Duchess by Design: The Gilded Age Girls Club

by Maya Rodale

  It didn’t escape her notice what the duke was really asking. She watched him, the shadows flickering over his face—those slanting cheekbones, that sensuous mouth, those blues now seeming black in the darkness—as he avoided looking at her. He wanted to know: was she that kind of woman?

  He could have his reasons. Jealousy—not that he had a right. Or perhaps he wanted to know if there was another way to come into funds, rather than wedding a woman he didn’t love. Either way, she would not answer with the truth because she had made a promise that she had every intention of upholding, even if it made Kingston think less of her.

  “Do you really wish to ask me that?”

  “No.” He turned to her, his expression imploring. “Please forgive me. And I hope you have forgiven me for getting you fired from that shop.”

  “I suppose you’ve made it up to me.”

  “You suppose?”

  “I’m just teasing you, English.”

  “I don’t think Miss Van Allen will tease me.”

  “She won’t. Because what you want in a wife is not compatible with a wife who would tease you.”

  “And what is that?”

  “Independence.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “If she is reliant upon you for fortune or status, she won’t risk your ire. If the security of your affection is in doubt, she won’t risk upsetting you.” The speech she had seen had opened Adeline’s eyes and was beginning to see how love, money, and marriage were all tangled up in ways that didn’t always lead to happy ever after.

  The duke lifted one brow. “So if I want to be teased and tormented I should marry you?”

  Marry you. Yes, please. What?! Her breath caught at her own thoughts. In order to conceal her feelings, she turned that hitch of breath into a dramatic sigh. “There you go with the proposals again.”

  “You think I’m teasing?”

  “Be careful, Duke. You never know, I might just accept. And you’re the sort to be honor bound to follow through.”

  She was teasing him again. What fun it was to watch his restraint crack so she might catch a glimpse of the real man beneath the title. She had a feeling those moments were as shocking and intriguing to him, too. While he might need an heiress, he really needed a woman like Adeline who would remind him not to take himself so seriously.

  To have a little fun. A little pleasure.

  Adeline watched as his eyes locked with hers and dropped to the swells of her breasts rising above her bodice, to linger for a second before lifting higher to settle on her lips. They had not yet kissed.

  And this moment was probably their last chance.

  Kingston had tried to be a gentleman. But the sound of satin and tulle rustling in the dark was its own kind of siren song. The way she bit her lip was its own kind of torture. To look at the mischievous glimmer in her eyes, to gaze at the swell of her breasts in that dress was to truly know yearning for the first time in his life.

  He knew, too, that this was the last possible moment that he would have to kiss her in this lifetime. Now that his penance had been paid, he would see Adeline no more and his pursuit of Miss Van Allen would begin in earnest. She would experience the full force of Kingston’s courtship. He would do whatever it took to woo her: more birdwatching in Central Park, waltzing in ballrooms and escorting her to Audubon Society functions, taking her for supper at Delmonico’s.

  But a part of his heart would always and forever belong to Adeline.

  “Adeline . . .” He said her name softly. It might have been a question.

  The carriage rolled on through the city streets. They were alone and enclosed in the shadows, save for the occasional flash of light from the streetlights they passed.

  “Hello, Duke,” she whispered in reply as she leaned forward. “I still don’t even know your name.”

  “My name is Brandon Alexander Fiennes, Duke of Kingston, Marquis of Westlake, Earl of Eastland, and Viscount of Blackwood . . . I have a few more lesser titles, too. Shall I go on?”

  “You should definitely stop talking.”

  He leaned forward to close the distance between them. “And?”

  “Kiss me.”

  He traced a line along the bodice of her gown where the sleek blue satin contrasted with her soft skin. Her sharp intake of breath was the sweetest, most seductive sound.

  “Kiss me before we lose the moment,” she whispered and her gaze locked with his.

  He touched his fingertips to just under her chin, tipping her face up to his.

  “Kiss me before it’s too late,” she whispered.

  And so, he kissed her.

  Because the lady told him to. Because he needed to. Because he couldn’t live the whole rest of his life without knowing how she tasted or knowing how her unimaginably soft lips felt against his own, or how a simple kiss could turn a man’s world upside down and inside out.

  This kiss, though. God. This kiss was hot, molten desire—he was hard and wanting and their lips had only just touched. When her lips parted, when their kiss deepened, when he really tasted her, Kingston knew he was in trouble. Her every touch and his every taste of her only made him want her more.

  More, his heart pounded.

  More, his cock begged.

  More, his brain demanded.

  And why not? asked the devil on his shoulder. There was no expectation that they should marry; she did not rely on him for anything; she had no chaperone and the night was still young, relatively speaking.

  The need to hold her as he kissed her was impossible to deny.

  So Kingston tugged her into his lap and she did not resist. She landed with a soft laugh and a swish of fabric. He was enveloped in satin and silk and woman and it was something like heaven.

  “This is a magnificent dress but it is not conducive to kissing in carriages.”

  “Tomorrow I shall design a gown for such an occasion.”

  Then she kissed him deeply and passionately and he was too drunk with the pleasure of her touch to think about how she could make a million of those dresses and he would never experience her in one of them. Ever. Forever.

  Instead, he kissed her.

  Instead, he held her.

  He explored the curve of her bare shoulder and moved his hand lower to the swells of her breasts. She moaned and arched her back as if to say yes, please, touch me like that. So he did, tugging the bodice down to free her gorgeous breasts so he could be the one to tease her, for once. This he did with his hands on her breasts, his mouth on her nipples, until she was moaning with pleasure and writhing against his hard cock.

  “Adeline . . .” he whispered as his hands moved to her legs, grasping the soft flesh of her thighs. “I want to touch you.”

  “Yes.”

  He found that sweet space between her legs, where she was already wet with wanting, and he began to touch her with slow, steady, deliberately torturous strokes.

  “Oh God,” she sighed as he intensified the pressure.

  “Just a duke, actually,” he murmured, teasing.

  Her soft laugh turned into another moan of pleasure as he dipped one finger inside her, moving in and out slowly, steadily increasing the pressure to match her quick, shallow breaths. He found the spot that made her throw her head back and moan and so he lavished his attentions there. She clutched the lapels of his coat like she was drowning. She moved with him. She kissed him. His cock was straining to be inside her. He kept on teasing and stroking and caressing and kissing her until she was writhing and crying out in pleasure.

  And he felt truly powerful for the first time.

  He had given her that pleasure. Not his title, not his legacy, not anything he’d been taught in school. This was a triumph that belonged to him alone.

  It was for the best that the carriage stopped.

  She collapsed against him, her breasts against his chest, arms around his neck and lips on his for a deep kiss. And he thought maybe.

  Maybe he didn’t care about his honor or ac
ting noble.

  Maybe he didn’t care about his duty to everyone.

  Maybe he wanted to selfishly indulge in the pleasure she offered now, or even forever.

  Maybe he didn’t want to be the man he was trying to be.

  And because of these thoughts of what if or perhaps, Kingston knew it was time to say goodbye to Adeline for good.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The mystery of the Duke of Kingston’s unidentified female companion—and even more important to many female readers, the name of her dressmaker—has been solved. This sensational dressmaker can be found at the House of Adeline on Nineteenth Street near the Ladies’ Mile.

  —The New York World

  Two weeks later

  The House of Adeline

  Their mad scheme had worked. Actually, unbelievably worked. After the name and address of her shop appeared in Jennie Jones’s newspaper column, the fashion-forward ladies of New York descended upon the shop in a mob of muffs and millinery. They clamored for evening gowns, asked for tea dresses and ordered walking dresses by the dozens. They all wanted dresses with pockets.

  Adeline was kept busy from morning to night, sketching different designs and adapting them to best fit each customer’s unique shape and needs. With Rose’s help, she oversaw an ever-growing staff of seamstresses whom she’d hired and trained to cut, fit, sew, and embroider. The business of the shop didn’t manage itself—Adeline was learning on the go and getting by with Rachel’s knack of numbers. Help from the more business-minded women of the Ladies of Liberty club proved to be invaluable.

  Adeline was living the dream and it was more demanding and fulfilling than she had ever dared to imagine. She was an independent mistress of her own burgeoning empire.

  There was no time to moon over the duke.

  Absolutely none.

  She scarcely had time to breathe.

  Yet she managed to think of Brandon—Kingston—constantly. As she rushed around the city, she wondered if she might walk right into him again. As she took a customer’s measurements, she smiled at the memory of the time she had taken his measure. She thought about him rather a lot for a woman who had repeatedly professed no interest in romantic entanglements, especially none in marriage.

  She still was not interested in marriage, per se. Intimacies with the duke, however, were another matter. As she fell asleep at night, she thought of him. She closed her eyes and relived that delicious experience from the carriage. She touched herself the way he had. She brought herself to a climax by imagining what would have happened had they not stopped.

  It was good. It was great.

  It was not enough. Her desire for Kingston—his kiss, his touch—seemed to be insatiable.

  Then it was morning and she was at her shop, full of women who wanted dresses that would get the duke’s attentions. They thought she had the secret.

  So there was no time to notice that weeks—weeks!—had passed without a word from him. No charming notes, no invitations, no strolling into the shop unexpectedly.

  Yes, she noticed his absence.

  Yes, she counted the days.

  Yes, she scolded herself for caring.

  It was a little thing, but she felt it keenly, like a straight pin accidentally left in a garment. Occasional and painful little pricks reminding her this isn’t finished.

  There was also no time to read the newspaper, which diligently detailed his whereabouts and with-whom-abouts with an earnest dedication that ought to have been reserved for actual wars.

  Not that Adeline knew about it. While her seamstresses avidly devoured the gossip columns, they also ensured that she knew nothing about the latest blow-by-blow reports of his courtship of Miss Van Allen.

  Until she did.

  It was a Wednesday.

  A Wednesday at half past three. The doldrums hour of the week, when nothing but work stretched before or behind. Adeline had a few minutes to prepare for the next appointment. It was Lady Hewitt, who had the unfortunate tendency to bring her husband, who had the lamentable habit of being a little too enthusiastic in his appreciation of seamstresses and dressmakers. As Lady Marion’s dress order progressed with increasing extravagance, it became more and more imperative that Adeline remain in the good graces of Lord Hewitt, keeper of the purse. So she kept her seamstresses out of the way and dealt with him, and his hands, herself.

  Adeline was not looking forward to the fitting.

  “Do we have the muslin ready for Lady Hewitt? She has an appointment in ten minutes and—”

  Adeline stopped short as she entered and saw her seamstresses not at their stations but huddled around a newspaper.

  Rose and Rachel were among them. They were joined by Lila and June, who had each suffered a bit of bad luck—a stint in the tombs, a stint on the street—but they could sew well and they were lovely company in the workroom. And Margaret, who was expecting. Adeline was glad to have their help, but also deeply proud to be able to offer them a decent wage for honorable work, especially since it was unlikely they would find employment elsewhere. She did not even want to think about what their alternatives were.

  But not one of them was helping now. They were all frozen, clutching an issue of The New York World.

  “What is it?” Adeline asked. “What is the news?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing interesting.”

  “Nothing newsworthy.”

  This Adeline found hard to believe, given that the headlines she glimpsed included the words Death, Bribery, Arrests and Poisoned by Cheese.

  “I feel stupider for having read it,” Rose said. “I implore you not to do the same.”

  Rose loved the newspapers and delighted in sharing choice bits aloud. For her to say this suggested that she was deliberately hiding something from Adeline.

  She reached out to grab the paper. “You’re hiding something from me.”

  Rachel snatched it first and held it behind her back.

  “Didn’t you say Lady Hewitt had an appointment?”

  “I hope she leaves her husband at home,” Lila muttered and no one disagreed.

  “Is it news about the shop?” Adeline asked. “Has someone written something bad? I got the feeling that Miss Delamere wasn’t completely happy with her gown. Has she said something disparaging?”

  “Always thinking of work. And dresses. And work,” Lila said.

  “I haven’t time for leisure,” Adeline replied. “You all know that. Now what is in that newspaper?”

  “Oh, it’s just something about the duke,” Rose said. “He’s really old news by now, isn’t he?”

  Ah. Yes. Of course.

  It was always all about the duke.

  And no, he was not old news.

  “Oh. How is he? Is he still tall, dark, handsome, and the most eligible bachelor in town?” Adeline quipped. She was determined not to care about him and if that was unmanageable, then she could at least not appear to care about him. So what if it had been two very long weeks since she last saw him?

  “As of this printing . . .” Rose said sheepishly.

  “As of this printing? What does that mean?”

  Adeline grabbed the paper. First she looked at the date—yesterday evening’s post. Then she started scanning. Blah blah blah potential war blah blah blah serial killer at large blah blah blah.

  Then she saw it:

  To the surprise of no one who has been following my reports, the duke of Kingston was spotted at Mr. Tiffany’s shop on Union Square. One doubts he was there to inquire about the purchase of a lamp. Those watching the courtship of the duke and Miss Van Allen expect his proposal of marriage to be imminent.

  Adeline stilled as she read it, keenly aware that her band of misfit seamstresses were all anxiously watching her to see how she would react. Would she fling patterns and half-made dresses in the air and storm about the room in a fit of despair? Collapse in a heap on the floor and sob her heart out?

  No. She would display not such theatrics.
>
  Even if she did feel her knees wobble.

  She had known from the minute she stumbled into his arms that they had no future together. And that was fine because she had no wish to surrender her independence to a husband or lover. She had known it when they walked in the park and kissed and took his measurements that witty banter and passionate kisses were all that they would share. She had known it when he was bringing her to heights of pleasure she’d never imagined.

  She had known and the knowledge had done nothing to soften the blow of this moment. The truth of it hit her hard and fast knocking the wind right out of her. She had fallen for him; one had to admit that now. She still desired him with a hot, intense longing that kept her up at night. And he was going to marry another woman, which would make him off-limits forever.

  Anything she might have been feeling right now—say, sadness, longing, regret, and all those heartache-y, might-have-been feelings—was her own fault because she had forgotten her rule.

  Men were a distraction.

  She was right. Miss Burnett was right. Madame Chalfont was right.

  None of this could be admitted to anyone, of course, especially her team of seamstresses, who were all holding their breath and waiting for her reaction.

  Adeline delicately set down the newspaper and said, “My felicitations to them both.”

  “Shall we send flowers or a card of congratulations?” Lila offered.

  Adeline didn’t think twice before replying, “Let’s not get carried away.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Mrs. Van Allen is already planning the wedding of her daughter to the Duke of Kingston. Can a proposal be far behind?

  —The New York World

  Later that afternoon

  The Fifth Avenue Hotel

  Though the duke’s sprawling suite had captivating views of the sun setting over Fifth Avenue and Madison Square Park, his attention—and Freddie’s—was fixed on the small, hard object between them.

  Kingston reached out to touch it tentatively, finding the surface smooth but firm under his fingertips. Then he moved to ensure that Freddie had a good, unobstructed view.