by Jess Russell
“My dear,” Acton wheezed, “my stays, could you loosen them just a trifle? I know you are eager as I for ‘wee’ Charlie to find his snug little bed.”
Daria squeezed her eyes shut. “Oh my, sir, you are a card. You well know there is naught that’s wee about dearest delectable Charlie,” she whispered in his grotty ear as she jerked at the tapes of his stays.
“Heh-heh.” His belly spilled forth, pooling over her as a sigh hissed from between his fleshy lips.
Daria reached down between her legs. Sweet Jezebel. She was dry. Dry as a bone. She felt for the edge of the table next to her bed and homed in on the small pot near the lamp. She had much rather minister to the old sot with her mouth and have it done with. But his lordship seemed to prefer the old-fashioned way. She quickly slathered the salve on her quim.
“Ah, it looks as if young Charles might need a little coaxing to find his way,” the old man said, shifting his considerable weight off her and back on the bed. “Do you think you could persuade him, my duck? He sometimes can be quite naughty.”
Daria bit her lip and wrapped her hand around his miserable pizzle. Hell, it would be a very long afternoon.
Damn Roydan for submitting her to these has-beens! She felt the beginnings of tears. Disastrous. She never cried. Tears, she had learnt at a very tender age, lead to nothing. All that messy emotion left you exposed, like a gutted fish. Daria Battersby would not go down without a fight. Actions were what were needed now—Not Actons! Plump partridge, indeed.
“Out!”
“What, my duck?”
“I said out!”
His lordship blinked. She pushed at his bulging belly and heaved him off. “Wee Charlie must find another place to rest his thoroughly limp head.”
By Jupiter, she would make that superior Monk beg to have her back.
Chapter Five
Rhys hadn’t needed to bestir himself by traveling to the Campbells in Dorset; the possibility of having an alliance with the great house of Roydan had brought the family scurrying from their country rustication and into the throng of the London season.
He stood in the doorway of the Campbell’s blue and gold withdrawing room as the butler announced him. All conversation stopped except for one poor man who must be hard of hearing. His partner gave him a swift elbow and after a shocked “I say!” he turned to see the commotion—or rather the absence of commotion.
“Your Grace.” An extremely tall woman sailed across the room towing a girl behind her. “I am Lady Campbell. We are so delighted you could join us.”
Rhys bowed. “Lady Campbell.”
“May I present my daughter, Arabella?”
The girl stepped around her mother’s skirts and Rhys’s first impression was the absurdity of this mother attached to this child. Rhys bowed and the girl performed her curtsey. As she rose, her plumed headdress brushed his nose. Rhys guessed the feathers were worn to make her appear at least a reasonable height. But other than her short stature and perhaps a rather silly gown, all ruffles and yards of fussy lace—definitely overkill on such a lush figure—Rhys conceded the Campbell’s only child was near perfect. Her eyes were bright china blue, her complexion flawless, her hair blonde, and when she smiled, a dimple appeared in her left cheek.
Rhys was used to astonished admiration from the female sex. He was not a vain man, but he knew, at least initially, his physical person inspired sighs and once even a swoon from the female population. However, he did not detect a flicker of interest from this girl beyond a tepid smile.
It might not be such a bad match. At least one of the perks of being a duke was that he was not required to do a lot of silly wooing. Rhys held no illusions of marital bliss and devoted companionship. He needed an heir and, he supposed, a spare to fulfill his duty. The girl certainly looked healthy enough, and though they did not seem to inspire lust in each other, they might rub on well enough. Perhaps they could get right on to the business of contracts?
Why then did he feel so bloody empty?
“I believe this is your first season, Miss Campbell?” he said, when they were finally seated next to each other in the dining room. He tried to concentrate on the girl through the beginnings of a sick headache.
“It is, Your Grace.” She met his eyes square on with nary a giggle.
“And only just seventeen, Your Grace.” His headache flared in his left temple. The mother. Again. Rhys pushed aside the turtle soup and turned politely to his hostess who fluttered her eyelashes. Was the woman attempting to flirt with him? “How I remember my own come out not so many years ago. And now, to have a full grown daughter…” She dribbled off, no doubt waiting for his gushing reply as to the impossibility of having an offspring so old.
He turned back to the daughter. “And do you have a favorite place in London?”
“The British Museum,” she said decisively. “But unfortunately I have been only once. I am far too occupied with dressmakers these days.”
Well, they had one thing in common.
“Arabella is to make her curtsey soon.” Rhys tried to ignore the harpy, but her daughter merely sighed and applied herself to her soup. Years of breeding won out, and he turned once again to her ladyship. “Too soon by half,” she continued. “We have engaged Madame Broussard for the gown. She came highly recommended by Lady Hepplewhit…”
Lady Campbell continued to fill his ear instead of her mouth.
He shifted, feeling for his watch under his napkin, as the footmen removed the soup. Rhys flipped it open. His death’s-head case—how fitting for this dinner—the domed ivory skull hinged open to reveal the watch’s face.
Presently, the Tompion Heart’s works were still strewn helter-skelter about his desk. He had made a total hash of his carefully ordered plan of reassembly. And to make matters worse, he had still not found the balance wheel that had fallen to the floor when she invaded his life.
Mrs. Weston. Seamstress. Modiste. Mantua-maker. Devil.
He snapped the watch shut. Two minutes since the last time he’d checked.
He had no other appointment.
Rhys resisted the urge to squeeze the bridge of his nose and instead took another sip of wine. A sea of nodding heads and smiling faces looked eagerly up from their dinners.
Why did he feel so separate from these people?
A plain, rather toothy girl, seated below the salt, gave Rhys a cow-eyed look and tittered. He considered the effort of raising an eyebrow, but Lady Campbell was there before him. At her slight cough, the chit darted her gaze to her hostess and then ducked her head to contemplate her partridge and extreme folly.
“My dear Roydan, won’t you try the aspic?” Her ladyship signaled to the footman who brought the dish between them. “It is an old family recipe. I am sure I have been asked, I know not how many times, to divulge the ingredients. However, I have never faltered in my resolve that it should stay within the family.” She gave him a covert look. When he did not partake, she took it upon herself to delve out a portion.
The mess lay quivering on his plate. The pink, glistening flesh pocked with whitish globs. Very much like Daria Battersby’s thighs.
“But I will give you a hint, it contains—”
Bile rose and Rhys gestured for more wine catching Uncle Bert’s gaze in the process.
“Lady Campbell,” Bert said, “I must ask what the spice is in the ragout of beef?” The woman thankfully turned to poor Uncle Bert.
Rhys took another swig of wine. Mercifully, Olivia Weston’s image easily replaced Daria’s. The dressmaker was nestled quite close to the forefront of his brain, like a brand. And if he was totally forthright, and he always tried to be, it was branded a good deal lower as well. Damn it!
His plan of yesterday had been a complete, unmitigated disaster.
He would drive by her shop. He would wait there until he saw her again. And then, upon seeing her, he would see she was nothing special, that there was nothing there to keep him tossing on the rack every night plagued by th
e notion he was missing a vital part of himself. She would be reduced to a mere seamstress. A seamstress well past her first flush of youth. He would be able to get on with things—his life, his marriage, and subsequent progeny. And most of all, Valmere would be saved.
But there he sat, huddled in his carriage like a besotted fool, drooling and breathless. Over a nobody!
And she had not been alone. She was with a man. A rather well-looking man, if one’s tastes tended to red-headed dandies.
Rhys’s teeth met and ground. Mrs. Weston might be a widow, but it did not necessarily follow she was also lonely.
He could still see her laughing. A doubled-over, arms-hugging-sides kind of laugh. The sound was brilliant sunshine, shattering the dullness surrounding her. She’d pushed the man in a teasing manner and deftly ducked as he tried to push back. Rhys yearned to be in that bright space of light—to be the one bathed in her joy, her animation.
He pressed his temple, willing logic to vanquish his rioting thoughts.
“Well, ladies,” Lady Campbell said, “I think we should leave these men to their port and talk of politics while we have our tea. If you will excuse us, gentlemen?” Footmen scrambled to assist the company. “You will not be too long, my lord?” she said to her husband. It was by no means a question.
Rhys returned to his seat and reached for the rounded bowl of the goblet that had been set in front of him. He declined the cigar.
What he wouldn’t give for a nice pipe with his old steward Mac, a good stout ale, and a well-aged peat fire. He took a swallow, hoping it would settle his stomach. It didn’t.
Dash it all, his watch case was open again. Closing his fist around it, he shifted in his seat and stretched his cramped legs. Heavy cigar smoke and talk of prison hulks wafted around him, both threatening to send him to the nearest chamber pot.
Thirteen minutes past eleven…
What was she doing now? Was she with the ginger-haired man? Was she laughing again? Teasing him? Kissing him? Tugging off his coat, her hands raking through his hair? Hair now turned from red to dark black—his hair, his lips…
Rhys was jerked from his reverie by the scraping of a chair and the servants bustling to assist the gentlemen.
“Shall we go in to the ladies, Roydan?” Lord Campbell’s face disappeared in the haze of smoke as he rose and stubbed out the nub of his cigar. The other gentlemen, following his cue, began to rise as well.
Rhys must have stood, along with everyone else. Lord Campbell, his expectant face wreathed in smoke, made Rhys’s stomach roil as sweat beaded his upper lip, his collar and cravat strangling him.
Damn it, he should never have paid Olivia Weston. Stupidly, he had given her the money in trade for some bloody peace. Ha! Far easier to make his clock work without a bloody balance wheel. Instead he had lost her, lost his money; hell, he didn’t even have the gowns he’d spent a small fortune on.
He needed air. Rhys could not face what awaited him in the drawing room—the ladies and the nauseating small talk that went with tea and courtship. It was too soon. It was all happening too soon.
He wanted to see her. His need speared through the haze like a window thrust open to the cool fresh wind. The pounding in his head stopped. Rhys had sudden clarity, but more importantly, he had another plan.
“Your pardon, Lord Campbell, gentlemen. I am afraid I must excuse myself. I am not feeling well.”
Lord Campbell’s expectant face crumpled. “Should I have a doctor called in, Roydan? Perhaps you only need some air or to lie down for a moment?” He started to signal to a nearby footman.
“No, no, I do not wish to disturb you or your guests. I am sure all I need is a quiet night of rest in my own bed.”
Uncle Bert moved to him. “You do look a bit pale, Roydan. I will see you home and rejoin the party.”
“No, Uncle. I insist you stay. It is nothing.” Rhys turned to Campbell. “If you will have my carriage called, I will be on my way.” His lordship looked rather pale himself. “Lord Campbell, will you please make my apologies to her ladyship and to Miss Campbell? It has been a delightful evening.”
He made his bows and strode out of the room, with perhaps a shade too much vigor, remembering Uncle Bert’s frown and pursed lips. Well, it could not be helped.
By God, he already felt lighter.
****
The shop bell jangled. Olivia jerked up. “Blast!” A perfect pearl of red oozed from her finger. She quickly stuck it in her mouth and sucked. Heavens, if any blood had gotten on the bodice, she would—well, she would start over, of course.
She squinted to see the clock—was it after eleven? Plague take it, Egg should be fast asleep, not risking her health to come and fetch Olivia to bed. There was nothing for it; Olivia would have to take Egg’s scolding.
“Yes, I know I am late, but you should not have come.” In truth, she was happy to be rescued from the infuriating scrap of silk and lace that simply refused to lie properly. She took a moment of pleasure as she jabbed pins into the dress. “Give me a moment to tidy up,” she called out, suddenly realizing she was bone tired, her eyes gravelly and burning. “You cannot know how eager I am to be in bed.”
Utter silence.
Olivia froze in the midst of throwing a cover over the dress.
“Egglet?”
Nothing.
She dumped the cover on the table and moved to the door, grabbing a lamp and the heavy fire poker that stood propped by the entryway. Surely Egg had turned the sign to Closed and locked the shop door in the vestibule before going above stairs? They would have a laugh when Olivia appeared ready to brain her dearest friend. Still, Olivia braced herself and walked through the doorway.
It was not Eglantine.
It was a he. And he was huge, his shadow looming over a good half of the shop’s ceiling. He was His Grace, the Duke of Roydan. She barely registered the sound of the poker as it struck the floor with a resounding thunk.
“I collect you were expecting someone else.”
Chapter Six
His voice curled around her.
Olivia blinked and remembered to breathe. “Your Grace—” And then her brain, along with her voice, failed her. A pity her eyes didn’t fail her as well, so extraordinary was the picture before her. This man, this personage, in her shop, so casually removing his gloves and hat, as if it were some drawing room in Mayfair in the middle of the day, instead of a dim shop tucked in an obscure corner of Cheapside well after eleven of the clock.
“Your Grace,” she tried again, “this is most unexpected.” He did not deign to answer. Well, to be fair, it was not strictly a question. She tried again. “Isn’t it rather late, Your Grace?”
“Is it? I hadn’t noticed.” He frowned, absently smoothing his gloves as he glanced about the shop, clearly irritated at something. He paced between a set of gilt chairs and the large cutting table, stopped, turned with military precision, and barked, “I assume you were expecting your lover?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Your lover, madam.”
Lover? What the dev—oh God, the “eager to be in bed” when she had thought he was Egg. She fought the creeping blush that was no doubt staining her hot cheeks, but lost the battle. He stood there like some sort of poised tiger—Blast!
The audacity of this man. He was waiting for her to give him an answer to her private affairs? Olivia drew herself up. She owed this man nothing. She was just about to tell him so when she thought of the bill he had settled—the monies that had saved the shop. His funds.
She took a breath and set the lamp down. “No, Your Grace. I have no lover. I had assumed you were my partner, Mrs. Eglantine Wiggins, returning for me.”
He stopped twisting his gloves, and his shoulders dropped the barest fraction. He turned away from her.
She watched his reflection in the darkened front window as he carefully smoothed and laid his mauled gloves in his beaver hat and then placed the articles with infinite care on the small table nest
led between twin chairs. He lightly brushed the satinwood scroll at the table’s edge with his long, now bare fingers as he slowly straightened.
“Ah,” he finally said, still facing the window.
“Yes, Your Grace.”
A pause.
“Egglet? An unfortunate name.”
“Yes, I suppose, Your Grace.” An impatient edge had crept into her voice. Well what could the man possibly want? And at this time of night?
Their reflected eyes caught in the window. One square pane held the picture of her pale face cast in a frown, while another showed his portrait of utter calm. She tried to smooth her brow to match his.
“I have come for the gowns,” he said.
Her frown slipped back into place, now even deeper. “The gowns?”
He turned, still implacable. “Yes, Mrs. Weston, the gowns I purchased from you five days ago.”
“But, Your Grace, they are no longer here.” She swallowed against the lump in her throat. “I thought you understood they are with Mrs. Battersby.”
“I understand no such thing. I purchased the gowns—five to be exact—and a number of other female fripperies. Those I will forgive, but the gowns, I must have. I have come to claim them.”
“Your Grace, I do not know what to say.” Surely he would be reasonable? “The gowns were delivered to Mrs. Battersby more than a month ago. You cannot expect me to retrieve them at this point.” She tried to make her words not sound like a question.
Oh God, he was going to demand his money back, and it was almost entirely gone. Used to pay debts, buy tea and candles, fabric and notions.
Damn the man! She prided herself on her calmness under fire. She was simply overtired, that was all. She must think. She must say the right combination of words so he would pick up his hat and gloves and leave and never return.
He fished his watch out of his waistcoat but never looked at it. “I see.”