Numbly, she retook the same poetry book she had been reading from for the past few days and opened it again, but her eyes did not read a word. Instead, the only thing running through her mind was his face…his eyes…that look he had for her. Would he could look at me that way?
She looked down on the blur of words as uncalled-for tears of dismay were clouding her eyes, What am I thinking? It can never be.
With his farewells said to the two ladies, Norman lingered in the music room. He could not deny it, Miss Fawcett was gifted in the art of music. She had given them a lovely combination of melodies.
Her gift of music, her genteel mannerisms, and her undeniable beauty would be a godsend to any man with a desire for those traits, but wretchedly, Norman still could not feel a thing for her. Yes, there was admiration for her talent, and his praises to her moments ago about them said so. He felt abnormal knowing that on the scale of his emotions towards her, his impassiveness had only inched forward to admiration.
The poor girl’s hopes were elevated, Norman knew and he hated himself in knowing that if something did not change, he was going to knock them down.
Chapter 12
The deep furrow of concentration in Jane Moore’s eyes as she marked the cutting lines of Miss Fawcett’s chemise made Rosaline smile. The young woman was such a hard worker, studious and careful in everything she did, and Rosaline was entirely sure she would become a wonderful seamstress one day.
Glancing at the clock, the hour hand was almost at noon, their break time. Rosaline waited until Jane had made the last pencil mark and then went to inspect it. Glancing over the lines, Rosaline noted a few places to adjust and pointed them out.
“But,” she said kindly, “I will correct them. You have been doing a wonderful job so far, Jane. It’s alright, you may take the hour.”
At that, the girl curtsied, said her thanks and left the room, while Rosaline made the adjustments. There was no time to waste and her appetite had been wavering for the past few days, so she did not think of eating. Taking up a set of scissors, she was just about to cut into the cloth when a knock nearly jerked her hand.
Instinctively, dropping the scissors, Rosaline looked up and swore her eyes were tricking her—the Duke was standing there, at the doorway with an aloof look in his face.
What is he doing here?
Panic was her first reaction—something must have gone wrong for him to come to her. Did Miss Fawcett tell him that she did not want her as her seamstress anymore? Was she being permanently dismissed? Drat! The opportunity to find more about her sister vanished before her eyes.
“I’m sorry!” she blurted.
His eyebrows lifted but she did not stop. “Whatever it is, I will fix it. Miss Fawcett doesn’t have to tell you to dismiss me. Whatever she needs on the dress I will make sure it will be done and I—”
His lifted palm and his amused eyes mirrored the same order for her to stop with her nonsensical ranting. “Miss Hall, I do not know why you assume I am here to dismiss you, and furthermore, I do not want to know. There is no logical reason for that, so, please, do away with those thoughts.”
He’s not here to dismiss me. Wonderful, now I have made a fool of myself in front of the one man I wanted to impress. She cringed.
“My apologies, Your Grace,” Rosaline said while her face warmed, “Forgive me, but may I ask, why are you here then?”
“I have come to explore a domain where most men fear to tread,” the Duke said rather tonelessly while eyeing the mannequins. The wooden bust had an iron frame for the skirts and ended into wood wheels at the base. It was a strange-looking contraption for many who did not know how dressmaking worked.
She stood in the same place and only pivoted on her toes to follow the Duke as he made his way around the room with his hands clasped behind him. Even at the points when he stopped to examine what was on one of the tables, Rosaline did not interrupt him. When he had made his circuit, then she found the bravery to speak.
“I imagine it is not something you see frequently.”
“Never is a better term,” the Duke replied while he loosened his hands and picked up a bone insert, “What the deuce is this?”
“A part of a woman’s unmentionables until they are discovered by the husband,” the Duchess of Horenwall’s smooth voice cut in. “Why such sudden interest in Miss Hall’s work, Norman?”
“I was told that soon I am going to be fitted for a waistcoat with cloth matching my intended’s dress.” He was gently replacing the bone. “Forgive me for intruding the sanctum, Mother, but curiosity is not only Pandora’s curse.”
The Duchess stepped with her hands folded in front of her, “And you must forgive me, Norman. I had not remembered to tell you. However, I am glad you do know now.”
The words were said calmly, but Rosaline felt something bad was about to follow them. The only people who could have told the Duke that was her, the Duchess or Miss Fawcett and based on fingers of premonition crawling over her skin, they all knew it was her.
Pressing her lips together, Rosaline waited until the Duke announced his departure, and she curtsied. The Duchess’ eyes were in the middle of her back, and she turned to face her fate.
Duchess Horenwall’s face as a serene as ever but her tone, though kindly was strict. “May you tell me how my son knows about the waistcoat?”
“It was a mistake, Your Grace,” Rosaline said as her heartbeat increased, “I happened upon His Grace in the library, and he asked me how we had fared in London. I told him that Miss Fawcett requested me to make a waistcoat for him with the same cloth. I had thought nothing of mentioning it to him. Forgive me, Your Grace.”
The lady was silent for five torturous heartbeats. “Miss Hall, while I applaud your good intentions, it is not your place to appraise my son of any business of Miss Fawcett. Limit your encounters with His Grace from here on. Any interactions between you and him will be perceived by the Ogbents as highly inappropriate and will cause severe backlash from them. This marriage is of the most importance, and I cannot afford to alienate the Ogbents if they perceive any sort of interference.”
Rosaline knew what she was so diplomatically saying. Stay away from my son as you are only a servant. If you continue you might lose much more than what you have gained.
The small tendrils of hope that the Duke and she could become friends, curled up and withered away. She could not dare disobey the lady of the house by chasing what clearly was a futile fantasy.
“Understood, Your Grace,” Rosaline said calmly.
“Very Good,” the Duchess’ serious voice had mellowed only a bit, “Let me not disturb you anymore, I know that we are on a tight schedule. Good day, Miss Hall.”
“Good day, Your Grace,” Rosaline spoke and the moment the lady’s back disappeared from the doorway, she silently went back to the table and took up the scissors.
Cutting away the excess cloth from the main front fold of Miss Fawcett’s chemise, it became clearer and clearer—this was her portion in life. Not the one she had futilely believed could be—she, as a friend to the Duke. Was that not laughable?
It was a rare problem that was able to stymie Norman, but he found himself in the middle of one—what next could he do to find some connection with Miss Fawcett? Board Games perhaps? Cribbage, backgammon, or chess? No.
Cards then, but Norman doubted she would play a hand of whist, so that was another no. How was she at parlor Games? Spillikins? Blind Man’s Bluff? Riddles or charades.
His head was spinning, and it felt horrible. The walls of the room seemed to be closing in on him, and he felt the need to get out. Tugging his coat on and his walking boots, Norman left the room and hastened to the outside.
The cool air of dusk was seeping in, and his feet mechanically took him to the stables. Goliath reared his head the moment he stepped in and a loud whinny cut the air. Norman felt guilty, he had abandoned his steed for over three days when he had declared that he was an avid rider.
The h
orses were brushed down and settled in their stalls for the night and Norman did not want to disturb them. He vowed to ride in the morning and consoled himself with running his hand over Goliath’s ears.
Leaving the stable, Norman stopped in his tracks. Why don’t I just ask her what she would like to do instead of me trying to decide for her? Α man who dictates whatever a lady does is a tyrant, and that is not the kind of man I am. Anyone who I am with has will have a say in all things.
He was decided. I will ask her, that is what I am going to do.
Ignoring the smarting pinpricks from the tacks where Rosaline had pinned the front, back, and the long rectangle of sleeves of the half-completed chemise on the manekin, she tiredly admired her handiwork.
It was getting dark, and she had sent Jane away hours ago to finish the chemise herself. She worked partly under the need to get it done and partly self-recrimination. She ridiculed herself for daring to believe the idea that she and the Duke could become friends.
How did she come to believe such foolery? Moreover, how could she even contemplate that secret desire that had grown under the shadow of wanting to be friends—the feeling that she could be more than a friend?
She was a penniless seamstress who wanted to have the eye of this Duke, one of the most powerful men in the land of England.
I would have to be reborn into a family that came from money, be schooled in the graces, and become someone like Miss Fawcett to have the eye of this Duke.
“Eh? I am an orphaned girl who grew up to have the skill of sewing,” Rosaline swallowed tiredly, “Perhaps I did not get the formal education as Miss Fawcett or lived a life of luxury…but I’m sure I can offer him much more than the pretentious and spoiled girl he’s about to marry. ”
Hours later and after blowing out the lamp’s light, Rosaline left the room and closed the door behind her. The Duchess was right, it would be highly improper to mingle with the Duke no matter what he wanted.
She could be the center of a scandal that would tarnish his name for years, and even the very thought of it perturbed her. The Duke was a wonderful man with a wonderful future ahead of him. Why would she want to destroy that?
Thinking she was alone in that corridor, Rosaline allowed her mind to stray as her feet knew the steps to her quarters, but then, rounding a corner, she nearly collided with someone.
Lord Ogbent quickly stepped away just in time for Rosaline to catch her footing. Her embarrassment was profuse.
“I apologize, My Lord,” she pressed, “I was not paying attention.”
In the half-light, she could see the man’s square face and his tall stature, one that was similar to the Duke’s. His laugh was soft but deep, “No one can censure you for wool-gathering, Miss Hall.”
His friendly tone put her anxiety at ease somewhat. “Still, I do apologize. I do know better, please, pardon me.”
“If you will pardon me for doing the same,” he said, “I tend to get lost in my mind at times, especially when my little girl—or should I say, lady, is about to get married off.”
Rosaline felt a tad uncomfortable. It did not feel right to be having a conversation with this man. She was already wary of his wife and daughter, what was to say that this friendliness was only a sham…a lure of some kind?
“I…cannot conjecture, My Lord,” she said while hoping for an opportunity to leave.
“And even more, I am going hunting with the same suitor in the next few days.” Lord Ogbent divulged with chuckles. “Can you believe that?”
Rosaline was getting really nervous and then she felt him grasp her shoulders to which she could barely hold in a gasp. The hold was light and not threatening, but it was still highly improper and the look in his eyes—from what she could see of it—was deep and very confusing. Could she break away from him and walk off?
No, I don’t dare!
“Good evening, Miss Hall,” Lord Ogbent said, jovially while patting her arms, “take care around the corners and the stairs.”
Walking away, Rosaline felt…strange. The man had been nothing but cordial but…something was not right, and she could feel it.
While on a walk-through Evan’s large conservatory, it did not take Norman much cajoling to get Evan and Radcliffe to accept his invitation to the intimate fox-hunt. In fact, the words had barely been out of his mouth before Radcliff’s booming yes. Evan was more tempered but he gave his assent also.
“I bet I will have thirty bags of pheasant by noon,” Radcliff boasted.
“It is August, Belthyne, so only red grouse, and common snipe will be there,” Norman corrected dryly. “If you can net—or even see a pheasant on my lands—I will give you half my fortune.”
The Scotsman’s eyes lit up wickedly, “Care to put that in writing, Horenwall?”
Norman ignored him, “And my prospective father-in-law, Lord Ogbent, will be joining us.”
“That is surprising,” Evan said while examining the ivy on a makeshift stone wall, “Lady Harpy has released him from her leash then?”
“I suppose so,” Norman shrugged, “or, she might be hoping for just a slight accident to happen to him…”
“Death, perhaps?” Radcliff chortled.
“Please tell me your definition of the word slight,” Norman recounted, “Either way, it’s a show of camaraderie. It would not bode well to marry the lady and not get along with her father.”
“Wise decision,” Evan added as they circled a fountain, “I’ve seen all I need to instruct the masons to construct. Let’s get back to my house, the heat inside this place is getting maddening.”
Out the way of the conservatory—a large red brick house with white stone trimmings and white-washed woodwork—Norman strode over the span of grass between it and the house itself and looked on the manor with fondness.
The Edgehill manor was one the Duke loved, its neoclassical design was elegant and so much simpler than the overdone collage his eyesore of a house was. The colors in Evan’s house were muted, and Norman knew he would not spot a filigree if he searched the whole house from top to bottom.
On the way to Evan’s study, Norman was running over the preparations for the next day, the day of the hunt, to make sure he had not forgotten anything. Though the hunt was an intimate group four, he still had his gamekeeper organize it.
He and his assistants were in control of the dogs, and as far as he knew, the springer spaniels and cocker spaniels were fed and ready for the hunt. The area of the hunt was marked out and the spare flint-lock pistols were ready. He, Evan, Radcliffe, and Ogbent were on foot, so there was no need for horses, nor did they need beaters.
“So,” Evan said while handing him a glass of cool lemonade, “so how are you with making a connection with Miss Fawcett?”
“A bare measure over disinterested to admiration,” Norman admitted, “She did prove herself on the harp-lute, I can admit that without bias but…still nothing much. Perhaps I am defective.”
Radcliff rid himself of his dark coat and tugged at his cravat. Clad on his gray waistcoat he took his glass of refreshment and asked, “Will we see her tomorrow?”
“Most likely,” Norman nodded.
“Then we can judge that,” the solicitor added, “and where are you on the investigator?”
“Still hesitant,” spoke the Duke. “Would you tell me I am a deviant if I told you I gave her three chances to prod any interest in me…but one is gone, and I have no idea if the other two will be proven.”
Evan’s eyebrows were near his hairline, “You’ve given the lady a…timeline? Norman, that is despicable!”
“For once, I concur,” Radcliffe said, “that is not a usual assessing tool.”
“I know,” the Duke expression was tight, “and I feel horrible, but I cannot…it is difficult to explain. I’ve been through the song and dance with all the ladies of the ton for years…as it is as if I have seen it once, I’ve seen it all. There is no difference, nothing original…no zest.”
“My friend, this
is not what any respectable man wants to hear, but there are many places you can find zest,” Radcliff added and his meaning was not lost on the two. “Some men do not slake such desire with their wife in the well-appointed bedchamber. No, they maintain their wives’ delicate nature and satiate themselves with the sort of woman who is on the opposite side of delicate.”
“Not that kind of zest, Radcliff, and furthermore, no, thank you,” Norman said staunchly. “However, it is good to know the levels your mind can sink to. To be clear, the zest I want is to be with someone who is authentic, genuine and has a spark of originality. It is like how you enjoy Lady Belthyne hunting with you while all other women would be at home and making slipcovers. Understand now?”
“You want to break the mold.”
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