by Jenn LeBlanc
She gazed into his fiery green eyes and something inside her shifted, filling a void like a puzzle piece.
“I am not known to be a patient man. I will not look forever.”
She studied his face, reading the honesty in the depths of his emerald eyes, and it eased her mind. She could trust in him. She nodded once, then smiled.
He chuckled, grasping one of her hands in his and bringing it to his lips. He was so taken with her. At no point in his life had there ever been a moment where he felt this complete.
“Now. Tell me how you solved my maze,” he said.
She signed.
“I— wait, what?”
She shook her head with an exasperated expression. Taking his hand, she pulled him to one of the exits and pointed at the flowers woven into the wall of the hedge. He shrugged.
She led him down the row to a juncture, pausing to look at the different walls and rows before pulling him toward another row. She pointed again to the tiny flowers that dotted the walls of the hedgerow. He looked, seeing the same small yellow flowers she had pointed at the last time. It cannot possibly be that simple, he thought, as understanding sank in. She ran ahead to the next juncture, picking out the row covered with yellow flowers. The answer was so uncomplicated it was genius.
“You followed the flowers— I must need to work on my vowels.”
She took his hand and they followed the yellow flowers out, exiting on the south side of the maze facing the stables.
“You are magnificent.”
She smiled.
Gideon and Francine strolled back to the manor. She showed him some simple signs like sunrise, sunset, supper, mother, brother, good, bad, horse, eat, and a few others. When they arrived at the threshold of the great entrance he paused.
“Thank you for a wonderful morning,” he said, reaching for her hand. “I would be honored if you would accompany me to a formal supper this evening,” he whispered, pulling her hand to his lips and placing a kiss in the palm. He meant the indecent gesture to carry all of his hopes to her.
Her mouth dropped open slightly as she watched him.
He couldn’t quite place the expression on her face. “What?” he asked, afraid he had gone one step too far.
She shook her head, suddenly worried. She didn’t want to insult him, but the food was terrible and she didn’t want to fake her way through a formal dinner with him watching. Francine pulled her hand away, considering how to turn down an offer she didn’t want to decline.
Worry, he thought. Worry and—fear? He frowned. He needed to change his tactic. “It’s only that Chef has returned from a trip to France to retrieve some wines and recipes for an extended house gathering I’m planning at the end of the Season. She needs to try the recipes on as many people as possible so she can finalize the menu, and of course my brother and Mr. Shaw will attend with—”
He stopped as a smile broke across her features like the dawn. He grinned triumphantly, but he wasn’t sure whether to be happy that she was going to join him for supper, or sad that she didn’t want to join him for supper. He shook his head as she nodded hers. “Well, it is settled. Until then.”
She nodded, still smiling.
Until tonight, he signed slowly. He took her hand again, gently touching his lips to her wrist.
She tilted her head as the heat from his kiss spread like wildfire through her veins. She gasped, and he looked into her eyes with a half-cocked grin. Her heart bolted.
He stood tall, putting his hands behind his back as he lifted his chin. She touched her wrist where his kiss had seared her exposed flesh, then turned to the stairs, ascending slowly as he watched.
Mr. Shaw appeared at the crest of the staircase and gave a curt bow when she stopped before him. “Miss Francine, how lovely to see you again.”
She smiled and signed, Thank you, nice to see you as well. How are the plans?
“Very well, I believe. Will we see you at supper this evening?”
Yes, I’m excited. I wasn’t aware the regular chef was away. I was worried.
He laughed, understanding most of her remarks, certainly the important parts.
She signed goodbye and turned for her room. Mr. Shaw looked down the stairs into the angry eyes of a wellborn duke. The sight had him retreating before he realized it.
Roxleigh bounded up the grand staircase toward Mr. Shaw. When he gained the landing he watched Francine as she disappeared into the guest suite, then he turned on him. “What was that?” he asked.
“I beg pardon, Your Grace. I was coming to meet you, as we had planned. I merely held a polite conversation.”
Roxleigh looked through him and Shaw looked back. “Your Grace. I am, most certainly, overstepping my bounds in saying this. However, I would like to make my position plain. I appreciate honesty and feel that you must as well. I am betrothed to a young lady in London. It is a love match. I have no ulterior motives when speaking with your Miss Francine, other than to treat her with courtesy.”
Roxleigh’s shoulders relaxed.
“If I may say, Your Grace, she seems to be a wonderful girl. You are quite fortunate, and I believe so is she. I hope that in the future I will do nothing to disrespect you.”
“There are few men who would dare speak to me in such a manner,” Roxleigh replied. “I appreciate your candor. It is difficult at times to know whom to trust or believe, particularly with a title that demands certain proprieties.” Roxleigh studied him for another moment, then his countenance changed with the blink of an eye. “Shall we investigate your measurements?”
Shaw let out a long breath he wasn’t aware he’d been holding. “Of course.” The tension dissolved entirely and the two men walked to the panel between the two main family suites.
They spent the rest of the afternoon measuring, checking, and re-measuring, trying to find the discrepancy to no avail. There was unquestionably a void in the manor that could not be reached from any of the known entries or passageways. Unfortunately, it was getting late. Even if they hadn’t needed more light, they couldn’t explore further if they were to be ready in time for supper.
Perry woke from his nap to a banging behind the fireplace in his suite. He hadn’t seen his brother all day, even as hard as he endeavored to intercept his path within the manor. He wasn’t going to enter the maze, that was certain; first, because he wasn’t sure what Gideon would do if he happened upon his brother behaving in an improper manner with his young, beautiful guest—he imagined it would be similar to coming upon a lion in its den—and second, because he had no desire to find himself lost in that bloody hellhole of a maze ever again. Once as a child was quite enough.
He stood, straightening his disheveled clothes, and left his suite only to find Gideon speaking quite excitedly with whom he assumed was the architect.
Gideon stopped when he caught sight of Perry. “Look at this! Here, look at this,” Gideon said, striding over to him. “There is a disparity.”
“Measure it again,” Perry replied dismissively.
“No, no, we have measured it. Checked it three and four times on some walls. There is an inconsistency,” Gideon said, as close to beaming as Perry had ever seen him. It was a bit discomfiting.
Perry stared at his over-excited brother like he was a bit off, but he couldn’t help but to catch a bit of the excitement oozing from him. “Are you mad?”
“Possibly, but in this there is no error.”
“Don’t you mean there is an error? That’s incredible. How could we have never discovered this? Running about as children, you would think—”
“You would,” Gideon said, “but we never— We need to find the way in.” The first dinner bell rang, and he grunted. “But, of course, it is too late.”
“We shall find it tomorrow,” Perry said definitively.
“Tomorrow,” Gideon replied with a nod.
Shaw watched, his arms crossed over his chest, rocking on his heels as he enjoyed the jovial display.
Perry clapped
his brother strongly on the shoulder. “Damn, I knew Marcus was a bit off, but this is beyond expectation.”
“Yes, quite.” Gideon looked at him with a broad smile, then turned to Shaw.
“Blast it all, I forgot. Shaw, this is my brother. You will call him Trumbull.”
Shaw took the viscount’s proffered hand. “At your service, my lord.”
“Please, not at all. You have managed to make this visit infinitely more enjoyable than I thought possible. I am in your debt.” Perry placed his other hand on his chest and inclined his head slightly.
Shaw smiled. “Well, gentlemen, I must go dress for supper. I understand we have a special guest, and I am covered in dust.”
“Of course,” Gideon said, panic dawning over his stern features. “I must take my leave as well, for quite the same reason. Trumbull, Miss Francine will be joining us for supper.”
“So I take it. This should provide an even better distraction than the missing suites.”
Gideon scowled at the thought of dinner with his brother and Francine and stormed off.
“Roxleigh!” Perry boomed, but the only response he got was a stiff wave behind Gideon’s head without so much as a turn or pause.
Shaw was aghast at the effective handling Roxleigh had succumbed to. He smiled and looked at Trumbull, who turned on him in surprise.
“You still here?” Trumbull gave him a knowing glance. “Good God, man, we shall get along fine, just fine,” he said, then went to his suite to ready for supper.
Shaw watched him go, pondering the show that had just taken place before him. He was quite aware that an outsider such as himself had probably never been privy to such cavorting between these two extremely powerful men, and he was genuinely taken with the honesty of their actions.
Francine could not stop smiling. She’d thought there had been no way to improve upon the night in the garden from last week, not until this very moment. She walked through the entry, the sitting room, and into the bedchamber, where she stopped cold.
She turned to leave the room, thinking she’d somehow ended up in the wrong suite. But Mrs. Weston walked over and took her hand, pulling her to the settee, which was covered in beautiful bundles of silks and satins.
“Come, miss, look at this!” she exclaimed as she picked up a package and handed it to her, directing her to a chair.
“What— What is all this?” Francine mouthed, waving her hand at the packages.
“This is a gift from His Grace.”
“No, I can’t,” she whispered, shaking her head and pushing the box back at Mrs. Weston.
She gasped. “Oh no, miss, you must not. I mean, perhaps you misunderstand. His Grace is quite taken with you, and if you refuse the gifts, he will be quite em—” She broke off and cleared her throat. “You mustn’t.”
Francine reached out slowly, taking the box from her hands as she nodded.
She pulled the green satin ribbon free from the package, unwrapping the lavender folds of paper. She was left holding a large bristled hairbrush with a silver back and handle.
Francine gazed at the brush, turning it over in her hands. It was beautiful, and quite a thoughtful gift. She looked up at Mrs. Weston with wide eyes and Mrs. Weston handed her another package, then unfurled a large cream-colored brocade throw over her lap.
An hour later, the floor was littered with wrappings and ribbons, and Francine was truly and thoroughly overwhelmed, but Mrs. Weston wasn’t finished with the duke’s surprises. She smiled as she rang for Carole to bring the slipper tub so she could ready Francine for supper.
Gideon entered his suite. Ferry had already filled his tub and had kettles heating over the fire to warm it, in case he was delayed. Ferry was best at thinking ahead and keeping his distance, which was why Gideon appreciated his service, but right now he wanted to actually speak with him. “Ferry.”
His valet appeared from behind the fireplace. “Your Grace.”
“Ferry, have you spoken with Carole or Mrs. Weston?”
“Your Grace, Miss Francine was suitably beset.”
Gideon wanted to know what, precisely, she thought of his gifts, but understood there was no more to be given. He grunted. “That is all.”
Ferry nodded and left as Gideon readied for his soak.
Francine rose from the tub, into the soft towel Mrs. Weston held, and walked to the dressing table. She sat, running her fingers over the beautiful brush, small silver trinket box, and hair combs that Gideon had brought back for her. He had also given her a brocade blanket, an opera cape, some gloves, and a mantle, which just looked like a shorter cape to her.
Mrs. Weston said the gifts were all very personal, the kind of gifts a proper gentleman would purchase only for his wife if he followed the dictates of society, but she rationalized that Francine had nothing and His Grace was merely seeing to her comfort.
They both knew there was no need for the items to be so ornate and expensive.
Mrs. Weston smoothed and pulled Francine’s hair into a sweeping pile of curls on top of her head, leaving a few strands down to frame her face. She used the decorative combs to secure it, then went to the wardrobe and pulled out a magnificent ivory dress with violet pinstripes. It had a great bustled train of giant bows and gathered flounces, and was trimmed with violet satin ribbons that were layered over and over until they swept the floor with their folds.
Francine’s breath caught as she advanced, gently caressing the fabric between her fingers as she looked at Mrs. Weston, who beamed.
She laid the garment on the bed and Francine stood, suffering Mrs. Weston’s ministrations like a flag caught in the wind. She tied her into her drawers, laced up the corset, and layered on piles of crinoline and petticoats. Then Mrs. Weston turned her and fastened more than fifty buttons up the front of the dress, which was cut very low across her bosom. The sleeves were long and fitted with multiple buttons at the wrists. Mrs. Weston buttoned every one, then tucked a violet silk scarf across the neckline.
Francine examined herself in the mirror, turning round and round, marveling at the fit and precision with which the gown’s ensemble was constructed. She glanced at Mrs. Weston, lifting her hands and shrugging her shoulders.
Mrs. Weston simply shook her head. “I have no idea, miss. I never would have imagined it, but somehow those boys managed. Oh!” Mrs. Weston rushed to the dresser.
As Francine stood looking in the mirror, Mrs. Weston came up behind her and reached high over her curls. She lowered a necklace, clasping it at her nape.
Francine gasped. No! she tried to say, her eyes wide, shaking her head. It was the most stunning piece of jewelry she’d ever seen, intricately filigreed silver strands delicately woven into a vine with tiny flowers created from different colored stones. The centerpiece was a flower with five matched petals of deep purple at the outer edges, which then faded into a brilliant yellow as they met at the matched yellow center stone. If she’d been able to use her voice, she would have been rendered speechless.
Mrs. Weston turned to her, seeing the panicked look in her eyes. “Now, Miss Francine, this piece is only being loaned to you for the night, so you mustn’t fret.”
Francine exhaled, relieved. That necklace was entirely too much.
“I believe it’s time for supper,” Mrs. Weston said.
Francine nodded, checking herself in the mirror one last time before strolling out of the room. Her arms looked impossibly long and slender, resting at her corseted waist. Breathe, she thought. She was becoming more accustomed to wearing a corset, but she did have to constantly remember to pace herself so she wasn’t overcome by lack of air.
The duke, Lord Trumbull, and Mr. Shaw met in the study before dinner for a glass of Gideon’s fine Raynal Cognac. They were enjoying a discussion on the possibilities behind having hidden rooms within the manor. Shaw believed it was some sort of safe room in case the manor were to be attacked, while Perry believed it was just another odd way for Marcus to spy on the inhabitants.
&nbs
p; Gideon believed the private rooms were actually built for his mother, but he was interrupted by Stapleton before he could share his thoughts. “Miss Francine.”
The three men looked at each other and, setting their glasses on the sideboard, they walked toward the entry and gathered at the base of the stairs. Gideon stood in front, watching as Francine gracefully descended. Her cheeks were rosy and her smile demure.
Gideon was taken. He knew then and there, watching her move toward him, that he was hers, and she would be his. No matter the outcome of his search for her history, he was done and undone. She was his end.
Perry laughed and whispered, “Breathe, Rox,” with a nudge, and Gideon inhaled, shaking his head slowly in disbelief and acceptance.
Francine stopped close to the bottom of the staircase and paused to take it all in: Gideon’s smooth black trousers, crisp white shirt and black neck cloth, black dinner jacket and green silk waistcoat that mirrored his eyes. Shaw and Trumbull were also turned out very nicely. How was she so lucky as to be accompanied to dinner by three perfectly smashing gentlemen? She thought for a moment about the strangeness of it all.
There really should have been some other women involved, and she felt a twinge of awkward selfishness before she felt Gideon’s fingers grasping hers gently, lifting her hand so he could rest his lips on her wrist. She gazed down at his shiny dark locks, remembered the satiny smoothness of them against her cheek, her hand, her chest. She flushed violently and glanced away.
Gideon caught the blush spreading across the tops of her cheeks, and lower, across her breasts. He locked on her eyes, willing her to look down at him. “Do you approve?” he asked quietly.
She nodded, resting her hand on the necklace and signing beautiful as she met his gaze.
“I thought the color was appropriate. The petals are made of a stone called Ametrine—found only in Bolivia.” He turned and placed her hand on his arm.
Trumbull and Mr. Shaw exchanged uncomfortable glances, as though they had walked in on something they definitely shouldn’t have.
As Francine took Gideon’s arm, she glanced up to the first floor balcony to see Mrs. Weston, Carole, Ferry, and several others gathered in the shadows, unnoticed. Stapleton walked over to the giant doors of the main dining hall and swept them open, then stood silently as they entered, followed by Trumbull and Shaw.