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

by Emma Linfield

  Halfway up the stairs, she was stopped, “Miss Hall, wonderful to see you.”

  Drat! It was Lord Ogbent, the man she had been trying to avoid for the past few days, and even more so with his family gone. Knowing that he had been involved with her sister had painted him in a light blacker than the deepest abyss.

  “Lord Ogbent,” she spoke politely, “Good evening to you.”

  “Would you care to join me in a walk through the garden?” he asked from the foot of the stairs.

  “Unfortunately,” she said, happy that her excuse was not going to be see through, “I have just come from a long walk myself. I am a bit tired at the moment.”

  “I understand,” said he, “but will you tarry for a moment?”

  Rosaline was tired but did not have the heart to turn him away once more. “A moment will do, I suppose.”

  “Wonderful,” he smiled, “To the library then.”

  It did not take much time to get to the second-floor library and there the Viscount dapperly pulled out a chair for her. Nervously, Rosaline sat. The older man then pulled out his chair and sat. Her nervousness was growing with the abnormally loud ticks from the grandfather clock in the corner of the room.

  She was prepared to answer any questions he might have but she was not prepared when he took her hands into his larger ones. Instantly, her pulse thundered in her head.

  “Your hands are scarred,” he said while turning them over. “It is not fitting for someone as lovely as you to be toiling day in and day out.”

  “It was what I was trained for, Your Grace.”

  “But can do better,” said he. “I have a proposal, Miss Hall, would you consider coming to Galveston, my home, and live under my care?”

  She was stunned—utterly stunned. Slowly she tried to retract her hands from his but there were held in a secure but non-threating grip.

  What does he mean under his care…?

  “Are you offering me a post My Lord?”

  “A post and the benefits to go with it,” he added, “There is always a room in my house for someone like you.”

  By that time his thumbs had started to circle on the backs of her hands, and this time, she did retract them. “Thank you for the invitation, My Lord, but I am fully invested here.”

  “Think it over,” he pressed with his hand on her shoulder, “It would benefit us both.”

  Smiling—rather tightly—Rosaline bade her farewells and left to her room, trying not to shiver in repulsion with a memory of the look in the man’s eyes. She might be young, but she knew what underlying words meant—the man wanted her to be his mistress.

  I will not fall in the same pit you pulled Mary into, Lord Ogbent.

  In her room she sat on the edge and pulled off her shoes and massaged the soles of her feet. Tuning to her side, she tugged out the drawer where the second handkerchief lay. Another war started in her mind, what was she hoping to get with this?

  First, she had wanted what the Duke had offered, and then, after her warning, she had sworn to leave off with the Duke. However, after his kiss, a vain hope had birthed itself in the darkest part of her soul. She feared to even examine the emotion for fear that it would overtake her. Then, the carriage ride, his touch, his words, and his sincere emotion that she swore sounded so real she could have touched them.

  Tracing the lines of the embroidery, she remembered her misplaced fantasies of his holding her and kissing her that now felt like cruel self-fulfilling prophecies. Carefully fondling the square, Rosaline replaced it in the drawer, closed it and sat up.

  Changing into her bedclothes, she sat, once again back on the bed and eyed the last square of cloth, earmarked to be the last handkerchief. What could she sew on this one?

  Spinning the cloth this way and that way, she eventually took out the pencil and started to draw soft swirls on the edges of the cloth. With that finished, she then painstakingly etched the Horenwall family seal in the middle and then overlaid it with the Duke initials.

  Threading the needle, she slipped and jabbed her thumb with the sharp point. Drat! I’m so graceless!

  Sticking her finger in her mouth she soothed the tiny hurt and, unbidden, she chuckled around the finger at a memory. ‘You should not abuse yourself, Miss Hall.’

  Softly retracting the digit, she looked down again on the handkerchief and smiled tenderly. Three times...you have broken me three times Your Grace…I cannot allow you one more. I must forget how your smile lights up my soul. I must forget how your touch sends my heart racing and how your kiss stops my breath…but I must forget you. I must concentrate on Mary.

  “I may never be with you the way I would like, but at least know that I treasured every moment I had with you… Norman.”

  If fate had a body that the Duke could pommel, he could be charged for murder. Everything got in his way of returning home the next morning. From suffering long waits in the bank in Threadneedle Street, despite announcing his status and hoping for a quick transaction, to a broken carriage wheel, that took half an eternity to fix, and then long traffic out of London, the Duke was fit to be tied when he finally got home five hours later.

  “Take the day off, Mr. Taylor,” Norman said tersely, “You have earned it.”

  “Thank you, Your Grace,” the coachman sighed and drove off to hand over the carriage to the stable boys.

  Nodding to the footman and ordering Mr. Colden to send up water, Norman quickly strode to his quarters. A cold bath and a bottle of whiskey were cruelly dancing before his eyes.

  Heeling the door closed behind him, he carefully took out the oriental box with the jade comb inside. Opening it, he ran an appreciative eye over the ornament. It truly was a masterful piece of jewelry and hideously expensive too, which, now gave him second thoughts. Would Rosaline accept it knowing how expensive it was?

  “Again,” he sighed and closed the box, “like all things concerning to her, I did not think this through, did I?”

  “Your Grace?”

  Without looking, he gestured for the footmen to lug the buckets of water into the screened-off tub. He had heard talks in London about another bathing apparatus being developed, a standing shower with pumps that negated the need to install pipes for plumbing and was considering it.

  ‘It is filled, Your Grace,” a footman said and nodding with a curt thank you, Norman set about to wash away all the filthiness traveling on dirt roads carried with it.

  He did not need his valet yet, or possibly at all. Sometimes the cursed cravat felt like it was strangling him, and his mind sang praises if he could do away with the neckcloth for just a few hours. But, back to the issue of Rosaline and the jade comb. Would she reject it like she had done with the books?

  A memory of her flashing eyes ran through his mind when she had given him the ultimatum of taking the books back or she would burn them to cinders. Norman had no doubt that she would have done it, too, if he hadn’t found a way to ease her anger.

  That sort of determined spirit was what he wanted. His Mother was going to be heartbroken, the Ogbents were going to be denied, and Rosaline was going to put up a resistance, but he was going to win her over. Despite her aloofness, he knew there was still a desire for him inside her. The look in her eyes when he had first kissed her assured him of it.

  Clothed in loose shirt, dark blue waistcoat, and trousers, he was about to ring for a hot pot of tea when his valet suddenly appeared with a tray on hand.

  “I thought you could use a pot, Your Grace,” Mr. Dunn said while settling the brushed silver tray on his table.

  “Thank you, Mr. Dunn,” Norman sighed, “Have we received any word from Her Grace?”

  “Not to my knowledge,” returned he, “but I will let you know the moment we do, Your Grace.”

  The tea, doctored with a splash of whiskey, barely calmed him while he planned how to approach Rosaline.

  “Horenwall,” Lord Ogbent said from the doorway and instantly, Norman felt irritated. It was logical that the man had not gone
away with his wife or daughter on a spa trip, but did he have to be there too?

  “Ogbent,” Norman said as his mind spun like carriage wheels, “I'd imagine that you feel some reprieve with the women away, eh?”

  “It is a novelty,” said he, “But by a day or two, you begin to notice their absence.”

  “Which is why I was thinking of extending an invitation to attend a gentleman’s club in the city,” Norman said, “Not as posh as Whites, which I would never step in for the fact that I am liberal, or Brooks for that matter, but they all have the same fulfilment coming from male company.”

  The man’s eyes lit, “That is intriguing. Will you be coming along?”

  “Unfortunately, no,” Norman said, “I even cut the trip to London short because I have work to be done here. If you are interested, I’ll notify a coachman and you’ll be off soon. It’s already coming to the afternoon and it takes twenty minutes or so to get there.”

  Deliberation was on his face while Norman was silently begging the man to accept the offer. “It will do me well to meet some others, so I do accept. Thank you, Horenwall.”

  No, thank you, Norman added, the farther away I can get you from Rosaline, the better.

  “I’ll notify a coachman then,” Norman nodded, “Good evening.”

  Ogbent’s mouth opened, clearly to say something, but he then closed it due to Norman’s pre-emptive dismissal. “Good evening to you too.”

  He rang for a footman and curtly told him to appraise a coachman to take Lord Ogbent to the city’s men’s clubhouse.

  “And tell him to drive slowly,” Norman added.

  The closed door heralded his return to thinking about Rosaline. What could he do to get her to meet with him, in a way that wouldn’t cause a scandal? Not a single idea came to him until Ogbent popped in to say he was off and then he smiled.

  The stables!

  Gathering himself together, he went to his quarters and changed into a pair of riding buckskins. Dropping the comb in a small velvet drawstring bag, he decided that if he could pull off the deception at the costume ball, he could do this. On his way down, he met Miss Keats.

  “Miss Keats, do you know if Miss Hall has left us?”

  She frowned a little, “Miss Hall usually spends a lot of her time in the library, Your Grace since the dress is done.”

  “Wonderful,” he said, “If you see her, please tell her to come to the stables, thank you.”

  It was almost evening, the stable boys would have done their jobs of feeding and brushing the horses down already. With any luck, the horse house would be empty of any human presence.

  Before arriving at the flat building, Norman passed by the shed and took a few apples with him. He was going to bribe Goliath if he had to. Many would say that animals were senseless beings, but Norman had been around his horse long enough to know that the steed was probably wiser than he was.

  Entering the building and breathing in fresh oat hay and sweet molasses-mixed water, Norman went passed by a few horses that were down in their stalls, asleep, and went directly to Goliath who was standing guard.

  “I want to believe there is some gentleness inside you,” Norman said while looking directly into the beast’s black eyes, “which is why, when Rosaline comes you will not bite, nick, snort or treat her to your signature condescension. Do you hear me?”

  “I have weathered more disdain, Your Grace,” Rosaline’s humored voice said from behind him. “But not from anyone as noble as your steed.”

  Turning around, Norman tempered his smile, “Does it bother you if I call you by your forename?”

  She took in a deep breath, “Whatever pleases you, Your Grace.”

  “It is not what pleases me, it is what pleases you…and I would prefer if you called me Norman.”

  “That is not a wise idea,” Rosaline returned, “You are my superior, Your Grace, you may have the leverage to discord tradition, but I am not so privileged.”

  “You must be wondering why I called you here.”

  “That did occur to me, Your Grace,” she said distantly, and he did not like it.

  He reached out and grasped her arms, hating how she filched under his light hold, “Why are you so detached? Where is the fire, Rosaline?”

  Her eyes went as wide as saucers and her nose flared, “I cannot be the same person, Your Grace. I acted without thinking when I stormed into your study like one demented.”

  “Why not?” Norman asked, “That fire is what draws me to you.”

  She gently removed herself from him, “Please, Your Grace…Norman…this is not fair to me, yourself or Miss Fawcett. I have realized that…though your attention to me…takes my breath away, I cannot be what you want me to be.”

  “Rosaline, I would die before I dishonor you by making you my mistress,” Norman said, “If that is what you are anxious about.”

  “Then what!” she blurted loudly, “What can this be? You and I are from the extreme ends of the social tiers. What can any of this be?”

  “Love, perhaps,” Norman said while reaching out for her and she jerked away from him. He reached out once more and took hold of her hand, “Don’t you think?”

  “Love?” she shook her head with pronounced incredulity, “I have done nothing to make you love me.”

  “You didn’t have to,” Norman said while slowly reeling her in like a fish on a line until she was in his arms. “I am led where my heart deems fit, and it tells me that it is you.”

  “Miss Fawcett—”

  “Means nothing to me,” Norman pressed while nosing at the side of her head, “Not like you do.”

  “I still do not understand,” she said quietly, “I am not a lady.”

  “And you do not have to be,” Norman replied, “Yes, formal education and fancy dresses do become a young woman, but to me, there is much more to it. Selflessness, compassion, empathy are much more importune and those are traits I look for. I must tell you that only a fraction of the blue-blood ladies have any of those. They are all self-centered and Miss Fawcett is the archetype of a spoiled young woman.”

  She snorted in his chest, “So you see it too.”

  “Is there anything less blatantly apparent?” Norman said.

  “She’s a bit hateful too,” Rosaline muttered so quietly that Norman almost did not hear it.

  Hmm… is that so?

  “Her mother trained her to be vain,” the Duke added.

  “But what…” she nibbled at her bottom lip and instantly, Norman’s eyes were drawn to it, “what are you going to do about your engagement?”

  I have a good feeling that the Ogbents are not what they seem to be. My instincts are rarely off the mark. If my suspicions are true, they will hang themselves on their own words.

  “Let me worry about that,” Noman whispered before claiming her lips. This time, she eagerly responded. Pressing a closed kiss on to her cheek he smiled, “Come, you’ve met Goliath, but this time I want you to ride him.”

  Rosaline’s heart started to hammer for another reason. The kiss the Duke—Norman—had just given her, had awakened every part of her now singing body. But now, fear was starting to curl in her stomach.

  Ride that beast? Is Norman mad?

  “I don’t—”

  “I will not accept fear from you, Rosaline,” Norman said and he saddled the horse, “We both know you have strength when it counts.”

  The crunch of hay underfoot was inordinately loud to Rosaline as she watched him secure the dark leather saddle on the broad back of the horse, “We’re ready for you.”

  She looked into Goliath’s eyes and cringed, “I can’t…I really can’t.”

  Norman was visibly amused as he graciously held out his hand. “It is a side saddle, Rosaline, and yes, you can.”

  Overwhelmed with his size Rosaline edged up to him and when a dark eye swiveled to her she gasped and stepped back, right into Norman’s chest. An amused snort came from him, and Rosaline grew irritated. “No wonder you named him aft
er the champion of the Philistines.”

  “I will take that as a compliment,” Norman grinned.

  “But…I don’t have the proper shoes or riding habit…or the training… and I have not made preparations for my funeral.”

  “Your funeral?” Norman asked askance. “What in the world? You do not need to order a casket before riding a horse.”

  “Go ahead and mock me, sir, but be sure to put ‘I told you so’ on my headstone,” Rosaline muttered darkly.