by Kristi Astor
It occurred to him only then that he needed to send word that he would need the curricle and a tiger to accompany them, rather than the gig he’d asked be sent around. They could not ride alone to town without an escort. Not that he would ever allow his improper thoughts to solidify into bad behavior.
Hoping to catch the servants before they had harnessed the wrong rig, Max stepped onto the landing to lean over the rail to call down to a footman waiting in the front hall.
Roxana shifted to the side, flinching. For a second he stared at her. What had she expected him to do?
“I am delaying you,” she said softly. “I can walk to town another time.”
He could not allow that, not if he meant to be a proper guardian. “I would welcome your company. I would enjoy some direct conversation. I hope that we can become friends.”
Friends sounded nice. He had not known her very long, but she intrigued him, and friendship would keep him from thinking too much about her undergarments.
Miss Winston folded her arms and cocked her head to the side as if taking his measure. He felt lacking. He had not been wholly forthright.
“Miss Winston, if Fanny has any objection to your wardrobe it is that young ladies just out dress in white muslins and muted fabrics. They leave the silks and satins and bolder colors to their married counterparts.”
A faint furrow appeared between her brows. In a very small voice she said, “Oh.”
He watched as emotions raced across her face. She suddenly seemed young and inexperienced and a bit crestfallen. Society would eat her up if she always wore her heart on her sleeve. “I suppose that is how being direct can be thought disagreeable.”
“No, oh no.” She lifted her chin. “I am quite glad you told me. Friends are honest with each other, are they not?” She gave a little laugh and a skittish wave of her hand. “I have other gowns . . . but with my coloring . . . ah, well.”
Which only made him look at her lily-white skin. But if she had had all new attire made up just for this house party . . . “It is only a smallish gathering, after all. I am sure you need not abide by the most rigid of strictures. Darker colors in the evening should be fine. I am sure none of the Lady Patronesses will be among the company.”
“Since I shan’t be presented in London, I will never need their approval for Almack’s. But I should not like to embarrass her grace. She has been very generous in offering this opportunity to me.”
She clenched her fist and Max wondered at her circumstances. Then he remembered that she was here to affix a gentleman’s interest. Good lord, was she here to fix his interest?
Chapter Two
Roxana located a bolt of plain muslin in the sea of fabrics and headed toward it. The duke stood near the door and the proprietor had jumped to serve him, even though buying fabric clearly was the province of females. But the diversion gave her a chance to check the quality and estimate how much remained. She would need to make several more gowns in addition to the one she had planned for Lady Julia.
After tucking her darned gloves in her reticule, she touched a length of patterned calico. She inhaled deeply, loving the mingled scents of wool and linen, even the faint freshness of cotton.
The flattery of the linen draper droned on and Roxana stopped listening to the Duke of Trent’s polite inquiries about the man’s wife and daughters. Apparently he knew the townsfolk well. Completely at ease with the shop owner’s ingratiation, her escort folded his arms and lounged against the wall.
“Would you like to see that spread out, Miss?” The shop owner addressed her. “Fine print it is.”
“It is lovely, but alas, not what I am looking for this day.” The Duke of Trent watched her. A shiver of awareness shortened her breath. “How much is this muslin, sir?”
“Four shillings a yard,” said the linen draper.
Had he had inflated the price because she had arrived with the duke? She swallowed down her distaste at haggling in front of him. “That is too dear. I do need quite a bit, would you take three shillings a yard? How much do you think is left on this roll?”
“I have another bolt in the storeroom, if you need more.” The man gave a slight nod, but did not counter with a higher price.
“And how much for a cone of white thread?” She unwrapped a bit of a watered silk. The whisper of the material and the drag of it across her fingers made her wish she could afford it and that unmarried misses weren’t confined to insipid clothes. But enacting the first part of her plan was more important than drumming up business for a dress shop that was only a dream right now. Without money, her dream would never be realized.
“Ten shillings, Miss.”
“Would you take two guineas for the muslin roll and a spool of thread? I should hate to delay the Duke of Trent with measuring it all. If I find I need more, I shall return.”
The duke pushed off the wall. “We have plenty—”
Roxana shot him a quelling look.
He inclined his head slightly, with the faintest hint of a grimace. “—several errands to complete this morning.”
The shopkeeper did not respond. Was he waiting for her to sweeten the pot? Roxana wandered to the spools of assorted trim and located a pink satin ribbon. “Oh, and another shilling for two yards of this.”
The draper nodded. “Very well, Miss.”
Roxana moved to the counter, reaching for the strings of her reticule. She hated to spend the money, money that would have fed her family for a whole month. She had scrimped and saved to pursue her dream, but if she accomplished her purpose she would be able to set up a dressmaker’s shop in London. With success, her family would never go hungry or cold again.
She’d earned pennies by taking in mending and sewing the last few years. More recently she’d fashioned gowns for her father’s tenants, Mrs. Porter and her so-called daughters. Perhaps she had relied too much on Mrs. Porter and her daughters’ opinions about the appropriateness of her clothing.
Smelling of bay rum and the outdoors, the duke brushed up beside her. He removed his purse from his coat. “Allow me.”
“Oh no, you cannot,” said Roxana. Part of her mind screamed let him pay, he can afford it. Another part said she could not allow him to pay for her clothing in any way. She had to remain above reproach until the moment she threw her reputation to the wind. “I thank you truly, but I wish to purchase it myself.”
“The material is for Julia’s new dress, is it not?” asked the duke.
“Not all of it. And it is my gift for her. To allow your hospitality to extend so far as my purchases would not be seemly, your grace.”
Had she given him the slightest hint of impropriety? Roxana pulled out the two gold coins and a shilling, plunking them down on the counter. The Duke of Trent slid his purse back in his pocket. His offer to pay confused her.
The linen draper measured out the ribbon and snipped it with his shears. With a stoic face he slid the muslin off the wood core and then wrapped brown paper around the material, the ribbon and the cone of thread.
After the duke handed the tiger Roxana’s purchases to stow in the boot of the curricle, he moved to hand her up into the seat. “You drive a hard bargain, do you not, Miss Winston?”
“I am sure the linen draper has still turned a profit, your grace.” Roxana stared straight ahead as she climbed into the seat. Her father hated women who could think and might have gotten the better of a man in a negotiation. God forgive a girl for showing the least amount of acumen.
“Are you quite sure? How many yards were on that roll?”
Had he seen her counting the layers? “Twenty, but there may be fewer.”
The duke turned her hand, reminding her he still held it. He ran his thumb over the mended palm. “A hard bargain, indeed.”
Roxana snatched her hand back, mortified that he should home in on where the reins of the pony cart had worn through her outdoor gloves. He must have watched her closely enough to know exactly when she was ready to deal with the shopkeeper.
“I admire anyone who can negotiate well, for I am of the habit of paying whatever price is asked.”
Her bartering did not embarrass him? A little of the rigid tension that marked her every move in the Trent household eased.
With an easy grace he swung into the curricle beside her and gathered the reins. He flipped the reins, starting the horses. “Shall we stop by the mantuamaker’s place to engage her services before we leave town, Miss Winston?”
Roxana blinked and then lowered her head. “No, I will not need her assistance for Lady Julia’s dress.”
“And for your gowns, Miss Winston?”
She tilted up her chin. Did he realize the extra yardage was for her? “I can manage to sew a few simple gowns.”
He settled into driving. Not wanting to stare, she turned her head away. December had denuded the trees and their branches crisscrossed across the pale sky like nature’s lace. She forced herself to watch the scenery. She would by far prefer to watch the man to her side.
Would he catch her out at her plans? Her heart beat a little faster. He seemed very awake on all suits, too canny for her to even think of making him the object of her deception. She sighed. Not that she could really consider using him. She would need Max to be her champion. Her plan would work only if her host filled his role in her little Machiavellian scheme.
After they had traveled a ways, Roxana stole a peek at him. A bit of a smile hovered around his mouth. She hoped his offer of friendship was sincere. She needed a friend.
He pulled the gig to a halt in front of an open building a little away from the center of town. The acrid scent of hot charcoal and molten metal told her this was the smithy. The duke hopped down. “Would you like to remain here, Miss Winston?”
That was probably the proper thing to do. Instead Roxana reached out her hand. “I should relish the heat from the fires, if just for a brief moment.”
His brows came together for just a second before he handed her down. Thinking of her darned gloves, she should have stayed in the carriage, but he made no notice of them and dropped her hand quickly, offering his arm instead.
“If you are too cold you should have said so.”
“I am fine, just too curious for my own good, I suppose. I have always been curious about how things work.” Anything she could learn of how a craftsman conducted business could only help.
With her fingers lightly on his arm they ducked under the low beam that supported part of a wall of the three-sided building. She stayed well back of the furnace, where stray embers darted into the air.
He greeted the blacksmith, again by name. She nodded as the smith tugged his forelock in her direction.
Ducking between sledgehammers and tongs dangling from hooks on the open ceiling beams, the duke negotiated a path through troughs and buckets of water cluttering the dirt floor.
Roxana tried to remain inconspicuous as the duke engaged the smith’s services as farrier for the upcoming hunt. Startled, she looked up. There was to be a hunt? How long had it been since she’d ridden a horse? The best of her father’s stable had been sold long ago. Only a couple of draft horses remained to pull the carts. She had not even thought of making a riding habit. How could she have been so remiss?
The smith wiped his hands on his leather apron and grinned. “Right good, yer grace.”
“And as many of the lads as you can round up to serve as whipper-ins. We are expecting extra guests this year.”
“I know six or seven that would be right happy to be of assistance.”
“Seven or even eight would be good.”
“Yer grace, my sister could use the work if’n you need extra maids at the house. Seeing as you have so many guests.”
The duke nodded. “I’ll mention it to the duchess. Have your sister come out Wednesday next, although there may only be kitchen or laundry work.”
The smith could hardly contain his elation, although he was properly deferential in his thanks. Perhaps the duke was not so awake on all counts.
He did not say a word as he handed her into the curricle and then carefully tucked the carriage robe around her. Roxana was too aware of his hands brushing along her sides, although without an ounce of true impropriety. Nevertheless his tawny head bent over her lap made her thoughts stray to his kindness. He seemed a generous man, too kind for his own good, perhaps.
He slapped his top hat on his head and swung into the curricle with such athletic prowess she almost forgave him for allowing the smith to take advantage of him. For surely the smith had asked for too much; she could see the glee in his eyes. His expression was much different than the linen draper whom she had met with such a hard bargain, as the duke categorized it.
They had gone only a few yards when the duke turned to her and said, “You can quit looking so appalled, Miss Winston. He did not take advantage without my consent. If I wanted to be parsimonious, I could have sent my steward.”
“Oh, was I scowling? I daresay I should not allow my opinions to be so clear.” She also feared that the townsfolk were in the habit of making a cat’s paw of the duke.
“You should allow for the differences in our positions. It is the right thing for me to appear generous to the townspeople and those who are dependent upon my estate. Whereas you have only to think on your interests.”
That wasn’t exactly true; her family depended on her success. But she couldn’t disabuse him of his assumption. No one would understand how much they depended on her finding the means to support them. “Appear generous? Are you not?”
One side of his mouth quirked up, and he leaned forward, urging the horses to a fast trot. “I perhaps did not phrase that correctly.”
“I’m sorry. I have had every example of your generosity and I have no business questioning it.” Roxana felt contrite. She was being overly familiar. While she craved a friend, she could not relax her guard too much. “My only concern was that you were being grossly misused. That your kindness . . .” allows others to take advantage of you, as happens to my father. Although with her father it was less generosity and more gullibility. His efforts to make himself rich had bankrupted the entire family.
The Duke of Trent twisted to look at her, his brown eyes much warmer than they had been throughout the morning. He really had quite fine eyes, honest and steady. . . .
“I am afraid, Miss Winston, there are those who would say I am too parsimonious.”
Roxana stared until both corners of his mouth lifted in a self-deprecating smile.
“I hardly see evidence of that.”
Everything she had seen from the moment she arrived at the immense landscaped manor spoke of a casual disdain of economy. The drapery and fabrics on the sofas and chairs showed no signs of wear, the china had none of the chips of a well-used set and there seemed to be no end to the food that was served, yet the duchess had apologized for the meanness of the fair before the house party started in earnest.
“I hope it is a temporary condition,” he continued.
“I am sure it must be,” she managed. “You would not have offered to pay for my material else wise.”
“Ah, I did not mean to offend, but I was brought to mind that I may have curbed Fanny’s spending too much. I am in the habit of paying for my sister and stepmother’s gowns.”
“I see,” said Roxana.
“Do you? For in years past, we employed more of the townsfolk in plastering, painting and papering. I have asked that the renovations cease. I fear that my decision may have hurt local commerce.”
Roxana digested his unexpected admission. “Why did you stop, then?”
“I had never started. My father authorized the renovations.” He straightened to that rigid stiffness she had seen last night at dinner and stared at the road. “I so dislike all that dust and banging.”
Roxana had the sense that he had dropped a curtain between them. “Shall you really have a larger party this year?”
“I believe her grace has invited several more guests.”
He pulled up at the inn where Roxana had arrived less than a week ago in the mail coach. He removed a dozen or more letters from his breast pocket. The official start to the house party was just days away, with the winter soltice.
“Are those additional invitations?” she asked.
“Yes. I shall just be a moment posting them, unless you should like to stay long enough to warm your hands.”
She was plenty warm, and the idea of his tucking the carriage robe around her again did strange things to her insides. “Why would the duchess invite more guests now?”
He gave her a questing look.
Had the Duchess of Trent invited more single gentlemen because of her? That must be the explanation. Roxana looked down at her lap where her hands were tucked under the carriage robe. “I must seem very naive. I did not realize that I should be the cause of extra work.”
“No, Miss Winston, you are just as you should be. Besides, the extra guests are not all for your diversion.”
“No?”
“Some are for mine.” He grimaced and turned on heel to enter the posting inn.
Was he being pressured to marry too? He did not look as if he liked the idea much.
Two days later, Roxana had been enlisted to act as secretary. Her pencil poised above the paper, she trailed after the duchess. Her grace threw open the doors of a room along the passageway containing Roxana’s bedchamber. “I shall have to install the Breedons here. Sir William will expect the very best.”
Roxana peeked over the Duchess of Trent’s shoulder into a cozy pale-green sitting room. Four-poster beds were visible beyond the two interior doors. Shimmery drapes extended from the floor to the high ceilings.
“Mark down the green suite for the Breedons,” said the duchess with a sniff. “The carpets are new. I should hope they will consider it grand enough.”
The Duchess of Trent marched out of the room, as Roxana looked down at the apple-green and yellow Aubusson carpet on the floor. The rooms were fit for royalty, but then this manse was far beyond her experience. Even her father’s hall paled in comparison to the grandeur of this ducal estate. And the cottage had nothing more than a few worn straw mats over the bare wood floors. Roxana felt guilty surrounded by all this luxury while her mother, sisters and brother were undoubtedly huddled in the cottage kitchen, struggling to stay warm.