Secluded with the Rogue

Chapter 9

Nine

C alvin’s heart skipped when the knock sounded against his door. He leapt to his feet and bolted across the room to answer without delay.

Was it less than a fortnight ago when he had hated even the slightest interruption to his work? It felt like a different life. Belle was no interruption. She was the reason for the excited flutter in his stomach. Besides, Calvin had not been working. Could he remember a time when he had ever not been working?

He flung open the door and smiled as though it had been two years since last he’d seen her, rather than two interminable hours.

Her hazel eyes sparkled up at him. “Your room smells like chestnuts.”

“That’s because I’m roasting chestnuts.” He cocked an eyebrow. “Would you like some?”

“Hmm.” She touched a finger to the edge of his lapel. “You might have something I’d like.”

He pulled her into his arms and kissed her, swinging her into his guest chamber so he could kick the door closed with the heel of his leather shoe. The room smelt of chestnuts, but she smelt of soap and freshly washed hair, a combination that now haunted his dreams.

When he rang for his baths, he thought only of her. Whenever he unbuttoned her gown so she could slip back to her chamber before her bath arrived, he would sink back onto his sofa with his eyes closed tight and his face toward their shared wall, imagining he could feel the heat of the steamy water and the slippery softness of her soapy skin.

Just kisses, she had said, and of course she was right. Or maybe wrong. Her kisses were the reason he woke up every morning, and her kisses were also what would destroy him when they departed their separate ways.

He could not think of that, could not allow himself to imagine how the future would feel. If a simple wall the width of a man’s hand was an untenable barrier, how then was he meant to withstand miles between them, years dividing them, a lifetime of never meeting again?

Just kisses. Just kisses. He would repeat it to himself until it was true, until it was the only thing he wanted and the only thing that mattered.

Once the snow stopped, so too would this interlude. He would not be sad, but rather sated. He would have gorged himself on so many kisses that he would be positively drunk with them when he stumbled from the posting house and into the sunlight.

Like a drunkard’s thoughts, those wonderful memories would blur and fade, and before long, he wouldn’t even notice the miles and years between them. It would be a dream they had once shared together. A fine memory of a certain time and place. A bit of lace, sewn into his soul. Just a few kisses, nothing more.

He pulled his mouth away and pretended he had no difficulty breathing at all when he asked, “Chestnut?” as though there had been no interruption in their conversation. There hadn’t been.

Kisses could never interrupt. Kisses were the conversation.

She touched her fingertips to her lips as though she could still feel his kiss there and nodded faintly. “Yes, please.”

Belle held a leather portfolio in one hand, but drew no attention to it. Perhaps she was still deciding whether she was ready to show him whatever she carried inside. In the meantime, the least he could do was offer her a toasted treat.

He’d placed both chairs closer to the fireplace in anticipation of her visit, and now he offered her the more comfortable of the two. Had he known he would entertain a beautiful woman in his guest chamber, he would have packed more than one teacup and saucer, and a large pan for roasting chestnuts, rather than this small one that barely toasted enough for Calvin to snack on when he was alone.

They would simply have to be here all night, if that was what was necessary. Side by side before the fire, roasting small batches of chestnuts one handful at a time, letting them cool slightly before attempting to open the cracked shells in order to savor the hot, sweet morsels inside.

Belle grinned at him as she kicked off her slippers and curled into the chair, the tips of her stockinged toes peeking flirtatiously from beneath the flouncy vandyke hem of her gown.

Calvin had the fleeting thought that he would miss moments like this just as much as the kisses, but he pushed this aside and concentrated on his task by the fire. This was a holiday for both of them. A holiday from real life, to which they would both return soon enough. No sense allowing nettlesome reality to ruin the moment any sooner than necessary.

“Do you always pack chestnuts in your valise?” she teased.

“Not at all,” he informed her. “I pack dishes in my valise, and order a delivery of chestnuts once I reach my destination.”

Her eyes widened. “Was that what was in the parcel that first night?” She burst out laughing. “I should not have taken so long to work up the courage to knock.”

“That was your first night, not mine,” he reminded her, “so no, by then I had already received my order of chestnuts.” Technically, by then he had already received his second order of chestnuts. Had he but known there would be reason to ration them... “The parcel you saw was of blue superfine. I am still waiting on those special buttons.”

She accepted the teacup full of chestnuts. “Well, at least you got the important bit.”

He was inclined to agree, which was yet another surprise in a week of surprises. If the buttons had arrived but not the chestnuts, his final prototype would be finished, and he and Belle wouldn’t be having this cozy moment at all.

It was strange to think that all the things he had long preferred to do in solitude were even better enjoyed with Belle at his side.

“I admit,” she said, after licking her finger, “I hope the buttons arrive before I leave, because I am desperate to see the final costume completed. Every design you’ve shown me has impressed me even more than the last, so do not be surprised if I swoon into your manly embrace upon seeing it.”

“Everyone does,” he assured her. “I owe all of my musculature to the drudgery of endlessly catching those who swoon into my arms.”

If only it were so easy! Having the Duke of Nottingvale keel over in a dead faint from excessive exposure to high-end fashion would be the best of all outcomes.

He tried not to think about the worst. If the presentation went poorly, if Nottingvale rescinded his name and his likeness, or declined to invest in the project, there would be no second chance, no Ah, well, I suppose we must settle for some other young handsome duke willing to wager a good portion of his wealth on an unprecedented catalogue scheme directed at the population with the least fashion sense or extra coins for frivolous shopping.

Coming this far had been a fluke of good fortune and Calvin knew it. There would be no second chance. Not for him, not for Jonathan, and not for their grand idea. He had to make it work.

“Oh! I’ve been wondering.” Belle lowered her cup of chestnuts. “Do you have a name for your collection of couture?”

Calvin hesitated. No one but Jonathan MacLean and the Duke of Nottingvale knew any details about the secret project. The idea was to keep the cards to their collective chests and make a splash all at once.

But Belle wasn’t just anyone. She was the talented artist who painted the illustrations he and Jonathan would use in the presentation. At this point, she’d already seen all of the designs. She felt as though she were part of the team.

“‘Fit for a Duke,’” said Calvin, adopting a sophisticated accent and facial expression. “‘Finished tailoring available for rent or purchase.’”

“Fit for a Duke? ” she repeated. “A peer would never wear garments that aren’t bespoke.”

“That is why peers are not the audience,” he pointed out. “Non-aristocrats dream of being like aristocrats. Besides, ‘Fit for Common Man’ doesn’t have the same ring to it, does it?”

“True,” she said, “and clever. You’re right. Everyone aspires to rise to a higher social level, no matter where one finds oneself on the ladder.”

“I don’t. I like being an unknown tailor. It’s my costumes that I hope will become famous. The public deserves them.”

“And what do you deserve? Should you not gain recognition for your efforts in addition to financial compensation and the joy of sharing your work?”

He shrugged. “I don’t care what people think about me . I’m trying to improve how they see each other. I want to give them the means to feel confident and fashionable, even if they’re spending the evening at home with a book and a cat.”

Her brow furrowed. “You really wouldn’t wish to be a duke, if titles could be had for the mere wanting?”

“I don’t want to be anywhere near the beau monde,” he said with feeling. “Clothing aristocrats is the closest I’d ever wish to come. I enjoy dressing the part, but being forced to live it would be a nightmare.”

She made a face, but voiced no comment.

“Has waking up bon ton always been a favorite dream of yours?” he asked.

“No,” she said. “It hasn’t been that.”

He was happier than he had a right to be that she didn’t dream of becoming a lady. It was not something he could give her. Not something he could even pretend to want. He was awkward around others even when they didn’t expect much of him. Having to meet High Society standards would be impossible. A ballroom? He shuddered to think.

For months, he’d been dreading this journey to Cressmouth, whose pre-Yule population was lower than Vauxhall Gardens on a warm summer day. Cressmouth was not London, a fact which was very much in its favor. But during the festive season, the village nonetheless ballooned in size to accommodate visitors from all over England, from the common folk whom Calvin wished to clothe to Peers of the Realm, who barely acknowledged the existence of common folk like Calvin.

At least all he had to survive was a single Christmastide, and then he could return to the safety and comfort of his ordinary world.

Well, not the same world as before. If all went well, his new world would revolve around the implementation and launch of an exciting new business venture.

And if that went well... If the new company were popular and profitable and stable... Calvin would finally be able to consider making a few more changes to his world.

Belle caught his gaze and blushed. “You’re wondering what’s in my leather case.”

He had been thinking of something else entirely, but he was willing to take whatever she wished to share.

“All right.” She took a deep breath. “I’ll show you.”

She set her now empty teacup aside and pulled the portfolio onto her lap. It looked expensive and new, as though she had purchased it only that morning and was just now opening it for the first time.

Inside was a thick stack of watercolors that didn’t look new at all. Some of the papers were crisp, whilst the edges of others had softened with age.

She hesitated for a long moment, then shoved the whole onto Calvin’s lap without meeting his eyes. “These are less fanciful than the ones for Ursula.”

That was not the only difference. While the other paintings had been whimsical juxtapositions of the latest couture in all the wrong settings, these watercolors seemed to have nothing to do with London or fashion. It was as though Belle had painted bucolic winter scenes by glancing out from a high window and painting whatever she happened to spy.

The first was several girls giggling to themselves as they hung mistletoe throughout a parlor. Next was a snowball fight, then the staff of a large kitchen making Christmas pudding, then children of all ages sledding down a steep hill, then hundreds of people in woolen caps and bright mittens huddled in an amphitheatre as a play unfolded before them. There was a row of red sleighs filled with jolly patrons, being pulled along by white horses. Here was an assembly of some sort, filled with musicians and grand ball gowns, with sprigs of holly tucked behind every lady’s ear. And here were dozens of friends wassailing, some with serious expressions and others crumpled against each other with laughter as though they could no longer recall the words to the carols and had given up trying to make sense.

“These are incredible,” he murmured as he went through each one in turn.

It was as though rather than painting a landscape or a still life, she had captured a specific moment in time. The lurch in one’s stomach as the sled started down the hill, the fragrant aroma of nutmeg and cinnamon when a wooden handle stirred the pudding, the joyful mischievousness of planting mistletoe exactly where one’s unsuspecting future beau was bound to pass. It felt as though he were peering into the lives of real people.

In fact... He returned to the first painting and went through them again, this time more slowly. These were real people. Or at least one real person. In the background of each merry scene was a very familiar face: Belle, watching from this corner or that with a wistful half-smile on her face.

This was the real reason she hadn’t wanted him to see her art, he realized. Not because she believed it to be unskilled, but because she had painted herself into the fun, carefree moments of other people’s lives. Not as a sister hanging holly, but a distant shadow in the background. Always present, but never part. Dressed impeccably, hands gloved and folded, invisible to the people whose joy she watched with such longing... and likely just as unseen by the average person who paged through these paintings, too entranced by the colorful cheer in the foreground to notice a still, silent presence almost too far out of focus to register.

“I painted these for a Yuletide collection,” she explained haltingly. “A book containing all the times... I wouldn’t really publish such nonsense,” she added in haste, her fingers twisting. “It was just a lark; a way to pass the time. Here, I’ll put them back into the portfolio.”

“Of course you should publish your art. It’s joyful and exquisite.” He gave her a crooked smile. “And next time, consider riding a sled rather than watching from behind an evergreen.”

Her cheeks flushed scarlet. “I could never. My mother would disown me for even considering it. And if riding a sled is out of the question, publishing my little illustrations...”

“Your illustrations are breathtaking,” he told her firmly. He was glad he was in no danger of meeting her family. They sounded judgmental and impossible to please. If someone as perfect as Belle wasn’t good enough, Calvin would be the worst disappointment they’d ever seen. “Sledding might be dangerous, but I don’t see what harm a book could bring. If it were truly a problem, I suppose one could consider a pseudonym.”

She flinched as if dodging a blow. “Pseudonyms can be just as dreadful as gossip.” She stuffed the watercolors back into the portfolio and closed it tight, as if erasing them from existence. “It is better to give no impression at all than to make a bad one.”

He happened to agree, although he did not think Belle was in any danger of making a poor impression. Calvin, on the other hand, never knew what to say. He dressed as he did so that his dashing clothes would speak for him and he needn’t cock things up pretending to act on top of it. Making a good impression without having to say a word was the raison d’être of Fit for a Duke.

Which was what he should concentrate on, he reminded himself sternly as he added a few more chestnuts to the pan over the fire. There was a very good reason he had vowed not to complicate his life until after his company became a success. The next few weeks would be difficult enough without adding a beautiful distraction to the mix. Once the company was a success, he would be able to consider matters of the heart.

But first, he needed to finish his prototypes and prepare the materials for his presentation. Then, he would spend days with Jonathan to discuss their plans before they met with Nottingvale and attempted to woo him of every spare penny. Next came the worst part: he and Jonathan were then expected to remain at Nottingvale’s cottage as honored guests for all twelve days of Christmas.

There would be no time to think of Belle at all.