Undone By The Duke

by Willingham Michelle

  Her sister fell silent, and she took it to mean that Amelia had finally given up. Good. There was no sense in entertaining ideas that would never happen. Victoria took the white and blue gown and picked up her thimble, intending to start sewing the hem.

  Instead, Amelia walked over and took the gown from her hands. “I want to see this gown on you.”

  “Amelia, no. Really, I—”

  “We’re nearly the same size. Let’s see what it looks like.” Before she could protest, her sister started unbuttoning the gray merino gown Victoria was wearing. With great reluctance, she forced herself to stand still while Amelia helped her into the muslin dress. “Careful, or you’ll tear the sleeves.”

  She stood before the mirror while Amelia fastened the four buttons lining the back of the gown and tied the sash. Although the waistline fit well enough, her bust was too small, and the bodice gaped slightly. She needed an extra layer of padding to fill out the areas that were too flat. It was rather dismaying that, despite Victoria’s being six years older, her sixteen-year-old sister was better endowed than herself in the bosom.

  Victoria’s thoughts drifted back to her idea for undergarments made of silk. With a few strategic tucks and a bit of quilting to add support, there was a way to make a woman’s breasts look bigger. The idea was scandalous, but she couldn’t quite let go of it. Surely she wasn’t the only woman with less-than-desirable curves.

  The more she thought of it, the more she longed to attempt it. If she sewed quickly, she could send one corset to be sold along with the gown she’d made earlier.

  But women might not want a corset made of silk, the voice of reason interjected. It might be an utter waste of time. And yet, she couldn’t dismiss the idea.

  “There. Now look at yourself.” Her sister turned her to face the mirror, and Victoria stared at her reflection. It felt foreign, seeing herself dressed like this. The stripes of blue were too pretty, the roses too feminine. In the mirror, she saw a woman with pale skin, and a flush of embarrassment upon her cheeks. Her gray eyes were accentuated by the stripes of blue, and the waistline curved inward before the skirt draped in graceful folds. The gown transformed her into someone else—the woman she was afraid of becoming.

  “I should take this off. It fits you better,” she started to say.

  “You’re pretty, Victoria. Don’t hide yourself away.” Amelia rested her hands upon her shoulders, offering, “Let me do your hair.”

  Though both of them knew that she’d never attended any sort of ball and never would, Victoria surrendered to Amelia’s whims. Her sister ruthlessly twisted and pinned the locks of dark blond hair until all of it rested upon her head in a coronet.

  “You look perfect,” her sister pronounced, “and when we get to London, we’re going to order more gowns for you.”

  “Amelia, no.” Clearly, her sister was ignoring her decision to stay.

  She helped Victoria with the rest of the buttons while chattering on. “We could visit Madame Benedict’s shop.”

  “I’d rather not.” The very idea sent a ripple of dread through Victoria. She’d kept her identity hidden over the past year, sewing ball gowns for Madame Benedict in London. Each of her creations had been unique, but Victoria had resorted to using the services of their neighbor Cain Sinclair to deliver the gowns and bring back the money. He’d also been her source of fabric during the war, and she didn’t doubt that Mr. Sinclair had engaged in illegal smuggling to acquire her supplies.

  Thus far, her mother hadn’t questioned the unexpected funds, for Beatrice had never been good with numbers and didn’t understand where the money was coming from. It was a secret Victoria wanted to withhold for as long as possible, for no doubt her mother would be furious. A baron’s daughter was not supposed to sew for money.

  “Don’t you think Madame Benedict will want to meet you?” Amelia continued. “You earned a good deal from the last gowns you sent to her. And you deserve some new clothes of your own.”

  Victoria ignored the question, for her younger sister didn’t understand the need for secrecy. “The gowns I have suit me well enough.” She had many that hung untouched in her wardrobe. “I don’t need anything, for I’m going nowhere.”

  Her sister helped her to undress, her mood growing somber. “Christmas won’t be the same if you’re not there.”

  She braved a smile she didn’t feel. “We’ll celebrate again when you return. Now, I need to fix this hem.”

  Amelia cast her a disappointed look. “Do you want me to help you back into your old gown?”

  Since it was already dark and they’d finished their dinner, she shook her head. “Help me out of my stays, and I’ll get ready for bed.”

  Her sister obeyed, and Victoria put on a cotton nightgown that fell to her ankles. Then she sat in a rocking chair and picked up her needle and thread. It was easy to fall into the rhythm of sewing, making each stitch neat and even. In time, Amelia left her alone.

  Victoria pushed the needle with her thimble, reminding herself that it would be all right. Yes, it would be lonely without her family on Christmas, but she would manage.

  She would fill her days with sewing, letting the activity push away her loneliness. And this time, she had a new challenge to attempt. There was still the problem of finding the right fabric, however.

  Victoria set aside her sewing and went to open the trunk on the far side of the room. It was filled with old gowns that she and her sisters had played in as children. They had pretended to be grand ladies, hosting parties for their dolls.

  She rummaged around the trunk, looking for a bit of silk. Near the bottom, she found a crimson satin gown that had once belonged to her grandmother. Her mother had loathed the color, believing it was far too garish.

  But it was irresistibly soft. She ran her hands over the surface, wondering if it would be too delicate for an undergarment. Frowning, she eyed the door. Downstairs, she heard the sound of her sisters talking, and the low voice of her mother.

  There wasn’t a great deal of time, but she went to the door and locked it. Then she brought over the stays she’d worn earlier, examining the construction. The boning tended to mash a woman’s rib cage, making it hard to breathe. But it was the stiff, unyielding buckram that made it itch.

  Victoria stripped off her nightgown until she stood naked in her room. It was cold, and she shivered as she reached for the crimson satin. Gathering it into a length, she molded it against her breasts, experimenting as she lifted them up to create cleavage.

  In the mirror, she stared at herself. The soft fabric enveloped her nipples in a sensual way, making the tips erect. The candlelight cast a golden glow over her skin, and the red satin appeared scandalous.

  She looked like a courtesan, a woman about to be undressed.

  What would it be like to have a man standing before her? Would he want to caress the satin? Would it allure him, making him desire her as a woman?

  Though she’d never touched herself in that way before, Victoria moved her palms over the fabric. Her breasts ached, and a sensual warmth bloomed between her thighs. She knew, from talks with her mother, that within a marriage, a husband would touch his wife intimately. And that she would enjoy sharing his bed.

  She let the satin fall away, baring her nudity before the mirror. For as long as she buried herself within the house, no man would ever touch her. No man would ever want her.

  The thought made bitter tears spring up in her eyes, for she simply didn’t know how to overcome her fear.

  Beatrice Andrews did not consider herself a meddling sort. Yet, as the mother of four daughters, it was her duty to see them married off to good men. Despite her husband’s long absence, she had remained steadfast in that goal. Though she couldn’t afford a Season for any of them, her sister Charlotte was investigating marital prospects in London for the girls. Their December visit would give them the chance to meet men who would make good husbands. If all went according to plan, she might be celebrating a wedding for one of the
m as early as next summer.

  She smiled at the thought while she carried the basket of wet garments outside to the clothesline. The housekeeper, Mrs. Larson, would scold her for taking on the duty again, but Beatrice found it easier to think while she kept her hands occupied.

  The problem of Victoria was getting worse, and she didn’t know what to do about it. How could she leave one of her daughters behind, much less during Christmas? She shuddered at the thought of the last time she’d forced her daughter outside. It had taken two men to physically bring her into the garden, and once she was there, Victoria had shut her eyes, her cheeks wet with tears. She’d been white, trembling so hard until at last she’d fainted.

  If Beatrice tried to force her into society, would the effect be the same? Would Victoria humiliate herself in public, making a spectacle?

  And what would everyone say about her other daughters? Amelia, Juliette, and Margaret shouldn’t have their own marital hopes dashed simply because their older sister was a recluse. At the ages of twenty and nineteen, Margaret and Juliette were both old enough to be wives. Almost too old, if the truth be known. Beatrice herself had been wed at eighteen.

  She lifted a petticoat to the line and fastened it, the disappointment shadowing her hopes. Victoria hadn’t always been this way. Once, she had merely been shy, remaining silent instead of talking to other girls her age. Then, after their disastrous journey here, nearly five years ago, her eldest daughter had been forever changed. It was a wonder Victoria hadn’t gone mad, after being lost for several days in the Highlands with no food or shelter.

  Ballaloch was a property that Henry’s brother had purchased nearly twenty years ago. It was meant to be a summer retreat, a country residence her husband had preferred, instead of living in London with his brother. Never her daughter’s permanent home.

  Beatrice picked up a damp muslin gown and hung it upon the line with wooden clothespins. As she added each garment, it struck her suddenly that in almost three years, she hadn’t hung up anything belonging to her husband. Only gowns and petticoats rippled in the morning breeze.

  She rested her hand upon the frayed rope, the guilt filling up inside her. Not once had she admitted to her daughters that she was glad to have her husband gone off to war.

  Even when Henry had been home, they had never revealed any of their troubles to society. To an outsider, theirs was a strong marriage: quiet, respectable. Ever polite and virtuous. And completely devoid of the love they’d once shared.

  The December wind whipped the sheets and petticoats, while the morning sun did little to allay the chill. As Beatrice hung up the remaining pieces of clothing, she wondered when their marriage had begun to fade into habit.

  Was it after Amelia was born? She hadn’t shared his bed more than twice that year. Between Amelia’s sleeplessness and their own exhaustion, there was never time. And gradually the goodnight kisses had stopped, too.

  Oh, they were cordial to each other. The girls never suspected what was happening. But now, after twenty-three years, their marriage was dying as surely as any wounded soldier on a battlefield.

  The empty ache magnified when she thought of Henry. An unexpected rush of tears filled her eyes, grief over what had happened to them. He’d stopped loving her, somehow, and she didn’t know why. After they’d come to Scotland, their few conversations had rarely ventured past the girls or the weather. He was careful to sleep on the far side of the bed, so that he would not inadvertently brush against her. And then he’d gone off to war.

  Beatrice touched one of the bedsheets, feeling the cold linen against her palm. With a heavy sigh, she jammed another clothespin onto the line. She’d gotten old, when she wasn’t looking. Perhaps it was natural for a husband’s affections to dim. Better to give her love to her daughters, doing whatever was necessary to help them find what she had lost.

  Glancing up at the house, she saw Victoria sitting beside the window. Sewing, no doubt. Her daughter had a miraculous talent with her needle, and Beatrice couldn’t imagine how she dreamed up such creations. When she’d glimpsed Amelia’s birthday gift, she’d marveled at the way Victoria had remade the old gown.

  She only wished it weren’t necessary for Amelia to always wear her sisters’ clothing. A girl ought to have a wardrobe of her own, not one passed down over the years. But their slow descent toward poverty had worsened, ever since Henry had inherited his brother’s debt-ridden estates. Though her husband had sent them money often, Beatrice had been forced to spend it on taxes for the London house or repairs to the Norfolk estate. The property was so far away, in the eastern corner of England, that she’d not been able to visit it or even meet with the land steward.

  Sometimes she wondered if he was trying to take advantage of her… if the house was truly that bad. But then, she was hopeless at understanding the expenses. All she could do was send money and pray that he was using it to keep the property in good condition. She intended to meet with Henry’s solicitor in London, to better understand the situation.

  Then, too, the Earl of Strathland had offered to buy this house and the land on several occasions. Though the property was not entailed and Strathland had offered a handsome price, she couldn’t consider selling it without Henry’s permission. Until her husband returned, nothing could be done.

  An uneasiness clenched Beatrice’s stomach. For the time being, she had to put it out of her mind and hope that they could manage a little longer. She returned to the house, walking upstairs until she found Victoria seated by the window.

  Her daughter wore a fawn-colored morning gown, and the muted color brought out the darker colors in her blond hair. Beatrice wished that she could somehow help Victoria overcome her fears, for there was no reason why she couldn’t find a decent husband, especially with her pretty face.

  A blue-striped muslin gown rested on her daughter’s lap. She was busy threading a needle, and Beatrice sat down across from her. “Is it nearly finished?” she inquired, pointing to the muslin. “Amelia told me how much she loved her gift.”

  Victoria nodded, never ceasing her work. When long moments passed, Beatrice struggled to find the right words. She had planned this visit to London for months, and the last thing she wanted was to leave Victoria behind again. Each time she’d gone to visit family during the past three years, she’d pleaded with Victoria to come along. And every time, her daughter had refused.

  She felt certain that if she left her behind once more, any hope of finding a good marriage for Victoria would be forever lost.

  “I know why you’re here,” Victoria said at last, setting the sewing down. “You want me to go to London with you.”

  “We’re a family. And this means so much to your sisters.” Beatrice reached for her hand. “If you won’t go for yourself, do it for them. They want you there with them. And it’s Christmas.”

  Victoria’s expression turned sad. “I wish I could.”

  “You can,” her mother insisted. “You simply have to make up your mind to walk out the door. I promise you, you won’t be separated from us ever again. I swear to you.” She touched a hand to her heart, remembering how terrifying it had been when they couldn’t find Victoria on that day five years ago. She’d lost a year of her life for each day her daughter had been missing.

  “When I go to the doorway,” her daughter continued, “my heart starts to beat faster. I can’t breathe. And no matter how much I despise myself, I can’t stop it from happening.”

  Beatrice squeezed her hand. “Let me help you. We can see a doctor in London. We could—”

  “They would put me in an asylum, and you know it.” Victoria turned back to her sewing. “Or give me medicines to make me sleep all the time. That’s not how I want to live.”

  “But you’re not living now,” Beatrice argued. “You’ve chosen to shut yourself away from the world.”

  “It’s not my choice!” Victoria shot back. Then she gathered her composure, her eyes brimming with tears. “How can you think it is?”
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  Beatrice lowered her head to Victoria’s, gathering her in an embrace. “What do you want me to do?”

  “I’m not ready to leave. And the more you try to force me, the worse it gets.” She let out a breath and tried to smile. “Another year, perhaps. But for now, don’t spoil the holiday for the others. They would resent me if they had to stay, simply because of my problem. Just go without me, as you’ve always done.”

  It was an impossible situation, one a mother shouldn’t have to face. She started to refuse, but Victoria stopped her with an embrace. “I know you don’t want to. But you must.”

  Beatrice caressed Victoria’s hair, then pulled back to study her. “You’re getting too old to remain behind with only Mrs. Larson and Mr. MacKinloch. Whom shall I send to look after you?”

  “I will be fine with our servants.”

  Beatrice shook her head at her daughter’s naiveté. “There are dozens of MacKinloch crofters on the land. You cannot remain here without a chaperone.” She said nothing of the danger, not wanting to alarm Victoria. But tempers were rising, and she needed someone else who could watch over her daughter.

  “I would feel better if we had a family member to stay with you,” she said. “What if I sent for my cousin Pauline and her husband?” The idea eased her worries somewhat. Pauline’s husband was a strong bear of a man who could defend himself and the women against any threat. Though they lived a few days’ journey away in Northumberland, certainly it was better than leaving Victoria alone.

  “If that would make you feel better.” Victoria picked up her sewing again and began to embroider a blue petal chain stitch along the hem of the gown.

  “I’ll write to her today and have Mr. MacKinloch post the letter.” She braved a smile, feeling better that her daughter wouldn’t be alone. With a squeeze to Victoria’s hand, she stood and departed the room.

  Downstairs, Beatrice entered the small sitting room. The space was cozy, although the blue drapes and the carpet showed signs of fading. The wallpaper also needed to be replaced, for it was peeling off in the area near the window. With a sigh, she reached for paper and a pen. As she began her letter, her gaze fell upon the account books she’d left open, her spirits sinking lower.