Secluded with the Rogue

Chapter 5

Five

“M ay 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.

Morning sun streamed through the large window on the final wall. Unlike the red bricks outside his bedroom window, this direction faced a sweeping panorama of snow-covered hills adorned with frost-tipped evergreens.

Calvin had only glanced through the pane once since his arrival. His interest did not lie in the out-of-doors, but rather the trunks of treasures he had arranged indoors. The best part about the window was not the view, but the influx of sunlight. He needed to take advantage of every hour of natural light possible.

He made his way to Duke, the tall, broad-shouldered wicker manikin modeling Calvin’s latest prototype. He couldn’t wait for Jonathan to see this one.

Jonathan MacLean was a clever business partner, a talented artist, and persuasive speaker. The gregarious Scot had not only convinced Calvin to agree to dedicating months of his life to this risky venture, but also captured the interest of a wealthy prospective sponsor, whose investment and influence would turn this project from a dream into reality.

Calvin grinned at Duke, and began adjusting the pins holding the lay figure’s raffish evening wear in place.

Despite the elegant wickerwork figure’s lordly title, the intended audience for Calvin’s designs was not aristocrats, but ordinary men like him. Dukes and earls already had their preferred tailors, some of them famous like Schweitzer and Davidson, who outfitted dandies like Brummel.

Calvin’s creations weren’t bespoke designs customized to the individual client, but rather sophisticated but accessible styles meant to be produced on a grand scale and sold as-was in clothiers well off Bond Street. One could enter a millinery shop in Yorkshire or perhaps a draper in Cornwall and rent or purchase marvelous, already tailored, full evening dress for the monthly ball in one’s local assembly rooms.

Or, if Jonathan were to be believed, he and Calvin would sell directly to customers all across the nation via seasonal catalogs, just as they now ordered books or seeds.

Men and women already thumbed through repositories such as Ackermann’s and La Belle Assemblée to gawk hungrily at the magnificent styles they could never afford. Why not give them something they could?

Pins protruded from the corner of his mouth as he adjusted the fit of the manikin’s waistcoat. Men were going to covet this style.

Calvin would create the designs and prototypes, Jonathan would sketch and color the advertisements. They’d employ local seamstresses and textile workers for the actual manufacturing, and the money would pour in like the tide. The “Fit for a Duke” line of men’s apparel would be as popular as bread and butter by springtime. Aspirational fashion at affordable prices.

Although a fundamental tenet of their operation was no custom orders , for the discerning client all was not lost. The hems were sewn generously enough that each item could be taken out or in, as the wearer’s body required. All material sumptuous, but sturdy.

If one did not have access to a tailor, perhaps one’s wife or sister or the aspiring gentleman himself could arrange his own alterations. If it were not as neatly done as Schweitzer and Davidson did, who would know? The wearer would not be rubbing shoulders with actual viscounts and marquesses. He’d merely look like he could, in the eyes of his compatriots.

It would be enough.

The appearance of wealth held almost as much power.

Calvin knew this magic firsthand. His impeccable attire was the armor that protected him since he was a child. The thought that others might need it too had been the spark behind this project. For years, it had remained a favorite dream, until he’d confessed the idea to Jonathan.

Jonathan had not only seen the potential at once, he’d also outlined a dozen ways to make it even better. Calvin wanted to create affordable, aspirational fashion? Let’s call the company Fit for a Duke , and present each offering as though it were a fashion plate. Calvin wanted to stay behind the curtain, perfecting the product but never speaking to prospective clients? Perfect! Jonathan loved meeting new people, and could sell hair combs to a bald man. They’d be off and running in no time at all.

Success was so close Calvin could smell it. His longest, dearest dream, mere weeks from coming true. All he had to do was survive a painfully awkward in-person meeting with a wealthy investor, whose contribution—if Calvin’s prototypes and Jonathan’s sample advertisements were compelling enough—would determine whether Fit for a Duke launched to the stars, or sputtered out like the last gasp of a candle.

It would be good enough, damn it all. Calvin was unwilling to accept otherwise. The talent was there. The costumes were gorgeous.

He set his shears atop a tall stack of Jonathan’s sketches. When they met in a couple of days to go over the latest prototypes, they’d choose the best sketches together. Jonathan would color each illustration to Calvin’s specifications and arrange them like a fashion repository, presenting it to the investor as their inaugural catalog. Every household in England would recognize their names and the distinctive lettering of Fit for a Duke .

All Calvin had to do was create a few more immaculate designs, get to the meeting on time, and not say or do anything awkward to cock up the investment opportunity. His future and Jonathan’s depended on everything going perfectly.

There was no room for even the tiniest mistake.