Secluded with the Rogue

Chapter 6

Six

B elle never imagined that looking presentable would one day be a daunting challenge.

The first steps were deceivingly easy. Bathing herself was nothing new, nor was sliding on a linen shift. But that was as far as she could go.

Once Mr. McAlistair had unfastened her buttons, she’d managed to step out of her dress and slowly, painstakingly, loosened her stays, with a lot of wiggling and her arms twisted uncomfortably behind her to tug at the lacing.

Putting it back on by herself? Impossible. She did possess short demi-stays that laced in the front, but those were only used at home in the hottest days of summer, so of course she had not packed them for a winter holiday in the northernmost corner of England.

Asking handsome Mr. McAlistair to kindly fasten a few buttons was scandalous enough. She could not possibly stroll into a corridor with an expensive gown draped over one arm to request that the guest in the chamber next door first lace up her stays.

But if she went without ... Belle gazed dubiously at her mint-striped sarcenet with its French ruff. Women needed their stays if there was to be any hope of the right silhouette. The boning didn’t nip in one’s midsection, but the ivory busk running down one’s torso ensured proper posture and separated one’s breasts, which were held improbably high by stiff, gravity-defying cotton half-cups. Without the stays to keep one’s bosom in place, the carefully tailored bodice would be a disorderly, bouncing mess.

“Then mess it is,” she muttered, as she slipped her day dress directly over her shift.

Without stays, her fashionable gown would look ill-tailored and unflattering. But she was Mrs. Lépine, not Lady Isabelle. Ill-tailored and unflattering was only a crime when one was the disappointing daughter of the Duchess of Nottingvale. An independent widow like Mrs. Lépine would not be bothered by something so trifling as a droopy bosom.

Besides, it wouldn’t be for long. Even before morning tea or breaking her fast, Belle planned to go straight to Ursula to see how she was feeling. With luck, Ursula was much improved, and life could return to normal. All the same, Belle would take the watercolor she’d painted for Ursula in the hope of bringing a bit of cheer.

Heaven knew, Belle needed something to lift her spirits. Now that she was semi-clothed in a shift with no stays and an unbuttoned morning gown gaping open at the shoulder blades, the next question was what to do with her hair.

Ursula had always been the one to tame it and arrange it. Belle gazed hopelessly at her hand mirror. She’d dried her hair with the towel as best she could, but her tiny chamber did not contain a fireplace to sit beside. She dragged a comb through her long locks, so at least they weren’t tangled, and then opened Ursula’s traveling case of coiffure accoutrements.

Hair combs, diadems, and tiaras floated in a sea of hairpins.

What the dickens was Belle meant to do with all of that? The posting house wasn’t a diadem or tiara sort of establishment. The diamond and pearl hair combs seemed equally out of place. The pins could secure any number of complicated interlocking braids or intricate twisting coiffures— if one had any notion how to do so.

Belle... did not.

With a sigh of frustration, she gathered all her hair in one big hunk, twisted it until it formed a knot, and then jabbed in pin after pin until the bun mostly stayed in place. It immediately listed to one side.

So much for her daydream of becoming a fashionable independent spinster. She’d been Mrs. Lépine for less than one day and was already a disaster. Her shoulders tightened. She closed the box of pins and strode to her door, then paused before her fingers touched the handle.

The only thing Belle hated more than feeling useless was for other people to think it about her, too. Yet the only way she could go downstairs to see Ursula was if she first ventured next door to beg Mr. McAlistair to button her dress.

She lifted her head high. A half dozen pins showered about her shoulders. Ignoring her increasingly lopsided hair, she pressed her lips together and marched out into the corridor to knock on Mr. McAlistair’s door.

It took him longer than expected to answer. When the door swung open, he stared at her without comprehension for a moment, as if he’d forgot who she was and what she needed him to do.

Or as if he were a busy man with important things to do that Belle had just interrupted.

“This is the last time,” she said in a rush. “I’m on my way downstairs to resolve this matter posthaste. If my lady’s maid is still unwell, I shall employ another at once.”

His brown eyes sharpened their focus. He took in her sagging hair, her sagging bosom, her sagging dress, and grimaced as if her crimes against fashion physically wounded him.

Her cheeks flamed with heat, but she held her ground.

“Turn around,” he said gruffly.

She turned around, her heart pounding. Although he was to button her up, rather than unlace her, the brush of his fingers against her spine felt even more decadent and sensual than before.

It wasn’t because she was attracted to Mr. McAlistair, she assured herself. This strange sensation was because she was missing a layer of protection. The thick cotton stays kept her torso immobile and her breasts molded in place.

It was the chill winter air in the drafty corridor that made her nipples pucker against the thin linen of her shift. It had nothing at all to do with the heat of Mr. McAlistair’s body or the brush of his calloused fingertips against the gooseflesh of her bare skin.

“Six buttons,” he said hoarsely. “This will go faster than last time.”

Yes. Belle had removed all two dozen gowns from their traveling trunks in order to select today’s dress based on the least number of buttons. It was an act of self-preservation. He hadn’t even started yet and her flesh shivered in anticipation.

He gathered the loose flaps of her gown to the nape of her neck. “Hold this.”

She reached up behind her neck to grab the twilled silk as requested, and instead accidentally caressed Mr. McAlistair’s fingers.

He froze.

She froze.

Now they were holding hands in the most awkward way possible, with one of her elbows jutting high in the air.

“I’m so sorry.” She let go at once and tried not to melt into a puddle of mortification.

“No, it’s...” His free hand closed about her trembling one and guided her fingers back to the finely ribbed sarcenet. “Right there. I’ll start at the bottom and be through in a trice.”

She nodded, not trusting her ability to be coherent.

As before, Mr. McAlistair comported himself with the cool detachment of a total gentleman.

But he was not a gentleman. Despite his handsome face and impeccable attire, he had never been anywhere near Belle’s social circles, or she would have heard his name before now. Clothes could lie. Look at her—she doubted her current state gave anyone the impression of a woman who was secretly a duke’s daughter.

She didn’t even seem like a marginally independent widow.

His hand covered hers lightly. “You can let go now.”

She dropped her arm to her side. Probably her forearm should ache from having twisted at such an odd angle for so long, but all Belle could feel was the phantom sensation of Mr. McAlistair’s warm hand gliding over hers.

“There.” His soft breath tickled a stray hair at her nape. “All buttoned.”

“Thank you,” she said without turning around, and ran down the corridor to the stairs in the most embarrassingly unladylike manner possible.

Naturally, once she’d reached the second floor, she remembered she’d forgot the painting for Ursula, which meant Belle was forced to creep back up the stairs to her guest chamber and pray Mr. McAlistair was no longer in the corridor to witness her folly.

He was not. He was busy . He had more important things to do than stand about thinking about a disheveled widow with drooping everything.

Painting in hand, she made her way back down the stairs toward the bar where she’d last seen the proprietress. Mrs. Price was not present, but due to the early hour, few guests were in the dining room, and the serving girl from the night before was able to greet Belle in short order.

“Sit at any empty table.”

“I don’t want breakfast.” A loud rumble from Belle’s stomach gave lie to her words. The kitchen’s intoxicating scents nearly made her dizzy. “I’d like to see Ursula. Can you show me to the sickroom?”

“Absolutely not.” The serving girl turned away.

Belle’s mouth fell open. Had she just been dismissed? By a servant?

“You’re Mrs. Lépine,” she muttered to herself. “Mrs. Lépine enjoys being cut by serving maids. It’s a hobby.”

The girl glanced over her shoulder. “Did you say something?”

“Yes.” Belle folded her hands. “Can you please tell me how Ursula is coming along and when I might see her?”

The girl’s gaze softened with empathy. “She’s over the worst of the symptoms. Because so many maids have fallen ill, Mrs. Price has forbidden all visits to the sickroom. That includes you, madam. There’s no sense you taking ill, too. The influenza will pass in a few days.”

“A few days? ” Her stomach bottomed.

The serving girl laughed lightly. “Oh, it’s not so bad. With the weather we’ve got, no one’s going anywhere for at least that long, anyway.”

“Is there...” Her pulse fluttered in panic. “Is there someone I might employ temporarily in the meantime?”

The girl’s eyebrows shot up with wry amusement. “If there was, Mrs. Price would have already employed her. Half of our maids are in the sickroom. You’d best take your meals down here, because there won’t be anyone to carry trays up and down the stairs.”

Belle sat down hard in the closest chair. No Ursula. No maid. No friend.

She was on her own.

“Tea or coffee?” the serving girl asked.

Neither.

“Do you have chocolate?” Belle asked hopefully.

The serving girl stared back at her flatly.

“Coffee,” Belle said in defeat. “With milk and?—”

“I’ll bring you a plate.”

Belle rubbed her temples. This was nothing like home. Lack of her ritual morning chocolate was the least of her concerns.

She’d never been alone before. Not properly. Ursula was always there at home, as well as dozens of other servants Belle had known since she was a child. Sometimes she took her easel outside to paint, but even that was done in busy places, surrounded by a crowd.

Most often, she went wherever her mother insisted. Teas, balls, gardens, theatre. Almack’s on Wednesdays, Gunter’s on Saturdays. It was the opposite of being alone. It was suffocating.

That was why Belle had so looked forward to spending a relaxing week with her friend Angelica prior to the start of her brother’s Yuletide party. Angelica had loads of friends and family, but Belle wasn’t required to put in an appearance at any given activity.

She could paint while Angelica worked in her jewelry shop, and then they could enjoy one of Cressmouth’s many Christmas festivities or spend a lazy evening in Angelica’s parlor, reading novels and drinking wine before the fire. She had counted on that week to restore her equilibrium before the obligatory whirl of Vale’s party.

How Belle missed Ursula! Being snowbound in a posting house wouldn’t be half so bad with a friend to talk to.

Belle’s dream of independence was rapidly revealing itself to be a nightmare.

“Coffee.” A tin pot and chipped cup appeared in front of Belle, along with a dram of milk and a plate of fruit, cheese, and toasted bread. “Your breakfast.”

“ Wait .” Before the serving girl could turn to go, Belle handed her the watercolor she’d painted. “Could you please see this is given to Ursula?”

The girl’s eyes widened when she saw the paper contained nothing but a brick wall.

Belle’s cheeks heated. “It’s?—”

“The third floor. The bit between rooms eighteen and nineteen.” Impressed, the serving girl looked Belle over with renewed interest. She jabbed a finger at the paper. “I’m the reason those bricks chipped like that. Back then, me and Esther cleaned the guest rooms. One morning I leaned out of the window to?—”

“Mildred!” called a male voice from the kitchen. “Does tea deliver itself now?”

“Hold your wool, Ezekiel,” Mildred called back. “Wait ’til you see this!”

Mildred ran toward the kitchen, Belle’s watercolor in her hand.

She added milk to her coffee. It was difficult not to find it bittersweet that the first stranger to react positively to Belle’s art was a serving maid reminiscing over a brick wall.

Belle’s other dream, the one even closer to her heart than being an independent spinster—and just as unlikely an outcome—was to gather her favorite paintings together in a book. She’d been working on it for ages. It had gone through so many drafts that she would have more than enough content for an entire series of picture books: Cressmouth at Christmas, Bath in springtime, High Season in London.

The possibilities were endless.

The cost of publication was no object. She could publish a new collection every month if she pleased. The problem was... would it please anyone else?

Her work had already been rejected by every fashion repository or playbill designer in England. That was what had given birth to “Mr. Brough.” If no one took Lady Isabelle seriously enough to let her paint an advert for a juggling clown, who on earth would wish to spend money purchasing an entire book of her paintings?

“Mr. Brough” could do it, of course. No one would blink an eye.

They also wouldn’t know they were turning the pages of Belle’s baby. She’d been painting her whole life, and yearning for recognition for just as long. But she couldn’t bear being recognized as a national embarrassment.

Lady Isabelle, the coddled fool who thought she could paint.

Ursula had accused her of rarely allowing people close. Of Belle always keeping an easel or a pseudonym between herself and anyone who could hurt her.

Ursula wasn’t wrong. It was easier that way. Safer. Infamy wasn’t something Belle could ignore if she didn’t like it. No matter how much money rattled in her purse.

She had to mind her reputation at all costs.

It wasn’t just a matter of looking a certain way. Belle had to be a certain way.

Being the sort of lady a lord married was a currency far greater than gold. Society had certain expectations. Mother had even higher expectations. The longer Belle took to marry well, the more unsuccessful she looked in the eyes of her peers, and the more scathing her mother’s lectures became.

How was Belle not a countess already? A duchess in her own right? A princess? She’d been bred for this like a blood-lined horse, for God’s sake. If a common filly could do as it was trained, why couldn’t Belle? From the moment she’d failed to be born a male, marrying well had been her raison d’être . When would she cease being a disappointment to her poor mother?

Belle shoved her empty breakfast plate away. Mother wasn’t even here to scold her, and Belle could still hear every word.

She pushed to her feet. Mother needn’t worry. Belle was slow, but she was dutiful. She would follow the path she’d been given and make her family proud.

It was why she was attending Vale’s Yuletide party, rather than simply visiting Angelica. Her brother wouldn’t be the only unwed lord in attendance. Perhaps in a less populated, relaxed, and friendly atmosphere like Cressmouth, Belle and some charming earl-marquess-prince would fall in love at first sight.

No, there she went again, being fanciful. Thinking , when she should not. How many times had Mother told her “love” was the chain binding the lower classes?

Duchesses didn’t need love .

Countesses didn’t need love.

Marchionesses didn’t need love .

They needed a powerful husband with deep coffers. They needed an army of servants and countless acres of land and so many residences it was impossible to visit them all in a year. They needed to glare down their noses at Society with their heads held high because they were better than everyone else, and everyone knew it.

If Belle wanted to make her mother proud, she needed to stalk the Marriage Mart like a hunter. One didn’t leave beauty be . One mounted its head on the wall in order to brag to all one’s friends.

But first, Belle needed to survive the next few days at the Hoot & Holly inn. Ursula was in the sickroom, along with half the other maids. The other staff did not have a moment to spare to deal with the sartorial whims of the widow Lépine. But Belle would still need to get in and out of her clothing.

Which left Mr. McAlistair.

He did not want to help her. He did not have time to help her. But he was all she had, and she was willing to pay handsomely for the favor.

He wasn’t anyone of high social consequence, or she would already know his name. He dressed well, but so did Beau Brummell, and which dandy spent the mornings in a dressing room with Prinny, despite bearing no title?

Just as tellingly, Mr. McAlistair had chosen to take his holiday here , in the Hoot & Holly posting house, rather than continuing on to the next town, where guests enjoyed the sumptuous luxury of Marlowe Castle.

If she paid him for his time, she would be performing a favor in return.

She would simply have to otherwise keep her distance. No matter how solitary it felt all alone in an empty room. No matter how warm Mr. McAlistair’s hands, or how sensuous his lips, or how broad and fit his shoulders were. Their dealings would be purely transactions. A few buttons for her, a few coins for him, then good-bye, au revoir , no further contact until the morrow.

It should be easy.

Even someone like Belle could manage that much.

She climbed the stairs to the third floor and bypassed her door to knock on his.

He answered the door with a shimmering hunk of golden cashmere over one shoulder and a sewing needle between his teeth.

Her eyes widened. She would get to the button agreement in a moment. First, she had to get to the bottom of... this .

“What are you doing?”

“Sewing.”

Obviously. Perhaps this was the best of all possible scenarios.

“I can sew,” she said quickly. “I can help you.”

His expression was flat. “No, you can’t.”

It should not have hurt, but it did. He hadn’t even seen the terrible destruction her embroidery had wrought upon innocent handkerchiefs, yet he could discern her ineptness just by looking at her.

“I can darn stockings,” she informed him hotly. “And attach buttons.”

He lifted a corner of the cashmere. “This isn’t a stocking.”

“What is it?”

The soft, rippling gold unfolded into a stunning waistcoat so beautiful it nearly hurt her eyes.

She gasped despite herself. “It’s exquisite.”

“I know.” He tossed it back over his shoulder without changing expression.

He was right, damn him. If Belle even touched that fabric, it would fall apart in her hands. The best thing she could do for that waistcoat was keep her clumsy fingers away from it.

“Where did you find the pattern?”

“Pattern?” He repeated the word as though he’d never heard of the concept.

She gestured at the delicate cashmere. “For the waistcoat.”

“Do you really want to know?”

No. She should not have asked. She should explain the button arrangement and then walk away. Flee, even. Secure her door with a key to keep her locked safely away from her impossibly handsome neighbor, with whom she would not spend a single second more time than absolutely necessary.

“Yes,” blurted her traitorous mouth. “I want to know.”

He gave a deep sigh as if he had feared that answer, then gallantly stepped aside. “Do come in.”