The Dressmaker's Duke

by Jess Russell

  Seeing her ardor nearly undid him, but he steadied himself. This woman was not performing. She wanted him. Him. It was a heady feeling to sense the power he had over her.

  He turned her to begin undoing the tiny covered buttons at her back. She held her hands loosely over her belly, her head bowed. He slowly peeled the gown open like an unexpected gift.

  She wore no stays. He slid the fabric off her shoulders, stepping back to see the full beauty of her. The gown had gathered at her elbows, and when she released her arms, the dress floated to the floor.

  She stood between him and the fire, her body clearly outlined within the cotton batiste of her chemise. He could not take his gaze off her. She turned to him.

  The chemise was not merely an undergarment but a beautiful creation of tucks, pleating, and open work. He knew this because he had labored over this particular item in Madame Louaneau’s salon, imagining Olivia in it. He also knew that the neck would be released with one pull of a ribbon. He did so.

  He could have stood there forever looking at this woman; she was so exquisite, so perfect in every detail. But he wanted to be inside her even more. He began undressing. She lay down to watch him. He was more than a bit uncomfortable with the idea of undressing for her, but she seemed to want it, and he could deny her nothing. When he was naked he went to join her on the pillows, but she stopped him.

  “Rhys, you are beautiful, so very beautiful. Come to me.”

  He had never experienced a joining like this—a loving like this. Somehow she had made this makeshift bower a haven for him—a place to trust, to lay down his guard. They had looked into each other’s eyes as he began, at first tentatively, to explore her wonders. But he was happy to be in her hands and follow her lead.

  She had ended up on top of him, setting the pace to a slow undulating canter instead of his forceful gallop. She seemed to sense his coming release and would back off just enough to make it last and last. Finally it was too much for her and she rode him hard, her hands tangled in his hair. She bucked and cried out. He watched in pleasure and awe, and then spilled himself into her.

  Rhys awoke slowly. He must have fallen asleep. He had never done that before. He had always taken himself off after the act.

  She was still sleeping, nestled into the crook of his shoulder, her leg thrown over his. Just the sight of her beautiful white leg, so casually draped over his own—he was not sure he could stand this fullness. He might burst out of his skin. Then her toes flicked and then flexed; finally her whole body undulated in a stretch, burrowing into his. If only this moment could last forever. He would happily smash every one of his precious clocks and every time piece in the world if only he could stay within this moment.

  But her eyelashes tickled him and her breath fluttered the fine hairs on his chest. She was awake. She would pull away soon. She would get up and get dressed and possibly make small talk, and then she would leave him.

  He panicked.

  “I will have the contracts drawn up today or tomorrow morning at the very latest. You will want for nothing.”

  Even before he finished speaking, she stiffened in his arms. Cold replaced the warm heat of her body as she pushed herself away from him and quickly got to her feet. It was all he could do not to grab her back to him.

  “As you wish, Your Grace.” And she began dressing, not once looking at him.

  He saw the moment falling to shattered pieces but could do nothing. Even a great clod like him should have known better, but he was so new at this, his feeling muscles as flaccid as a newborn. One thought hammered within his thick head; he could not lose her.

  Suddenly he was eight years old. The doctor had said he must go, his mother needed rest and would see him in the morning, but as the huge door closed he knew it was a lie, and he would never see her again. He had wailed, clawing at the door to be let back in, somehow thinking if he could get back inside her chamber he could save her.

  The door had burst open. His father. The brass knob split open Rhys’s cheek, blood mixing with tears. Rhys tried to squeeze past his sire, but the duke jerked him back and threw him into the body of the footman who had come to see to the clamor.

  “Get rid of him,” the duke barked. And the door banged shut again.

  Rhys would always remember the finality of that door slamming. He rubbed the small scar on his cheek below his left eye. He never saw his mother again.

  Olivia. His Olivia was moving. Rhys could not let this door close. He lunged up out of the nest of blankets, but did not know where to go or what words to say to bind her to him. If there were a child…?

  “I have not been careful. You may be with child.” She did not even pause in her dressing. Instead his words seemed to spur her on. “I will, of course, provide for any children there may be.” He could not stop himself. Everything he was saying was driving her further and further away from him. Yet he did not know how to make her look at him, how to make her see him.

  She was finished dressing now. “There won’t be any children.” She finally looked straight at him. “I am barren.”

  And the door closed.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The contract never came.

  He never came either. They managed to avoid each other without much fuss. She threw herself into her painting, but still the days dragged by and the nights were even longer.

  “Bert, you are making an absolute muddle of that rose bush.” Egg waved her pruning shears at poor Lord Bertram as she charged in to save the day—or, more aptly, the bush. “You must be sure to count the leaves and cut at every cluster of five.”

  “Eglantine, do be still or you will end in pricking your hands. Here let me come ’round you.” His lordship situated himself directly behind Egg, his hands covering hers, his head bent to her ear. He whispered something and Egg giggled. Oh, what a sight, to see her dear Egglet actually giggle again.

  Olivia was very much de trop. She gathered her sketch pad and crayons and slipped out of the garden.

  Besides she was so weary of scuttling about the house and gardens like some scared rabbit, afraid to run into him, or, if she was honest, to miss any communication.

  Would she agree to a contract if one ever presented itself? Did she have a choice? Had a few couplings shattered her resolve so thoroughly? Was she that weak? It was ridiculous. He was an arrogant lummox who did not know the first thing about the needs of a woman, emotionally or physically. She should be happy he was done with her and, hopefully, he would consider her contract with him already fulfilled.

  But still…

  She missed him. She could not seem to blot out his look of wonder as he touched her breast or traced the curve of her lower lip. Or the shock on his face when she had captured that thumb with her teeth and sucked it into her mouth.

  She pushed through the garden’s far gate, heading to the old track that led to the home farm.

  Sweat rolled past her temple as a light wind played on the club sedge and wild grasses. They shifted from yellow ochre to sienna and then back. She had been out for hours with nothing to show for it. Perhaps she would actually get out her things and sketch.

  “You’re a right un’ with those paints, ain’t ye, Miss?”

  Olivia glanced about her and instantly recognized Mr. Mackenzie, the old steward. Oh! Where had he come from? She could see nothing but low-lying fields with woods in the far distance. She must have been too engrossed in her thoughts to have seen him approach.

  Mac could be found hanging about the stables and kitchen garden, but she had never had occasion to actually speak with him. His old dog stood next to him. The animal was half blind with one ear missing. They were a fitting pair.

  She was about to introduce herself but stopped. He seemed to know who she was.

  “The duchess was a fair painter, too,” he continued, gesturing to her pad and chalks. “Not so much big, grand pictures like yours, no, she painted birds and flowers and such.”

  He had seen her paintings?


  He began to move off.

  “Mr. Mackenzie? Mac!” She caught up with him. “May I walk with you?”

  Olivia had the feeling he was taking her measure. It suddenly seemed very important he approve of her. She must have passed muster because he nodded slowly and continued walking.

  As they fell into step, the old dog looped around their legs, looking for attention. Bending, she ruffled his good ear. Timid about breaking the silence she waited, taking her cue from the old man.

  “The duchess loved the small creatures of the earth you see, the ones no one paid much mind to.” He stopped again and gave her a long searching look. She stood up straighter. His mouth did not smile but his eyes did. “She would take the young master about with her and show him the tiniest bit of flower or bug. She would go all barmy for a good bug. The young master used to bring them to her by the scores.”

  Mac let out a rusty laugh. “One time I remember he found the biggest auld bullfrog you ever would want to see. Near as big as ol’ Tobe’s head here.” The dog instantly perked up at the sound of his name. “The duchess was like to scream in fright at the beastie, but she soon calmed herself and even took the thing into her hands exclaiming over it as if it were true treasure.” Mac shook his shaggy head and sniffed. “That did it. He then brought her all manner of creatures large and small. The ol’ hognose snake for her birthday was something Mrs. Cotton will never forget.”

  “He loved her very much,” Olivia said, hoping to draw more out of him.

  “Oh, aye.” His two words said everything.

  They began walking again, her thoughts consumed with the image of a dark, reed-thin boy, all arms and legs, gamboling after his young mother.

  After a while the steward continued, “He almost went to pieces when she died.” Mac squinted, suddenly interested in something in the far distance. “The old duke sent the lad packing off to school as soon as the duchess was set in the ground.”

  “Oh!” She stopped, shocked. “How old was he?”

  “Just eight years. The duke had wanted to send him off at six, but the duchess would have none of it, you see. She couldn’t bear to part with him. It caused a good row or two betwixt them. She did not often cross the duke, but on this, she held firm.”

  Her own mother had died when Olivia was nine. She knew that feeling of helpless, inconsolable loss. She could not imagine losing her home and all that was familiar at the same time.

  “And what of his father?”

  The old man shook his head. “Ah, that is another story for another time, young miss, for it is a sad tale, to be sure.”

  They had made it as far as the tree line where the woods began. Suddenly Toby’s head bobbed up; he stiffened and sniffed.

  “Ah-ha,” Mac crowed. “He’s an old un, ol’ Tobe, but he’s still got a good strong nose on him. Don’t you, ol’ feller?” He gave the dog an affectionate scratch. “Well, we best be off. He don’t get much entertainment these days and it looks as if he’d like a go at yon rabbit.” And tipping his cap, he disappeared into the woods.

  As Olivia watched the pair, she could not help but feel old Mac had given her a precious gift, a window into Rhys’s mind.

  Rhys.

  He was no longer the duke or even Roydan. Picturing him and his young mother, their heads bent together over a hideous frog, somehow he slipped some unseen barrier to become simply Rhys once again.

  The picture made her think of her own mother. So many times they had bent over a bit of sewing or a drawing, the tinkling of her old music box a background to their work. After her mother died, Olivia had practically worn the thing out winding it over and over till Nanny Jean threatened to put it in the attics. Olivia had promised she would not play it again, she would just hold it. Instead Nanny had put it on a very high shelf, far above Olivia’s reach. “There, I’ll not trust you to open the thing. You can be content to look at it from there.”

  Olivia sat below the shelf, a magical spot, marked out with fairy rocks she had found in the woods. She would say her magic prayer and, in her mind, the lid would open. The beautiful family would spring into a loving circle, all holding hands—a blonde mother, a handsome and dark father, and between them, two perfect children, a boy and a girl.

  It was almost better that way. There in her enchanted spot, the music went on and on forever, never winding down to stutter and stop in the middle of a phrase. The beautiful family never dropped hands, teetering to collapse into a broken heap. She might even imagine the little girl, who was blonde like her mama, to have dark black hair, like herself. She remembered asking her mamma one birthday if she could please have hair the color of the sun? Her mother had stooped and smoothed Olivia’s hair. “Ah, but I would miss my sweet moon with her midnight hair and eyes like sparkling stars.”

  Her tender, quiet mother…She was gone by Olivia’s next birthday.

  She had wanted to be that kind of mother. To have a child who did not have to grieve a mother’s death and a broken family. A child with bright red hair instead of blonde…

  Wes…

  He’d been gone four years now. At times it seemed like a lifetime ago and then, in a heartbeat, it would be so fresh—my goodness, I will be twenty-nine in September. She rested her hand on the hollow bowl of her belly.

  It was her fault. The problem was she never had regular courses. She could go for months without bleeding. By the time it was clear she was increasing, the doctor had guessed she was nearly five months along, too far along to make the journey to Gibraltar.

  Wes had been training new recruits for guerilla warfare at their posting in Daidatz, near Tangier. They were in no real danger, she had argued. Still, he had not been easy, but Olivia was implacable. She would not be away from him now that they were finally to have their heart’s desire. Worn down, Wes gave up arguing and began preparing to be a father.

  Never shy about how much he wanted her and how much he enjoyed her body, but now, with her increasing, he adored her rounded belly. He often laid his head next to it, whispering secrets to the child within. She batted at his head complaining of being left out. “I am merely the vessel for your true love.” But then he would prove so well how wrong she was.

  One rainy day he came home early, dripping wet, his hands behind his back. She rushed to him, thinking him hurt. “By God, woman, stop your fussing. I am attempting to surprise you,” he ordered her to close her eyes and hold out her hands. The memory of that slippery, feather-light wood—the miniature violin, the very one saved from the shop fire.

  Insisting he get out of his wet things, she watched as Wes capered about their bedchamber in only his smalls, brandishing the tiny bow like a conductor’s baton. She laughed and called him an ass. Braying and kicking his heels, he had picked up the tiny instrument and sawed away at it. “Now this, my love, is the sound of an ass.” Oh what a racket, but she had loved every second of it.

  He vowed their child would not be a soldier, must look exactly like its mother, and finally, would have music in its life.

  Those two blissful months, imagining, planning, and arguing over the sex and various names. Olivia wanted Adolphus, after Wes whose Christian name was Adolphus James. But Wes said, “Over my dead body.”

  Oh, God. Olivia squeezed her eyes tighter, but those memories, once started, would not stop.

  Colonel Parton had come with the news and caught her when she collapsed. He had stayed with her for the entire day, assigning a nurse to remain by her side for as long as it took her to recover and deliver the baby.

  Eglantine Wiggins had had been that nurse.

  Jeb had come to visit her too. She remembered asking him what day it was. Was it Tuesday? He said no ma’am, it was Sunday. But Jeb was wrong. He had to be wrong. Wes was supposed to be back on Tuesday. Then her head would start shaking and terrible noises would come. She tried to stop her ears against those hideous, wailing sounds, but they kept coming and coming. She had begged Jeb to please stop those piteous cries.

  It had be
en friendly fire. The men were at their exercises and a musket that should not have been loaded had mysteriously been charged. The young recruit had sworn he had not known. The poor lad had hanged himself three days later, although Olivia only heard of his death months afterward.

  Thank God for Eglantine. She had finally persuaded Olivia to eat, if not for herself, then for the baby.

  Olivia had been standing by the window when her waters broke. “No-o-o!” She sank to the floor furiously mopping up the wet with her wrapper. It was too soon. She still had at least seven weeks left in her confinement.

  Her breasts had been painfully swollen with milk that would not be needed. But her belly had shrunk so fast. Eventually her breasts gave up and shrunk back as well. She felt flat and so very empty, like a pasteboard cutout lying in that bed.

  She had awoken; it was dusk. Where had the day gone? But she heard voices in the other room. The doctor was speaking quietly to Egg, something about an infection due to the haste in delivering the baby. She needed complete quiet if she was to recover. Egg had murmured something Olivia could not follow, and then after a long pause the doctor said, “No, she will have no more children.” There was more talk, but Olivia had stopped listening.

  James Adolphus Weston—little Jamie—was gone and buried in the earth next to his father before she ever had a chance to see him, to hold him, to have him clasp her finger in his tiny fist. She desperately wanted to ask Egg if his hair had been red, but she couldn’t bear it.

  The months that followed were still a blur. Egg had been her savior and her only reason for living. She simply had not let Olivia give up. She’d willed her to live, and eventually Olivia did.