A Taste of Seduction (An Unlikely Husband)

by Campisi, Mary

  “I think this is the one,” Madame Druillard murmured, draping a swath of pale pink material over Francie’s shoulder and down the front of her. “Look at the way it brings color to her cheeks. A glow almost.” Her black eyes narrowed. “And the red hair. Tsk. Tsk. It is like fire.”

  Alexander cleared his throat. “Fine.”

  “Yes, it is very fine,” Madame Druillard murmured with a knowing smile.

  Alexander looked away and busied himself with the black book. “These are the ball gowns?” He flipped through the next several pages. “Unacceptable. All of them.”

  “Why do you say this, Monsieur Bishop? They are beautiful gowns and they will look exquisite on mademoiselle.”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “May I see them?” Francie inched toward the intriguing black book. She hadn’t cared that Madame Druillard and Alexander chose her wardrobe as though she weren’t there. She was only doing this to please her father. In truth, the selections were perfect for her. The sea-foam greens, sky-blues, pale pinks, vibrant yellows, soft lilacs, all of them were among her favorite colors.

  “There’s nothing to see,” Alexander said, slamming the book shut.

  Madame Druillard slid the book toward Francie and opened it. “Monsieur Bishop, perhaps you might tell me what is the problem?”

  “The problem,” he bit out, “is this.” He jabbed a finger at the bust line of a yellow gown. “And this,” he said, pointing to another on the opposite page. They were cut quite low.

  “Yes? This is the style. It is the...rage...as you say.”

  “Not for Francie it isn’t.”

  “It’s not that revealing,” Francie said, looking at the upside-down sketch. It was much lower than anything she’d ever worn, but it wasn’t obscene.

  He flashed her a cold look. “Stay out of this. I want to see something else. Something without a plunging neckline.”

  Madame Druillard smiled. “You are very protective of your sister, Monsieur Bishop.”

  Francie blushed. Alexander said nothing but the twitch on the left side of his jaw told Francie he was not one bit happy.

  The older woman leaned over and flicked through several pages. She pointed to an elegant gown with a much less revealing neckline. “Perhaps this will be more to your liking.”

  “That’s better.”

  “Bon. Good.” Madame Druillard sat down again. “Now, let us discuss colors.”

  “Burgundy trimmed in gold, sapphire trimmed in silver, and cream trimmed in burgundy.” He rattled the color combinations off without a moment’s hesitation.

  “Ah, Monsieur Bishop, it would appear you have given this much thought. Yes.” Madame Druillard nodded. “I agree. Mademoiselle will look magnifique.”

  “Fine.” He pushed back his chair and stood.

  “We are not finished yet, Monsieur. There are still more gowns. And the undergarments. We have not spoken of those.”

  Alexander shoved his hands in his pockets. “She can choose the rest.” He met Francie’s gaze. “I’ll be outside.” With that, he turned and quit the shop.

  When he was gone, Madame Druillard turned to her with a smile and whispered, “He is not your brother.”

  “Is it that obvious?”

  “To me it is,” she said, her black eyes shining. “To one who knows what it looks like to see a man enchanted by a woman, as your Monsieur Bishop is with you.”

  “He barely tolerates me. And he told me nothing will ever come of the two of us.”

  “So, he has been considering this, no?” The modiste laughed. “That is a good sign. A very good sign.”

  “Of what?” Francie asked.

  “You shall see. It will come clear soon enough. Now,” Madame Druillard said, turning back to her black book, “we must find you undergarments.”

  “Yes. Undergarments,” Francie repeated.

  “And if I might make one very small suggestion. I think I know of a way to uncover Monsieur Bishop’s true feelings.”

  “You do?” Francie stared at her. “How?”

  “Change the gold and burgundy gown. Choose the design with the low neckline.”

  “Alexander will be furious,” Francie breathed.

  “Exactly.” Madame Druillard smiled. “So furious perhaps he will forget himself in his anger and state his true feelings.”

  “It could be disastrous.”

  “Or wonderful. The choice is yours.”

  Francie smiled at Madame Druillard. “Let’s do it.”

  ***

  “The next time you offer my services, I’d appreciate it if they did not include a trip to Madame Druillard’s.” Or a long carriage ride with Francie and an ancient chaperone who couldn’t stay awake for longer than three blinks at a time.

  “Why?” Philip set down his glass of sherry. “Madame Druillard is the best modiste in London, perhaps in all of England.”

  Alexander poured two fingers in a glass and took a healthy swallow. “Just the point. She is very talented and well aware of the latest fashion. Unfortunately, I found some of those fashions quite distasteful.”

  “Francie told me about the ball gown,” Philip said, trying to hide a smile.

  “I find no humor in a woman exposing her breasts to a bunch of mauling ‘would-be suitors.’” Alexander glared at Philip. “And I would think, as her father, you would want Francie to display a bit more modesty.”

  “Indeed I do,” Philip replied. “But I had you there, Alex. I knew I had nothing to be concerned about.”

  “A good thing, too. I think the little minx could have been persuaded to wear one of those gowns.”

  Philip laughed. “You sound like an outraged husband.”

  Alexander ignored that comment. “A few things will be sent next week. The ball gowns and the rest will follow in two weeks’ time.”

  “Excellent,” Philip said. “Now we can plan a ball to introduce Francie into society.”

  “You mean a husband-hunting party.” Alexander poured another drink. Just the thought of all those men fawning over Francie put him in a mood. She wouldn’t understand their true intent. She was too naïve, too trusting. She’d trusted him, hadn’t she? Knowing her, she’d smile and converse with the worst of them, misinterpreting a touch on her person as a sign of clumsiness or awkward shyness. And all the while, the lechers would be groping for a hint of silk skin or a feel of satin curves.

  The earl coughed. “I’ll thank you not to mention the word husband in front of Francie. She’s not thrilled with having this ball anyway and if you make her think she’s going to be someone’s prize, she’ll never agree to it.”

  “Well, that’s what it is, isn’t it?” Alexander snapped. He’d been in a foul mood since he’d stalked out of Madame Druillard’s yesterday afternoon. Francie’s incessant cheerful chattering during the two-hour trip home had done nothing to improve his temper. By the time they arrived at Drakemoor, his head pounded and he wore a permanent scowl.

  Blast the woman, she was driving him mad. He should never have let Philip talk him into escorting her to London. Like a besotted fool, he’d chosen most of her wardrobe, taking care each color was a perfect match; sky-blue to intensify her eyes, sea-foam green or lavender to offset her fiery mane. He must’ve sounded like an idiot.

  Alexander cursed under his breath. He’d chosen rich fabrics and flattering styles to enhance Francie’s natural beauty—and lure a bevy of young bucks and old lechers to the marriage market. Thank God he’d had the good sense to leave before Madame Druillard flipped to the section on undergarments.

  “Alexander?”

  “What?” He looked up from his whiskey and met the older man’s blue gaze.

  “Unless you tell me differently, I am going to plan a ball for Francie,” the earl said. “And she will no doubt have numerous suitors lining Drakemoor the morning after.”

  Alexander pulled at his cravat. It was blasted hot outside and even hotter in here. “I’m well aware of that fact.” He turned to loo
k out the window. She was there, right in his line of vision, with her damnable rabbit, Miss Penelope. She was talking to the silly animal, making all sorts of gestures. And laughing. Did she know how ridiculous she looked out there, without a hat; his gaze shot to her feet, without shoes? Without a brain was more like it.

  Did she know the sun illuminated her red hair, weaving a golden highlight through the tumble of curls? And her hands...the way she moved them, fingers spread wide over Miss Penelope, soft and stroking...her hands would make any man wish he were a rabbit? And her body...

  “What’s going on out there, Alex?” Philip called. “What’s got you so engrossed?”

  Alexander spun around so fast his whiskey sloshed to the rim of his glass. “Nothing,” he said and moved to block the window. “I was just thinking.”

  Francie’s sweet voice trickled through the window. “Thinking, eh?” the old man said, tilting his head to peek around Alexander.

  “Yes,” Alexander snapped. “Thinking. I was just thinking about taking a little trip, perhaps to the West Indies. I never did get to see our sugarcane crops and they’re bringing in quite a nice profit.”

  “A trip,” the earl repeated, taking another sip of sherry.

  “Yes, I think I’ll begin making preparations at once.” Alexander stepped away from the window and moved toward his desk, trying to ignore Francie’s melodic tune drumming in his ears, seducing his senses. He pulled out a piece of paper and jotted a few notes to himself. “I should be able to leave within the week. The only pressing matter is a meeting with the Duke of Worthington. Once I am assured Jared Crayton poses no threat to Francie or Amberden, my services will no longer be required and I will depart.”

  “A trip,” Philip said again, rolling the word around on his tongue as though it left a bitter aftertaste.

  “Hmmmm.” Francie’s laughter swept over Alexander. His groin tightened and he wondered if there was any way he might leave tomorrow.

  “Too bad you won’t be here for the ball,” Philip said.

  “Yes, quite a pity.” Alexander kept his eyes trained on the piece of paper in front of him. I’d never survive the ball.

  “Francie will be very disappointed.”

  Alexander refused to meet the challenge in Philip’s voice. He shrugged. “We all suffer disappointments in one form or another. She’ll recover.”

  The earl coughed, a harsh, hacking sound that filled the room.

  Alexander rushed to him. “Are you all right?” The coughing of late had grown more frequent and harsher.

  Philip raised his hand, but another cough wracked his body, followed by five more, until he lay back in his chair, red-faced and huffing.

  “Don’t know...what came over me,” he gasped. “It’s usually not...that bad.”

  “I’ll fetch you a glass of water.” Alexander rushed to the sideboard and poured a tall glass from a crystal decanter. He returned to stand beside the earl. “Drink this. Don’t talk.”

  The earl followed his command and when he’d finished half the glass, he leaned back against the cushions and closed his eyes, his breath falling out in short little puffs.

  “That... gave me a scare,” Philip said, his eyes still closed.

  “Not half as much as me.”

  “About your trip...” The earl coughed twice more.

  “The trip can wait.”

  “Are you,” Philip puffed, “certain?”

  “I won’t leave until I know you’re all right.” If something happened to the old man while Alexander was gone, he’d never forgive himself.

  The earl gave him a little half-smile, his eyes still closed. “Thank you, my boy.”

  ***

  “You’re going straight to the devil, Philip. You know that don’t you?”

  Philip opened one eye. He’d been ordered to bed, first by Alexander and then by Francie when she found out about his little coughing episode. “I really did have a coughing spell.”

  Bernard raised a bushy brow but said nothing. “Oh, all right,” Philip muttered. “I made it sound worse than it was. But I couldn’t let Alex take off to some godforsaken land right before the ball. We’re close, Bernard. I can feel it.” He grinned. “You should’ve heard old Alex talking about Madame Druillard’s. Didn’t want her wearing this gown. Too revealing. Didn’t want her wearing that gown. Too revealing.” He chuckled. “I think he’d prefer to have her wearing a sack to hide her shape.”

  “You’re meddling, Philip. If either one of them catches wind of this, there’s going to be a lot of trouble.”

  Philip turned on his side, both eyes open now. “They’re made for each other. When they’re in the same room, you can almost see the sparks flying.” His eyes misted. “They belong together. I’m just helping them along a little.”

  “You’re interfering,” Bernard corrected.

  “Bah! Once they’re married, it won’t matter how they got together.”

  “If either one finds out, there won’t be a wedding. And it will be our fault.”

  “How would they possibly find out? Relax, Bernard.” Philip leaned back against his pillow and smiled. “All will be well.”

  Chapter 12

  “I’m here to see His Grace.” Alexander stood at the entrance of Strotham, the Duke of Worthington’s residence. It took some negotiation to obtain an audience, but persistence paid off. Soon, he’d be face to face with Jared Crayton’s father.

  “Come in,” the butler said. He was a tall, thin man with a shiny forehead and very large ears.

  Alexander stepped over the threshold and into one of the most majestic dwellings he’d ever seen. Gold covered every surface. There was gold inlay on the ceiling, gold dripping from the chandeliers like raindrops, gold designs on vases, gold patterns woven into the wall coverings. A bit much for Alexander’s taste, but it left no doubt as to the duke’s financial situation. To identify him as simply “rich” would be a gross understatement. The duke belonged several leagues beyond rich.

  “This way, sir.” The butler gestured down a long hall illuminated by another gold chandelier. Alexander followed, eyeing a row of portraits hanging along the hall. Crayton ancestors, no doubt, framed in heavy gold, staring back at him with double chins hiked up a notch or two and smug little smiles on their round faces. It was hard to discern the males from the females. All wore wigs, all were plump, and all had the air of superiority stamped across their fleshy faces.

  The butler stopped before a large mahogany door and rapped twice. Alexander heard someone giggle, a woman from the sound of the high note, followed by scuffling and a few more giggles. Then a man’s hearty laugh filtered through the door. The butler cleared his throat, turned five shades of red, and knocked again.

  The giggling and laughter turned to whispers. “Who is it?” a deep, gruff voice bellowed.

  “Jones, Your Grace. A Mr. Alexander Bishop to see you.”

  Alexander heard the man curse. “Give me a moment.” There were a few more giggles and a long, low growl. If he weren’t so anxious to see the matter of Jared Crayton laid to rest, he’d have turned and walked out. But the safety of Francie and Amberden lay at the hands of the man behind the mahogany door. For that reason, Alexander stayed and tried to ignore the disgusting grunting and groaning seeping through the door.

  After what seemed longer than eternity, the door burst open and a short, buxom woman dressed in servant’s clothes stood before them. When she spotted Alexander, her full pink lips parted into a slow smile.

  “Bishop? Come in,” a male voice commanded. The woman slipped past Alexander, brushing against his coat sleeve as she headed down the hall.

  Alexander entered the huge room decorated in burgundy velvet, cream brocade, and, of course, gold. A very large man sat in an overstuffed burgundy chair, fastening the last button on his bright blue breeches. His face was red, his gray eyes puffy, with a rheumy look about them. He had a small, round nose and the same double chin as the ancestors in the portraits hanging in the hall.
There were more bare spots than gray hairs on his head, though he’d pulled the stragglers back into a pathetic-looking queue. The man possessed no neck. His body went from a double chin to shoulders with nothing in between. The white cravat made the duke look like a flower ready to blossom. Diamond and ruby rings covered his pudgy fingers.

  This was the Duke of Worthington, a man reputed to sit at the right hand of the king. And he resembled a flower.

  “Thank you for granting me an audience, Your Grace,” Alexander said. A rose? Not with that pink jacket. A geranium, perhaps? No, geraniums had necks.

  “State your business, Bishop,” the duke said, eyeing him with a watery gaze.

  Alexander cleared his throat. He would do this for Francie. “I’ve come to speak with you about a matter regarding your younger son.”

  “Jared?” The duke smiled, revealing a set of crooked, gray teeth. “Handsome boy, isn’t he? Has all the girls after him.” He chuckled. “Though he gives them a fair chase himself.”

  “Indeed. That’s what I’ve come to speak with you about.”

  The duke pointed a fat finger at the chair next to him. “Sit.”

  The old man’s insolence grated on Alexander like a day-old beard against a woman’s skin. He almost turned on his heel and left. Duke or no, the man had the manners of a pig. His promise to Francie won out and he settled himself into the oversized chair next to the duke.

  “Speak.”

  The old man enjoyed his power. Sit. Speak. Next he’d tell him to jump and roll over. That’s when Alexander would walk out and hunt down Jared Crayton himself. Even though he didn’t like to admit it, and certainly never acknowledged it, there was enough stable boy left in him to resort to his fists when necessary. And if this old piece of overcooked ham sitting in front of him dressed like a flower didn’t stop issuing commands soon, he’d do just that.

  Alexander tried for diplomacy. “Your son is indeed quite a nice-looking young man. But my reasons for seeking your assistance have nothing to do with his looks.”

  The duke raised a wiry, gray brow. “Insolence, Bishop?” One watery eye narrowed. “Speak.”