The Dressmaker's Duke

by Jess Russell

  “The Campbells, Your Grace.” Rhys stood with poor Matthew’s shirt fisted in his hands. From the expression on the boy’s face, he must look like the Devil incarnate. He made himself let go, took a step back, and swiped the spittle from his face. When he went to straighten the boy’s collar, Matthew flinched. Rhys froze.

  “Forgive me, Matty.” He turned to go and realized he still held the watch. Turning back, he gestured for the boy’s hand. Matty looked at the head groom who nodded, and he tentatively held out his hand. Rhys gently pressed the heart into it. He wanted to say something about taking care of it, but the words locked in his throat.

  As he made for the house, the ducal mantle crashed back down on his shoulders and he stumbled. He could not go back; he must brave the future alone, without his heart.

  “I am sorry, my boy, so very sorry. But it could not be helped.” He would not look at Uncle Bert. So his uncle continued, “It has simply gone too far. The papers continue to stir the pot of gossip, of course. But when Lady Campbell wrote that Miss Arabella was in despair and felt almost compromised, I knew what must be done.”

  Compromised? He had hardly touched the girl!

  “I did not want to ambush you like this, but I saw your mind, lad, and I knew you would not be able to take the necessary step.” Rhys spared his uncle a glance; the man grimaced as if he were being made to swallow cod-liver oil. “You know your duty. In your heart, you know this is the only way forward. This Gooden woman might very well be dead, but do you want to run that risk? You would not want to lose Valmere to this blasted codicil or disgrace the title by ruining the Campbell girl.” His uncle paused but Rhys could not reply, his heart was too busy with the act of breaking.

  “Besides, we do not even know the first thing about Olivia Weston and believe me, I have tried. Eglantine will tell me nothing of her circumstances. That in itself is quite damning. Surely her silence on the matter cannot bode well for Mrs. Weston’s past?” Bertram compressed his lips. “However delightful, she is, unfortunately, unsuitable. It was well past time to contact the Campbells. It is expected. You have gone too far in securing their hopes.”

  His uncle’s words felt like a battering ram, hammering away at Rhys’s new and fragile world, till it lay smashed in pieces at his feet. He had no defense. He remained frozen to the ground, taking the hits.

  Bertram’s voice softened. “You must have known it was impossible, lad.”

  The sound of pity penetrated worse than any blow.

  “And what of Lady Wiggins?” His voice sounded like a rusty saw. “What do you really know of her past?” Rhys could not stop himself. He felt like a jealous child who wanted to smash a playfellow’s favorite toy since he was being denied his own.

  His uncle’s eyebrows rose. “Eglantine? What has she to do with this?”

  “Nothing.” His mask went up, blocking the pain gathered in his throat—in his heart. “Your pardon, Uncle, I am not myself these days. I will see them at dinner.” Rhys bowed and left the room.

  ****

  Olivia found Egg having tea in the garden. She dropped a kiss on her head and collapsed into the chair opposite.

  “Is the tea still hot, or should I fetch another pot?” Egg did not answer immediately; she seemed wholly occupied with arranging cubes of sugar.

  “Egglet?”

  “My dear—” Egg started and paused.

  “Yes?” said Olivia, forgetting about the tea.

  “My dear, the duke’s guests have arrived,” Egg finished, her voice full of unspoken sympathy.

  “Guests?” Olivia gripped the edge of the tea table. How could one simple word annihilate her hope in one shattering blow? She did not know how she managed, but she plastered a smile on her face. This was the beginning of the end.

  “Excuse me, Egg, dearest,” she said, her smile fixed in place, “I think the tea is cold. I—excuse me—” And she left the garden.

  But where to go? Where to take herself that would give any comfort? Where could she go to erase that word that doomed her happiness?

  The answer was nowhere.

  She found herself in a little-used parlor. It had never appealed to the women, being too dark and formal. The black and white checkered pattern of the marble floor blurred under a barrage of tears. She dashed them from her eyes.

  How could she be so stupid? She dug her fingernails into the soft flesh of her palms. She pressed them harder, wanting to punish herself for being so ridiculous. She always knew she was the expendable piece in this game. A mere pawn in the machinations of the ton. Roydan was, and always would be, king. She was a hopeless fool to even pretend to play the queen.

  It had all been a huge fairytale. Only her stupid heart did not seem to know it had all been a dream, for it was certainly breaking. But she did have one move left. She could cease to play.

  She would leave. After all, there was no formal contract between them. Surely she had fulfilled her obligation? Besides, he was about to marry. She must try and save what little she had left of her pride. And in the end, she supposed, she would be saving him as well. But she would not think of that now. That pain could be left for later. Much later. Besides, she had much to do.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Olivia could not get away that instant, as she had planned. She told herself she did not want to spoil Egg’s delight over the mask and her anticipation of dancing with Lord Bertram, who seemed as in love with her as she with him. A letter must be composed to leave for Egg. Her things must be packed. But honestly, her few things could be gathered in an instant. The note to Egg would be harder, but it could be done. And though Egg would be worried and heartbroken at Olivia’s disappearance, Eglantine Wiggins would survive.

  In truth, Olivia stayed for one reason. The real reason. The terrible creeping hope that he would still choose her. That he would renounce the world and its rules and choose her.

  Oh, how this awful hope pounded at her with every beat of her heart, every blink of her eyes, every breath she took. It was exhausting keeping this frail ember glowing. Better to stub it out, or drown it in a flood of tears, and be done with it. Yet she could not leave without seeing. She had to see the thing done. She had to have that picture to make hope finally die once and for all.

  Only a few more hours to wait, to hope. Tomorrow evening would come soon enough. The ball was to be a masked affair, which certainly helped with Olivia’s plans; no one would be able to tell if she was there or not.

  Thus far she had managed to dodge the duke, as she now began calling him, even in her private thoughts. She and Egg had been invited up to the mansion for dinner, but Olivia could not face the role she would have to play, that of quiet companion while Miss Campbell and the duke played the happy couple. Instead, she pled a headache and took a long walk knowing she would not encounter him.

  But after only an hour’s time, a heavy rain drove her back inside. She nearly missed the letter on the hall table in her haste to get out of her wet outer garments, but the bold “Mrs. Weston” stopped her dead. There was no mistaking the duke’s familiar hand. She ran into the parlor dreading yet, so foolishly, hoping to see him. She almost called his name.

  “Stop,” she said instead. “Stop.” As if the command could quell her thundering heart, or possibly dam the tears that streamed down her face, or even still her shaking hands.

  She was not thinking clearly. Of course he had sent Jonas or Albert; after all it would be the height of rudeness to leave his guests—his Arabella.

  Would he learn to love this woman? This woman who was so unlike herself. Would he learn to touch Arabella Campbell in the same way he touched her? Whisper his wicked thoughts into an ear framed in gold instead of black? Would they have a child?

  Only the clock striking ten made her pick herself up off the floor where she must have sunk she knew not how long ago. She stood before the narrow table, reaching out, feeling for the letter—like a coward, she could not look at that formal “Mrs. Weston” again—her fingers clos
ed around the smooth heavy paper. Before she could bring it to her lips, she ran into the parlor, threw it in the fire, and hurried back out into the wet night.

  ****

  Why did she not respond to him?

  Rhys had practically camped out at Sea Cottage for the past two days, but she never came. He ended by leaving another of his blasted notes. He had combed the coves and rocks, but she was never there. And Mrs. Wiggins gave him such dreadful looks on the four occasions he had been to the dower house, that he very much doubted she would tell him the truth, had Olivia even been within.

  Bone tired and at his wit’s end, he was almost looking forward to this damned charade of a betrothal and marriage so he could be with the woman he truly wanted, truly loved.

  But time was running out. Would she have him? Surely after all they had shared there was some small space for them. If only he could know her mind. But the damned woman was nowhere to be found.

  He was just closing the door to his study, another pointless note in his breast pocket, when he ran into something.

  “Oof”

  “Ohhhh!”

  He stood face to face, well, face to chest with Arabella Campbell.

  “Ah. Miss Campbell, have I injured you?”

  “Only my nose, Your Grace, but I dare say, with a few days, it will be right as rain.”

  Was that meant to be a joke? He could not actually be sure, she was frowning so.

  “I do beg your pardon. May I get Shields to fetch some ice? Or perhaps you would like to lie down?”

  The girl frowned even more. “No, Your Grace I would not like to lie down and no ice, I thank you.”

  Yet the girl stood mulishly in his path. Damned infernal females, always wanting a fellow to be some sort of clairvoyant. He switched tactics.

  “Are you and your parents settled? Are your rooms acceptable?”

  Miss Campbell replied with a tight, fixed smile, “Yes, Your Grace, we are quite settled, thank you. And our rooms are exceptional.” Said as if exceptional was on par with hideous. What did the chit want of him? And when could he escape?

  “I understand we have Lord Bertram to thank for our invitation.” Rhys had no rejoinder, so he raised an eyebrow instead. “I was wondering if you might want to show me the gardens?” Her mind was as slippery as a fish. “Or perhaps the dower house?”

  “The gardens…”

  “And the dower house, Your Grace?”

  The girl clearly had her ear to the ground, and it was patently obvious she did not wish to accompany him anywhere. They were both being played, forced into a conventional corner. He could not stand it. He had to get away. To save them both. He found and fiddled with his watch fob. His watch still lay in a drawer——he could not recall where. He glanced at the nearest window and then back to her. “You are well settled then?”

  She thrust her jaw at him, sniffed, and left him. He bowed to her retreating back.

  He felt for his watch again. Stupid. He had not checked the beach since this morning. Time was wasting. Lady Campbell’s voice brought him up short as it came through the partially open library door.

  “Roydan is too distracted. Believe me, all is not well.”

  Rhys wanted to move on—he was no eavesdropper—but he needed as much information as possible to make his way through these murky waters.

  “And don’t look at me like that, Kenneth, I know of what I speak,” Lady Campbell continued ominously.

  “Dismount, Gertrude.” Lord Campbell sounded as though he had been drinking. “There is no reason to get on your high horse.”

  “She is our only child, sir, our one chance at getting her well settled. This marriage must happen.”

  Rhys pinched the bridge of his nose; he hated to think of hurting anyone in this tangled mess.

  “Now settle, Gertie. I have made inquiries, and though Roydan’s staff is quite close-mouthed, I believe there is a woman”—a gasp, from Lady Campbell—“who is, shall we say, distracting the duke. She is however, unsuitable. We have nothing to fear.” There was quiet. “You will get your duchess or, by God, Roydan will see the back of my glove.”

  “Your Grace.”

  It was James. Rhys turned and moved to the hall entry door. James followed.

  “There has been an accident, Your Grace. It is young Mathew, from the stables.”

  ****

  “There you are, Eglantine.” Lord Bertram pushed his way into a thicket of wild brambles, and Olivia sank into the high back of her chair. “What are you doing in this tangle, Eglantine? I thought we had decided to let this section go for now.” Egg did not answer. His lordship tried to move forward. but his long drab coattails snagged on a branch of thorns and pinned him in his place. He twisted, trying to extricate the fabric from a particularly nasty thorn, but the rip was inevitable. “Damn!” he muttered and turned to assess the damage. “My dear won’t you come out of there so we can talk properly? I have the distinct notion you have been avoiding me.”

  “Nonsense, Lord Bertram.” Eglantine spared him one look and a freezing smile and turned back to her work.

  Oh dear, thought Olivia. My drama has spilled into Egg’s bliss. Lord Bertram snorted when he realized he had been demoted to “Lord.”

  “Please, Eglantine, you will be torn to pieces in that mess. Let me call one of the gardeners to at least remove the most lethal bits.”

  “I will be quite well on my own here,” Egg said, doing fierce battle with a stubborn root. “You don’t want to be neglecting your guests.” She gave a final yank and the root gave way. She held it up like a trophy before tossing it in with the other victims.

  Poor Lord Bertram, no olive branch in sight.

  Egg bent, prepared for yet another battle, and Olivia caught his lordship looking longingly at Eglantine’s rounded backside.

  Olivia wanted to reveal herself and tell him to retreat. She knew Egg and her moods, and he was not going to breach this one.

  “Very well, my dear, I will see you tomorrow evening. And remember, I have the first and the supper dance.” Egg’s only response was a grunt. His lordship “humphed” back—bless his heart—picked up his ruined coattails and took himself off.

  Olivia decided to do the same.

  She found herself on the beach. He had been there. His booted prints could still be seen in crazed patterns along the shore. But he had left. The maze of prints led up to a scuffle of horse hooves where they disappeared into the tall grasses.

  She turned back to the sea. She was no longer alone. A woman had come from behind the rocks. Who would be on the beach at this time of day? There were no other guests staying at the mansion other than the Campbells, and she knew from the shape of the woman it could not be Arabella Campbell. Olivia had no wish for company, so she turned to go before she was spied.

  “Mrs. Weston!” She was too late. “Ma’am, excuse me.” Olivia turned back and blinked, and blinked again, and then caught her breath. The woman half-running toward her could have easily been her sister.

  “I am sorry, I have startled you, and I’m sure you would have much rather I left you alone, but I could not. You see, I know—I know you and the… You must feel as hopeless as I.”

  “Who are you?” Olivia asked, still amazed at the likeness; even the woman’s red, raw-looking eyes must mirror her own.

  “Your pardon, ma’am, I am Daisy Taylor, Miss Arabella’s maid.”

  Uncanny as the likeness was, Olivia had no wish to speak about Arabella Campbell or the duke or anything, for that matter. Her next words came out in a great rush. “I am sorry I must leave you now. Lady Wiggins will be missing me, and I will be leaving quite soon to take another position. Good day.”

  A sob and the sound of a thud in the sand stopped her. Daisy Taylor lay in a pool of navy blue skirts, her head in her hands.

  Olivia sniffed hard and clenched her fists. Oh, to turn and run and never stop. But instead, she dropped to her knees.

  The poor woman immediately clung to her like a l
ife line. Murmuring nonsense words of comfort, her own tears slid down her cheeks and fell onto the dark head cradled to her breast. Unbidden, an answering sob tore from her throat. Horrified at the sound, Olivia tried to pull back, but Daisy Taylor raised her grief stricken face and oh so gently touched Olivia’s cheek.

  She should have been appalled to be seen thus in front of a virtual stranger. Maybe it was the coming full moon? Maybe it was that she could not confide in Egg? Or maybe it was seeing this younger version of herself, so much like the sister she never had? But that one kind touch released a floodgate of emotion. To hold another being and empty that emotion into their arms was enormous.

  Much later after they had used every inch of their handkerchiefs, Daisy looked out to the sea and shook her head.

  “You see, Mrs. Weston, my case is a hopeless as yours. In fact, far worse, if you can imagine.” She began crying again. “I will never even get a chance to mingle in company with my love. We are so very far apart in status.”

  Olivia asked who held her heart, but Daisy would not say. They had sworn to keep their love a secret. “Will your love be attending the ball?” Olivia asked, the beginning of a plan forming in her head.

  “Well, yes,” was all Daisy said.

  If she could not have her dream, then she would do her damnedest to make it happen for this lovely young woman. Yes, she would give Daisy one night of fantasy.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  “It is truly remarkable. I am told only the Dowager Countess of Asterly has sent her regrets,” Egg, stirred her tea. “And solely because the old woman, who is in her ninety-second year, had to be forcibly detained by her physician.”

  “Hunsford village has not a cone of sugar or an ounce of flour left within five miles, I vow,” said the housekeeper, Mrs. Fields. “I have never seen such a swarm of locusts, if you’ll pardon my saying so, my lady.”

  Egg laughed and leaned back in her chair. Olivia shifted from her place just outside the doorway to keep her friend in sight. But as she did, Egg’s gaze must have caught the slight movement and her laughter trickled away.