The Dressmaker's Duke

by Jess Russell

  Rhys scrubbed his hands through his hair and rolled his neck. Ah, yes, the Campbell girl. He had been hoping she’d stay lying along the road with his other cares. But apparently she would not.

  ****

  Olivia released her breath in a hiss and pressed her eyelids shut, but a moment later her gaze was once again tracking the moonlight as it spilled in from the casement. Long, soft patterns of light bathed the walls and ceiling. She snorted. Better to have lightning and crashing thunder. That would have suited her mood far better.

  Her gaze shot back to the window. Her thoughts seeped through the fragile pane to the picture she knew so completely—the felt of new-mown grass surrounded by a ruffled hedge of blue hydrangea, the statue of Apollo beyond, who kept watch over a few straggling apple trees, and then the canopied road. The road he would come to her by. But when?

  Blackness again. She pressed her teeth against her bottom lip. But the dark only served to focus her mind on his face, his body.

  She flopped on her back and willed herself to let go. Wes had taught her an eastern technique of relaxing, to start at her very center and imagine a snake slowly uncoiling, creating space for more breath, air, peace. She focused on the spot just below her belly and took a long, even breath through her nose. And then a longer release, the air spilling over her lips in a slow hush dispelling the duke’s image.

  She imagined her snake. He was silky black with a sheen of deepest aubergine. His lithe, powerful body lay in a tight coil. Then, with each breath, like a spool of silk, he unraveled in a slow undulating spiral, liquid, endless as he spread to fill her belly and chest, eddying into crevices that had long lay dormant and empty. At last, he completely filled her, causing a heavy pulsing low in her womb.

  The snake lifted his head and his tongue flicked just as his eyes opened. They were pure amber.

  She flipped in her bed and shoved a pillow up against her belly, then lower.

  She flung the pillow. Almost too late, she remembered her newest painting. Legs tangling in the bedclothes, she lunged to catch the canvas, snatching it just before it crashed to the floor. The easel did not fare as well, and it went down with a smack.

  Olivia froze; did the noise wake Eglantine? No. The only sound was the skritch of a branch at the window.

  The painting safely back in its place, Olivia turned to attack the sheets and jammed her toe into the steps that led to her high bed. “Owww!” She wrenched the linen from around her legs and heaved it onto the mattress.

  God’s teeth, could one hasty, fumbled kiss weeks ago be the cause of all this turmoil within her body? How many men, with more expertise, had tried to persuade her into a dalliance and failed? Why this man?

  She could not get back in that bed.

  She hobbled over to the window seat and tucked herself up, the pane felt blessedly cool against her forehead as she pressed forward toward the darkness beyond. Toward the empty road.

  Wasn’t all going as they wished? Olivia asked the waxing gibbous moon. In the two short weeks since arriving at the estate, Egg was remarkably improved. She had even enjoyed a walk in the garden today with Lord Bertram, now a faithful visitor. And just yesterday, Dr. Asher proclaimed her bandages were to come off in the next couple of days.

  And Olivia was painting. The attics had revealed a treasure of old canvases, brushes, paper, and crayons. But best of all, vials and vials of oil paints. Just the smell alone could send her into ecstasy, and with a bit of linseed oil, they had become living jewels.

  She shoved her legs up under her, staring out at the moonlit park. It was all Roydan’s fault. Daria Battersby had been one of the most sought after courtesans in the kingdom. She must have been doing something very right for the duke to have employed her for nearly five years. Most mistresses didn’t last five weeks. How would Olivia measure up? It had been a very long time for her—years in fact. Over four years, if one were counting.

  “Enough!” Olivia said to her ghostly reflection. This line of thinking would get her nowhere. Her beautiful room was too large, too lonely, the bed too empty and cold. She went to check on Eglantine.

  Propped high on pillows, Egg lay with her mouth open and her eyes shut, but no soft snores. She was awake.

  “Egg?”

  “Do you imagine I could sleep through all of that racket? It put me in mind of young Bobby Tuttle. You remember, the company’s goatherd? The fool lost track of his charges, and they nearly knocked the tent down around our ears?”

  “How could I forget? I lost my favorite chemise and several paintbrushes to one of those fellows.” Olivia laughed, shaking her head. “I am sorry to disturb you. Do you need anything?”

  “No, nothing. And I am up now. Come, I miss our cozy chats.” Egg moved over and patted a place for Olivia. Olivia lay down as she had on so many nights in so many cramped rooms.

  Despite Egg saying she was for a chat, they both remained silent. The light curtain shifted and billowed in the breeze.

  “Do you still miss Herbert?” Olivia finally broke the silence.

  “Ah,” was all Egg said for a long while. “Sometimes I think of what would have been. If he would have eventually lost all his hair.” Egg giggled. “If we would have had our farm and grown lavender like we’d planned. If we’d have had a child…But it’s been so very long for me. Truth to tell, I can hardly call to mind his face anymore.” She paused. “His voice and the smell of him are more clear to me…isn’t that funny?”

  Silence filled the room.

  “Wes never wanted to marry,” Olivia whispered. “I don’t know if I ever told you that.”

  Egg turned to her. “You’re wrong, Wes loved you dearly.”

  “Oh, he came to love me, I have no doubt. But his true love was an Indian girl. Her parents forbade them to marry, and then she died. Wes never told me how. And I never asked.”

  Olivia’s nose prickled, and her eyes filled. “I forced his hand with my terrible predicament. I wish I had had somewhere else to go.” A hot puff of sad laughter escaped her. “Egg, you should have seen his face when I arrived in Portsmouth without a chaperon or even a maid. Wes immediately asked for leave to take me home, no matter the scandal. But when I told him…what had happened…Well, as you can imagine, he wanted to go back and kill Biden. Thank God I stopped him from that folly. Besides, I nearly killed Lord Biden myself.” Tears slid steadily over her cheeks and she laughed. “Bless his soft heart, Wes would not let me be dishonored. We were married a week later in Calais. But he did it out of duty. He never would have chosen it.”

  The old memories stiffened her body—horrid red-brown smears on white thighs, the chipped blue and white bowl where she was told to clean herself, the glass of half-drunk sherry, the snapping of the sheet as her stepmother, yanked it from beneath her; then her words, “Just for insurance. He can never claim I bilked him. And wear the rose gown, you need color. Lord Biden is partial to pink.” And finally the sharp taste of bile in her mouth.

  She still could not abide the taste of sherry.

  She sniffed and swiped her arm along her nose. “Wes was so very patient with me—never touched me for months. I didn’t deserve him. I wanted so much to give him everything. But I could not…”

  Egg’s bandaged hand touched hers. “I did not know him long, but I do know you made him so very happy.” Egg’s voice was matter of fact, trying to draw off some of the heavy memories. “You must know he adored you.” Egg laughed. “When Colonel Parton took that ball in the leg, he said he could not imagine a lovelier more devoted wife or a more thoroughly smitten husband. ‘I don’t know how Major Weston landed that fine gem of a lady,’ the Colonel said, ‘but I’d bet ready money it wasn’t his looks that did it.’ The Colonel was always a bit of a scamp. I do believe he was half in love with you, Olive.”

  Indeed Colonel Parton had offered for her just after Wes’s death. But she had never told Egg. Besides, Olivia never wanted to be rescued by another man. If she married again, she wanted a man who came to her f
ree and clear.

  Well, she had got herself into yet another situation where a man had swooped in to save her. It seemed to be her destiny.

  She kissed Egg’s bandaged hand. Dear Egg always seemed to say the right things. They talked a bit more about the war and Paris. The silences got longer till Egg’s only answer was a gentle snore. Olivia tucked Egg’s hands under the covers and slipped out of the room.

  Back in her own bed she shifted her pillow.

  Wes would never have approved of her celibate state. He had always wanted her to know the fullness of physical love, how to take as well as give.

  And oh, she wanted to take and give now. This monkish duke frayed the edges of her reason, slipping under her resolve to press on her most secret places.

  When would he come to her? How would they begin? What would it be like to lay with him?

  She pushed the pillow hard up between her legs again, pressing the other end to her breasts. Her hand slipped from her belly to thread in the nest of hair between her legs. A soft moan escaped her lips.

  God help her, she knew she would get no sleep this night. She might as well paint.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The duke would come today. He and his uncle had called yesterday, but Olivia had managed to be out. It would be utter rudeness, not to mention cowardly, to be missing again. Consequently, by the time they were announced by Mrs. Fields, the ladies’ housekeeper, Olivia was in a state. Her face must have frozen in some approximation of a smile, because as she greeted Lord Bertram, he smiled back. Now if she could only remember to breathe.

  She turned to the duke. Her gaze slid over his beautiful hunter-green riding coat, with its boutonnière of stephanotis, and the fine linen of his shirt, its collar points laying just so against his freshly shaved cheeks. His mouth was pulled into a rigid line, as if he were clamping his teeth together. She could not meet his eyes. It was enough to feel his gaze as it raked over her, taking in her sprigged muslin gown of the palest daffodil. One of the gowns he had bought her.

  She had yet to thank him for the shawl or for retrieving the few items saved from the fire or for any of the kindnesses he had shown. And why should she? After all, it was done with one end in mind. She smoothed her damp hands over her yellow skirts. Heavens, she might as well have been wearing nothing, she felt so exposed.

  She and Egg sat, and the men followed suit.

  Everyone smiled at each other, except the duke of course, and then, silence.

  Finally someone mentioned Lady Wiggins’s continued health and the duke contributed a rejoinder—she heard his low rumble—but honestly she could not attend. She was too busy adjusting her skirts and the lumpy pillow behind her.

  The tea tray arrived and she practically leapt on it, anything to occupy her.

  “Oh—yes, dear. Why don’t you do the honors?” Egg pulled away from the tea service.

  It was so very hard to hear over the pounding in her head, which now had taken over her poor heart as well. She was sure everyone could hear it.

  Somehow she managed to pour without spilling a drop.

  “Milk, Your Grace?” Was that her voice? The pounding became huge African drums, like the ones she had seen and heard while living in Morocco with Wes. But the duke’s response was lost in the pulsing beat. She took a quick peek at Egg and Lord Bertram, but neither was looking at her. She took a guess and added a splash of milk.

  Spoons tinkled against china cups, in sharp counterpoint to the primitive thrum in her head. Not to be overshadowed by piddling spoons, the drums beat louder still.

  “Do you take sugar, Your Grace?” she told herself that when he answered she would be able to meet his eyes with utter calm. But the pounding went on, and her imagination, not satisfied with sound, added scantily clad, gyrating dancers. She only managed to get to his lips, which was a good thing because she read the ‘no’ very clearly. Otherwise she might have dumped four or five lumps in his tea, and then they would all know she was barmy.

  She handed him the cup, being absolutely careful not to graze his fingers. Not a drop spilled, as she imagined flailing, naked arms, along with pumping hips and buttocks. A frenzy of erotic motion. Considering the uproar in her head, she was quite pleased with her performance. She even tried a smile and to attend to the conversation.

  “—weather has been unseasonably warm, Roydan,” remarked Lord Bertram. “We have begun to resurrect your grandmamma’s old rose garden.”

  Now would be a safe moment to look at him, when she was sure he was busy translating Bertram’s “we” to include only his uncle and Egg and not necessarily herself. But like a coward, she only sipped her tea, keeping her eyes on the rose-patterned cup.

  Drat!

  She cleared her throat, and all eyes locked on her. Lord Bertram and Egg looked at her encouragingly, like a child who might actually participate in an adult conversation. They were even nodding, as if they turned a skipping rope and she was desperately trying to jump in. Thwap. Thwap. Thwap. She jumped.

  “I believe I encountered a flock of cormorants near the northernmost cliffs yesterday.”

  Their gazes locked and tangled.

  His eyes were still deep gold. Still set off by thick black lashes. And still made her feel as if he were starving. But how had she thought they were ever cold? Indeed they seemed to warm her from head to toes.

  “They are no doubt tending their nests,” he answered. Then he took a long sip of his tea, his eyes never leaving hers. He returned his cup to its saucer and balanced it on his knee. “A pity you missed their courtship. It is quite a show. The males wave their long necks about, preening and posing, while the females bend theirs right over their backs.” Now she was quite hot. Surely he must feel the heat as well, though he looked completely unflustered. “The eggs are incubated by both parents for about a month,” he continued. “A shag is quite fervent about the care of—”

  A shag? Oh, good Lord, cormorants were sometimes called shags. Could he be teasing her? She ducked her head and reached for a biscuit. The hot flush rushed to flood her neck and chest—and lower. Dear God, females bending over backward?

  She swallowed, pushing the dry biscuit past her tightening throat. Very well, she would ride this out, and she anted up.

  “I have never had the pleasure of seeing them bend over backward, Your Grace, but I have seen them holding their wings thus.” Olivia spread her arms out wide. “I believe that is their way of not letting the other birds come too close.”

  He raised an eyebrow, along with the stakes. “Now you mention it, Mrs. Weston, you remind me a bit of the bird, long neck, black glossy feathers, green eyes…”

  Her neck was surely flaming red at this point. She gripped her tea cup. “I cannot tell Your Grace, is that meant to be a compliment?”

  But it seemed the game was over as he made no rejoinder, and the conversation moved on. It irked her to think he might have won.

  The gentlemen left a short while later, but not before she and Egg had been invited to the mansion for dinner the next evening.

  “Mrs. Weston,” said the duke, “have you been to the house yet?”

  “No, Your Grace, I have not had that pleasure.”

  “Ah, well, I hope you will find it to your liking. It is a jumble of styles as my relatives sought to make their mark on the place, and I dare say I am prejudiced, but I think it one of the most picturesque of my holdings.”

  She made no comment except for a curtsey and a “Goodbye.”

  ****

  Later in the garden, Egg sipped her tea while Olivia attempted to paint a portrait of the cat, Temperance, who, Olivia finally concluded, did not deserve her name.

  “The duke looked remarkably well this afternoon, did he not?” said Egg.

  “He did not appear any different than usual.” Olivia did not like the direction she supposed Egg to be taking.

  “He is extremely polite. Well, that is to say he is polite when he actually speaks. And his eyes…One cannot but look at his
…stillness and think there is great depth there. And perhaps sorrow…” Egg’s voice trailed off again till Olivia thought the conversation might be finished. “But”—No, too much to hope for—“it is possible I am reading far too much into our host’s character.” Egg adjusted her spectacles down her nose. “You, my dear, must have a much clearer picture, having spent an entire evening with the man?” She looked to Olivia, who was suddenly very intent on mixing the perfect shade of blue for Miss Temperance’s left ear. Egg went on despite Olivia ignoring her friend, “But his uncle is all ease and charm. Do you know he has insisted on taking part in our little vegetable patch as well as the rose garden? The man actually donned garden gloves and dug the whole of the north end. I must say it was astonishing.”

  Olivia took a chance to peep up from her cat’s ear to see her friend staring out at nothing, a wistful look on her soft, round face. Olivia almost abandoned Temperance’s portrait right then in order to capture that look on Egg’s face. But in the next moment, Egg set down her tea cup and cleared her throat.

  “My dear, I have not mentioned this before”—oh dear, this was decidedly not a good sign—“I suppose I did not want to think too much about it myself, but why is the duke taking such an interest in our plight? He barely knows us. I have wracked my brain, and I cannot think why he would embroil himself in our troubles.”

  “I dare say he is rich enough to spare one small corner on his many vast estates.” Her voice sounded surly even to her own ears.

  “I do not mean to sound ungracious, far from it, but his character, as I’ve observed, does not seem to lean toward charity to those with whom he has so little connection.”

  Olivia shifted her brush and took up a rag to clean it. She was not adept at lying to Egg. “I suspect it may come from a misplaced sense of responsibility. He was not at all certain Daria Battersby did not have something to do with the fire at our shop.” Olivia eluded Egg’s raised eyebrows by teasing Temperance with the end of her brush.