Dawn with a Duke: 12 Dukes of Christmas #9

by Erica Ridley

  “Whilst we await the bath, I’ll paint you a picture.”

  She dragged the easel before the snow-fogged window. The building opposite was still just visible.

  “We’ll call it... ‘Blank Brick Wall, Obscured by Frost.’ Perhaps this is the watercolor that will make me famous.”

  She grinned to herself as she arranged her paper and paints. She hoped Ursula was feeling much better this morning, but if not, at least she would know she wasn’t missing out on an incredible view from Belle’s room.

  Once they arrived in Cressmouth, she planned to paint hundreds of picturesque Yuletide scenes. Belle would be visiting her friend Angelica until her brother’s Christmastide party began the following week, but she would still have plenty of free time. Angelica was a talented jeweler, and seasonal tourists composed the bulk of her business.

  Belle was of no help in the workshop—Oh, how she longed to be useful!—and took herself off to the castle to paint and stay out of the way. Most of her paintings she donated to the castle, but her very favorites she tucked into the leather portfolio inside her art supplies trunk to carry back home. She had an entire wardrobe filled with scenes of happy moments Belle had glimpsed around her and captured with paint.

  She swiped a wet brush across the page. This study of red bricks blurred by falling snow would not win any awards, but at least it would give a chuckle to Ursula. She was the only person who ever saw Belle’s art.

  Well, the only person who knew it was Belle who had created it. A few years ago, Belle had worked up the courage to submit her work to several venues. She didn’t seek a showing in the British Museum, but thought she might contribute to theatre advertisements or fashion periodicals or illustrating books for children.

  Every one of the men she’d spoken to had laughed in her face without even opening her portfolio. That was, when Belle had procured an audience at all.

  Did she fancy herself an artist? Tears of laughter glistened their eyes. She was no creative genius. She was Lady Isabelle, sister to the new Duke of Nottingvale. Of course, they’d find some scrap to print as a favor to His Grace if his ward insisted, but didn’t the young lady have something else she could play at? Something that wouldn’t waste everyone’s time?

  It was Ursula who had refused to allow Belle to give up hope. She’d pointed at the basket of dreaded embroidery and asked whether Belle intended to sew handkerchiefs for the rest of her life, or use the cursed things to wipe away her tears of hurt and rage and find some other way to succeed.

  That was when they’d dreamt up the first pseudonym. “Lady Isabelle” would never be taken seriously, but “Mr. Brough” was a reasonably skilled recluse, whose housemaid handled his transactions for him. Belle insisted Ursula keep Mr. Brough’s nominal earnings as compensation for her role in the ruse, though she wasn’t certain Ursula had spent so much as a penny. Neither of them wanted for anything.

  At least, not for coin. Belle had never managed to spend all of her monthly pin money when her father was alive, and when her brother inherited, his first act had been to double everyone’s wages, including the pin money that Belle and her mother received. Without Father’s gambling expenditures, the dukedom was flusher than ever. He could afford to spoil everyone rotten.

  Mother was happy, the staff were happy, Belle was... restless. Painting hot air balloon bills for Vauxhall Gardens and advertisements for Astley’s Circus helped to fill some of her time.

  That was, when she wasn’t attending endless Society events and minding her impeccable reputation. As much as Belle chafed at the constraints of the beau monde, it was the world she’d been born into. A flawless reputation was a young lady’s greatest currency, and the one thing over which she had any control at all.

  Whatever dubious value Belle ascribed to achieving other people’s idea of “perfect,” she would play the game to prove to herself that at least she was competent in that much. She couldn’t lose her standing in the one place she actually belonged.

  A knock sounded on the door. Belle nearly dropped her paintbrush in relief. She pushed the easel aside to make room for the bath and hurried to open the door.

  It was not the maid from last night. It was a trio of footmen who looked barely old enough to shave. Though the lads’ movements were in graceful synchronicity, they were clearly in a hurry to be on to the next task.

  “Er...” She stepped back as they carried in the bath and filled it with steaming water. “Will the maid be here soon?”

  One of the footmen jerked his head up. “What maid?”

  “The one that helps with the bath?”

  “We just helped,” he pointed out. “Ring the bell when you’re finished, and we’ll retrieve it.”

  “But the maid from last night,” she tried again. Oh, why hadn’t she asked for the girl’s name? “Is she still in attendance?”

  “Sally?” He shook his head. “She’s in the sickroom with the others. Dorothea seems to be improving, but the doctor says it could be days yet before any of the invalids rise from their beds.”

  “Days?” Belle repeated, aghast.

  Poor Ursula. She would not have a stroll in the square this afternoon after all.

  “Days,” the lad repeated. “Not that they’d be going anywhere anyway, what with the snowstorm and all. Mrs. Price says we might not shovel ourselves out of here until the end of the week.”

  “Snowstorm?” she echoed faintly.

  “Waist high by now, I reckon, with no sign of slowing. Not that there’s a soul to spare for the shoveling. With so many maids ill with influenza, we’re having to clean on top of our regular duties.”

  “Duties we ain’t doing, George, with you standing about jawing,” another lad pointed out dryly. “We got eight more baths to deliver, don’t we? Come on, then.”

  “Anything else, madam?” asked the third, before all three lads disappeared into the corridor.

  Belle’s cheeks flamed, but she shook her head.

  She could not possibly ask some strange footman to unbutton her blasted gown. A rumor like that would attract all the wrong attention. Nor had she any intention of sending away a fresh hot bath. She would find some way to get into it.

  But how? She cast her gaze about the small chamber with increasing desperation. Three trunks overstuffed with her most fashionable gowns, none of which could be maneuvered without Ursula’s aid, and one trunk of art supplies. Not a single thing that could help in these circumstances.

  She leaned over the tub and let the steam caress her face. Was this it? Her secret daydream of one day becoming a wealthy independent spinster ruined forever because she couldn’t even get out of her own dress to take a bath?

  Her eyes flicked to the wall she shared with Mr. McAlistair.

  No. She couldn’t. Could she? Impossible. Scandalous. Even for a make-believe widow. Wasn’t it?

  She bit her lip. No one would know. Who would he tell? He didn’t even know her real name.

  Besides, he seemed... genuine. He might look like a dashing, dissolute rake, but hadn’t attempted to manhandle her last night when he’d first surmised her predicament. When she’d said no, he’d respected her decision, shrugged at her obvious folly, and disappeared back into his room.

  He must be in his room, mustn’t he? Or at least in the posting house. If the snow was too high for servants to leave, Mr. McAlistair wouldn’t have been able to ride off to wherever he intended to go after this.

  Whatever she was going to do, she had to do it soon. The bath was hot now, but it would not stay so forever.

  It was just a row of buttons. She would survive this.

  She sucked in a fortifying breath and marched next door to knock before she lost her nerve.

  Gooseflesh crept up her clammy skin. This was a terrible idea. This was what happened when Belle thought she could think. Her pulse sped with mortification. What if he was downstairs in the dining room and the other guests peeked into the corridor and saw her like this, in yesterday’s dress with he
r hair wild from the pillow?

  She knocked before she lost her nerve.

  His door swung open.

  “Mrs. Lépine.” The words were even and calm, as though half-hysterical women knocking on one’s door at dawn was a perfectly normal occurrence.

  Dear God, it was dawn.

  “I’m sorry,” she babbled. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

  “You didn’t.”

  Of course she hadn’t. Now that she looked at him properly, he was dressed and coiffed to perfection. If a Renaissance painting and a French fashion plate could bear offspring, it would look exactly like Mr. McAlistair. Nobody woke up this distractingly attractive.

  All of which caused the words to tangle in her throat. She’d wanted him to be impressed by her, not to pity her, yet here she was, a wild-eyed wilder-haired dandelion puff, on the verge of shattering into a thousand fluffy clocks from the tiniest breath of air.

  He crossed his well-tailored arms and leaned against the doorjamb. “May I help you?”

  Chapter 5

  “May I help you?” Calvin arched his brows.

  Perhaps Mrs. Lépine had nothing better to do this morning than stand in the corridor staring at him, but the scant time remaining before his presentation was becoming more precious by the hour.

  He presumed Mrs. Lépine was at sixes and sevens because the silk-wrapped button closures down her spine could not unfasten themselves. But the same had been true last night, when she’d refused his help the first time.

  They’d shared a lovely meal—the loveliest Calvin could recall having shared with anyone—and then suddenly Mrs. Lépine was no longer the friendly, open, teasing, happy woman she had been until the end of the pie. He could almost see her close up, her eyes looking away, her smile disappearing, her eagerness to be away from him, and her horror at discovering their guest rooms were on the same floor.

  As someone who had been dreadful at social encounters for every one of his nine-and-twenty years, one might suppose Calvin had garnered some wisdom as to just what exactly had gone awry.

  One would be wrong.

  He had no data to parse because he had decided long ago that being a taciturn recluse was far better than continually risking rejection only to garner disappointment and embarrassment in return. He didn’t need anyone else. He was perfectly fine just as he was.

  And he did not have time for beautiful, hazel-eyed distractions.

  “I know you don’t want my help,” he said with a sigh. “But it would be a shame to cause accidental damage to yourself or your dress trying to unbutton it on your own.”

  Not that she could. The olive bombazine had a capital silk warp with fine worsted weft, the craftsmanship exceptional. No one could remove it without help. Or without destroying the gown, which would be the greater tragedy. One rarely saw such artisanship in the flawless seams and exquisite detailing.

  “Not in the hallway,” Mrs. Lépine blurted out.

  He stepped aside from his doorway.

  She paled. “Not in your room.”

  He stepped forward.

  “You can’t come into my room,” she stammered.

  He stopped moving altogether. He did not know what she expected him to do, and was annoyed with himself for trying to fathom it out. She didn’t want his company. She needed a favor. And she was making it bloody difficult to do that much.

  In Mrs. Lépine’s defense, she seemed just as flummoxed as he was.

  “All right,” she said at last. “I’ll stand just inside my threshold, and you stand just outside. Then I won’t be exposed to passers-by, and nor will I have invited a man into my room.”

  Ah. Of course. How had Calvin managed to forget Mr. Lépine?

  Strangers enjoying a polite meal witnessed by three dozen chaperones was one thing. Allowing that stranger—rather than one’s husband—to unbutton one’s gown in the corridor of a posting house... Poor Mrs. Lépine had every reason to be prickly.

  “I understand,” he said gruffly.

  She flashed him a grateful smile and hastened to her chamber, positioning herself just inside the open doorway with her stiff shoulders facing Calvin.

  He stepped up behind her, staying as far back as possible whilst still being able to reach the fastenings of her gown.

  “There are eight buttons,” he murmured.

  She nodded. “Thank you.”

  He took a deep breath. Mrs. Lépine appeared to be holding hers. They could endure this. What were eight tiny buttons?

  He brought his fingers to the first silk-wrapped pearl just beneath her nape and brushed a few stray mahogany tendrils to one side. She shivered.

  As carefully as he could, Calvin released the first button. There. One unfastened. Only seven to go.

  He lowered his fingers to the next button. “Will your husband be arriving soon?”

  “What husband?”

  “Mister... Lépine?”

  “Oh.” She let out a little self-conscious laugh. “He shall not. I am a widow.”

  Calvin’s fingers froze at the second button.

  A widow.

  Not a married lady.

  A widow clothed in bright olive, not the black of mourning or the gray of half-mourning. Mr. Lépine had been gone for well over a year, perhaps even many years.

  Long enough for his widow to respond, What husband?

  Calvin swallowed hard. He did not know what to do with this information.

  Nothing. He would do nothing. He would unbutton seven more silk buttons and walk away, just as he’d intended. Just because Mrs. Lépine had no Mr. Lépine did not mean Calvin did not have life-altering responsibilities to attend to, far away from his pretty neighbor.

  Seven more buttons and he was gone.

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” he murmured, and unclasped the second button.

  Did she just lean into his touch?

  His fingers shook as he unfastened the third button. More of her soft skin was now exposed. He tried not to notice.

  When the fourth button unhooked, the ruffled tip of a chemise brushed against his fingers. Calvin’s throat tightened. This felt less like a favor and more like a seduction with every newly exposed inch.

  He was used to undressing people in his mind. It was a requirement of his profession. He needed to be able to see through their clothes, imagine them without, with something better.

  But this wasn’t his imagination. This was the curve of her spine, the texture of her skin, the flirty ruffle of a translucent chemise. He didn’t have to imagine something better. He wasn’t even certain he could.

  “Next button,” he rasped.

  What number was this? Five. Don’t look at her skin, look over her shoulder instead. No. Bad idea. Now he was looking at a bathtub, filled high with still-steaming water.

  He was absolutely not to imagine a naked Mrs. Lépine reclining luxuriously in a pool of warm soapy water.

  Five, six, seven, eight! Calvin’s fingers flew down her spine, releasing each button as fast as his shaking fingers allowed. The sides of her gown flapped open, revealing delicate skin, more than he should ever see of her chemise, and the reinforced hem of the top of her whalebone stays.

  “There,” he said, or maybe panted, or perhaps he just thought the word.

  He leapt back and to one side, out of view of the waiting bath.

  She turned to face him. “Thank you.”

  “It’s always a pleasure,” he croaked, and immediately regretted it.

  Not always. Never. He was locking himself in his chamber and refusing to answer his door until he completed his project.

  “When I’m finished with my...” Her cheeks flushed a becoming pink. She pressed a hand to her bodice to keep the unfettered neckline from falling open, and bit her lip. “When I’m dressed in a fresh gown, would you help me fasten it?”

  No. He was very busy. She would just have to... sit right next door in a state of half-dress, while he attempted not to think about her.

  “All
right.” What choice did he have? But he would not let her know how she affected him. “Knock hard. I don’t hear distractions when I am working.”

  Was that too harsh? Was it not grumpy enough?

  “I understand.” She closed her door quickly, but not fast enough to obscure her whispered, “Thank you.”

  He marched directly to his room and locked the door.

  Work. He was here to work. The knowledge that Mrs. Lépine was disrobing next door in order to slide into a warm, sudsy bath made absolutely no difference to him.

  So what if there was no husband to consider?

  Calvin was uninterested in the role. In any role. He avoided other people whenever possible, and had no intention of changing. If he were to take a wife one day, it would be another solitudinarian like him. Someone with her own interests, who would not bother him, nor wish him to bother her. Save for shared nights in each other’s arms, they would not be in each other’s way at all.

  If he ever found such a fellow hermit. Most women were social creatures who expected friends, family, parties and small talk with strangers. Calvin couldn’t think of a worse hell. Why ruin both their lives? Such a woman would be disappointed to be his wife. Angry, resentful.

  Calvin didn’t want to have to upend his life to fit someone else’s idea of the ideal husband. Such interactions gave him hives. He was happier on his own. He liked solitude. He wanted to keep it. He was never bored by himself. There was far too much work to do to have time for loneliness.

  He would answer Mrs. Lépine’s knock and button up her new dress, and that would be that. She could find someone else to play handmaid. Calvin had an empire to build.

  He strode deeper into his suite, passing the closed door to his bedchamber and instead entering the small sitting room he had converted into his base of operations.

  A single sofa lay against one wall. Calvin had dragged the two semi-matching wooden chairs to the opposite wall, where they were barely visible beneath piles of rich fabrics. Between the chairs was a small fireplace, before which he kept absolutely nothing. He could not risk a single spark marring any of his hard work.