The Dressmaker's Duke

by Jess Russell

  He made a brief bow to the company. “Tomorrow, at the same time, Mrs. Weston?” A real question in his eyes.

  “Yes, Your Grace,” she said, returning a curtsey. “I am looking forward to it.”

  She thought she heard his expelled breath as he strode off.

  Olivia excused herself as well. She was too full and too transparent to remain with her friend. She took the opposite direction as she rode off.

  The two older people were left, each staring after their loved ones.

  “Well, it seems they were quite successful,” Egg said almost to herself.

  Bertram’s thoughts were occupied along the same lines. “Yes, perhaps too successful.”

  They looked at each other and parted ways.

  ****

  And so their affair began again, but this time, with no talk of contracts or of houses and carriages.

  On fine days they rode, or more likely, met on the beach at their little cove. Even the unpredictable English weather seemed to be on their side. But when storms blew up, they would meet at Sea Cottage.

  The room began to fill with small remembrances of their time together—a sprig of now-dried heather, a small collection of sea shells, a perfectly oval stone with two white rings around it.

  They did not speak of the future or anything that might disturb the delicate balance of this fantasy world. They left those thoughts for the long dark nights.

  But today was almost balmy and still. The tide had gone out, and the air was pure churned cream, thick and fresh with a hint of salt. Like a vanilla-ice custard Olivia had as a child.

  She found his preserved footprints. A neat stitch along the ribbon of wet, silken sand. A smile tugged her lips. She removed her boots and gingerly stepped into his print. Her foot, small and slim, surrounded by his large and square one. It felt intimate. She wrapped her arms around herself, squeezing in her happiness. A silly goose. She quickly followed his trail, knowing it would lead her to treasure.

  Rhys lay back on the sand, his hands behind his head in a cradle, staring up at the sky. He did not see her, lost in some private world.

  She sat behind him, arms wrapped around her drawn up legs, chin resting on her knees. It was a rare treat to see him so relaxed and unconscious.

  Then she saw a slight miracle.

  He smiled.

  It was by no means a full-fledged smile, but as he gazed intently up into the clouds, his lips curved and his eyes crinkled. It was not a grimace because there was no sun at the moment.

  She followed his gaze, wanting to be a part of his world and happiness. But clearly his joy was of the internal variety, as she saw only clouds scuttling across the afternoon sky. She knew she should leave him to his thoughts and his peace, but she could not.

  “What has made you smile?”

  He jerked up. His face immediately shuttered.

  Of course. Damn, why couldn’t she leave well enough alone?

  “It is nothing.” He shifted toward her and kissed her. She gently pulled away.

  “It is not nothing. It is something.” She wanted to be let in. She wanted to know this man.

  He was silent for a long while. Disappointed, with even silly tears threatening, she rose and began to shake out her skirts.

  “It was only a silly game my mother and I used to play.”

  She waited.

  “I was recalling it.”

  Still she waited.

  He rose to his elbows and turned back to her. He pointed up above the cliffs.

  “Do you see that cloud hanging to the right of the break in the cliff? It is at about two o’clock.”

  She leaned down to his level to better see his perspective and looked up.

  “Do you see it looks a bit like a hare jumping over a huge rose?” When she did not answer, he continued, “Or at least it did a few moments ago.” He idly scooped up a hand full of sand and slowly transferred it to the other.

  Olivia softly sighed thinking she would get no more secrets, but he brushed his hands and spoke. “My mother would often take me to this beach, and we would make a game of finding pictures in the clouds. It is one of my strongest memories of her—that and her teaching me to swim.” He looked at her shyly, as if he were gauging her interest level.

  Apparently satisfied, he continued. “I always saw dragons and shields and great warriors. She saw fairies and goddesses with long flowing hair. But mostly she saw animals.”

  There was a long moment of the surf and gulls calling.

  “That is why I…smiled.”

  Their eyes met. It was a gift. Granted, a small gift, but it was the best gift she had had in quite a while.

  She was the first to break away. She sat on the sand next to him and looked up, pretending that the earth had not shaken and the planets were still in alignment.

  “I rather think that gray bit of fluff at nine o’clock, looks quite like the great Egyptian Sphinx.” She squinted and laughed. “Either that, or Sir Everett when he’s deeply in his cups.”

  And so the game began.

  He was quite competitive but scrupulously fair.

  ****

  He was showing off for her. Olivia was sure of it.

  He cut through the water, diving through waves and riding the surf. She imagined him as a little boy doing the very same thing, only instead of her calling out praise and caution, it had been his mother.

  Each had lost their respective mothers at such tender ages. That single event had shaped both their lives so decisively. Like a grain of sand slipping between an oyster’s fortress of shell to fester into a pearl—real and hard and beautiful. To remove the pearl, one must pry open the shell and expose its inner flesh and soft parts, otherwise the beauty remains hidden.

  When Georgina Roydan died, her only son closed himself up. He became hard and withdrawn, a defense against the unbearable loss of the world as he had known it. And so the loving, sensitive, and shy boy of eight years had turned into a sober and reclusive Monk. Olivia knew this, as sure as she knew her name.

  She hoped he would never return to that man—that monk.

  He came toward her, shaking droplets of water like old Toby.

  “Ugh! You will have me soaking in no time, Mr. Fish!”

  “Madam Mermaid, I have not begun to soak you.” Her jaw dropped open as he sank to his knees. “Let me commence now.”

  ****

  Olivia lay quietly, listening to the far off sea, its soft shush of waves blending with Rhys’s breathing as he lay next to her. He was sleeping. She could tell by the evenness of his breath. His body spent, like the quietly disappearing foam left upon the shore after a huge wave.

  Their love had been different this time. He was certainly a very clever pupil once he let his whirring mind stop questioning and his senses take over, but this time their loving contained a new element.

  Today he had allowed her to kiss him in his most intimate places, even to suckle him there. As he spilled into her mouth, the sound from his own was like nothing she’d ever heard. It tore out of him like a wounded animal. He had pulled her up to him afterwards looking fiercely into her eyes and then oh-so-softly kissed her lips.

  He had never talked about his aversion to this act, and she had never asked, but the memory must have been incredibly painful.

  But today he had trusted her. Trusted she would not hurt him. It had been a leap for both of them, like a needle through leather, painful yet clean and true. It had felt very much like love.

  She dare not kiss him, not wanting to wake him…not yet. She would savor this delicious waiting. Her gaze raked his body, drinking it in with hedonistic pleasure, making an unhurried study of his beauty.

  She began to mentally paint him, memorizing every line, every shadowed crevice. His portrait would require deep, dark undertones, and would be heavily layered to achieve the feeling of depth. But that would only be the base of the work; his true essence would be in the luminous highlights that would come later.

  His han
d lay half curled on his chest in a nest of dark, springy hair. She loved his hands. They were huge and square. Not a gentleman’s hands at all. She remembered them on her body, dry and slightly abrasive. They had covered every inch of her, mapping her body. And then his mouth and tongue had followed…

  She dragged her mind back to her task. She moved down, skipping over certain parts, for the relative safety of his legs. She had got the musculature wrong—they were longer, the muscles more fluid. She would remember that now. She longed to pull her hands down those legs, to feel as well as see, but there would be time for that later. Now she needed this moment to utterly fix him in her mind, storing the impressions for the time when she was gone. When this wondrous fantasy was over.

  Her nose flared with that familiar tingle of tears. But this was not a time for tears. Those would be stored along with the imprint of his body for later—please God, much later.

  She returned her gaze to his mouth again, focusing on a sweet corner. Smooth cheek and rasp of new beard met the ripe opening of his honeyed, fleshy lip. A secret corner.

  She pulled herself up next to him and flicked her tongue to taste salt and musky woman, her smell. A fan of breath brushed her lips as he expelled the air he had been holding. Ah, she wondered how long he had been pretending to sleep.

  He looked up at her. What was in his eyes was enough. It was somehow enough.

  She closed her eyes and lay back on the sand.

  Rhys rose to his elbows and looked down at this gift, his Olivia with her open, waiting body. His emotions were spent long ago in the wake of her tender ministrations. Instinct took over—pure, sensual intuition his guide now. As if the world stopped spinning just for them; their bodies creating its only movement. They were gods. In a moment they would return to earth and the world would revolve on its own again. They would become mortal, but for this space of time, life was exquisite. He only needed to touch her for it to begin again.

  And he did. His heart vanquished his head in a blaze of glorious love. Yes, love.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Daria stared into the dregs of her now-cold tea, debating whether to ask for yet another pot. She squirmed. No, not a good idea.

  Miss Arabella Campbell and her maid, Daisy was her name, had been closeted in this remote corner for nigh on an hour now. They seemed to be hiding. Little had been said beyond her ladyship’s extreme boredom at hanging about London in the heat of the summer.

  Frankly, Daria was tired of London as well, particularly skulking about for her new lover. Her latest task, to track the Campbell chit in the hope of her leading them to Roydan and ultimately to Weston, was proving as tedious as trying to mine gold from the duke.

  Watching the maid now, it struck Daria that Daisy and Weston could be twins. However, closer inspection revealed this woman’s nose was more upturned and her eyes closer together. Also, the voice was wrong.

  Thank God Daria had not hied off to tell his lordship she had found Weston when she first saw this girl last week. She flexed her fingers. The swelling had subsided enough to don her glove, but the bruises still remained. He was not fond of wild goose chases. Well, it was not her fault Wilcove had told her the duke was in Scotland.

  “Here you are.” A flurry of movement descended on the scene in the form of Lady Campbell. Oh, not the mother, sighed Daria. “I got held up by that troll who owns the Morning Chronicle. Why, I wanted to—Daisy, you may leave us.” The girl’s mother practically sat on the poor maid so anxious was she to be alone with her daughter.

  Daisy shot a glance at her mistress. “Very good, madam. I will be in the park across the way.”

  The mother pursed her lips as her narrowed gaze followed the maid’s every move. “There is something about that girl I do not like. I can’t quite put my finger on it…Well.” She turned back to her daughter. “When you are a duchess we will employ a French maid. I believe Lady Schnobble can point me in the right direction.

  “Did you not hear me?” Lady Campbell rapped a spoon on the table. “How can you sit there placidly eating? I will never understand you. But then you have never behaved like a normal girl.” The young woman slumped as her mother reached into her reticule and retrieved a paper. A letter. Daria could see it clearly now. The woman flourished it like a flag in front of her daughter. “My dear, it has come!”

  “What has come, Mamma?” A sigh accompanied a lazy spoonful of custard.

  “Why, the duke’s invitation, you silly chit!”

  Visions of cream caramels disappeared and Daria perked up.

  “Oh, my dear, we—you are to be a duchess! Her Grace, the sixth Duchess of Roydan. Does that not sound grand?” Lady Campbell clapped her hands in glee which thankfully disguised the slap of Daria’s book as it hit the table. “Now, my dearest, you must not eat too many sweets.” She looked at the girl like she was some sort of prized sow. “It is obvious he likes you well enough, but you know you have a tendency toward plumpness.” She gave her daughter’s arm a little pinch. Daria flinched. “I told you, you should have had more faith in Roydan’s honor. I knew he would not forsake us, my dear. A mother always knows these things.”

  “Ah, no Italian counts then, Mamma?”

  “Italian Counts?” The woman frowned and then humphed. “My dear as you will learn all too soon—please God—a good mother has to be prepared for all eventualities.” Daria had to lean in to catch the woman’s next comment. “Only think if Roydan had discarded you. No one would touch you. Indeed, I thought perhaps we would have to cut our losses and go to Italy. Imagine having to fire you off there.” She affected a little shudder. “Those Italians will take anyone. Even Lady Ribble’s girl—you know the unfortunate one with the harelip—got a husband there. I must write to her ladyship immediately and tell her of our news. I wonder if we will ever see that poor unlucky girl again?

  “But that is neither here nor there. We have been summoned! Of course we will have St. George’s for the church. Oh, won’t Roydan be delicious in a coat of golden brocade with perhaps champagne-colored breeches.”

  Sweet Jezebel, the woman was utterly ridiculous, simpering and flirting as she peeped from behind the letter, as if Roydan were before her instead of her child.

  “Hmm…” Lady Campbell frowned at her daughter’s hair. “The seaside…not your best setting. We shall have to make sure Daisy brings the right pomades. But no matter, if that is where the duke is, then it is well enough with me.”

  Daria perked up. The seaside? But where? The duke had at least three estates near the sea. Oh, if she could only get her hands around the woman’s neck and throttle the information out of her.

  “Valmere,” the woman said breathlessly, as if she had heard Daria’s thoughts. “We are to travel to Valmere. Which I understand is one of his minor estates by the sea…”

  Valmere. Of course. Daria should have known. Roydan disappeared for weeks on end during the summer months, touring his various estates. He never once brought her along, though she had hinted every year. He always returned to town too tanned for her liking and came to her bed like a cannon for those first few weeks.

  “Though, to my mind”—Lady Campbell tapped one finger against the letter—“Beckham Abbey or even Waubeek Downs would have been more fitting for a proposal.

  “Daisy! Where is that girl?” The woman rose gesturing for her daughter to follow. “We must begin packing. There is so very much to do. I wonder what one wears to the seaside these days?”

  Arabella’s head dropped as a faint sigh slipped from the girl.

  “Yes, the pomades,” the harpy continued. “We mustn’t forget the pomades.” The shrew sailed out still wielding her precious letter as if mere mortals could be struck down by its import. Her daughter released another sigh, gathered her reticule, and dutifully rose to go.

  Valmere. Weston is at Valmere. Daria looked longingly at the unfinished ice but rose as well. She should deliver her news. He was waiting. And she knew all too well he was not a patient man. But first
she must use the necessary.

  ****

  Rhys held Olivia’s hand as their horses danced impatiently beneath them. He had seen her halfway to the dower house but was loath to leave. Something nibbled at the back of his brain. Olivia laughed and pulled her hand from his.

  “Silly man, I will see you in but a few hours.” And she wheeled Opalina and took off across the field. She sat a horse as if she’d been born to it. Odd given her circumstances. He could no longer see her; she’d disappeared into the pollard trees.

  Valmere’s topmost chimneys peeked over the rise of the hill, growing like branchless trees till the roofline appeared. Rhys pushed Sid toward the stables. No time to curry the horse himself. Just enough time to bathe—

  Time! He had forgotten to give her his gift. The watch lay ticking in his breast pocket, right over his heart. He pulled it out and ran his thumb over the case, still warm from his body.

  He’d finished the piece only last night when sleep was impossible. It had looked as if it was never going to come together, but at the last moment everything slipped into place as if there had never been a struggle. The watch was exquisite, just like her, and he wanted her to have it—his heart. He flipped the case open—almost gone five. It suddenly seemed important she have it now, this instant.

  As he clucked to Sid, wheeling him into a broad turn, he spied them. Three carriages stood in the stable yard.

  Rhys shook his head. He would not let the grief in. He wheeled Sid around. And then around again, and again. Sid snorted in protest, but still the carriages would not disappear. No! He straightened Sid, and rode at a full charge to the stable yard. Hooves pounded the earth in concert with his breaking heart.

  Stable boys and dogs scattered as Rhys raged into the paddock. He vaulted off Sid, throwing the reins to one of the braver lads.

  “Who?” he said, his breath coming fast. “Who?” The word tore out of him. They all stood dumbly about like imbeciles. He grabbed the nearest boy and shook him. “Who!”