Her Perfect Gentleman: A Regency Romance Anthology
Page 55
La comtesse’s raised voice sounded through the thick, oak-paneled door. “Where is Gabriella?
She took a deep breath and opened the door.
“Where have you been, you stupid girl?” The countess’s screeching made Gabrielle flinch. “I told you specifically to stay here so that I could find you if I needed you.” She pointed to the skirt of her deep green gauze gown. The bottom row of ruffled flounces had come loose, drooping almost until it touched the floor. “You must fix this immediately. When you are finished, you are not to stir from this room until the ball is over. Do you understand?” She glared at Gabriella, who dropped her gaze to the floor.
“Oui, madame.” She ran to the dressing room and grabbed her sewing chest. “If you will stand still, madame, I will fix it tout de suite.” Gabriella sat on the floor at her mistress’s feet. Bad luck that the repair must be done in the front of the gown. She must sew with the tiniest stitches so they would not show. This would take more time to repair, during which la comtesse would undoubtedly voice her displeasure. She knotted the silk thread and began. “Has madame enjoyed herself so far this evening?”
“I would be there enjoying myself this minute had you been here when I arrived.” The countess stamped her foot, jerking the fabric out of Gabriella’s hands.
“Please, madame. You must remain still if you wish me to be quick.” She gathered the green gauze once more and started to stitch again. “So you have danced much? Only a woman of your grace and beauty could have secured so many partners in a room filled to bursting with ladies.”
“How do you know how full the ballroom is?” Lady Chalgrove pounced as quickly as a striking snake.
“I went down the corridor to the small balcony that overlooks the ballroom. I wanted to see the English lords and ladies.” Gabriella poked the needle through the layers of soft fabric, unconcerned. “I particularly wanted to see what the English ladies are wearing this season. You have bought that printed silk and asked me to make it up for your trip to Vauxhall Gardens next week. I wished to look at the newest fashions, so I may make certain madame is très jolie for her outing.”
“Well, I suppose that is a reasonable excuse.” Lady Chalgrove sniffed and looked over at her toilette table. “But I hope you saw something that will suit me, because you must remain here for the rest of the evening. I pray that wretched Mr. Calhoun does not come near me again. He is the one who stepped on my gown and pulled the flounce loose.” Her mistress moved toward the table, pulling the fabric out of Gabriella’s hands once more.
“Madame!”
The countess shrugged and dabbed perfume behind her ears and down her décolletage.
Quel dommage there was not more there to work with.
Gabriella ran her hands across the carpet, searching for the needle. “If you wish to return to the ballroom in haste, madame, you must allow me to do my work.” She found the needle, threaded it, and began the repair again.
“Can you not hurry?” Lady Chalgrove picked up the hand mirror, turning it back and forth, preening while Gabriella finished mending the flounce. “I am to dance again with the Duke of Rother, and I will not keep him waiting.”
“Ouch.” Gabriella stuck the needle into her finger, drawing a bright drop of blood.
“Stupid girl. Do not smear blood on my gown.” The countess continued to gaze at herself in the mirror, smiling first one way then another.
“Oui, madame.” Gabriella stuck her finger in her mouth then continued with the gown.
“His Grace is now searching for a bride, so say the latest on-dits.” She laughed into the mirror, looking like nothing so much as a monkey in a menagerie. “With a little luck, he may choose me, if I can only capture his attention. Are you finished?”
“Oui, madame.”
The countess flounced out of the chamber without a backward glance.
Gabrielle remained on the floor, trying to fit this newest information into her plan. She must accomplish her goal before Lady Chalgrove could snare the man. She shuddered to think what madame would do if she discovered her maid had a scheme of her own regarding the Duke of Rother.
She sent a swift prayer to St. Christopher, patron saint of pilgrims, to speed her on her way to a successful completion of her journey.
Heart of Delight: Chapter Four
Next morning, Gabriella, after assisting la comtesse with her toilette for the day, sat beside the window yawning and re-hemming the green gown from last night. Her mistress would most likely never wear it again, but she’d given strict instructions to remove and reattach the offending flounce. Gabriella shook her head but continued to sew. Madame had very peculiar notions about her maid’s duties, but as she had provided passage to England and promised to pay her wages on time, Gabriella would not complain.
She bit through the last thread, hung the gown up in madame’s dressing room, and was cleaning up her sewing things when Lady Chalgrove burst into the room.
“Gabriella, my best carriage dress. The blue with the embroidered silk flower medallions.” La comtesse pulled at her clothing, throwing the fichu on the floor, and plucking at the shoulders of her muslin morning gown.
“Madame, un moment. Allow me.” Gabriella rushed to her mistress and began unbuttoning her before the woman could tear the clothes from her body. “What is wrong, madame?”
“Nothing is wrong. Everything is very, very right.” Lady Chalgrove stripped the gloves from her hands. “Or everything will be right, if only you hurry.”
Gabrielle finished unfastening her mistress’s gown and drew it over her head before she tore this one as well. “What has happened, madame?”
Lady Chalgrove breathed deeply, pushing out what little bosom she possessed. “He is here. The Duke of Rother came to call not ten minutes ago.”
Stunned into silence, Gabriella stopped. The duke was here. Her hands trembled so hard she dropped the gown and bent to pick it up. He was in the same house as she, just downstairs. Could she run down now and seek an audience? She clutched the discarded dress to her chest and headed to the door.
“Where are you going?” Lady Chalgrove’s shrill voice pierced her ears, snapping her out of her trance.
Dear Lord, she actually had her hand on the latch. Turning back, she straightened her shoulders, hoping to play this off as she would a game of whist. “I am sorry, madame. I thought to go soak this small stain before it sets.” She pointed to a fortunate grease stain, about the size of a farthing, on the bodice. Thank God for providing such a wonderful excuse.
“Idiot. I tell you I need to change this instant and you set off to wash a spot?” Lady Chalgrove’s face had turned an unbecoming shade of red. “Come back here and help me on with this dress.”
“Oui, madame.” Gabriella laid the one gown on the bed and caught up the blue sarsnet, fresh from being pressed this morning. “Raise your arms.” She carefully slid the gown over her mistress’s head.
Lady Chalgrove’s hair emerged unscathed, save for a few dark black wisps that had stubbornly broken free. She must remember to attend to them before the whole coiffure collapsed.
“Hurry. I must not keep His Grace waiting. How fortunate the weather is fine. I suggested he show me his horses, and he offered a curricle ride instead. Quick, bring the Pear’s. I must be in looks, today of all days.”
Gabrielle finished buttoning the blue gown then hurried back to the dressing room, scrambling to find madame’s cosmetics case. How could she turn this encounter to her advantage? At last she spied the tortoiseshell box under a large crate that held la comtesse’s shoes.
“Hurry up, Gabriella!” The strident voice would have shattered crystal had there been any about.
Gabriella winced, grabbed the case, and backed out of the crammed room.
“Stupid girl. Were you going to let me go downstairs with my hair looking like birds had roosted in it?” The countess dabbed on more perfume, dribbling it down her neck. The room reeked of the cloying musk she always used. Her eyes flashed jet black and her brow
s dipped so low they seemed to sit upon her nose. She had pursed her mouth, displeasure written over her white lips and scowling brows.
“Of course not, madame.” The woman reminded Gabriella of the hideous gorgon she’d seen in a picture in the Louvre when she was small. The sight had given her nightmares for a week. Now the nightmare had come to life. “I intended to apply the Pear’s then attend to your coiffure. However did it manage to come loose?” Gabriella soothed the wretched woman, sitting her down at the table, brushing and coaxing her hair to behave, speaking to her in the tone she reserved for petulant children and barking dogs.
“I’m sure I don’t know,” the countess snapped, jerking her head to and fro to get a better look in the mirror in her hand. “It didn’t look that way when I left this room. Your pins must have fallen out.” She turned an accusatory eye on Gabriella. “This hair had best not move no matter how fast the duke drives.”
“Fear not, madame. I shall secure it so that even the briskest breeze will not ruffle a hair,” Gabriella said, opening the pot of hair pomade. With practiced fingers, she dabbed here and there, ignoring the unpleasant greasy sensation, smoothing and fastening the hairs with the sticky pomatum that smelled of roses. Then, to make sure the strands wouldn’t move even if a whirlwind overtook the curricle, she stuck in a half-dozen hairpins as well. She would have the devil’s own time combing out the gummy mess tonight, but such was her lot. At least it was not yet time to wash the hair—an ordeal akin to preparations for a sea battle.
She worked quickly, sculpting the hair into waves and curls, then stepped back. “Voila, madame.”
Lady Chalgrove eyed the coiffure critically then nodded. “Very well. Where is the Pear’s?”
Gabriella dug through the pots of creams, lotions, and cosmetics searching for the rouge and lip salve. A generous application, and Lady Chalgrove looked like a blooming rose, at least on her cheeks and lips. “Is madame pleased?” She held the mirror up for her mistress’s inspection. Once done, could she perhaps race below and steal a moment of the duke’s time?
The countess glanced into the mirror. “It will do.” She nodded as she pulled on her gloves. “See that you clean up this mess,” she swept a hand over the pots and jars strewn over the toilette table, “then make sure my gold muslin is ready for tonight’s dinner. I’m not certain the duke will be there, but I need to look my best just in case.” She motioned for her gray silk spencer, and Gabrielle tugged the garment into place and fastened the four large buttons in front. “Don’t forget to add the rosettes to the overlay on the rose lutestring for tomorrow. Oh, and my pink and green slippers are in sad shape from last night. See to them as well.”
“Oui, all has been accomplished already, madame.” Gabriella at last pinned the countess’s best black velvet carriage hat in place, tied the wide ribbons under her left ear, and breathed a sigh of relief. “I believe you are complete, madame. Vous etes très ravissante.”
The countess grunted, grabbed her reticule, and flounced out the door.
Gabriella sank down on the bench before the toilette table, head on hand. So much for catching even a glimpse of the duke, much less speaking with him. Horses snorted from the driveway outside. She jumped up and flew to the window.
A shiny black curricle with the ducal crest emblazoned on the side gleamed in the sunlight. Yellow wheels and the tiger on the back in blue and gold livery completed the glittering picture. The townhouse door opened, and Lady Chalgrove strutted forth on the arm of a tall man in blue and buff. The countess laughed and squeezed his arm as he handed her up into the curricle. He jumped into the seat beside her and took the ribbons then, with a touch of the whip, started the horses at a trot, and the carriage sped off down the street.
Gabriella waited until they were out of sight then turned back into the room, determined to speak with Monsieur Carpenter as soon as possible. The last thing she’d expected was the duke actually wooing her employer. Whether this development would impede her plans she couldn’t tell; men were so unpredictable. However, she doubted it would help her in any way. She must therefore press Monsieur Carpenter to meet with the duke before he became enamored of Lady Chalgrove. There was too much at stake to leave anything to chance now.
* * *
Hal stood in front of his father’s gaudy black lacquer Chinese desk—decorated with gold figures, pagodas, and landscapes—as he’d done countless times in his life, thinking that his first act as Duke of Brixham would be to resign this monstrosity to the uppermost floor of the house, family heirloom or not, and bespeak a solid mahogany desk from Gillows. This one dredged up too many unpleasant memories every time he saw it.
Today’s visit had no sinister implication, however. He’d come to Eden Place this afternoon of his own accord, rather than being summoned, to spy out the lay of the land, so to speak, concerning his father’s thoughts about his future bride. After tossing and turning most of the night, haunted by the memory of Gabriella’s body pressed close to his, her warm lips, and charming manner, he’d risen at dawn and gone riding. His hope that fresh air and the dew-speckled grass in Hyde Park would dispel the madness that had befallen him melted as the sun climbed the sky. He’d garnered a reputation for rash acts in the past, but the one he contemplated now bordered on lunacy. Still, it rose every time he thought about the delightful lady’s maid.
He gazed longingly at the decanter in his father’s hand. The man never stinted on the quality of his liquor.
“What brings you here this time of day, Halford? Or here at all, I should say. You’ve not darkened my door since the Season began.” The Duke of Brixham, a tall, distinguished man, poured a measured splash of French brandy into a tumbler and handed it to his son. “I hope this means you are acceding to my request that you marry and set up your nursery in the next year.” His father poured a rather more sizeable portion of the spirit into his own glass. “I wouldn’t think it too arduous a task for a young man in your circumstances.” He motioned for Hal to sit.
“Actually, I have done that very thing, Father.” Hal sipped the brandy, savoring the rich flavor as much as the surprised expression on his sire’s face.
“Splendid.” The duke had raised his eyebrows, but nodded. “I appreciate your willingness to indulge me on this matter. Eight-and-twenty may seem young to some to find a wife, but mark me, Halford, if the fates align against you, you will be happy you secured the succession in a timely manner.”
Hal understood that quite well. His mother had died giving birth to him. His father’s second wife had remained barren for many years and when she had conceived, had miscarried. The doctors told them another pregnancy would likely be the end of her. He’d loved his stepmother, Frances, for she’d been kind to him all during his boyhood and had remained fond of him during his years away at school. In recent years, however, she’d become more aloof, remaining in the country year-round. In one of her rare letters, she’d confided to him that she believed the ton whispered about her shortcomings as a wife. Her solution, therefore, was to remove the topic from view and hopefully lessen the fodder for the gossips. Hal doubted the situation was so dire, but didn’t press the issue. Her presence at the London house might have created a whole new set of tensions. As he’d never been able to fathom how his father felt about her, he let the subject strictly alone.
Hal raised his glass, unsure how to broach the issue of Gabriella.
“Who is she?”
He stopped, brandy untasted. “I beg your pardon?”
“The girl. Who is this girl you’ve come to ask my blessing for?” The duke chuckled and poured another round into his glass. “That has to be the reason for this visit. I know you better than to believe this a purely social call.”
Damn, but the old man was sharp. Best go slowly. “Well, I did wonder if you would object to a woman who was not quite…” How the devil could he put this? “Of our social station.”
An immediate frown darkened the duke’s face. “What exactly do you mean by that,
Halford? You haven’t gone and proposed to some ballet dancer, have you?”
“Oh, no.” Hal shook his head. Surely his father would agree that a lady’s maid was more respectable than a dancer.
“Good.” His father’s stern face relaxed.
“The only woman I’ve proposed to is Lady Celinda Graham.” Damn. The words were out before he thought.
“Lady Celinda?” The duke sat up, face abeam with smiles. “Old Ivor’s daughter? Oh, well done, Halford.” The old man’s eyes held a predatory gleam. “She’ll come with at least thirty thousand.” The pleased expression looked odd on the usually stern visage. “Why would you think her not of our station?”
Hal peered at the floor, wanting to look at anything other than his father’s face. He should have known better than to speak without thinking. Now he’d gotten his father’s hopes up, it would be twice as hard to give him the truth. Never disappoint a duke.
“The thing is, Father…” He stalled, rubbing the back of his neck. “The thing is she turned me down.”
“Turned you down?” The duke rose, his glass clinking on the polished surface of the desk. “She turned you down? You’re the Marquess of Halford. You will one day be Duke of Brixham. And she refused your suit?”
“Afraid so.” Hal set his empty glass down, wishing it would fill itself magically. “She’d just met a chap, a Lord Finley, who’s lately returned from America. She’s got a tendre for him at the moment, it seems.” He shrugged. Perhaps he could play this off to his advantage. “That’s what you hear these days. Love reigns with all the ladies. With the fellows as well. Both Jamison and Pettigrew told me not a week ago that they’d married for love.”
The duke sat back in his chair, his eyes narrowed.
Hal forged on. “Now, the young lady I met, who truly suits me down to the earth, hasn’t got notions about love, as far as I can tell. At least, she’s not looking all doe-eyed. Very straightforward and sensible, I’d say.” That was the truth about Gabriella as he saw it.