The Sullen Seamstress of Horenwall Manor: A Historical Regency Romance Novel

by Emma Linfield

  “And where should I have gone to find you?”

  “Why would you need to find me at all?” she asked, mystified.

  He took her hand and her whole body seemed to warm at his touch, “Because of this.”

  The patient look in those deep blue eyes stalled and scared her. The look was laden with an emotion she did not want to face. Not now, just as she was hoping to not get into any more perplexing and frustrating interactions with him.

  She took to the farthest door, escaping through the open exits that led to a long balcony. The terrace was above a small garden and leaning on the stone balustrade she gasped in well-needed air.

  Why is this happening? I shouldn’t have come to this dratted ball, I knew it! It was all a big mistake!

  Agitatedly, she struck the railing with her closed fist. Her hand was suddenly grabbed away and then rough fingertips massaged her stinging knuckles. “You should not abuse yourself, Miss Hall.”

  Her head twisted away, even as the warmth of his hands spread up her arm. “Will you look at me?”

  “I will not,” she replied.

  “Then I will look at you,” the Duke replied and stepped right in front of her. Instantly, she jerked her head to the other side. Rosaline felt her heart pounding so hard that her ears rang.

  “Miss Hall, you are the most stubborn and infuriating creature I have ever met,” the Duke quipped.

  What? Me?

  Her head jerked to him, and her eyes were narrowed to slits, “Me, stubborn? Have a look at yourself, Your Grace. This, you being here with me, is the definition of stubborn,” she snapped as quietly as she could, but then added with a frown, “…why are you smiling?”

  “Because I have finally gotten to see that fire in your eyes,” he said as he lifted his hands and slowly plucked at the edges of her mask.

  Rosaline felt transfixed in her place as the Duke slowly did away with the mask and tugged it free of her hair. He was so close she could smell the faint scent of leather and sandalwood wafting from his skin.

  “What is your costume, Miss Hall?”

  “I have tried to recreate Nyx, Your Grace,” she said.

  “The Goddess of the Night,” said he as his fingers smoothed back a wayward curl, “I can see it now, these gauzy strands of black around you do float with the ethereal grace of the night spirit.”

  Something was happening inside her chest and Rosaline both wanted and feared it. He was close, so very, dangerously, close. Much too close for her sanity. A hoot of an owl broke up the quiet, and she swallowed over a dry throat. “Why are you here Your Grace?”

  “Do you remember that night in your workroom, when you pushed me away?” his voice had dipped.

  How could I not remember? The fire of anger in your eyes nearly scorched me.

  “My blood boiled that night, but not in anger…it was for this,” he said as he placed his knuckles under her chin and nudged her head up. He leaned in, stopping a breath from her lips. “I ached to kiss you.”

  “I have never been kissed before,” she breathed softly.

  “I know, let me have the honor of being the first,” said he as he closed his lips to hers.

  Chapter 17

  With a soft nip to her bottom lip, he coaxed her to open them and when she granted him access, he surged forward.

  God’s truth, she tastes divine, the thought ran through Norman’s mind as he tasted honey on her tongue. His hand slipped to the nape of her neck while he deepened the kiss.

  The shy touches of her tongue on his restrained him from pressing deeper. They kissed softly, with him pulling back to let her breathe and when he knew it was time, softly broke the intimate care with dry fluttering kisses.

  Her eyes were not the astonished wide of a freshly-kissed woman but were lowered and he could only see a glimmer of gold. He was entranced and lowered his head to nuzzle at her ear, “Did I alarm you?”

  “Why would you kiss me?” her voice was so hushed he nearly did not hear it.

  “I—” Goddamn it. I haven’t fully decided on it myself, “It is a bit complicated. I cannot pinpoint the sole reason yet, but I know I’m drawn to you.”

  He felt her swallow and then her hands were on his chest, softly pushing him back. Confused, he allowed her to do so and stepped away.

  “You should go, Your Grace,” she spoke softly, but Norman heard the tremble in her voice. She sounded like she was going to shatter at the seams. “Please…please go.”

  She then turned and went to the baluster, pressing herself in the corner. Norman was more confused than ever and hurt sliced through his chest at her retreat. She had stepped away only a few feet but it felt like a mile to him. What had he done wrong? He had seen desire in her eyes, he knew it, so what had he done wrong?

  Then he realized she had a point, he needed to go back and relieve Mr. Firth of his act. Rarely did he do this, but he had to beg, “I will explain myself, Rosaline—will you please allow me to do so?”

  Her head, turned away, was still for a long while and Norman found his heart beating abnormally. She nodded in short jerks. Swallowing his fear, Norman left and went back to the main ballroom. Thankfully, he had gotten there back on the time he had wanted, near the announcement of the call to supper.

  Mr. Firth was to excuse himself at the very same time and he, Norman, would take a moment to redo his costume and rejoin the party. They met briefly in the corridor.

  “Your engaged and I danced another set, Your Grace,” Mr. Firth said, “the engagement is now known.”

  Norman smiled tightly, “Well, the invitations did say it was an engagement ball, so that would not be surprising. Anything else?”

  “At the break, Miss Fawcett tried to engage me in a discussion of capital punishment, about the dire position of children in prisons, but her enthusiasm seems forced, Your Grace,” Mr. Firth added.

  She is being coached in those affairs them…I did suspect.

  “Thank you, Mr. Firth, you’ve done a splendid job. Your payment will be sent to you presently.”

  “Good evening, Your Grace, and it was my pleasure to serve you,” the actor said with a bow.

  Nodding, Norman straightened his mask and cloak while stepping out into a world of riches and splendor. One which he would happily exchange in a heartbeat for another moment with Rosaline on the dark balcony.

  He had left her in torment, he knew, and he hated himself for it. His careless actions had rubbed her moral code and her vow to his mother about staying away from him, raw. God, what kind of idiot was he to think this ruse would have worked? Did he really think she would just roll over and accept his misplaced affections?

  Have I just destroyed the girl for my own selfish gains?

  His heart pained him as he rejoined his mother and Miss Fawcett who had metaphoric stars in her eyes. She had a right to, her engagement to him was now public.

  “My apologies, Mother, Lady Ogbent and Miss Fawcett,” said he as calmly as he could. “What have I missed?”

  “Not much,” the Duchess said with forced gaiety, “Just that it was Miss Fawcett who had to receive all of the felicitations for your engagement while you were away.”

  Turning to the young blushing lady he bowed his head, “I do apologize for putting you in such a position, Miss Fawcett.”

  “It was not a problem,” she said. “Though Lord Belthyne was asking for you.”

  “And I will attend to him shortly,” Norman said while icy jabs of self-recrimination pierced his stomach. This was not right, he should not be allowing Miss Fawcett to believe he was interested in her while his attentions were on another.

  “Miss Fawcett,” he greeted while hearing the final call for dinner and offered his arm, “may I escort you to the dining hall?”

  With her face free of the mask, she smiled to him, “Yes, Your Grace.”

  The feeling of his mother’s eyes on him prodded him to turn and in her eyes, he saw joy and pleasured pride. There was no hint of suspicion there and though
he should feel glad, he felt like a despicable deviant.

  He guided his fiancée to the dining room and graciously pulled out her chair. Settling himself beside her, Norman smile politely while a bitter thought slithered through his mind.

  I am not destroying one soul, but Miss Fawcett, Lord and Lady Ogbent and my Mother in the process. Congratulations Norman, you fool.

  Dinner was immensely difficult for the Duke, but if there was one thing he had learned along the way after taking the helm of the dukedom, it was how to compartmentalize his attention. If he was at dinner, attune all his energy into being at dinner. When it was done, he could be free to worry about the other things.

  In the darkened quarters of her bedchamber, Rosaline did not know which was worse, that she had loved the Duke’s kiss or that she had betrayed the Duchess’ trust. She felt tormented. How was she going to look the lady in the eyes and not admit the truth? Moreover, how was she going to face the Ogbents and know that Miss Fawcett’s fiancé had kissed her?

  Inside the room, her body flashed hot and cold. Just after the Duke had left to the ballroom, she had run to her quarters like a scared rabbit. The darkness enveloped her and she sat in it hoping to not relieve the past few moments of her life.

  I cannot do this…why did I think I could this? I am going to be found out, sent away in disgrace and my reputation damaged beyond all control. I will be painted as a harlot for the rest of my life.

  The visceral memory of the Duke’s kiss lingered on the edge of her memory and she fought hard to not delve into it and relive the spikes of heat that had speared her soul.

  “He must have been drunk,” she reasoned. “That must be it. It is the only solution I can think of why…why he kissed me.” Her last words were said in a tight whisper.

  The other reason, that he could genuinely have affection for her…or possibly desire was a thought she banished as soon as it sprang up.

  Her fingers pressed on her lips that still felt the presence of the Duke. The dam holding back the memory shattered, and she relived her first kiss. His lips were firm but he was patient, softly coaxing her to meet him halfway. The touch of his tongue had almost ripped her sensibilities apart, and she had almost shied away. The heat of his hand on the nape of her neck had held her there, she was scared but eager.

  Her nose had been flooded with his smell, sandalwood, and leather. She had felt the heat coming from his body, felt the flutter of the ends of his hair against her skin. She tasted his warm breath, tinted with the taste of strong coffee and sweet sherry.

  Shivers had run through her skin like the spate of a torrential river when his lips had met hers. At that moment she had felt desired and wanted. The feelings were intoxicating, but they were still wrong. The man was engaged for Christ’s sake!

  She wanted to deny it but she could not—she wanted to feel that fire again. She wanted to kiss him again.

  “What am I going to do?” she groaned in desperation.

  The night finally came to an end, the door closed after the last of the well-wisher guests, and Norman felt drained. The Ogbents were off to their quarters, his Mother was seeing to the last of the dining room clearance and he was slowly sinking into guilt.

  Rosaline…I am so sorry.

  Nodding his goodbyes to the butler and footman, he turned to the stairwell and made it to the room in record time. Halfway there, he had stopped and briefly thought about finding Rosaline and explaining himself to her, but he could not bring himself to do so.

  Besides, it was late, nearly two o’clock in the wee hours of the morning. She was probably asleep and he was exhausted, but that was not going to stop his guilt from consuming him.

  Inside his shadowed quarters, he did away with the cloak, and mask. After he tugged off the cravat that felt like it was strangling him, he sank into the nearest chair.

  Tonight, was an unmitigated disaster. I am an idiot, and she probably hates the very air I breathe. Where did all my years of strategic planning go? I should have known this would not end well.

  A knock was on his door and Norman was so disconnected that he instantly gave the permission to enter.

  “Norman,” The Duchess’ tone was appalled as she entered, “This place is as black as the Earl of Hell’s waistcoat. Do you not want some light?”

  “Why Mother?” Norman said tiredly, “I am about to retire soon.”

  She huffed, “I came to tell you that you did splendidly tonight. Knowing your reticence about this engagement, I did not think you would be so bold as to dance with Miss Fawcett thrice, but you did.”

  The Duke found it funny as ‘he’ had not danced the third dance with Miss Fawcett. “It was a declaration of our engagement, Mother.”

  “And now I can assure you, this night will be one of your best memories in the years to come,” the Duchess finished.

  No, Mother, you’re wrong, it is already the worst night of my life, Norman barely stopped himself from saying as the guilt from betraying her trust was now compounded with the self-hatred of his error with Rosaline.

  “I suppose, Mother. Is that all you came for?”

  “When you were away, Lord Belthyne extended an invitation to spar with him when you are free,” she replied with a touch of displeasure. “Boxing is such a vulgar sport, I do not know why you indulge in such savagery you learned at Eton.”

  Because I had to find a way to release my anger after Father died, Mother.

  “It is the same with how I do not understand why purple must go with blue or why taffeta is better than muslin,” Norman replied flatly. “We have different makeups, Mother. A man must indulge his savagery from time to time in a healthy way, or we might end up hunting our fellow man for sport.”

  “And with that macabre image in my mind, I wish you good night Norman, sleep well,” the Duchess said while leaving and closing the door behind her.

  Sleep will be a stranger to me tonight, Norman predicted while massaging the back of his neck. Possibly for the near future too.

  Norman was sure that he had left his senses behind him when he had taken up Radcliff’s offer for a bout of boxing. Radcliff was Hercules reincarnated and he was the foolish Antagoras to bet his life and limb by hopping into the ring with him.

  “Are you sure about this, Kinsley?” Radcliffe asked with a squint.

  “Yes,” Norman said while tugging his coat off and removing his shirt too. His breeches were as old grey pair, one fit for the bonfire, but he had hung onto them for this special purpose—boxing.

  It was the very evening the day after the ball, and Norman was getting sick and tired of receiving congratulatory notes from far and wide. On top of that, his guilt felt like an unmovable load on his shoulders. He had to get away.

  “I have to say I’m surprised you took me up on my offer,” Radcliffe said with a crooked grin as he unlocked the door to the sparring room. “The last time I planted a facer on you, you swore to high heaven to never get back into the ring with me again. So, what changed?”

  “Demons of my conscience are hounding me, Belthyne,” Norman said while snatching the gloves Radcliffe lobbied at him out of the air. “I need to purge them.”

  “I am no stranger to feeling like the Devil himself was after my hide,” Radcliffe added while disrobing his shirt. “But that only came after my missus threated me with hellfire and damnation.”

  “Why?” Norman asked as he stepped into the ring.

  “What else?” Radcliffe replied. “I did a stupid thing. It the curse of men, Kinsley. We are the uncivilized half.”

  Radcliff’s chest was like two oak barrels in diameter and his arms were trunks of trees. It was enough to make any level-headed man think twice. Norman, however, was certainly not level headed at the moment and did not shy away from the bulging hulk of a man.

  It was not seemly for a man of his stature to indulge is such a base and uncouth activity, but Norman had come to reason with that particular devil years ago.

  I may come out black and blue,
but it might be worth it.

  Shaking the disturbing thought off, Norman held his arms up in a defensive position as he circled the large Scotsman.

  For a man who was three stone heavier and almost a foot and a half taller, Radcliff nimbly bounced on his toes while Norman was doing the same. Before he could blink, the Scotsman swooped in with a right jab that would have probably shattered his jawbone if he hadn’t ducked. Quickly, he delivered a left jab at the other man's midriff. His punch barely earned him a grunt from Radcliff even as his knuckles smarted fiercely.

  “Is that all you have in you, Kinsley? Has sitting behind that broad desk of yours and eating buttered rolls made you soft?” Radcliff dared to grin.