The Dressmaker's Duke

by Jess Russell

  But there was a chance he would see her tonight. This ball was just the sort of affair she could gain entrance to—the fringes of society. There would be a lot of social climbers attending, particularly later in the evening.

  Lady Campbell’s shriek pierced his ear. “The waltz? Surely you jest, Arabella!”

  He fell back to earth.

  “You most certainly will not attempt that dreadful dance. I hope, Your Grace, the Dillinghams will not support such lewd shows. I cannot imagine you would condone such behavior, Your Grace, given your reputation as the Mon—I-I meant to say…Well, it is…unseemly. I vow—”

  But Rhys ceased to listen and her daughter resumed her seat and went back to twirling her parasol. Lady Campbell also sat. Unfortunately, she neglected to remember her plate with the cream puff.

  Rhys sighed and rose to call a footman. He would ask to call on Lord Campbell on the morrow. Then it would be done. But until then, he still had this one last night. He just might see her one last time…See his Olivia.

  ****

  “Where will you go, Mrs. Egg?” asked Jeb as he pasted together the long boxes that would hold the Barton gowns.

  Olivia carefully finished pinning a tiny feather to the long line that rimmed the gown’s bodice, just in time to catch the small smile on Egg’s face. It was a lovely sight to see these days.

  They had worked feverishly for eight straight days, only leaving the shop to go above stairs to sleep. But the finish line lay just ahead. Olivia stretched her fingers. The tips were raw. She blew gently on them.

  Egg paused in her work pleating the front placket on the green percale. “We haven’t decided as yet, but it must be somewhere quite picturesque as I have promised Olivia a scene worthy of her talents as a painter.” She gave Olivia a softly maternal look over the tops of her spectacles. Olivia shook her head, smiling, and went back to her feathers. “I should like the sea myself. I have always been partial to the wild sea cliffs, but I dare say that will be for another time. We must stay closer to home at present.”

  Hazel, who was busy ironing, chimed in, “Oooo, I would be quite terrified of the sea. I have heard tales of great sea monsters gulping a body up in one tidy bite. And I should be terrified of being sucked beneath those black waves. No, give me a quiet cottage, perhaps by a lake at the very most, and I should be quite content.”

  “You’ve no taste for adventure, Hazel, old girl,” said Jeb, abandoning his box and coming up behind her. “I would bet ready money you’ve not been beyond Hampstead Heath. But woe betide the beastie that threatens my girl.” He took up a ruler and brandished it as if it were the lightest of foils. Advancing on Hazel, he whipped his “sword” about her touching her arm, her belly, her shoulder. Hazel stood with her hands over her eyes her smile spreading beneath. “Don’t you know I would wrestle the poor monster till it gave up and skulked back into the depths from whence it came?”

  Olivia and Egg exchanged a smile.

  “Lord, do you hear him go on! Now get away with you, you great red-headed beastie,” she said, wielding her iron, “before I clout you.” But Jeb, ever light on his feet, simply danced away, laughing.

  They all settled back into their jobs.

  Ah, to live in the country and to be able to paint all day long. Egg knew her so well. Yes, it would be heaven. She had not even thought of her painting in such a long time. To capture a seascape, those ever-changing waves, and instead of a sea monster, a body within those waves, flashing in the bright sun as he pulled through the foamy curls. His body fairly waltzing along the surf—

  She stopped her sewing and looked up. Three pairs of eyes were staring at her, the mouths below cast in various states of mirth.

  “What? What is the bloody secret? Don’t tell me I was humming again, because I know quite well, I was not.”

  They all exchanged looks and blithely went back to their tasks.

  “Oh, bother. It means nothing. I assure you, I have put that masked ball and the duke quite behind me.” No one said a word. “It is only that I have not danced in such a very long time. And Egg, you know Vivaldi is a particular favorite of mine.” Olivia dared them to make another peep—which of course they hadn’t in the first place—made a peep, that is. The fact infuriated her all the more.

  Egg innocently asked Jeb to come and thread her needle and went back to her pleating. Hazel ironed, and after helping Egg, Jeb went back to his boxes.

  One row of feathers completed. She blew again on her fingertips, laid the tape measure against the fabric, and carefully made a mark with chalk. Now on to the next.

  “Ta, dah, dah, dah dumph, da, dumph, da dumph.” Olivia heard a soft, slightly off key, soprano and jerked up. Oh bother! She flung down her measuring tape and stormed out to the music of her friend’s laughter.

  Blast the man! It was almost worse now he stayed away. Every tall, elegant gentleman had her heart frantically beating. Every handsome black carriage she passed had her marking the crest. Indeed, there had been one carriage in particular she could not fail to recognize. It had to be his, though it bore no markings. By Saint Anne, it was there across the street right now. She had a mind to go over and have it out with him.

  She had resolved to do just that when Jeb ran out of the shop.

  “Miss Olivia, it’s Mrs. Egg, she can’t catch her breath.”

  ****

  In the end, they had not called for a doctor.

  “How will we go on our holiday with no funds?” Egg said, fighting for every breath. “A doctor? Pooh!” Which was really a cough disguised as a “pooh.”

  “Hush, now, dear. You must save your breath to breathe.”

  “He would be sure to leave us with nothing, Olive. I will not let a trifling cough spoil our lovely plans.”

  Egg pierced Olivia with her most formidable look. “You and Jeb will go to the Dillinghams. I will be well enough here with Hazel. And we will go to the country at week’s end.” When Egg was mulish, there was no use arguing with the woman. “Now off with you before I get really ornery.”

  Chapter Twelve

  What was he doing here?

  The newly minted Lady Dillingham and her lord were not the sort of ton Olivia would ever put the great Duke of Roydan amongst. And this mask was decidedly not an event he should be escorting his almost betrothed—well, she supposed the lady was his almost betrothed, for as yet, she had seen nothing in the papers. She squeezed her eyes shut at the memory of combing the pages for the announcement. Fool.

  Busy ushering Arabella Campbell—it must be her—into his carriage, he should not have seen her. He was turned away. But for some impossible reason, he chose that precise moment to turn and their gazes locked. Even though she was masked, even though there were no less than half a dozen carriages between them, and it was full dark with only carriage lamps and a few torches to light the way for the guests, there was not one shred of doubt in her mind he knew exactly who she was. It was as if some unseen magnet drew them together.

  Well at least they were leaving and even better, Arabella Campbell was only partway in the carriage. The duke could not very well abandon her midstream else the poor woman would find herself in a heap on the cobblestones. Even in her panic, Olivia could not help relishing the image. Still, she had to move quickly. She could not face him again. Using the few precious seconds, she dashed up the stairs, thrust her wrap at the waiting footman, and inquired the direction of the ladies’ retiring room.

  “She’s not quite feeling the thing, you know,” she heard Jeb say to the footman.

  Garish, masked figures jumped out of her path as she barreled down the hall to safety. She pushed open the door and immediately felt suffocated in a sea of over-powdered, over-perfumed, and over-loud females all vying for the limited space before the mirrors. She turned right around and went through the next available door shutting it firmly behind her.

  ****

  Where was she?

  He had scanned the ballroom three times already. Having give
n a description of Mrs. Weston and her mask to a maid, he now lurked around the ladies’ retiring room, waiting. Several ladies exited, each making it all too clear they would be available should he have a need. He wished he could disappear into the woodwork. Finally the maid returned, shaking her head.

  Mrs. Weston had disappeared into thin air. Meanwhile, Miss Campbell and her parents were waiting in the carriage for his return. He had muttered something about losing a watch fob before dashing off. No doubt his huge landau was causing all sorts of upheaval and congestion as it sat in the drive. He gave one more look about the ballroom—nothing. Damn, he must leave. His prospective in-laws would be wondering at his sanity at this point.

  ****

  “Ahhhhh!” screamed the white blob in front of Olivia.

  “Pardon me,” Olivia said, blinking. The blob quickly focused into a mob-cap and the woman beneath into a maid.

  Olivia limped out of the closet with as much dignity as she could muster, unfolded herself, and gingerly rolled her neck. She looked back at her prison. That particular door had been a hideous mistake. She plucked her mask from the handle of a broom, pulled out a few broken feathers and used them to fan her hot, damp cheeks. “Do you happen to know the time?” she said as if ladies hiding in closets were an ordinary occurrence.

  The gaping maid was too busy poking in the closet to mark Olivia. “But where is the gentleman?”

  Olivia started to point out how ludicrous the notion was of sharing the space with a cat, much less a full grown man.

  Instead she handed the maid her broken feathers and sailed—well maybe not sailed, her muscles were not working quite properly as yet—but that was the image she hoped to project as she started down the hallway.

  “I’m not daft, you know,” the young woman mumbled. “It’s just he asked me to have a peek in the ladies’ room for you more than a half hour ago. Your pardon but I never imagined a lady’d be holed up in there.”

  Olivia snapped to a halt. Jeb would not have been worried about her whereabouts; it must have been the duke. Had he actually followed her? Her stomach did a little traitorous flip. Was he still here? No matter, she would rather face the Devil himself than hide any longer.

  “Cor, you look a sight,” Jeb said petulantly as she pulled him away from a game of faro. And a very good thing too. The boy had no business playing with these young blades.

  “Never mind, is he gone?”

  “Saw him leave in his fancy rig five turns ago.” He seemed to want to say more, but one freezing look silenced him. Satisfied, she pulled him away, and they went to work.

  “Ain’t you minus a few plumes there, Miss O?” Jeb asked not quite innocently as they joined hands in a waltz.

  “Enough out of you, you cheeky bugger. Just try to not step on my toes, if you please. I have been mangled quite enough this evening.” Jeb smirked; Olivia knew all too well he was the lightest, most graceful dancer at the mask. And possibly all of London. He whirled her in a brilliantly sweeping arch, just to make sure she didn’t forget it.

  ****

  Rhys checked his watch—just gone three twenty-three. Would she still be here? He turned to ascend the steps to the ballroom. Drat, he had forgotten his mask. A side table held a few discards. He picked up a huge horned mask; it was a satyr complete with furled ruff. It would do as well as any and best of all, it would cover his head completely. He was bending to put it on when another mask caught his eye. He dropped the satyr and pulled on the second.

  The ballroom was even more crowded now. The riff-raff had begun to arrive, and the evening was heating up. Rhys hung on the fringe, methodically combing through the couples as they spun by, hoping to see the shape of her long white neck or the particular curve of her back.

  When Rhys was a young man, his uncle Bert had prodded him to attend ton events. “You need a bit of polish and confidence, is all.” It had been agony. He had been so terribly shy—convinced anyone who approached him only did so because of his title. He had been certain the young ladies would see how defective he was and laugh behind their fans. It was then he discovered how well his ducal mask could serve him—a raise of his chin or better still, his eyebrow, would send those London misses scurrying for the safety of their mammas. And at two-and-thirty years, that mask was now second nature.

  There! He saw the man’s red hair first, and then her as they made a neat turn. His throat closed painfully, and he dug his nails into his palms through the leather of his gloves.

  She was liquid air. Her gown, like blue sky and shifting clouds, seemed to bear her up as she drifted across the floor. Then she tilted her head up to her partner and smiled at him. White-hot jealousy hit him full on.

  It was the same smile she had given him.

  The bells around his head jangled, and he realized he was halfway out onto the floor. Even in his frenzy, the irony of wearing a fool’s cap complete with jingling bells was not lost on him. He just managed to stop himself from shouting her name, reaching for her, as she sailed by.

  Couples eddied around him muttering complaints, but he remained frozen to the floor. He could not move toward her, yet he could not move back to the shadows either. He had no reason where she was concerned. For fools rush in…

  Masked figures were stopping to gawk at him. She would stop soon as well. She would see his utter foolishness and laugh, or worse, pity him. That, he could not bear. Anything but her pity. He turned and fled.

  ****

  “What do you make of that gent in the fool’s cap? Foxed as a pickle, I’d say,” Jeb said as he led her off the floor. Olivia had no time for idle chatter. They were attracting a good deal of attention, and a throng of gentlemen began to surround her.

  “Your pardon, madam, are you engaged for the next set?”

  “Look here, Crowley, I was here first.”

  “Perhaps we should let the lady decide?” This from yet a third gentleman.

  Several other gentlemen hanging on the periphery were jockeying for a better position. As the pushing and posturing ratcheted up, Olivia knew from experience there would soon be a scene. It was one of the risks of her profession, when a gentleman was told no, but interpreted it as yes. A dead bore and very provoking. Jeb, however, seemed to love this part of the game. He embraced his role of protector as a true knight of old. Olivia heaved a sigh. She swore he exacerbated the trouble just to be able to drop a few of these danglers.

  She had managed to avoid an out-and-out brawl but had no Lady Dillingham for her trouble.

  Now on their way home, she leaned back into the squabs and closed her aching eyelids, hoping her actions would signal Jeb to leave off his ranting.

  “Miss O, I wish you had let me give him a basting.” Jeb’s voice filled the confined space inside the carriage, pressing into her head. Plague take it, even her hair hurt. “I would have been more than happy to rearrange that cove’s smug face. Sure he had some fancy moves, but I reckon he was all mouth and no trousers. I could have shown him how a chap from Cheapside delivers the goods.”

  Silence was apparently too much to hope for. She could feel his weight bouncing and shifting—too keyed up to register anything outside the parameters of his ego and a good fight.

  Toeing off her slipper, she gingerly flexed her squashed toes. Jeb’s tirade faded into the background as the steady thump, thump of her head took over. Oh to be home, take down her hair, and put up her feet.

  Someone was tapping her. She opened one eyelid.

  “Miss O, would you mind if I jumped out here? Some nobs were jawing about a match at The Penny Oyster. I thought, if you didn’t need me anymore, I would pop off for a quick look about.”

  Olivia closed her eyelid, nodded, and waved him off.

  A rap on the roof and the carriage pulled to a halt. The door opened and slammed—Olivia winced—shut. At the last minute, she shouted out the window “Be careful!” But the hackney was already moving.

  As she watched him lope away, she smiled. He was a gem…Well, more l
ike a bantam red rooster with his brood, forever strutting and fretting about his “ladies.” Especially Hazel. She and Egg had a small wager going as to when Jeb would declare himself.

  Wes had taken him from a raw recruit to a ready soldier.

  Memories rushed through her like a fresh, cold stream. His and Jeb’s red heads bowed together over a chess board or a lecture on the importance of cleaning a gun. Then all too soon, both of them were gone. One to fight in Cadiz, the other, to a grave outside of Morocco.

  But oh, the look on Jeb’s face when she and Eglantine had knocked on number fourteen Hamley Place. Poor Egg had been crushed to within an inch of her life, and they all had to dash the tears from their eyes as Jeb introduced them to his aunt.

  They had been a family ever since.

  Yet, as the carriage rocked her in a steady rhythm, her thoughts spiraled toward the melancholy. She was lonely—not alone, but lonely. Unfinished? Yes, that was the word. Like a quilt, mended in some areas, well-worn in others, but essentially unfinished—gaping areas with not an ounce of color or pattern, and no hope of filling the dead, white space that stretched before her, making up the other half of her years.

  Lord, now she was becoming maudlin. She had no time for wallowing in self-pity. She blinked to clear her eyes, but realized her tears were from more than just emotion. She smelled smoke.

  Smoke? The driver was turning onto Hamley Place. Her stomach pitched. She reached instinctively for the door latch, fumbling, she could not make it work. Then the door sprang open, slamming back against the coach.

  Her world narrowed into action, the sounds around her isolated and unreal, as if coming from very far away, only a background to the roaring in her head. The slap of her slippers as her feet hit the cobblestones, the pain registering as just a sensation as she staggered to keep her balance. Her ribs heaving up against her corset. The driver yelling something she could not distinguish as she pounded toward smoke and chaos.