The Blue Drawing Room (Regency Rendezvous Book 2)

by Carmen Caine

  “You can, too, Miss Plowman,” a wizened laundress with a gap-toothed smile teased, waving her to join in while she filled a large, wooden tub. “What more fun can be had than to spend a day filling the tubs?” She followed the comment with a sarcastic eye roll, then cast a look of wonder at the children willingly lugging buckets of water from the shore.

  “I thank you for the offer, but no,” Eliza declined with a laugh.

  She stayed for a time, but when the children asked to stay longer and the laundress waved her away, she wandered up the shore toward the old sea caves.

  Large boulders framed the path leading up to a ruined arched doorway chiseled into the bedrock, which marked the entrance to an ancient shelter hewn within the caverns. Moss-covered rocks dominated the landscape, and dry vines clawed up the cliff face and wove through abandoned windows. She picked her way over the boulders and peered into the main abandoned chamber. Wind whistled through the ruined windows above. Beach pebbles covered the damp floor, pools of water scattered here and there. Feeling suddenly uneasy, she ducked out of the cave and stepped around a large boulder. At the sound of voices mingling in angry tones, she froze.

  “You promised delivery,” a woman railed. “All I ever get from you are demands for more coin."

  Eliza couldn’t believe it. She knew that voice. Cautiously, she peered around the boulder. Lady Kennedy stood a short distance away, wind whipping her skirts as she spoke to a thin, bulging-eyed man with a pockmarked face, thick eyebrows, and greasy hair. His stained shirt and worn breeches flapped against his tall, lanky frame.

  As Eliza watched, Lady Kennedy withdrew a small leather bag from a pocket in her skirts and tossed it at the man. He caught it with a deft maneuver and hefted it in his hand. A smile split his lips. Suddenly, he glanced in Eliza’s direction. His thick eyebrows arched as he blinked in surprise. Lady Kennedy whirled, following his line-of-sight.

  Eliza gulped. Fear shot through her as Lady Kennedy’s face contorted into a mask of anger. Eliza whirled. Yanking up her skirts, she raced down the path to the Dolphin House. What was going on? No lady conducted clandestine meetings with disreputable men. What would Lord Kennedy think of this? Eliza’s side began to ache. She glanced back. No one chased her. She slowed, breathing hard, but kept at a fast walk.

  Should she tell Lord Kennedy what she’d seen? No. Lady Kennedy would deny it, and he would likely turn out Eliza without a reference. By the time she pushed open the door to the castle laundry, the stitch in her side had disappeared, but her nerves were frazzled.

  Heart still pounding, she collected the children and hurried back to the castle with the promise of extra biscuits for their afternoon tea. They ran up the path, one dark head, one red, as Eliza followed. They’d no sooner crossed the castle lawn and arrived at the kitchen door when a maid shaking a sheet from a window above called down, “Best hurry, Eliza. The dressmaker’s been waiting, lass.”

  Eliza frowned, puzzled, but nodded her thanks as she herded the children up the servant stairs and into the nursery. Dressmaker?

  They entered the nursery and Eliza noted the three large, iron-banded trunks stacked next to a slight, middle-aged woman with prematurely white hair, a pointed chin, and warm brown eyes who perched on a three-legged stool. The children hurried to the trunks and began to examine them.

  “What’s all this?” Eliza asked.

  “Losh, the trunks are for you, Miss,” Meg exclaimed. “Day dresses, evening dresses, and a ball gown, as well.”

  Eliza looked at her, confused, and the woman rose spryly to her feet. “I’m the dressmaker, my dear, and I am delighted to meet you, Miss Plowman.” She crossed to Eliza, then grasped her hands, lifting and spreading them wide. “Now, twirl in a circle for me.” Eliza didn’t move and the woman grasped her shoulder and turned her. “What a fine figure you have.” She clucked her tongue in admiration. “We shall dress you like a queen.”

  Eliza pulled free and said, “I am no queen, madam. I am the governess. I’m sure the children are your clients. There’s been a misunderstanding.”

  “Fanny, my dear. Please call me Fanny,” the woman quickly replied, her eyes crinkling in the corners. “And, yes, there does indeed seem to be a misunderstanding, but it’s not mine. Lord Kennedy did hire me to sew the children’s wardrobes. Their trunks are in their rooms

  “That was Lord Kennedy’s doing?” Eliza murmured. So, the man had taken her reprimand in the carriage to heart.

  Fanny shot her a look. “He was quite adamant that I sew full wardrobes for both of them. I and my seamstress didn’t sleep a wink, I tell you.” She laughed and shook her head, then her expression shifted. “I have also been paid to sew a ball gown and all the rest—not children’s clothing. And not just any ball gown, my dear, but a most bonny one.” She hurried to the trunks and unclasped the lid of the one on top. When she tipped it up, Eliza froze as crimson silk spilled from the chest.

  “I would have been here much sooner.” The dressmaker touched the material to her withered cheek. “But it took some doing to find this particular shade. Such a lovely color.” She set the cloth aside, then pulled a length of crimson brocade from another trunk. “We’ll sew a sumptuously elegant, dainty creation, my dear, and we’ll trim the puffed sleeves with this brocade, I’m thinking, as well as pearls, netting lace, and ribbon—”

  “Crimson?” Eliza finally managed to say.

  Fanny gathered the material back into the trunk and shut the lid. “Lord Kennedy expressly asked for crimson silk.”

  Lord Kennedy? Eliza blinked. A crimson ball gown? How had he known? “It must be an error,” she heard herself say. It had to be—or else she’d divulged much more that night in the library than she’d thought she had. She winced at the idea.

  Fanny’s sharp brown eyes smiled. “Much more than a ball gown, child. His lordship has commissioned me to supply your wardrobe, as well. I’m to sew morning, visiting, and walking gowns, a riding habit and stockings, spencers, a pelisse for each—”

  “The devil, no—” Eliza swore before clamping her hand over her mouth in wide-eyed embarrassment.

  The dressmaker and Meg laughed. Even Oliver grinned wickedly.

  Eliza grimaced and lifted a warning finger at him. “My mistake is no excuse to not mind your tongue,” she warned before facing the dressmaker once again.

  The woman cut her off before she could say more. “You’re welcome to ask his lordship, as you please. When I spoke with him earlier, he mentioned you might object. Told me to tell you to come right down to the library. I imagine he’s still there, love.”

  Eliza’s heart began to pound. She’d been trying to avoid him. She hesitated. “I’ll be quick,” she promised, then left.

  Minutes later, she stood before the library’s solid oak door. With a critical gaze over her blue gown, she smoothed her skirts and scowled at the frayed hem. Yes, she sorely needed clothes, but serviceable items, and, most definitely, not a ball gown—and a crimson one at that. She flinched. Crimson? Had she told the man her every secret?

  “Enough, Eliza,” she growled, and biting her lower lip to steel her resolve, knocked sharply on the door.

  It opened before the third rap. Eliza blinked. Alistair stood on the threshold as handsome as ever in a white, puffed-sleeve linen shirt with an ivory waistcoat and a pair of dark gray trousers.

  “Miss Plowman.” The low timbre of his voice along with his smoldering looks turned her insides into jelly. Stepping back, he waved her into the room. “Come in. What a delight to see you, at last.”

  “My lord.” She curtsied, then entered.

  He shut the door with a click, then faced her. “I do believe you’ve been avoiding me of late.”

  He stood much too close. Inching back, she said, “Not at all, my lord.” The lie sounded gruff and false, even to her own ears. “The seamstress is under the impression that she’s to sew a wardrobe for me and—”

  “She is,” he cut in with a smile.

  Eliza paused.
The warmth of that smile could melt the coldest of hearts. She cleared her throat. “My lord, it is too much—”

  “Let me be the judge of that,” he interrupted again and took a step closer.

  She edged back. Sacre-bleu. It was hard not to drown in those compelling green eyes staring down at her. She drew a deep breath. “What use could they possibly be, my lord? I’ve no need of riding habits and most certainly not a ballgown.” Especially a crimson one.

  “As to that, I beg to differ.” He chuckled, his rich baritone sending a warm tingle rushing over her skin. “As a governess in my employ, you represent my house, do you not?”

  She nodded.

  “Then you must dress the part, aye?”

  Damn the man, he seemed too pleased with himself.

  “Then a serviceable dress or two, at most, my lord.” She smoothed her hands a bit self-consciously over her dress. “I am a governess. I have no use for such a wardrobe…” Her voice trailed away as his sensual gaze caught and held hers. She was the first to glance away.

  “Aye, you’re a governess,” he murmured. “And a particularly bonny woman as well, Eliza.”

  His eyes dropped over her figure in a lazy, bold inspection before locking with hers again. This time, she didn’t look away. Slowly, he walked her back against the wall, and leaning close—so close she could feel more than see his chest rise and fall—placed his palm flat on the wall over her head. Warmth radiated from him like an inferno.

  Keeping her distance and acting like a governess wasn’t going at all as she’d planned—but as she searched his compelling green gaze, only one question truly burned her soul.

  “Why crimson?” she croaked. She had to know.

  His eyes glittered as he dropped his head closer. “Why not?”

  She tossed her head, valiantly attempting to clear her thoughts, but he mesmerized her as if he’d cast a spell, and as it had in the stables, time slowed once again.

  His nose hovered inches from hers. She could feel the warmth of his breath on her lips. What were they speaking of? Ah, the dress.

  Clearing her throat, she struggled to say, “It’s a rather…scandalous gown…far too bold…lacking in decorum to represent a noble house…and...” Her voice trailed away and all at once, the day's growth of beard darkening his strong jaw seemed much more interesting and pleasant to ponder.

  “Nonsense,” he disagreed, pulling her back to the topic at hand. “With your hair and those eyes, a crimson gown would be stunning on you.”

  She felt herself melt into the warmth of his eyes. Her heart began to pound. From the rise and fall of his chest, she knew he was going to kiss her—and that she’d let him if she stayed. Such a thing was far too dangerous, a Pandora’s Box that should never be opened.

  Summoning every remaining shred of willpower, she slipped out of his grasp and reached for the door.

  He caught her wrist. “Stay.”

  “I can’t,” she whispered, and hurried from the room.

  * * *

  She had to get away. Eliza flew down the hallway and skirted the grand oval staircase only to collide with a hard body stepping out from behind a marble column. She stumbled back, but a heavy hand clamped down on her shoulder. It was Captain Edwards.

  He pulled her roughly against his chest.

  “Unhand me!” Eliza twisted in an attempt to wrench free.

  The Captain’s fingers tightened on her shoulders. “You’re a credit to your father—or what he once was.”

  Her jaw dropped. The audacity of the man. “You’ve no right to speak of my father. Let me go.”

  He dragged her closer. “I worry for you, Eliza, cast adrift in this place.”

  “You worry now?” she retorted. “Why not in London, when I desperately needed your help?” She choked, too angry to continue, and shoved his chest harder.

  “We shouldn’t quarrel, Eliza.” A hungry gleam entered his eyes.

  Fear slammed into her. She wriggled, but he only tightened his arms.

  “I miss you, Eliza.” He dropped his head, his beard grazing her neck. “I need you.” He groaned.

  Disgust rolled over her. Hadn’t she already escaped the man? Was he trying to drag her back? “I’ll never marry you,” she swore.

  He straightened and laughed. “I could never marry you. But I’ll accept you as my mistress. You must be discreet.” He splayed his fingers low on her hip.

  Her stomach turned. “You arrogant fool. I want nothing to do with you. I never did, and I never will.”

  The dinner gong sounded.

  Voices sounded on the staircase, from levels above and below. The Captain’s hold relaxed as he glanced over his shoulder, clearly concerned with appearances, as if her mere presence would ruin his reputation. It was her chance. She placed her palms on his chest, prepared to break free, when movement down the hall caught her eye.

  Alistair turned the corner and froze.

  Before Eliza could react, a woman’s voice called nearby, “Captain?”

  The Captain jerked away, and as guests flooded the hall, blocking her view of Alistair’s shocked face, she turned on her heel and marched away, regretting she hadn’t had the chance to knee Captain Edwards in the groin.

  Chapter Nine

  The Hard Path

  Alistair forced his feet to carry him toward the dining room. Primal jealousy burned in his veins. Until his dying day, he would never forget the image of Eliza in Captain Edwards’ arms. The image scorched his brain. She’d told him of her engagement. Could Captain Edwards be the captain she’d spoken of? What were the odds? Had the man discovered her missing in London and sought her out? What man would allow his fiancée to fall into such dire straits that she must take on a position as governess?

  Those questions swirled in Alistair’s mind, each leaving him in a darker mood than the last, as he took his seat at the head of the table. The dinner guests filed past him, but he had eyes only for the captain as he sat and the dinner began.

  The women flanking Alistair began to chat, attempting to draw him into conversation, but he retained only vague impressions of their faces and heard little of what they said, his attention on his rival. What could Eliza admire in such a man? He clearly lacked ethics, and was weak-chinned to boot. The thought of her willingly kissing such a dolt twisted his gut.

  As the dinner progressed, Alistair downed his wine untasted and sifted through his recollections of the past week for anything pertaining to the man. They’d once exchanged brief words in the library over glasses of claret, and once again during an afternoon ride on the estate. Beyond that, he hadn’t paid the man much attention, having thought him a pompous bore.

  Now, he couldn’t take his eyes off that smug face.

  What the deuce did Eliza see in him?

  As if sensing Alistair’s stare, Captain Edwards looked up and nodded politely his way.

  It was an opening. “How might you know Miss Plowman, Captain?” Alistair raised his voice above the din.

  The voices around the dinner table quieted.

  Edwards coughed loudly. “I, uh, have…heard of…uh, her through mutual friends, my lord.”

  Heard? An odd way to speak of one’s fiancée. “Are you not, at least, acquaintances, Captain?”

  The guests swiveled their heads back to the captain.

  The man turned red. “No, no. Not really. Not at all.”

  Odd. Alistair narrowed his eyes. Exceedingly odd.

  The guests began to whisper.

  The captain fixed his eyes intently on his plate.

  Alistair frowned. What manner of man denied his engagement? Or…was their connection a clandestine affair? Eliza wasn’t that kind of a woman. Perhaps the captain had led her on with false hope? He expelled a derisive snort at the thought, only to become aware of a strained silence and staring guests.

  Nicholas’ voice rose, “What are the forthcoming plays in Edinburgh this summer?”

  The buzz in the dining room resumed.

 
Clenching his jaw, Alistair settled back into his chair.

  Cutlery clinked. Voices buzzed. Courses came and went.

  Alistair didn’t know what he ate. He couldn’t prevent his gaze from straying to the captain, to note every minute detail—how his head bobbed, and the nasal quality of his laugh, a sound that vexed Alistair’s ears.

  At last, the final course was served. Alistair waited long enough for the lady on this right to finish eating, then he rose, signaling that the blasted dinner had reached its morbid end.

  As the ladies retired to the Blue Drawing Room, he headed to the library with the men, keenly aware that the captain followed at his heel. Within ten minutes of standing by the fire, nursing his claret, Alistair could no longer bear another moment of the man’s nasally laugh.

  “If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen.” He set his claret on the sideboard and strode from the room without further explanation.

  He’d nearly reached his study when Nicholas caught up with him.

  “Ho there, lad.” His friend matched his stride. “Are you ill?”

  Alistair exhaled in irritation. “Captain Edwards is an ass.”

  “A dull fellow, to be sure,” Nicholas replied with a snort of amusement.

  Alistair cast him a narrow-eyed glare, but said nothing. They reached the study, his private haven from the gilded luxury of the castle. He rubbed the back of his neck, eyeing the two simple brown wingback chairs, the table with its candlestick, the simple whisky cupboard and the fireplace. What else did a man need?

  Nicholas lit a taper from the fire burning low on the hearth as Alistair strode to the cupboard. He poured two glasses of whisky and, after handing one to his friend, sat down heavily in the empty chair.

  Nicholas sipped of whisky, then asked, “What has Captain Edwards to do with your bonny governess?”

  Alistair tossed him a suspicious look. “Why speak of her?”

  “Why ask the man, at the dinner table, if he knew her?” Nicholas asked in turn.