “Well in that case I’d better hurry and find out if Ellena will be kidnapped and taken to the house by the sea.” Egg blew her a kiss and took her book and pot of tea up the stairs.

  Finally, blessed quiet.

  Olivia stood before the great three-paneled mirror situated in the far corner of the shop. The women reflected back looked nothing like the woman inside; they appeared serene, even confident. They laughed. All three consummate actresses, brilliant at shielding the quivering mass of jelly that lay beneath the glittering gold gown and creamy white skin.

  Olivia turned to see the back of the dress; the actresses turned as well, graceful as swans. It fit like a second skin, the pink of her birthmark peeping from beneath the lowest line of the gown. The mirrored ladies smiled; it was perfect.

  God’s teeth, the great Duke of Roydan—the Monk—was escorting her to a demimonde mask. It was too incredible. They were sure to make a stir, for everyone would know him, even wearing a mask.