by Anne Barton
If she mentioned the kisses it might seem like the money he advanced her was payment not for her dressmaking skills, but for something else altogether—not the case at all. Now that she thought of it, however, the line was not drawn as clearly as she might have liked.
“So,” said Daphne, “tell me how you persuaded the Duke of Huntford to hire you as a seamstress. It was a brilliant idea.”
“I can’t take credit. It was his… suggestion.” Suggestion sounded better than ultimatum, and Anabelle thought it best not to mention that he’d threatened to turn her over to the authorities. “I’d met his sisters at the shop. They’re sweet as can be, and I’ve grown fond of them.”
“I’m sure they adore you as well. But I want to know about the duke.” Daph quirked a golden brow. “Is he as handsome as they say?”
Anabelle’s body thrummed at the mere mention of him. “Yes. And very arrogant.” Feeling a little guilty, she added, “But generous.”
“Indeed. He paid for Dr. Conwell’s next two visits and three months’ worth of Mama’s medicine from the apothecary.”
“He did?”
Daph bobbed her head. “In addition to the thirty pounds that came with your letter. Don’t worry, I’ve been frugal—I know it needs to last. But it’s such a comfort to know that for the next few months we don’t need to choose between buying food or medicine.”
Money helped, but Mama was barely clinging to life. Anabelle stood, walked to the window, and looked out at the grimy alley behind their building. She hadn’t realized the duke had sent such a large sum. It was too generous, and it would take her decades of working at the dress shop to repay him. “I wish I could stay and visit with you all day. But I really must go. The duke gave me a ride in his coach and is waiting on our street.”
Daphne’s eyes grew wide. “He escorted you here? May I walk down with you and meet him? I’d like to express my thanks for all he’s done for us.”
“Of course.” Anabelle instantly regretted mentioning that he was here. It was awful of her—petty and childish. But once the duke saw Daphne, any attraction that he felt for Anabelle was sure to evaporate. It had always been that way. Her sister couldn’t help it. Her beauty and charm made men lose their minds. They wanted to be near her, protect her, provide for her. The duke would fall under Daphne’s spell the moment he met her, and Anabelle would be invisible once more. Perhaps that would be for the best.
Daphne grabbed her white chip hat from a hook by the door and tied the ribbons on the side of her chin. The bonnet was old and certainly not in the first stare of fashion, but it didn’t matter. She was fresh and lovely—a peach ripe for picking. Anabelle checked the pins holding her cap in place. She was a grape shriveling on the vine.
Normally, she didn’t begrudge Daphne her legions of admirers. But, just this once, Anabelle had wanted an admirer of her own. She’d wanted this little sliver of happiness for herself.
They walked down the staircase to the small foyer at the bottom, and cracked open the front door. The coach stood at the curb, its gleaming black surface slick with rain. It was completely out of place on their quiet street—too polished and grand by far. The rain had turned torrential and was not conducive to even a short conversation. Daphne heaved a disappointed sigh. “Another day, perhaps.”
Then the duke emerged from his coach, a closed umbrella in his hand, and marched to their door as though he didn’t feel the rain. The breadth of his shoulders and the narrowness of his hips made Anabelle’s toes curl in her slippers.
“Ready?” he asked, opening the umbrella.
Anabelle knew the exact moment that he saw Daphne behind her. He froze briefly, closed the umbrella, and wedged himself inside. The hallway was so small that they stood nearly shoulder-to-shoulder. Droplets of rainwater pooled at the duke’s feet. His gaze flickered from Anabelle to Daphne, somewhat expectantly.
Anabelle tried to keep any trace of bitterness from her voice—maybe too hard. “Your Grace, may I present my sister, Miss Daphne Honeycote. Daph, this is the Duke of Huntford.”
Daphne attempted a curtsey and her elbow jabbed Anabelle in the side. “Sorry, Belle!” she said, blushing, and all three of them laughed good-naturedly. Daphne had that effect on people. Who else could have made the most arrogant duke in England laugh during their first meeting?
He greeted her politely, but the truth was, Anabelle only half-listened. She was busy trying to convince herself that she didn’t care if the duke was smitten with her sister. Anabelle had no claim to him. And yet, her chest ached.
They quickly exhausted the usual topics. Anabelle couldn’t help grabbing one last hug with Daph before saying good-bye. The duke bowed formally—as though her sister were a princess and not a peasant—and held the umbrella aloft as he guided Anabelle into the dry, cozy coach.
Rain pattered on the roof. It would have been excellent weather for sleeping; during the day it was just rather gloomy. But that may have had more to do with Anabelle’s mood than anything else.
He rapped on the roof and the coach started rolling.
“How was your mother?” The concern in his green eyes squeezed at her heart.
“Not well. I wasn’t able to wake her, and she hasn’t been eating much.”
His brow furrowed. “How well do you know Dr. Conwell?”
“He was highly recommended by the apothecary we’ve always used.”
“My physician isn’t acquainted with him.”
So, the duke had been checking up on her. She bristled. “London is a large city.”
“Not as large as you might think.” He stroked his chin and stared out of his window, which was blurred with streaks of water. “I could send my doctor over to check on your mother.”
Out of sheer pride, she started to say it wasn’t necessary. But it occurred to her that the duke probably had the very best physician money could buy, and Mama needed the best—pride be damned. “Thank you,” she choked out. “My sister and I would be very grateful.”
“I’m glad I got to meet your sister,” he said. He was still distracted and staring out the window at the buildings rushing by. If she had to guess, dreaming of waltzing with Daphne.
“She is as kind as she is beautiful,” Anabelle said softly. Which made it dreadfully difficult to resent her.
“Do you want to know what I liked best about her?”
No. No, she did not, but she swallowed, nodded, and braced herself for his response. She suspected “her cornflower blue eyes” or “her shining gold hair.” Men were predictable creatures.
“I liked the way she made you laugh. I’ve never heard you laugh that way before.” He turned to her then and cupped her cheeks in his warm hands. “And the way she called you Belle. It suits you… Belle.”
Chapter Eleven
Contour: (1) Cut on a curve, instead of a straight line. (2) A curving shape or surface, as in: She traced the contours of his chest with a fingertip.
Owen wanted to kiss Anabelle. Again.
He wanted to press his lips to the creases in her forehead and make her forget her family’s problems. He wouldn’t mind having her back on his lap, either, with the pressure of her soft bottom rocking on top of him. With every shaky breath she drew, she tempted him.
But she was distressed, and the thing that she probably most wanted was the thing he’d become something of an expert at avoiding. Conversation.
He stroked his thumbs across her smooth cheeks. “I’ll do what I can to help your mother. I promise.” She smiled, and he exhaled slowly, relieved to know he’d said the right thing. Encouraged, he continued. “I know what it’s like to fret about your family. I worry about my sisters.”
She frowned, and her eyebrows dipped below her spectacles. “But, they’re healthy and happy, and you’ve made sure they want for nothing.”
His concerns must seem trite compared to hers. They weren’t life or death, but with both his parents gone, he was acutely aware of his duty to his sisters. “Rose might go the rest of her life wit
hout speaking, without experiencing life in the way she should.”
Anabelle stared at a spot on her skirt. “Rose is so wise and warm that I sometimes forget she doesn’t really… talk.”
“I do the same. The worst part is, it’s getting difficult to remember what she sounded like. I don’t mean just the tone and pitch of her voice, but all the things that she said and how she said them. She giggled when she read the scandals in the gossip sheets. Her voice cracked when she read the indulgent scene where Romeo finds Juliet in the tomb. I miss that side of her—even the way she chided me for hunting poor, defenseless foxes. Now that she’s silent, I’ve lost a part of her.”
Anabelle nodded soberly. “You want that back, you want her back, and yet, you feel guilty for not accepting Rose as she is now.”
Exactly. He coughed into his hand. “Something like that.”
This whole exchange with Anabelle felt awkward, as if he’d used muscles that hadn’t been exercised in, oh, a couple of decades. But it was a relief to tell another human being the thoughts that had been knocking around in his mind for so long. Anabelle seemed to understand. He laced her fingers through his and pressed their palms together, liking the fit. “It’s not just Rose who concerns me. I worry that Olivia’s headstrong ways will land her in trouble. She’s always been impulsive, which is my fault. After my father died, I was too lenient with her. I still don’t know which member of my staff she’s seeing. After I received your extortion note, I confronted her. She refuses to talk about it.”
Anabelle’s face flushed at the mention of the note. After a few moments of silence she said, “I wonder if I could help.”
“How?”
“Well,” she began, licking her pink lips, “I could try to learn more about your sisters—not as your spy, you understand—but as a concerned friend. Maybe I could persuade them to confide in you.”
“You would do that?”
She gazed at their intertwined fingers. “It’s the least I can do. You’ve done so much for my family and me. And I don’t think it will be difficult to convince your sisters to talk with you about personal matters. They worship you, you know.”
He arched a brow. “They have an odd way of showing it.”
“When you look up to someone, you live in fear of disappointing them.”
He wondered if her wisdom was hard won; not much in her life could have been easy. “You think Rose and Olivia fear me?”
“Of course not. I suspect they’re among the precious few who don’t. But perhaps they’re afraid they can’t live up to your high standards.”
Ridiculous. “They could never disappoint me.”
Anabelle adjusted her spectacles. “Have you told them that?”
“Not recently.” Not ever.
“I see.” She looked directly at him, her huge eyes shining with compassion and amusement. “I’ll subtly encourage Olivia and Rose to open their hearts to you. But you…”
“What?”
“… must try not to frighten them off.”
“Preposterous. I—” He paused and shot her a wicked grin. “Do I frighten you, Belle?”
She raised her chin in that adorable manner of hers. “No,” she said, a bit too emphatically. “You are not frightening. The shade of green around your eye, however… that’s rather alarming.”
Owen nodded, pleased with how the morning had turned out and annoyed that it was almost over. The coach rumbled along, and fat raindrops continued to pummel the roof. Anabelle pulled her hand free from his and placed it in her lap, leaving him suddenly bereft. The closer they drew to Mayfair, the more rigid her posture became. He considered ordering the coachman to ride north for two hours until the social strictures of London were tiny dots on the landscape seen from the back window of his coach.
Their relationship—if it could be called that—did not fit into any neat category, and that irked him. Categories were useful. Living things, for example, were Animalia, Plantae, or Protista. He generally classified women as wives, mistresses, relatives, and acquaintances. His relationship with Belle was not an affair or a courtship, so what was it? Why the hell wasn’t there a category for a not-quite-affair between a duke and an aspiring extortionist-turned-seamstress?
She sat on the same bench as he, her leg inches from his, but the chasm between them was as wide as the English Channel. As St. James’s Square came into view, he shamelessly grasped at the one thing that bound her to him. “Olivia tells me you promised her and Rose ten dresses each.”
Anabelle blinked, clearly puzzled by the sudden change in subject. “That’s right.”
“I trust you’ll be able to deliver them within the three-month period.” He congratulated himself on his pompous, ducal tone. God, he was an ass.
A hurt expression flashed across her face before a mask of indifference settled over it. “Yes. I shall make twenty gowns before I leave, and each one shall be to your sisters’ satisfaction. You have my word.” In an acidic tone, she added, “Your Grace.”
Touché. “Excellent.”
According to Olivia, Anabelle had completed two and one-half gowns. He assumed the next eighteen would require a good bit of work, which meant he’d have time. Time to hammer their relationship into some identifiable, legitimate category. As the coach pulled into the Square, he said, “In the meantime, you are not to leave the house without my knowledge. If you wish to visit your family, I will escort you myself.”
She narrowed her beautiful gray eyes at him. Damn, she probably saw right through him—knew how desperate he was to keep her with him. Even the visits would give him an excuse to spend time with her. “Thank you for rescuing me last night and for your assistance today.”
“It was nothing. I’ll send my doctor over to see your mother this afternoon.”
“Maybe you should ask him to come here first and tend to your arm.”
Good point. His forearm hurt like the devil. “Maybe you should remove that godawful cap.”
She shot him a lethal look.
At least they were back on familiar, solid footing.
The coach rolled to a stop, a footman opened the door, and Owen stepped out. The rain had turned into drizzle. He extended a hand to Anabelle to help her step down from the cab. “Your charm knows no bounds,” she said sweetly.
He chuckled. “So I’ve been told.”
As she walked into the townhouse, he appreciated the elegant line of her neck and the gentle sway of her hips. He hoped eighteen dresses would take a very long time.
A few hours later, Owen gritted his teeth in pain. The kind of pain that makes one want to spew curses and drink copious amounts of alcohol. Nothing personal against Dr. Loxton, but Owen was leery of the medical profession as a whole. Loxton was employing some kind of sadistic torture that would supposedly help heal his arm, all the while shaking his graying head over the unlikelihood of encountering wild dogs in the capital of a civilized nation such as this. When he put down his sharp metal instruments and finally began bandaging, Owen loosened his death grip on the arm of his chair and breathed easier.
Loxton was the rare physician who didn’t mind getting his hands dirty. He’d set a fracture or stitch a person up as long as the patient could be trusted not to spread the gory details about Town. Of course, he didn’t want it known that he occasionally did such ungentlemanly work—his wife had been presented at Court, for God’s sake.
The doctor had an opinion on everything, which didn’t bother Owen. Listening to those opinions did bother Owen, but he tolerated the doctor’s ramblings because, well, he was the best.
“I’d like you to visit and examine the mother of… a servant of mine.” Owen held out a card with Anabelle’s address on it. “The mother’s name is Mrs. Honeycote. I don’t know much about her condition, but her daughters are very worried. Dr. Conwell has been treating her.”
The doctor stroked his bushy beard. “The man you inquired about a couple of days ago? I asked around. He’s not licensed by the Royal College.�
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“Maybe he’s a surgeon.” Damned if Loxton wasn’t tying the bandage too tightly.
The physician puffed out his chest. “Then he shouldn’t tout himself as a doctor. None of my colleagues is familiar with him. My guess is he’s a fraud.”
Owen clenched his fist and tested the feel of the dressing as he considered the possibility that Anabelle had been handing over every shilling she earned—or extorted—to a quack. “Mrs. Honeycote is very sick. Don’t tell her or her daughter, Daphne, about your suspicions. Just do everything you can to help her and send me the bill.”
The physician raised his wiry, white brows. “You’re a generous employer, Huntford.”
“Actually, I’m a demanding bastard.” To prove his point, he bit off the knot of his bandage and unraveled it like an irate mummy. “It’s a bandage, not a tourniquet. Try again.”
Later that evening, as Anabelle threaded a needle, her mind was still reeling from the coach ride with the duke. Owen. After kissing him in his carriage today—their third kiss—she’d begun to think of him by his Christian name, even if she couldn’t quite bring herself to utter it.
Kissing had certainly made him seem less intimidating. He’d talked with her like she was more than a lowly seamstress—like a trusted friend.
Things between them had grown complicated, indeed, but she harbored no illusions about the true nature of their relationship. She was a paid servant… with whom he wanted to dally. The friendship aspect, which had developed of late, blurred the line, but once her debt was paid, she’d never see him again—unless he happened to return to Mrs. Smallwood’s dress shop one day in the future, with his mistress in tow.
Still, she was indebted to Owen on many counts. He’d offered to help Mama, bought her new spectacles, and rescued her from vicious dogs. Although her List of Nevers forbade her from becoming involved with him, she felt obliged to help him and his sisters. She’d do what she could to make Rose less shy and to bring the siblings closer to one another.
Mama’s condition was distressing, and Anabelle was eager for news from Dr. Loxton. Since she could do nothing but wait, however, she dedicated herself to making a gorgeous walking dress for Rose. She was preparing to sew some velvet trim onto a pelisse when both Olivia and Rose entered the workroom. “Good evening,” Anabelle said with surprise.