The Dressmaker's Duke

by Jess Russell

  “But I suppose it cannot be helped,” Mrs. Fields continued, “what with His Grace all set to announce his betro—”

  Egg coughed. Olivia bit her upper lip, glancing guiltily at Mrs. Fields as she revealed herself.

  “Oh, I am sorry, my dear.” Egg rose. “We did not see you there. Will you have a cup?” Mrs. Fields excused herself and immediately went to fetch more tea. “I’m afraid you have caught us gossiping like two old hens.”

  Olivia smiled. “Well, I don’t know which is worse, gossiping or eavesdropping.” She swallowed the sudden lump in her throat. Dearest Egg. She looked so radiant these days, her cheeks filled out and rosy; the soft roundness had returned to her body making her seem almost youthful. Olivia drank the image in as if she were going into the desert and needed her fill of life-giving water before she left. After tonight, she did not know when she would see her again.

  Olivia had been dogging her friend all day; no wonder Egg had sought a cup with Mrs. Fields in the housekeeper’s room. She took both of Egg’s hands, gently smoothing her thumbs over the glossy pink scars, and gave them a gentle squeeze. “Be easy, Egg, I will be fine.”

  Her friend’s eyes widened, as if she somehow knew this was more than a simple assurance. Olivia touched her cheek and hurried to leave the room. She was almost out the door when she stopped. “Egglet…”

  “Yes, my dear?”

  “I always wanted to know. Was it red?”

  Egg’s brow creased and she shook her head. “Red? I’m afraid I do not understand, my dear.”

  Olivia forced the words out. “Jamie—my baby. Was Jamie’s hair red?”

  Grief washed over Egg’s face, and she placed both hands over her breast. “Oh, my dear heart.” Egg took a step forward, reaching for Olivia, but then stopped. “Yes, my dearest. It was the downiest wisp of red.”

  Olivia nodded and smiled as tears welled in her eyes. “Yes, I thought so. Wes would have been so pleased.” And she ran out.

  ****

  “Well?”

  Daria nearly missed the table as she tossed her reticule and shut the door. Hells Harpy, would she never get used to his stealthy comings and goings?

  Oh please just let me have a drink. She could almost feel the round, golden brandy against her tongue, filling her mouth, and warming her empty belly.

  His arm whipped out, staying her. No luck.

  “Do not ignore me, my dove. I would think you’d have learnt that lesson by now. Is everything in place?”

  She shivered despite the closeness of the small room. She had been damned lucky to get any accommodations. The village was crawling with lords and their ladies all a flutter over the duke’s betrothal ball. The pressure on her arm increased. Dimly she wondered what dress she would wear to cover the inevitable bruise. “The footman has been hired. He has the powder and will make sure Roydan gets the champagne.”

  “And what of the morning ride?”

  Daria eyed the brandy, only a few steps away, but so far. So very far now.

  “Speak up woman.”

  “Roydan did not ride. His stable boy exercised the horse.”

  He was quiet, too quiet. Daria rushed in to fill the deadly silence. “I am not God almighty. I cannot order the duke to ride.” She jerked out of his reach knowing she would pay for it later. “I tell you he is not behaving as he ought. Believe me when I tell you, I used to set my clock by him when he came to me every Thursday.” Now, with her hand on the bottle and relief only a pour away, she felt stronger. “He always came to me at ten. And he has always ridden in the early morning.”

  “Very well, we will move on to the second plan. In fact I think it is better that the ball come off. I always love a drama.”

  ****

  Mrs. Fields was correct; the mask was a veritable crush.

  Never mind the invitations being issued only in the last week. Never mind that most of the ton had already scattered across the land to their own country estates, in deep rustication. Or the fact that it generally required several days of travel to get to anywhere near Valmere. These things were a mere trifle next to the prospect of being present when the monk finally shuffled off his cowl. Those few who were fortunate enough to receive an invitation, and who were close enough to attend, would surely dine on the retelling over the next few Seasons.

  Olivia could see most of the ballroom from her spot in the corner beside one of the huge casement windows. She wore her darkest dress, a hooded cloak, and a mask just to be safe, but with all the humanity jockeying for position to see and be seen, no one would notice one dark wallflower. All her things were packed and the note to Egg waiting on her dressing table. All that remained was to see the betrothal done.

  She watched her Egglet and Lord Bertram take the floor and wished the world were a different place for her dearest friend. A world where Eglantine Wiggins could have her Bertram. Could there be a chance for Egg to have some happiness?

  Though the Campbells were much in evidence, she had yet to see Rh—the duke.

  As if on cue a man’s figure appeared high above in the minstrel’s gallery. His white-gloved hands lay stark against the aged-black, intricately carved railing. Heavy arched beams soared thirty or more feet to the ceiling, framing his wide shoulders. And then his face, so pale in the surrounding gloom.

  She could not make out its expression, but he looked to be searching. Dear God, he was searching for her. She ducked but realized he would not be looking for a woman dressed in black, hovering by the walls. Her fingers bit into the casement molding, stopping her from pushing through the crowd and running up the stairs to him. Something, or someone, caught his gaze in the room below. She tried to see who had so thoroughly commanded his attention, but a sea of bodies and masks blocked her view. When she looked back to the gallery, he had disappeared.

  She did not have to wait long. The duke came striding into the main room, parting everyone in his path. That path led straight to—Blast, this bloody potted palm. A hush fell over the ballroom. Heedless of her vow to remain hidden, she stepped further into the room. Just in time to see His Grace, the sixth Duke of Roydan, lead a very beautiful looking—

  Daisy. Of course, he thought Daisy was she. Olivia never dreamed he would dare to dance with her. The ember of hope fluttered with life as the duke nodded to the gallery and the musicians began a lively cotillion.

  As the two began the dance, so striking, so beautifully matched, it was as if she were observing her own dream playing out before her. Her love dancing with…well, herself. Other couples joined the pair, and the magic diminished.

  She spied Lord and Lady Campbell. His lordship had removed his mask, his color very high, and his lady, with her furiously nodding plumes and fluttering fan, looked as if she might take flight at any moment. Olivia could not blame them. The duke had not yet danced with his intended.

  The music ended with the duke and Daisy stopping directly in front of Olivia. The pair bowed and curtsied to each other. So polite, so correct. Society’s rules so firmly in place, while Olivia’s hopeful ember fought for life.

  I am here. Can’t you feel my love? Turn and you will know; you will know it’s me, your true love. Oh, please turn—please see me waiting. But instead he pulled off his mask and shook his head, staring into Daisy’s eyes. Eyes so like the color of her own. But in the next moment, Lord Campbell had the duke’s arm and, not so gently, pulled him away.

  Arabella came from the opposite direction to confront her maid.

  “Daisy!” said Arabella, “you certainly know how to make an entrance. Should I be jealous?” But Daisy only laughed. “Truly, you look beautiful.”

  Daisy regally inclined her head, playing the grand lady to the hilt. And even went so far as to teasingly rap her mistress with her fan. “Daisy? La, Miss you are too forward. I am Mrs. Weston. Mrs. Olivia Weston. But I am very pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Campbell. Indeed, I have been looking forward to it all night.” She sank into an elegant curtsey.

  “C
heeky baggage!” Arabella said, but the reproof came with a dimpled smile.

  “And may I return the compliment and say you look rather lovely yourself.” Daisy flicked her fan open. “You see, I was hoping to meet my love tonight.”

  “Really, Mrs. Weston.” Arabella laughed. “I think I might be able to arrange that.”

  Olivia wanted to dislike this young woman, but watching the delight she took in her maid’s obvious enjoyment, Olivia could not help but approve.

  Arabella took Daisy’s arm and spoke more seriously, “It will be soon enough, my dear. You must be ready.”

  “Oh, I am more than ready, my dearest.”

  “Miss Campbell, I believe this is my dance?” A gentleman in a chartreuse ensemble bowed over Arabella’s hand and whisked her away. Daisy, after watching the couple for a moment, abruptly moved away.

  “Oh!” Olivia stepped backward as a man nearly trod on her toes. She had been so fixated on the pair of women she had not realized he was so close.

  “Your pardon, ma’am,” he said, already moving off.

  An icy cold feeling washed over her. Where had she seen that mask before? She mentally shook herself. Now I am imagining ghosts. Get a hold of yourself, Olivia.

  The gentleman seemed intent on catching up with someone. He stopped before Daisy and bowed.

  Olivia released her held breath. Heavens, the man was no evil fiend; he was Daisy’s love. Likely the feeling he’d given Olivia was passion and excitement, not malevolence. Had her despair begun to color love to feel terrible and foreboding?

  Daisy turned away from her satyr-man—ever the flirt, thought Olivia. But the man caught her hand and pulled her to him in an embrace. Wrapping her against him, they made for the nearest French doors. The maid stumbled and seemed to want to remove her mask, but her love quickly steadied her and half-carried her out and into the night.

  “Well, Daisy, my dear,” Olivia said softly to herself, “he is certainly eager enough. I hope he is everything you ever wanted. I will live through you tonight.”

  The music had stopped, and Lord Campbell stepped onto a raised dais with his lady and their daughter. A sob caught in her throat as the room hushed. Oh, thank God Daisy had got her dream; her own were about to die. But where was the duke? She scanned the room for his dark head.

  “Ladies and Gentlemen, I am sure you are aware tonight is a remarkable evening.”

  Olivia registered the general applause. Her heart hammered in her breast like a bellows keeping the tiny glow within her alive.

  Where was he?

  This was it. The announcement that would finally douse her fantastical dream.

  She needed this. She had waited all night to brand this image and these words onto her heart. She could bear it. She must bear it. There must not be a shred of hope left to torment her in the years to come.

  She willed herself to remember the smallest of details—the smell of beeswax candles mixed with the heavy scent of lilies and too many hot bodies pressed together. The breeze ruffling the palm fronds, making an ever-shifting web of shadow on the gold-colored walls. The feel of a marble side table, remarkably cool under her gloved hand. And finally, the picture of Lord and Lady Campbell with their daughter between them. Only the very tip of Arabella’s elaborate Aurora headdress could be seen flashing between her parents’ heads.

  But the picture was not complete.

  Where was he? He should be there. She needed him to complete this final tableau.

  But his lordship was speaking. It would be over in only a moment.

  “—however it is made even more remarkable because my only child, Arabella, has just consented to be the sixth Duchess of Roydan!”

  A huge cheer rang out and there he was.

  Time seemed to wind down. Rhys, half-running into the room. People rushing forward. Rhys now up on the dais with the Campbells. Removing his mask to look down at a smiling Arabella.

  It was done. The ember extinguished to a charred nub. Olivia tore off her mask. Jewel-toned gowns blurred with dark evening ensembles till they became one big wash, like an overworked watercolor, muddy and lifeless.

  She stumbled out of the casement door, heading for the side path to the stables, and to her new life without him.

  ****

  He could not find Olivia—if that woman even was her. His mind was so damned fuzzy. She could not have simply vanished?

  Rhys ran into the ballroom; the music had stopped and someone was making an announcement of some kind. What the devil?

  The entire evening had been a strange dream starting with his dance with Olivia, who wasn’t Olivia—or was she? Could his senses be so off from only a few days of not seeing her? The woman’s coloring was Olivia’s, she had the same stature and gracefulness, but somehow the woman was not his Olivia. The smell was wrong, the texture of her skin, not as fine. There was no getting a proper look at her what with their blasted masks and the relentless capering required to perform a country dance. He must have drunk too much. But he couldn’t have. He had gulped one glass of champagne earlier in the evening and only because a hired servant had practically thrust it at him. The bitter taste still lingered in his mouth. Why could he not focus?

  “…more remarkable because my only daughter, Arabella”—was that Lord Campbell speaking? Rhys made his way to the man’s side—“has just consented to be the sixth Duchess of Roydan!”

  The room exploded into a cacophony of sound and motion. The company rushed forward to take his hand and wish him happy. The room shifted, the great chandelier becoming only a blur of light. Someone grabbed his arm and steadied him. It was Lord Campbell. He and Lady Campbell were on either side of him, smiling and murmuring thanks to a sea of masks that seemed to float before him. He was about to shout it was a mistake, that there was no betrothal, but just as he got enough breath in his lungs, Miss Campbell was thrust next to him, and he saw her frozen smile.

  All the air for his protestation knotted within his chest. Dear God, she was an innocent in this terrible drama. It was all too horribly late. He would not humiliate and ruin her.

  He must find Olivia and explain. He just needed to see her, to try to make her understand. If only he could get some air. He jerked off his mask. The whole room exploded in a deafening cheer. Masks and turbans came off as the ton took this as their cue to abandon all decorum.

  He climbed on the nearest chair trying to get a better vantage point. The revelers yelled again, “Speech! A Speech, Your Grace!” They were all pushing against him; he could not keep his balance. The last thing he remembered as he fell was an evil-looking horned mask—a satyr.

  Then everything went black.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Rhys raced to the dower house as soon as he could get away, but she was gone.

  Her room, which he insisted on entering, was neat and empty feeling. He jerked open the armoire and hope sprung up, but only for an instant. The cupboard was full, but only with the dresses he had bought her. The few things of hers were gone.

  Mrs. Wiggins remained very quiet. Perhaps it was shock, but he could not spare her his questions. Yes, she had got a note, but it said practically nothing, only for “Egg” not to worry, and Olivia would write again in a few weeks’ time. Mrs. Wiggins had looked up into his eyes and told him quietly to let Olivia go.

  Apparently, she’d escaped in one short hour. The groom said, “I’m very sorry, Your Grace, but I thought it nothing to let Mrs. Weston have the carriage. She said she needed to attend a sick friend.”

  Obviously she had been planning to run away. Where was his note? Where was his farewell?

  He had followed her as far as London and then lost the trail. That had been weeks ago.

  Now back at Valmere, he was hoping to find some peace, some way of getting beyond Olivia Weston. He would steep himself in the memories and finally purge himself of her. Hell, he knew the plan was ridiculous, but he had nothing else.

  As mild as the summer had been, September blew in harsh
and cold. Still, he spent long hours in their cove, putting his hands in tide pools she had touched. Ignoring the weather, as it suddenly blew hard and lightning ripped open the black sky, he plunged into the freezing water hoping he might not win against the huge pounding waves and the deadly rocks that lay beneath.

  Utterly spent, he found himself pushing open the door of Sea Cottage.

  After the timpani of the storm, the cottage sang its own more-muted song. The steady thrum of rain at the windows, the soft groan of ancient timbers, and the methodical drip that plopped from the chimney piece into the fire box, all served to heighten the emptiness of the room.

  No one had been here. The square of paper he had wedged between the door and its frame had been firmly in place. He crushed it in his hand. Everything was as they had left it, a glass jar with its layers of colored sand, a wine bottle covered in runnels of wax, a nub of candle still in its neck. The shag feathers, collected one by one, and placed in a jar like a bouquet by the bed—so convenient for delicious torture. He stood dimly aware of a puddle forming around his boots. She had not cared how wet the floor got. They would clean it later…

  He sagged, legs shaking. He longed to curl up on their bed, but could not bear to disturb its tidy coverlet, one she had smoothed with her own hands. Images of her—them—lying there streamed over him and settled around his heart, constricting it. And the rug before the fire was even more perilous with memories.

  A sudden flash at the west window and thunder boomed, jarring him from his malaise; the paper he held dropped into the puddle. Rhys shivered as an icy trickle found his nape. No, he would not find rest here.

  He ended up back at the dower house, now long empty, except for the small bedchamber he used to take his rest. Other than the drawing room, he had never really been here with her. He spent long hours wandering the gardens and the various rooms. He’d open her bedchamber door and imagine her at her dressing table, or run his hands over the gowns that still hung exactly where she had left them—well, all except the buttercup-yellow dress which he had taken and one of her chemises—one that still held a wisp of her scent.